Zhao Junyi was slightly impatient. At this moment, he should have been at the warship finalizing his checks—departure in two hours—and had quickly exited the bridge when that top urgent report arrived.
He knew it was only a matter of time before he took charge of Zhao Wei huang’s Legion of Smoke signals, the Wolf Army. And his current mission was merely to transport the Zhao family troops to the shore. For the duration of all-out war, Zhao’s ancestral land in Xilu would demand his station.
Glancing up, he watched Zhào Lì guǐ’s time markings. “Senior Brother, skip to the point,” Zhao Junyi pressed. “Do you believe Father is so far removed that He wouldn’t return to Floating Emptiness?”
Zhao Junhong’s face darkened, beginning to answer, but suddenly stopped.
Zhao Jun Du stood abruptly, ice cold. “Qianye does as he desires. If Father enquires after it, I will bear its consequence.” With those words, he spun and thundered out of the general’s tent.
As Zhao Junyi’s expression steeled, he struck down on his table. “Still defending Qianye like this with Guanwei not yet quiet, does that brat have no idea where he stands?”
Zhào Guanwei’s previous incident had seemed resolved, but it was in truth only quelled outwardly, with an undercurrent of significant unease still stirring within Zhao’s dominion and against the Gongzhen Marquis lineage.
It would suffice to say that Qianye left Zhao GuanWei seriously injured and removed entirely from front-line duties. Whether or not just cause existed was irrelevant—the story had rippled back into Zhao family ranks in highly provocative ways.
The root of the issue was Zhao Guanwei specifically —although his blood-tied descent from the Zhao Lords’ tri-principal was by generations removed, he remained an officially recorded and pureblooded Zhao scion.
From early boyhood to study, through years within Zhao academies, he then earned rank and fame through the Family’s military. With a personality straightforward yet genial, many among minor Zhao families regarded Zhengwei not just highly but as a cornerstone to be leaned upon.
Figures akin to a Guowen stood vital in the framework of all families, often as rallying centers between competing allegiances.
The Marquis side had held him dear prior but was, after this turn, now locked in an unavoidable grudge rather than gain.
Yet Zhao Junhong regained composure, resuming his even temper. “Guanwei has long maintained high stature. So we ask, just why would someone so respected throw everything away trying to hinder Qianye on wartime’s brink?”
“The truth lies clear—he aligned earlier than we realized with the camp of that Yan family. If, by rumors alone, his rash actions stemmed out of repayment for past favor rather than choice—he has still incurred a debt of massive scale against us,” Zhao Junhong elaborated. “Thus, even without knowing what prompted it, recruitment was never viable anyway.”
Zhao Junyi’s expression softened.
Junhong allowed himself the barest smile. “Truly, all Qingye’s doing was shield our Fourth’s back—an act carried through effectively, too. I wager that despite myself standing witness, nothing more graceful could’ve unfolded.”
Qianye’s seeming heavy-handedness disguised keen awareness.
By the instant Guanwei chose open hostility, positions opposing Zhao and Qingye became locked in absolute. No compromise stood feasible, and mercy would spark hope in onlookers from among the Zhao troops. Only an unyielding stance would ensure authority and fear prevailed.
Juntun himself led troops regularly enough to know when to draw strict boundaries.
He let out a breath now composed. “Qianye’s fight with the Li household, however—that’ll draw inquiry from elders. Have plans been made in-case discussions emerge?”
Junhong laughed softly. “No need to fret, elder brother. We stick firm by the old narrative—no holes they might pick upon. If they had half the ability maybe these oldsters could retrieve that young man themselves. Even the elder’s hidden agendas may not align completely—word reaches me some already chase traces of this ‘lost time’ in Qingye’s path, all those vanished ages in between.”
At these last sentences, Junyi looked unsettled at certain thoughts forming, almost spoken aloud—before he chose silence instead.
Yet Junhong smirked, suddenly cold. “We also must mention Old Uncle Gong Bo the Marquis of Endless Night’s reaction when all broke loose. After hearing of Guowei, know what did he speak aloud next?” He let out two lines slowly—“Ten years, the Zhao domain shall stand as the twin pillars: Qianye’s and Jundong’s rule… and since Qingye stands humble-born—should it come to selecting the Clan Head, only the younger sibling Jun Du shall inherit it.”
“A fair praise on its face, to be sure. But to those listening closely, perhaps only an effort to sow bitter discord among our very bones. The question then remains, of course—Did young Qingye share those words himself with either of you?”
Who repeated it was no innocent after all.
Junhong caught Junyi’s meaning. He denied with a shake of the head—”He didn’t.”
There he stopped. It was Song Zining who transmitted those murmurs between them—his silence over what Song implied equally a statement.
Even Junhong sometimes pondered whether such blind confidence between Song and Qingye wasn’t misplaced, given the momentous temper their Jundai brother bore.
But the seventh Song boy proved truly fascinating—perhaps too much of clever brilliance devoted precisely toward tasks bound for no thanks.
Another pause filled with unvoiced complexities.
Juntai’s voice cut clear and concise, breaking the pause like ice cracked. “Enough with Qingye—we leave his stance under Fourth Brother’s guidance as it is for the moment. Amid shifting clan politics internal/external he likely operates from safer ground. After we reach Xilu, Father’s concerns are ones I shall personally address and answer.”
“…One question,” said Junhong at once: “Over these past dozen years or more—one word did your household never receive from Qingye once?”
To this question Junyi was momentarily lost for words—remaining uncharacteristically silent.
“Qianye’s initial foray into warrior’s art stemmed out of HuangQuan (Rivers Below.) Yet that domain, neither lightly accessed nor open for common seekers to breach—it raises question who arranged his entry, for the background remains entirely obscured from tracing.”
Junhong’s words gathered momentum. “Among those, certain influential persons still beyond our grasp and reach at present. If so, what might lie beneath this mystery?”
Fingers tapped on polished wood as Zhao Juyi mulled in pensive thought. Long did he sit in that rhythm prior answering.
“There’s mention that Fieldmarshall Lin Xitang’s adopted son originated as among the graduates of Rivers Below—but after but a singular battlefield year, met with demise.”
Silent for a beat. Juyi then resumed. “But not once did Qianye ever reveal this fact, even to his own kith. Jundun seeks to shield him from internal disputes. We shouldn’t go chasing specters from buried years when they’ve no part in present conflicts.”
Lin Xitang, meanwhile thousands away in the capital—was riding through snowscapes in an off-road carriage of imperial make.
Tianqi—so distinct in its four seasonality—stood blanketed now in thick winter snowflakes falling heavily since afternoon. As the trees, heavy coated, trembled under each gust, light caught the purity against white; even the darkest corners bathed luminous and unmarred through the urban shadows.
To the side of such snow-sprayed scenery Kneeling beside the seat remained Fang Qingkong—half-crouched in a perpetual, immobile bow he’d maintained ever since mounting transport.
The Fieldmarshall held her quiet as ever, and he returned none the worse for that.
The convoy of high command wended its way steadily down great roads past architectural turns revealing towering Energy Spire complexes ahead—each one district’s power nerve center—and of such scale to rival even mid-sized cities. Clearly this part was not for commoners’ habitation.
At last, Lin’s tone emerged softly but clearly from amidst drifting serenity; “Qingkong—you were reckless this morning in doing this without prior words.”
Lin should’ve been making the proposal himself for stripping Zhang Boquié’s Fieldmarshall commission during official assembly today, yet due to a sudden relapse and absence of that council chamber—her absence exploited to pre-emptive maneuver.
Without a defense on the matter, Fang maintained silence; he held even deeper his stooping posture in contrition, waiting for words only she could grant.
Lin continued softly with gentle sadness—“You’ve reached the precipice of becoming God-Break General—it’s a single remaining step that remains between that height and everything. Beyond, lay domains more expansive than even this Office can contain—duke commissions and prime appointments await with further ascent.”
“Countess Fang—while talent and ambition might push a hundred into this realm—what of those shackled within their own ceiling? The vast many who’d perish still beneath you in that climb? Yet here sits a moment you’ve reached this cusp of divinity within no more than two passing seasons…”
Then abruptly darkened—”…Why stir now a quarrel against Lord Greenpeak? When so close to such promise?”
Fang Qingkong’s modus operanda often invoked distastes even of the underworld and demons. That he had managed continued living to now spoke more than mere martial ability—his roots traced back to the covert Reconnaissance Cadres of Northern Army Commando, but to see so unassuming an agent climb ever near celestial threshold?
Even with the Fieldmarshall being one so accustomed to rare prodigies of every breed, still—he could see nothing in Qingkong now than unending loss in squandering that promise prematurely.
Fang merely intoned humbly—”Someone risks must always be dared. No reason it always falls unto your command, My Marshal.”
That earned silence, then— “…This was the only time…No further repeat.”
Fang barely murmured; “Understood.”
Yet further still—the woman’s calm tone carried gently—”If resentment yet lingers in that chest… leave promptly to re-enlist, accumulate further exploits… a decade might yet see you challenge Grand Command itself. As things turn however—you’ve now perhaps outgrown this Inspector station’s scale.”
At these words, a slight paleness touched him before a hurried kneeling. “Please, do not recall me My Marshal… Never again such recklessness.”
In the next heartbeat—the carriage ceased movement.
Ahead loomed a colossal courtyard of bluestone-tiled rooftop with ‘Qingyang’ inscribed in bold calligraphy upon its gate plaque—a character set directly replicated through careful preservation from Imperial Hall archives and first-hand gift of the Empire’s founder King to his inaugural King of the Green Dawn.
Without a single attendant nor guard to accompany her, Lin emerged from her steeds and made her ascent along countless stone staircase steps.
Guards upon recognizing her were quick in their respectful salutes, following clear orders they did not speak nor impede—merely part.
She walked with unworried gaze past threshold upon threshold until she arrived at wide courtyard grounds that opened into open expanse of arena grounds.
Silence lay thick between snow’s falling, until an even thinner silence arose—a presence of steel suspended mid-air.
The blades were not loud… but stillness they carried that spoke in thunder.
A blade was then plunged with no sound, planted deeply at center arena—crafted as an elegantly antique black long-saber.
Zhang BoQian—the famed Rain-Interweaving Knife Formation.
Now returning to the shaded colonnade sat waiting: small tea table, one clay wine flagon and jade chalice.
His hands poured golden liquid to brim—however left this untouched—choosing instead to tilt back flask, letting amber liquor flood mouthward with a few trailing rivulets spilling onto floor tiles as aromatic traces diffused into still air.
As Lin approached she crouched beside, lifted up the untouched cup—she sipped once… fire flowed in straight down gut.
Picking up from quiet moments, the old man slid forward before him a stone seal the size of newborn’s fist.
Etched jade material—boring in shape. But on this ordinary appearance—resonated patterned arrays, signifier of true Supreme General’s Willpower in the Qin Dynasty.
Nonchalant almost—as it moved from hand toward its new recipient Lin Xitan’s.
But as her hand accepted, what she then delivered back in turn: palm-wide jade casket flatly rectangular.
He took, yet never inspected—merely rotating this in hands, watching reflections shift.
Then came from her voice again into the white hush.
“A Divination—offered through fragments of fortune’s hide of the mythical Qilin—known in lore to display to beholder only images that align with seeker’s deepest questions…”
“A method ancient, said practitioners channeled cosmic energies that etch spontaneously within these fragments, forming patterns that only those receiving could decipher meaning behind…”
It was often treated no more than novelty today, a parlou game of guessery.
Still within Zhang’s rotation… The casket crumbled.
Shower of dust burst into midair… until dust too disappeared.
And for the first time in long time…
Surprisingly, Fieldmarehall Lin exhibited an instant… of genuine astonishment on her otherwise ever-calm visage.
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