Chapter 1022: Unspeakable Horrors

The night was deep, and in the upper left corner of the study, a porcelain oil lamp burned, modeled after the stacked porcelain lamps of old Western Shu. The lamp had a hidden lip cavity for water, making it particularly fuel-efficient.

A young man sat alone behind the desk, reviewing a confidential letter whose contents he already knew by heart.

He had been to the prosperous Jiangnan region, where the wealthy households adorned their halls with towering lanterns, quietly flaunting the opulence of a golden age. He had also visited the capital of Taian, the most refined city in the realm, where during festivals, every rooftop ridge was lined with lotus lanterns, their glow stretching endlessly, as if an army marched through the night—a sight most magnificent. He had seen, too, the scattered lights of small towns at dusk, faint and sparse. Passing through villages large and small, the occasional glimmer of a single lamp was an unexpected delight.

He set the letter down, rose from his desk, and walked to the window, pushing it open gently. The letter was no urgent military dispatch but a private missive from Li Yanchao to Jubei City, bypassing the military office and delivered straight to the desk of this young prince.

The deputy commander of the Right Cavalry Army wrote with heavy strokes, the ink bleeding through the paper.

Li Yanchao wasted no words, keeping it simple: “Lu Dayuan should not have died! No one in Northern Liang should ever consider the annihilation of the Left Cavalry Army a disgrace to the border forces!”

In truth, Li Yanchao needn’t have written this letter. Xu Fengnian knew Lu Dayuan’s military prowess and character far better than Li Yanchao ever could. How could a man whom Xu Xiao, even in his old age, repeatedly mentioned in the Qingliang Mountain council hall be ordinary? Xu Xiao had risen from eight hundred veteran soldiers in Liaodong, spending forty years on the battlefield until he commanded three hundred thousand Northern Liang cavalry. Countless generals had served under him—many died on the battlefield, but many also survived. Lu Dayuan, a true-blooded cavalry commander of the Manjia Battalion, was known to nearly all the old guard of the Xu family’s trusted generals. From Yan Wenluan and Chen Yunshui to Zhou Kang, Yuan Nanting, and even Liu Jinu and Li Mopan, all had lamented Lu Dayuan’s sudden departure from the Northern Liang border forces. Their regret was no less than when the meritorious generals Wu Qi and Xu Pu had left.

Before Lu Dayuan left the princely residence for the battlefield, he had sought Xu Fengnian in private for a heart-to-heart talk. Despite his seemingly casual demeanor, Lu Dayuan was far from relaxed. Having grown up alongside the Xu family’s cavalry, he was more familiar with brutal warfare than the younger generation of generals like Li Yanchao and Ning Emei, who had risen in the frontier beyond Liangzhou and were accustomed to the adage “Northern Liang cavalry are unmatched under heaven.” The pain of those early days was etched into Lu Dayuan’s bones. Thus, he needed to lay everything bare before the young prince—to reassure Xu Fengnian and to reassure himself.

During their face-to-face conversation, Lu Dayuan argued that the two cavalry armies, numbering over sixty thousand, could not safely maneuver in the increasingly narrow frontier zone unless the Left Cavalry retreated to the north of Qingyuan Garrison while the Right Cavalry raced to the east of Zhongzhong Garrison, stretching the battle line between northeast and southwest to create breathing room.

But if they did that, though the sixty thousand cavalry might survive, what of Jubei City? Though the Left and Right Cavalry could still pin down a portion of the Northern Mang cavalry, to put it bluntly, the Northern Mang barbarians wouldn’t even need to deploy their main force—just toss two mediocre cavalry units of sufficient numbers at them, and they’d be left watching from horseback. “I, Lu Dayuan, am a rough man,” he had said. “I learned warfare bit by bit from the Grand General. I’ve sought advice from Xu Pu, Wu Qi, Yuan Zuozong, and Chen Zhibao, but in the end, it always felt like neither fish nor fowl—never as smooth as my own methods. I’ve come to believe one truth: once cavalry is committed to battle, it must crush the enemy’s finest field forces in one go. Never sacrifice the greater for the lesser, preserving strength for so-called strategic considerations. In a lopsided, grueling war, the longer it drags on, the harder it becomes, and you’ll lose inexplicably—and resentfully. Someone has to fight the hard battles. If everyone keeps retreating, we might as well wait to die. How’s that any different from those old foxes and wolf cubs in the Liyang Ministry of War back in the day?”

Xu Fengnian stood by the window. The autumn air filled the room, and the lone lamp cast a cold glow. Opening the window deepened the chill.

He turned around. The man who had once sat in the chair before the desk was unremarkable in appearance. Had he stood in the fields south of the pass, he might have been mistaken for a farmer with his face to the earth and back to the sky.

“Your Highness, once the Right Cavalry and I march out, I will accelerate northward a day after our forces diverge, drawing the attention of Murong Baoding’s main force. If all goes as expected, Murong Baoding will surely respond, requesting reinforcements from Wang Yong, the governor of Baoping Province—perhaps even temporarily mobilizing the Rouran cavalry to support the Winter Thunder private troops. Rest assured, Your Highness, even if my Left Cavalry is surrounded, we will take down at least forty-five thousand elite enemy troops!”

“Your Highness, I have one request. Please convey my apologies to Old Marshal He. Tens of thousands of border troops entrusted to me—I can only lead them to their deaths. My conscience is uneasy, but I must do this. I’ll wait for the old marshal in the afterlife, ready to take his scolding! Though, it’d be best if I could wait another eight or ten years. Haha, by then, the old marshal might not have the strength to beat me. A few token hits, and I’ll be off to my next life.”

The man then stood and met the young prince’s gaze, saying solemnly, “If history proves me wrong, no one need bring wine to my grave—I doubt I could stomach the shameful drink… assuming I even have a grave.”

As they walked to the study door, Lu Dayuan suddenly asked, “Your Highness, do you think decades from now, anyone will remember us? Remember the battles fought here?”

Xu Fengnian had shaken his head. “Not necessarily.”

“Damn it… haha, forgive me, Your Highness. I’m just a crude man—a dog’s mouth can’t spit ivory.”

“It’s fine. Xu Xiao was the same. I’m used to it.”

Every word, every moment, remained vivid, as if still echoing in his ears.

Xu Fengnian leaned forward, hands on the windowsill. Lu Dayuan, who had ridden to his death, left no last words—or rather, his “last words” were all too familiar. The young heir had heard them often in his youth, only with a different name.

Xu Fengnian slowly turned his gaze to the study door.

The man named Lu Dayuan had finally clasped his fists and declared, “General Lu Dayuan, formerly of the Manjia Battalion, now deputy commander of the Left Cavalry Army! Requesting the Grand General’s permission to fight!”

Xu Fengnian had parted his lips, but the two words—”Permission granted!”—never left his mouth.

Now, his hands pressed down violently, cracking the brick windowsill beneath his fingers.

He took a deep breath and waved into the darkness outside, signaling the Fushui assassins lurking there to stand down.

Returning to his desk, he pulled a sheet of paper from a yellowed military manual.

On it were the scattered words of a man laboring beyond the pass to build Jubei City, writing to his wife and children who had left their hometown in Lingzhou. The letter spoke of autumn’s mild chill, how the layered cloth shoes he’d brought were holding up, how the clothes from home kept him warm, how he’d met two fellow natives of Longqing County in Lingzhou, and how they occasionally drank cheap liquor in a town outside the city—cheaper than back home. He’d heard of victories in Liuzhou, assured his family that Jubei City’s walls were high, and the Northern Mang barbarians wouldn’t breach them for at least a year or two. He urged them not to worry—as long as his wages kept arriving each month, it meant peace beyond the pass. Lastly, he told his wife not to fret over money, to prioritize their children’s education.

The letter was addressed to his ancestral home in the Central Plains.

This sheet was merely a copy; the original had long been sent.

The man, illiterate, had sought out an obscure scholar in the market to pen it for him.

By the dim lamplight, Xu Fengnian stared at the thin sheet spread on his desk.

The letter had been sent just after Lu Dayuan left Jubei City.

From the moment Lu Dayuan rejoined the border forces, the Northern Liang’s Fushui spies had thoroughly investigated his decade-plus life in a small town in Longqing County, Lingzhou, compiling reports that eventually landed on the prince’s desk. Every move Lu Dayuan made in Jubei City or with the Left Cavalry was meticulously recorded. Xu Fengnian hadn’t interfered—such seemingly ruthless protocols had saved countless lives on the battlefield. But regarding Lu Dayuan’s request for someone to write his family letter, Xu Fengnian had personally visited the intelligence division, ordering the Fushui handlers to stand down.

Only with this letter did Xu Fengnian change his mind, having the spies intercept it. Unfortunately, the elderly scholar who’d penned it had already left the frontier with his caravan. The Fushui network beyond the pass could have tracked him down, but Xu Fengnian ultimately decided against it. With the handwriting sample in hand, forging monthly letters wouldn’t be difficult for someone of his calligraphic skill.

Yet now, Xu Fengnian regretted it once more.

He found himself unable to lift the brush. Each attempt ended with it set back down. Worse, he had no idea what to write for next month’s letter.

Rising, he left the study for the courtyard.

Still unsettled, he shot into the air, landing atop Jubei City’s southern wall, where he sat cross-legged on the rampart.

The clatter of armor soon approached from the walkway, but the soldiers, recognizing the young prince, silently withdrew, their eyes burning with fervor despite their silence.

Xu Fengnian clenched his fists on his knees, gazing south into the night.

He sat there until dawn, then slipped back to his residence.

No sooner had he settled in his study than a Fushui handler arrived to report that the three southern masters—Mao Shulang, Cheng Baisong, and Ji Liu’an—were about to reach the sparsely populated market town south of the city.

Xu Fengnian ordered a horse prepared. After spending hours clearing the backlog of military and administrative documents piled on his desk overnight, he rode out alone.

He wasn’t going solely to greet the three Central Plains masters. Mostly, he just wanted to see the market—no particular reason.

Dismounting at the town’s edge, he led his horse past quiet taverns, teahouses, inns, and assorted shops. Some had closed for good, unsurprising given the exodus of three to four thousand people in just half a month. Many laborers building the city had also begun returning home under military escort.

Along the way, he saw yawning shop clerks lounging under eaves, merchants anxiously directing servants to pack goods for the south, courtesans unusually awake at this hour gazing at red lanterns, and burly escorts delivering precious goods from Lingzhou, indifferent to the shopkeepers’ gloom.

At the street’s end, he spotted an emaciated old Taoist pushing a cart southward. A tattered banner on the cart read in neat script: “Astrology, Divination—Passable. Physiognomy, Palmistry—Adequate.” Xu Fengnian smiled at the man’s honesty and hurried over to help push.

The old man’s faded Taoist robe was unlike any Xu Fengnian had seen in his travels through Liyang or Northern Mang—unsurprising, as officially sanctioned robes were strictly regulated. Counterfeiters faced severe penalties. This one, like the robe the young heir had once rented during his vagabond days, was clearly illicit.

Squinting, the self-styled Taoist said, “Young master, you’re clearly from a wealthy family. If I’m not mistaken, your father wields considerable power beyond the pass—a military scion.”

Xu Fengnian saw through him at once. “You noticed my horse follows me without a lead, meaning it’s a Northern Liang warhorse. Plus, with war looming, my leisurely stroll here marks me as a general’s son, right?”

The old man’s forced smile collapsed, his fleeting aura of wisdom vanishing.

Xu Fengnian sighed, “To be honest, in my early years, I was much like you, sir—pretending to be a mystic and setting up a stall as a fortune teller just to make ends meet. You’re better off than I was back then, at least you have a tricycle.”

Xu Fengnian teased, “But honestly, your banner is quite the standout. Does it actually bring in any business?”

The old man laughed heartily, “Truth be told, it doesn’t matter much. Most of my earnings come from writing letters for folks or selling small paper talismans folded from yellow paper—three coins apiece. Business is decent. Back when the outsiders from Northern Liang hadn’t left, I could afford meat and wine twice a day. Common folk like us, mere mortals, kneel before every Buddha and deity, praying first for safety and stability, then for love and favorable weather, and only lastly for fame and fortune. Isn’t that the rough truth, young master?”

Xu Fengnian nodded softly, “The common folk just spend three coins for peace of mind. You’re doing good work, sir.”

As if recalling those carefree days of feasting, the old man beamed, but soon his expression darkened with frustration. “If our prince had been stronger, my business might’ve lasted another month or so. Who’d have thought the Northern Mang barbarians would reach Jubei City so soon? Wasted all my savings on this setup—what a loss! Now that I’m heading back south, times will be tough.”

Xu Fengnian chuckled, “That prince certainly deserves the blame. What kind of grandmaster is he? Utterly useless.”

Perhaps realizing that the young man beside him was likely a scion of a military family, tied to the fate of the Xu clan of Northern Liang, the old man quickly backtracked, smoothing things over. “Well, it’s not entirely fair to say that. Our prince has had it hard, holding up such a massive responsibility. Luck hasn’t been on his side either—the Northern Mang attacked before he could even catch his breath. The prince and the border troops… they’ve had it rough.”

Struggling to keep up the pretense, the old man grew visibly awkward, his pushing strength waning.

Xu Fengnian subtly increased his own effort and smiled. “That sounds a bit forced, sir. Don’t worry—though I’m from a Northern Liang military family, I can take criticism. Good or bad, it doesn’t bother me. Though, of course, I prefer the good.”

As they pushed the cart southward toward the bridge, the old man cast a deep glance at the towering city walls behind them. Suddenly, he stomped his foot. “Some things are just too hard to keep bottled up. Even if you drag me to Jubei City for punishment, I’ve got to speak my mind!”

Xu Fengnian sighed wryly, “Alright, I’m sure it’s nothing flattering. Go ahead—I’ll pretend I didn’t hear it.”

The old man grinned, straightened his back, and pointed north toward Jubei City. “Young master, I’ve heard plenty of rumors lately. They say our prince is too reckless, ignoring seasoned generals in favor of greenhorns barely out of their diapers. How’s that supposed to win a war? Who won the first Liang-Mang war? Wasn’t it General Liu Jinu of Liangzhou’s Tiger Head City? General Wang Lingbao of Longxiang Army in Liuzhou? The countless officers who died at the three cities of Youzhou’s Hulu Pass? Our mighty Snow Dragon Cavalry and the two heavy cavalry units built over years? How many of those were young outsiders? Barely one—Yu Luandao, at best. Sure, Liuzhou won a few battles early on, but when the chips are down, youngsters can’t be trusted!”

He turned to study the young man’s profile. “What do you think, young master?”

Xu Fengnian gazed into the distance. “You make a fair point, old sir. But the world’s a strange place—sometimes what seems reasonable isn’t necessarily so.”

The old man blinked in confusion. “Young master, are you a scholar or a military scion? I can’t make heads or tails of what you’re saying.”

Xu Fengnian sighed. “I’m no scholar. A military scion? That fits—I grew up choking on sand, smelling horse dung, and listening to war drums.”

Having vented his frustrations, the old man seemed lighter. He joked, “Aside from being a bit unclear, you’re actually quite reasonable and easy to talk to.”

Xu Fengnian raised an eyebrow. “Is that praise or criticism, old sir?”

The old man laughed. “Just take it as praise—can’t go wrong with that.”

Xu Fengnian’s mood lifted slightly, the shadows in his brow fading as he smiled. “Lesson learned.”

At the bridge, the old man declined further help and pushed the cart south alone, muttering under his breath, “If the Grand General were still alive, the Northern Mang wouldn’t dare come near. Northern Liang wouldn’t even be at war. What’s the point of winning if so many still die? I heard there are 300,000 stone tablets behind Qingliang Mountain—all empty gestures. Isn’t living better than leaving a name in death?”

Xu Fengnian stood silently, unmoving.

Unaware of the young man’s identity—never imagining a grandmaster would help push his cart—the old man rambled on, “If you ask me, since the imperial court’s no good anyway, why should our Northern Liang soldiers die beyond the pass only to be slandered? Better to open the gates, let the Northern Mang through, and strike a deal to keep the fighting out of our lands. Let the heartland deal with those wolves—we’d live in peace. If I ever met that young prince, I’d tell him to quit playing the hero and listen to his elders.”

Xu Fengnian tilted his head, the autumn wind tousling his hair.

Perhaps weighed down by guilt or grief—or both—the young prince never spoke.

As the old man’s figure receded into the distance, Xu Fengnian suddenly called out, “Old sir, take your time heading south! And remember—for the next twenty days, the three post roads from Jubei City to Liangzhou’s interior are open to civilians. No need to take the long way!”

Miraculously, the aged fortune teller seemed to hear him, pausing briefly—likely acknowledging the advice—before continuing south.

After the prince’s residence was completed, his study received daily classified reports from inside and beyond the pass, curated by the Falcon and Eagle Divisions. Northern Liang’s intelligence was traditionally ranked in three tiers, with only Tier A reports reaching the prince’s desk. Yet the young prince had requested an additional tier—not Tier B, but the lowest, Tier C. These held little military or political value, serving merely to ease his tension. Though filtered, their volume remained substantial, covering academy affairs and scholars’ debates. Among the varied contents, some included radical critiques from young scholars—none of which the prince ever annotated.

One remark, however, he had copied in his own hand, reviewing it daily as a self-admonition:

*”Virtue too shallow for his station, wisdom too slight for his schemes, strength too frail for his burdens—with such a fool guarding the border, Northern Liang’s army is doomed to fail!”*

The enemy at the gates. His father’s legacy. The bitter homeland. Imperial interference. The heartland’s splendor. Innocent lives. The weight of heaven.

Layer upon layer of burdens.

On the northern bank of the river, the young man—barely four years past his coming-of-age ceremony—slowly crouched by the water’s edge. Brushing dust off a stalk of licorice root, he placed it in his mouth and chewed gently.

Sweetness filled his mouth.