Without a proclamation heralding his departure across the realm, without the grand spectacle of a monarch bestowing command in person, the departure of Lu Shengxiang, the Vice Minister of War, from the capital was surprisingly quiet. So quiet, in fact, that as he passed through the southern regions of the imperial domain, not a single local official managed to catch even a glimpse of Vice Minister Lu himself. Yet all who beheld this silence understood its meaning: Lu Shengxiang’s departure did not signify defeat within the imperial court. He had merely lost out to Lu Baijie, his former peer among the vice ministers, in the contest for the prestigious position of Minister of War. Yet shortly thereafter, he received an imperial edict appointing him commander-in-chief of the three provinces and sixteen military garrisons south of the capital. Even venerable generals like Yang Shenxing, the Great General of An’guo, were placed under his authority.
Lu Shengxiang’s entourage numbered no more than three hundred riders. This semi-public, semi-covert southern campaign was undertaken without the deployment of any imperial forces stationed near the capital. In the face of Western Chu’s restless ambitions, the court seemed content to observe and wait. Dressed in plain clothes, Lu Shengxiang halted with his personal guards at Youlu Pass, but did not enter the city. Instead, he set up a temporary military tent outside the pass. When several junior officers stationed at Youlu Pass hurriedly arrived upon hearing of his presence, they found the Vice Minister—soon to bear the provisional rank of General—receiving them with easy laughter and geniality in a hastily erected, rough-hewn tent. There was no fine wine or sumptuous feast, no music or dancing. With nothing more than a simple meal of coarse tea and plain rice, Lu dismissed them. Yet this very simplicity reassured them. All knew well that Lu Shengxiang, hailing from the Spring Snow Pavilion of Guangling, was a tiger in smiling guise—one who did not smile lightly, and when he did, it meant someone was about to be devoured.
Youlu Pass lay at the confluence of the imperial domain’s southern frontier, the Guangling Circuit, and the Huainan Circuit. The junior officers stationed there, though enjoying higher rank and salary than ordinary officers of the Liyang court, had previously reported directly to the Gu Lu Ministry of War. However, with the Gu Lu now in decline and all but defunct, Youlu Pass had become like an orphaned child, cut off from its former patronage. In contrast, Lu Shengxiang had both the advantage of his native Guangling Circuit behind him and the favor of the imperial court, where he stood as a rising star. Moreover, Lu had not ascended to the empire’s central power through noble birth or inherited merit, but through the distinguished military exploits he had earned during the Spring and Autumn Wars. Thus, even with the boldest of hearts, Youlu Pass dared not act arrogantly or put on airs before Vice Minister Lu.
Lu personally escorted the junior officers from the camp, standing alongside a young officer he trusted deeply, watching the dust kicked up by their departing horses dissipate in the wind. Lu crouched down, scooping up a handful of soil that carried both the earthy scent of spring and the fragrance of new grass. He sniffed it, gazed southward, and remained silent.
Many did not know that the esteemed Vice Minister of War had once been a clumsy scout, nearly executed for a false report.
As he crushed the soil in his palm, Lu spoke softly, “Being a scout is like learning to swim. Once you know how, no matter how long you stay away, if you’re thrown back into the water, you won’t drown easily. Gu Donghan, you know Guangling’s military strength well. They boast endlessly about rivaling Beiliang and Yanche for supremacy, but aside from the Prince of Guangling’s personal troops, the rest are nothing but mud that won’t stick to the wall. You can’t blame the Prince for having a pillow embroidered with flowers—after all, there hasn’t been a single war in nearly twenty years. The old generals retired to enjoy their comforts, while the young ones joined the ranks seeking comfort too. How could they possibly stand against the ever-ready iron cavalry of Beiliang or the disciplined infantry of Yanche? The Spring Snow Pavilion schemed tirelessly to secure the latest weapons and finest armor from the court, even daring to wrest away the horses that Gu Jiantang had requested. What I fear now isn’t what the so-called wise men of the court believe—that the greatest danger lies in old generals like Yang Shenxing and Yan Zhanchun refusing to obey orders and fighting independently. No, what I truly fear is that the Western Chu, despite its initial lack of forces, will seize the momentum of war, feeding on each victory like a rolling snowball. They’ll crush Guangling’s so-called elite troops and generals, seizing weapons, horses, armor, and even morale. In Guangling, where Western Chu’s remnants enjoy both geographical advantage and popular support, from last winter to this spring, the Ministry of War and the court have received continuous reports of sudden deaths among officers. Without exception, these were men secretly loyal to the court—men who died in inexplicable ways. Some were strangled by concubines in their beds, others poisoned by maids while drinking, some stabbed by secretaries during meetings, and others hacked to death by swords during patrols. Even Old Master Huan, who had previously maintained a cordial relationship with Gu Lu, flew into a rage, storming into the Ministry of War to berate me and Lu Baijie, even dragging General Gu into his tirade. He called us all a bunch of good-for-nothings, accusing us of mismanaging the northern frontier of Guangling for twenty years, sending only greedy officials who cared only for profit, not a single one earning the people’s loyalty. He even said that the heads of the intelligence agencies set up specifically for Guangling should be executed. Our Minister Lu, to his credit, stood up to Old Master Huan and nearly got kicked by him. What could I say? I could only watch. And yet, to think that a man of such age could almost land a kick on the Minister himself—well, it seems he still has many years left. That, at least, is a blessing.”
Lu Shengxiang returned the soil to the ground, chuckled, then grew serious again. “Before even a single battle, they’re already thinking of how to celebrate and divide the spoils. I don’t know where they get their confidence.”
Gu Donghan, a young officer with a simple, honest face, chuckled beside him. “But sir, the Butcher of Men is gone, yet we still have General Gu Jiantang, one of the last great generals of the Spring and Autumn era. And then there’s General Chen Zhibao and you—military geniuses. How can we not be confident? Plus, with the great feudal lords on their campaigns of suppression, and Prince Zhao Yi already commanding strong forces to maintain order in Guangling, if I didn’t know the truth about Guangling’s elite troops, I’d believe it too.”
Lu Shengxiang merely smiled, patting the ground. “Waves begin in tiny ripples; winds rise from the tips of green reeds. After the Awakening of Insects, the hundred insects stir, and the scent of blood will draw them all.”
Gu Donghan sniffed the breeze. “I can already smell blood.”
Lu stood, as if trying to spit out the bitterness in his heart. He forced a smile. “Yang Shenxing and the others think that in three to six months, with a single kick, they can crush the Western Chu like a worm that won’t die. But no matter what I say now, they won’t listen. It’s better to let them charge ahead and get slapped by Cao Changqing. Only when they feel pain will they understand who truly holds the authority to command this long war. But there’s a downside—my inaction for six months will surely draw the wrath of the capital’s officials, and some upright ministers might even sacrifice their lives to smear me with disgrace. I’ve seen with my own eyes how Xu Xiao was treated back then, so I’ve prepared myself. The key is whether the Emperor has enough patience. If luck is against us, you’ll be packing your bags with me, heading to the Two Liao to redeem ourselves. But if we’re lucky, and my light cavalry can fully demonstrate its might, I’ll make sure you rise to the rank of a full general with real authority.”
Gu Donghan grinned. “Sounds good. Whatever happens, I’ve made up my mind—follow you, and there’ll always be meat to eat!”
Lu Shengxiang said nothing.
Gu Donghan hesitated before asking, “I heard that the Crown Prince’s southern journey took him to many places, including Longhu Mountain and Difei Mountain. In Guangling and Jiangnan, he mingled freely with scholars, composing poetry and exchanging verses. The entire court and country praised him, saying he truly carries the bearing of a future ruler. There are even rumors that he opposes heavy taxation in Guangling and has reservations about the suppression of Buddhism. Privately, the National Academy says he already shows the qualities of a benevolent monarch. That Jin fellow, the Right Sacrificial Winebearer, seems to have grown close to the Crown Prince. Once estranged from Yao Baihong and expelled by the Chief Minister and Old Master Huan, he fell into disgrace. Many scholars feared even visiting his home for wine. No one expected him to rise again.”
Lu Shengxiang frowned. “You’re still a soldier without fame or achievement. Don’t meddle in court affairs—don’t even speak of them. If I hear such nonsense from you again, you’ll be demoted to stable boy.”
Gu Donghan grimaced. “Understood.”
Lu suddenly whispered with a cold smile. “Sentimental and superficial—nothing like his father. If the court succeeds in curbing the feudal lords, maybe he’ll do. But if the throne is handed to him in haste, I fear it will be unstable.”
Gu Donghan, ever impulsive, nodded eagerly. “I knew it—his depth is there, but misplaced.”
Lu Shengxiang, ever the smiling tiger, said with a hollow grin, “Since there’s no major battle for six months, you can be stable boy for six months.”
Gu Donghan’s face twisted in shock, ready to protest, but Lu had already turned and walked back toward the camp.
※※※
When the Crown Prince “secretly” slipped out of the capital to “tour” the south, Empress Zhao Zhi—the most powerful and dignified mother-in-law in the realm—visited the Eastern Palace several times. She spoke of nothing important, merely chatting with the most honored daughter-in-law in the world, Yan Dongwu, about everyday matters. Empress Zhao Zhi, the sovereign of the inner court, had seen rival concubines rise and fall like actors on a stage—none, no matter how young or beautiful, no matter how prestigious their families, had ever bested this unremarkable woman in a contest for the Emperor’s favor.
Moreover, in the eyes of the officials, the Empress had gained unanimous praise, with few dissenting voices. Today, within the Eastern Palace, not only the Empress, but even the Son of Heaven himself, had taken time from his busy schedule to visit Yan Dongwu alongside her. The Imperial Eunuch Director Song Tanglu had even brought several jugs of authentic Beiliang Green Ant Wine from the Bureau of Rites. The three of them—father, mother, and son—observed few formalities, simply sharing wine and warmth beneath a finely carved redwood birdcage. Inside, a clumsy parrot, slow to mimic speech, somehow remained the Crown Prince’s favorite.
Women were forbidden from meddling in politics—a sacred rule passed down through generations of the Liyang court. Thus, before the unification of the Spring and Autumn states, no matter how much damage the feudal lords and eunuchs inflicted upon the Zhao family, the Emperor’s bedchamber remained free of scheming whispers, and the soil for maternal relatives to seize power never formed. Though there had been instances of maternal relatives wielding power in history, compared to the myriad smaller and greater courts beyond Liyang’s borders, the Zhao dynasty fared far better.
Yet the Son of Heaven clearly held Yan Dongwu, the Crown Princess and “Female Scholar” ranked among the secondary list of the Beauty Chronicles, in high regard. He even broke tradition to discuss matters of state with her. Even Zhao Zhi could not hide her surprise. This unease lingered as the imperial couple departed the Eastern Palace. The Emperor did not immediately return to deal with the mountainous piles of memorials awaiting his attention. Instead, he walked beside the Empress beneath a high red wall, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing silently at the blue sky.
The Grand Eunuch Song Tanglu, successor to the late Han Shengxuan’s authority and the most powerful eunuch in the realm—handsome and bearing none of the usual effeminate traits—bowed respectfully from a distance, his expression subtly clouded.
Suddenly, the Emperor halted.
“I turned thirty, married you, and claimed the world. For myself, I have no great regrets. At forty, I remained firm in my belief, entrusting the governance of the realm to Zhang Julu, allowing him to work with Gu Jiantang to manage the Two Liao. I tolerated the Zhang Lu and Gu Lu factions under my very eyes, never doubting their loyalty or capability. To me, trust in one’s ministers is what an emperor should embody at forty. And they did not disappoint me. Our Zhao dynasty flourished as never before in eight centuries, possessing a vast territory equal to that of the Great Qin, with valiant generals and wise ministers. Any of these officials, if placed in a fallen nation like Northern Han or Eastern Yue, could have prolonged its existence. Yet here, they serve beneath me, their brilliance gathered in one hall. Thus, every year when I worship my ancestors, I do so without shame. Now I am fifty, the age the sage Zhang Julu called ‘knowing Heaven’s Mandate.’ Strangely, after twenty years of diligent rule, watching the court flourish, I feel unease. They say emperors are Heaven’s chosen, yet I feel that this idea of ‘knowing Heaven’s Mandate’ contradicts that. Hence the era name Xiangfu—I hope not to destroy with my own hands what I have built over twenty years.”
Throughout, the Emperor spoke not as “I,” the imperial title that countless warlords across dynasties had longed for, but as “I,” the common man’s pronoun.
The Emperor extended his hand, running his palm along the cold wall, suddenly smiling.
“That year, urged by Yuan Benxi, I led troops into the palace without permission. I walked this very path. At the time, I was afraid—my only thought was, if I succeeded, I would tell you first; if I failed, you would mourn for me. Back then, I was just a prince. The reason I wanted to be emperor was simply to surpass Xu Xiao, so you wouldn’t envy that swordswoman, Lady Wu. After all, what man doesn’t care for reputation? As for Xu Xiao, I won’t deny that my hatred for him was personal before it was national. When he was young, he could sit with the late Emperor in the Wuying Hall, drinking and chatting until dawn. I, his son, could only watch from afar, envious. How I longed to ride to the northern frontiers and point my whip at the Northern Barbarians! Yet I failed. Without Beiliang’s involvement in those great battles, the treasury was drained, and the people’s resentment grew. If Yuan Benxi hadn’t awakened me, not only would Zuan not be Crown Prince, but whether I would be Emperor at all would be uncertain.”
As I speak of this, I know that woman surnamed Wu is just like you; deep in your heart, you actually do not like her, because both of you harbor great ambitions. Zhuang’er is too clever, knowing everything yet saying nothing. Intelligent people tend to get stuck in narrow paths. I am better off, after all, having Yuan Benxi, a strategist whose tongue may be clumsy, yet who seems possessed by divine wisdom, as if seeing through heaven’s eyes, watching over Tai’an City and the entire world for me. However, how frail my body is, you know better than anyone. Once I am gone, and Yuan Benxi also departs, who will be able to suppress Zhang and Gu? I was greatly impressed by the recent arrival of that Buddhist monk clad in white robes in the capital. He told me that his new calendar could ensure an additional eighty years of prosperity for the Zhao dynasty. But the price our Zhao family would pay for eighty more years of peace across the land is immense, so I rejected his offer without hesitation. At that moment, I even dared not meet Yuan Benxi’s eyes.
Precisely because of this, I am uneasy about the ministers of the two factions led by Zhang and Gu. Behind them stand men like Zhao Youling and Yin Maochun, most of whom come from humble scholarly backgrounds. Their gazes inevitably shift more toward the world beyond the court. This tendency must be curbed by someone. In the past, many famous ministers who dared to confront the emperor to the death merely sought to affirm their ideals through sacrifice, hoping to climb to immortality on the emperor’s shoulders. These scholars have stubborn, petty dispositions that have hardly changed over a thousand years. I can tolerate them—even encourage their audacity. But Yin Maochun and others are different. Perhaps inspired by Zhang Julu’s example of ultimate achievement, they have suddenly become cleverer, more sophisticated in how they pursue their ambitions, skilled in methods that allow them to attain both reputation and success, neither becoming the emperor’s entertainers nor those foolishly loyal ministers who constantly threaten to die in protest.
Such pillars of the court of Liyang are fine in small numbers, but if all of them are like this, each and every one cunning and devious, how will Zhuang’er manage them in the future? Zhuang’er is not like me, who seized the throne soaked in blood. Though those bloodstains have long been washed away by the palace’s rain and snow, they still stain the hearts of men like Zhang Julu. But Zhuang’er, from the moment he understood who he was, already knew he would wear the dragon robe and sit upon the dragon throne. He is highly capable of restraint, that much is true, but being an emperor also requires boldness. Zhuang’er is currently on the wrong path, thinking that opposing me is the same as showing strength. When I suppress Buddhism, he greets famous monks along the roads of Jiangnan. When I wish to crush the remnants of Xichu with an iron hand, he pleads for the lives of the people. He believes this is his boldness as the Crown Prince. If the Zhao dynasty had no internal or external threats, no Bei Man and Bei Liang, no men like Zhang Julu, then his intentions would not be bad. But this is not the right time.
Empress Zhao Zhi’s face turned pale.
The Zhao emperor clenched his fist and lightly struck the wall, “Zhuang’er cannot see the future court—not mere factional struggles, but a far more complex situation: a battle for the people’s hearts between aristocratic heirs and humble scholars, no longer revolving solely around the dragon throne. Yuan Benxi once said this is the trend of the times. I did not believe it before, but now that I have seen it with my own eyes, I cannot help but believe. Yuan Benxi also said that the old ways of currying favor in the bureaucracy have become obsolete. He is waiting for someone who understands how to balance the emperor with the art of slaying dragons. Once such a person appears, it will be far more terrifying than the regional warlords of old Liyang. Zhao Zhi, can I do nothing but wait? Is this what it means to know one’s destiny? So even if Yuan Benxi cannot find this person, even if I never see him, I must first eliminate Zhang Julu, who has opened the gates for the humble scholars across the land. Now that the gates are open and the trend is set, I do not wish to resist it. But as the reigning emperor, if it is easier to deal with a Zhang Julu within the capital than it was to deal with Xu Xiao, so far away in Beiliang, then ensuring Zhuang’er’s victory will be that much simpler.”
Zhao Zhi’s lips trembled as she asked, “When?”
The Zhao emperor took a deep breath, his expression darkening, “When the last of the Xichu remnants are dead!”
※※※
A young man chewing on a blade of grass looked around at the sea of yellow clay jars. He felt a little gloomy. He glanced at the handsome man beside him, who wore a yellow court cap and wide-sleeved black robes. It was quite unexpected—Mr. Nalan, who had a pathological obsession with cleanliness, was now smeared with yellow mud, yet showed no sign of anger. Instead, he reached out to pinch off a piece of wet yellow clay and crushed it gently between his fingers. Around them were countless clay jars, each reportedly worth three taels of silver, and an old man sitting on a small wooden stool, shaping clay into jar forms. Covered in filth, the old man ignored the presence of Zhao Zhu and Mr. Nalan, who had traveled far to meet him, clearly determined to finish his work first. The bored young man lifted his gaze and looked at a distant elderly couple. Mr. Nalan had told him one was a remnant of the Southern Tang royal family, and the other was a local, truly just an ordinary man who had spent his life working with clay jars. Mr. Nalan had even asked him to guess which was the great spy and which was the commoner. Zhao Zhu, relying on instinct, guessed that the old woman, whose former beauty was still faintly visible, must have been of the old Southern Tang royal bloodline, while the foolish old man beside her did not seem like a top-tier martial artist who had evaded the Zhao dynasty’s secret police.
Mr. Nalan, known as the true prince of the Southern Frontier, took a few steps closer, crouched beside the old man’s small stool, and smiled up at the last remaining master of the Spring and Autumn era, saying with a grin, “Hey there, old farmer Huang, your complexion looks suspiciously good. Could it be that you’re in your final moments of false vitality?”
The old man glanced at Nalan Youci and replied flatly, “Cursing me to death? Is that how you show respect when seeking a favor?”
Mr. Nalan, whose beauty rivaled that of a woman, still smiled, “I’m practically kneeling here, what more do you want? In my entire life, aside from my parents, I’ve never bowed to anyone.”
The old man sneered, “Shall I expose your secrets in front of that little bastard Zhao Zhu?”
Zhao Zhu rolled his eyes.
Nalan Youci quickly waved his hands in surrender, “Alright, alright, I give up. Consider my words blown away by the wind. Just a bit of courtesy from an old man like me.”
The old man, none other than Huang Longshi, who alone held three of the Thirteen Spring and Autumn Armors, sneered, “You came too early. It’s not the right time. Was it your idea or that little bastard’s?”
Nalan Youci thought carefully, “Both. After all, we have to maintain appearances. We’re not here to stir up trouble. We just wanted to witness the final moves of Cao Changqing’s last game. If we missed that, what’s the point of being alive?”
Huang Longshi scoffed, “If life is so boring, why don’t you just die? You’re always such a nuisance. No wonder you could never surpass Li Yishan.”
Nalan Youci shook his head and smiled, “Whether my skills surpass Li Yishan’s or not, that’s hard to say. Not even you can decide that.”
Huang Longshi gave him a strange, mocking look, “You’ll have to go to the underworld and ask him in person for the answer.”
Nalan Youci reached out and touched his brow, his expression unreadable.
Huang Longshi waved him off, splattering a few drops of yellow mud onto Nalan’s face, “Go cool off somewhere else. I need to speak to the little brat you’ve taken a liking to.”
Nalan Youci gently wiped the mud from his face and stood up, motioning to Zhao Zhu. The charming strategist, possessing two of the Spring and Autumn Armors—only one less than Huang Longshi—strolled away slowly.
Huang Longshi looked sideways at the young prince of the Yan’e Kingdom standing boldly before him, “Who do you think you are? When I met your father, he still had to sweep the mats in respect. Now kneel down.”
Zhao Zhu grinned and sat down on his backside, “Not listening to you, but I’ve shown enough respect, right?”
Huang Longshi’s tone was playful, “You’re quite like someone I know. Well, I already know the answer. Now scram.”
Zhao Zhu widened his eyes, “What? Old man Huang, I risked losing my hereditary title just to come see you, and you’re just messing with me?”
Huang Longshi shot him a glare in return, “Get lost or not?”
Zhao Zhu wore a face of frustration, like someone who had eaten too much but couldn’t relieve himself, and stood up grudgingly. Just as he was about to turn around, Huang Longshi sneered, “Feeling gassy? Then you better take off your pants first, or else think twice about the consequences.”
Zhao Zhu muttered something and quickly slipped away to Nalan Youci’s side, asking curiously, “Is this old man really able to foresee the future?”
Nalan, standing at the edge of the clay jars, glanced toward Huang Sanjia and replied calmly, “I don’t believe it, yet he has almost always been right.”
Zhao Zhu simply said, “Oh.”
Nalan Youci, as was his habit, gently pinched the young prince’s earlobe and whispered with a smile, “It doesn’t matter. He’s no real immortal. He’s just a dying man at the end of his strength. Why get angry with him? We’ll just treat him with respect for his age.”
Zhao Zhu looked helpless and gently swatted away Nalan’s delicate, feminine hand.
Suddenly Huang Longshi stood up and uttered a dire prophecy toward Nalan Youci, “Nalan Youci, I hope you die before me and Yuan Benxi.”
Zhao Zhu’s face turned pale. Nalan Youci remained silent.
Nalan Youci closed his eyes and fell into thought. Then, toward the already seated and invisible Huang Longshi, he bowed deeply.
In respect for him, for himself, and for Li Yishan, the one he had once loved and traveled with across nations.
In respect for their Spring and Autumn era—the last of its kind.
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