Xu Xiao was born in the Northern Wilderness. Even though he had not heard many rumors or anecdotes about the martial arts world, he had at least heard of the Wudang Mountains, where many immortals resided—each possessing an ethereal aura capable of summoning wind and rain. Thus, when he followed his master up the mountain this time, he was especially devout. Every time he encountered a Taoist priest on the mountain, regardless of age, he would stop respectfully to bow and greet them. This made the Wudang priests, who recognized Xu Xiao’s identity, feel quite uneasy. Xu Xiao did not stop the boy’s sincerity; this innocent heart might become the cornerstone for Yu Dilong’s future martial cultivation. A young calf unafraid of tigers might survive one encounter by luck, but survival cannot be guaranteed every time.
As they climbed the mountain, Xu Xiao quietly told Yu Dilong, “When a person walks the martial world, if they wish to be fearless, there are two kinds: one is ignorance of the martial world’s depth, arrogance, or reliance on powerful backing, thus looking down on others. Such people are numerous and often meet their end. The second kind, whether through personal realization or guidance from seniors, understands the dangers of the martial world but remains steadfast in their convictions, seeking an untroubled heart. These people are fewer, yet they still often meet their demise. The martial world is a place that does not care whether you are good or bad. If you lack skill or luck, you will easily drown. In just a few years, most of the experts who died by my hand belonged to the latter category.”
“Your senior sister, Wang Sheng, practices the sword, and she will never change her path. Sword cultivation has always involved contests of spirit and technique. The one who understood this most profoundly and clearly once cultivated on this very mountain. I did not bring Wang Sheng here because I feared she might suffer from ‘lamp-under-the-bed’ syndrome—being too close to see the mountain clearly. I let her step back and view the scenery from afar. She started at a high level; if I pushed her too hard, she might end up like the head of the Spring Paste Thatched Hall, a mere figurehead.”
“Your junior brother, Lü Yunchang, is full of sharpness but also carries heavy malevolence. Simply going to the borderlands to kill will make his sword techniques proficient but his sword intent increasingly shallow. His martial path will narrow until he traps himself. Even with Gu Jiantang’s talent, without his breadth of vision and character, he cannot cultivate top-tier swordsmanship. That’s why I sent him to the Fish Dragon Gang to hone himself for a few years. The myriad aspects of the world are like a mirror; the more you observe, the clearer the mirror becomes. Enlightenment must come from within; the heart must not be swayed by others. First, become a wise person, then you can wield a wise sword. The sword is single-edged, emphasizing killing intent more than the sword. Excessive rigidity leads to breaking. If you remain unclear about everything, you will eventually die by your own blade.”
“As for you, you are still young. You can learn from Hong Xixiang on the mountain—no rush, no pressure to reach a certain level. I have only three apprentices. Lü Yunchang is eager to take on all the attention and challenges, so you, as the eldest apprentice, do not need to carry that burden. He is happy to take it from you. Except for the future emperor destined to sit on the dragon throne, no one must necessarily achieve greatness. As long as you can protect yourself, you can live however makes you happy. Among the three, Wang Sheng is different because she practices the sword. Out of personal desire, I, as the master, gave her an extra burden. I must be clear with you—you must not resent her for this.”
Yu Dilong, following behind Xu Xiao on the stone steps, hurriedly waved his hands and said, “Master, I would never think that way. I hope my senior sister becomes the strongest swordswoman, even surpassing me.”
Xu Xiao stopped, turned, and looked at Yu Dilong. The boy blushed slightly under his gaze. Xu Xiao teased, “You do have good judgment. Regardless of anything else, you have inherited my true nature.”
The boy’s physique awakened early and completely, far surpassing his master, Xu Xiao. Now, caught in a moment of innocent thought, he scratched his head and feigned ignorance. Xu Xiao gazed into the distance and softly said, “If you three ever achieve great success, remember two things: Wang Sheng and Lü Yunchang will inevitably face a life-or-death duel. You need not stop them, but I hope you do not kill Lü Yunchang in a fit of anger. Also, do not only imitate my flirtatious nature without learning my detachment. A clever person who falls deeply in love, if unfortunate enough to meet the wrong person, will suffer a fate worse than death. No matter how grand or trivial, few people live carefree lives. Look at Cao Changqing and Xuan Yuan Jingcheng, then look at Deng Ta’a, who has no attachments…”
Xu Xiao stopped halfway through his sentence. Yu Dilong waited for a long time but heard no continuation. He looked up at his master, who claimed to be cold-hearted. After a while, Xu Xiao returned to his senses, ruffled Yu Dilong’s hair, and smiled, “Do you think she will be your senior sister?”
Yu Dilong hesitated for a moment, then firmly said, “Pei Nanwei!”
Xu Xiao flicked the boy’s forehead, “It’s good to support your friends, but great achievements require a balanced and peaceful nature. I made many mistakes before; you must learn from them.”
Yu Dilong sighed, his face wrinkled with frustration, “Master, you’ve said so many big truths today—I can’t swallow them all at once!”
Xu Xiao laughed and said, “Eating well is a blessing.” He then fell silent, and the two continued climbing the mountain in quiet.
With the secret encouragement of the local government under Qingyang Palace’s influence, several large donations were made to Wudang Mountain, along with much manpower. New grand and exquisite structures were built, including the Xuanwu Hall, the Star-Gazing Pavilion, and the Talisman Bureau. In a serene and picturesque area halfway up the mountain, a new academy was constructed. The ethereal Taoist music mingled with the sounds of study, creating a harmonious blend. Many of the old, dilapidated buildings on the mountain were restored, and the mountain’s incense offerings became increasingly prosperous. With the open support of the new King of Northern Wilderness, the mountain’s popularity soared. Although ordinary people could not see the increase in spiritual energy, they could certainly sense the rise in human presence and vibrant life. On the first and fifteenth days of each lunar month, the mountain was filled with visitors, and the incense offerings rivaled those of Longhu Mountain.
After meeting the elder Taoist Chen You, who oversaw discipline, Xu Xiao settled by the Xixiang Pond, where he had once practiced swordsmanship. He did not confine Yu Dilong, allowing the boy to wander freely. Most of the time, Xu Xiao sat in meditation on a large stone in the pond, finally halting the collapse of his internal energy and allowing his strength to slowly recover. During this time, messengers continuously delivered important documents from the Wutong Courtyard to the mountain. In his spare time, Xu Xiao carefully read each document. In addition to official correspondence, military secrets from the border were conveyed by experienced spies from the Fushui Bureau, some of whom were newly recruited martial experts vetted by Chu Lushan. While these martial artists might not be suited for battlefield deaths, they were more than willing to take on lighter tasks. Wang Luting, who had taken over the Jinlu Weaving Bureau from Li Xifeng, suggested using martial artists as elite couriers. Furthermore, the Jinlu Weaving Bureau, established in Lanzhou, set up subordinate offices in three other provinces. These offices did not directly participate in local governance, law enforcement, or impeachment but helped monitor various affairs for Qingyang Palace. Additionally, at Wang Luting’s suggestion, more than twenty academies in Liang, Ling, and You provinces, under the leadership of three literary leaders, began monthly evaluations of three unrestricted literary works, known as the “Kuiwen.” The winners gained official status in the Northern Wilderness. An interesting detail was that the literary judge in Liangzhou was none other than Wang Chudong, who wrote *The First Snow*.
However, the documents that truly reached Xu Xiao’s hands were often sharp and critical essays—“discarded writings”—that criticized current policies. Though many of these writings were biased or even subversive, the scholars were unaware that their discarded, crumpled drafts would soon appear on the desk of the Wutong Courtyard in Qingyang Palace.
The small thatched cottage where Xu Xiao temporarily resided was almost always lit at night.
One stormy night filled with thunder and lightning, after reading all the intelligence reports and official news from Liyang, Xu Xiao selected three documents and spread them on the table. The first came from Huaiyang Pass, the seat of the border defense headquarters, written by Chu Lushan. It was said that handwriting reflects the person, yet Chu Lushan’s script was delicate and gentle, almost feminine, incongruous with his bulky frame. The secret letter reported the general progress of refugees joining the military in Liuzhou. After the Northern Wilderness relaxed its border restrictions, there was a surge of refugees entering the region—about four thousand in one month. However, very few chose to join the Northern Wilderness army, nearly negligible. Only after the news spread that Xu Xiao, the King of Northern Wilderness, had killed Wang Xianzhi, and with the new governor Yang Guangdou’s encouragement, did a large wave of six thousand people arrive within ten days, all eager to join the border forces.
Although twenty years of continuous war during the Spring and Autumn period proved that no great general could survive long, the presence of a great general in an army made a significant difference. Xu Xiao, Chu Lushan, and Yuan Zuozong did not believe that the fierce refugees in Liuzhou could form their own army or withstand the Northern Desert cavalry. Although these ten thousand refugees could all ride and fight, a mature army could endure losses and maintain morale. These refugees, though numerous, would likely collapse when faced with strong enemies, possibly even disrupting the Northern Wilderness’ existing formations. Therefore, the best approach was to disperse the refugees into the border forces and replace part of the Northern Wilderness’ elite with them, making them the backbone to resist the Northern Desert cavalry in the future. However, this could not be forced. Although joining the army provided food and shelter, it was still a life-risking endeavor, and no one was foolish enough to willingly die.
Xu Xiao joked, “The title of the strongest in the world still has its uses.”
The letter also mentioned conflicts between the refugees and veteran soldiers after joining the army. Some refugees, unable to bear the humiliation, even killed others, nearly causing a mutiny. In the letter, Chu Lushan stated that all refugees involved had been executed.
Xu Xiao sighed. Although these refugees, who had survived death, were fierce and brave, they would not dare to cause trouble in the Northern Wilderness army. It was likely that the veteran soldiers, who looked down on the refugees, had acted provocatively first. Thus, the deaths of these refugees were extremely unjust. However, Xu Xiao did not wish to change Chu Lushan’s decision. Without rules, there could be no order. In the army, veteran soldiers bullying new recruits was a common problem that no commander could completely eliminate. Punishment was necessary for the veterans’ aggression, but the refugees’ violations of discipline required execution. The only way for the refugees to rise was to prove themselves in battle, earning the veterans’ respect and acceptance as comrades. There was no other path.
The second document came from the Wutong Courtyard. The Liyang regime was vigorously suppressing Buddhism, and many displaced monks flooded into the Northern Wilderness like fish crossing a river. Naturally, not all were virtuous monks devoted to Buddhism; many were famous monks accustomed to comfortable lives who sought “temple land” exempt from taxes through various means, claiming to build temples for Xu Xiao’s blessings. Within the Wutong Courtyard, there was a dispute. Xu Weixiong’s opinion was that not only should this not be allowed, but local authorities should be ordered to strictly reprimand and expel these monks. Lu Chengyan’s opinion was to appease them publicly while monitoring them secretly, neither agreeing nor refusing, thus avoiding open conflict.
Xu Xiao rubbed his temples and smiled bitterly, “One takes a thunderous approach, the other a compassionate one. Both seem right. Perhaps I should just pretend not to see this document.”
The third document was particularly interesting, coming from Liyang. After many twists and turns, it finally reached the Northern Wilderness, thanks not only to money but also to luck. Between Guangling Province and the Nanjing capital was a man-made lake called Yanjiao Lake, built to suppress the lingering dragon energy of the fallen Western Chu. There was an island in the lake with a warehouse guarded by heavy troops. This warehouse stored the official records (Huangce) from various provinces every five years, detailing population, farmland, and tax information across Liyang. However, few knew that besides the Huangce managed by the Ministry of Revenue in the capital, there was another, more secret archive. This archive, accessible only to the Chancellor, contained military records from various regions. This originated from the late Emperor’s order to compile the *Compendium of Official Duties*, where he sought both accurate farmland data and military secrecy. Thus, the Land reclamation Huangce was distributed among various departments and prefectures. Guangling, being the granary of the empire, was relatively hidden. However, the farmland figures in the two Liaos were unusually high, clearly indicating the presence of this secret archive. The former Deputy Minister of War, Liu Mao, had once requested access to these records from the Marquis of Gongliang, Zhao Siqi, who, following protocol, impeached him. Realizing his mistake too late, Liu Mao repeatedly submitted apologies but still lost his position, being demoted to the malarial wilderness of the Yanxi Province, where he eventually died in office.
This time, caught in the upheaval of the restoration of the Western Chu, the Yanjiao Lake began a large-scale migration northward. Amidst the chaos, while many original records were lost, numerous copies of key documents strangely surfaced. Most of them flowed into the jurisdiction of Guangling Dao, while a few scattered into the hands of common folk. Northern Liang spies embedded in the region managed to obtain a portion through a mix of bribery and force from a group of martial artists.
The numbers on the official registers were fixed, but those with insight could read between the lines and see the truth hidden beneath.
Coincidentally, Xu Fengnian had just requested from the Fushui Bureau a large stack of intelligence reports accumulated over the years regarding the military garrisons of Guangling Dao. He already knew that the Zhao Emperor had appointed Sun Xiji, the former Grand Preceptor of Western Chu, as the Regional Governor—an act that seemed like releasing a tiger back to the mountains, but was in reality a scheme to lure the tiger into a trap to catch all the smaller turtles inside. Yet, after carefully analyzing the intelligence, Xu Fengnian confirmed a truth: those generals who publicly complained to their troops about the court’s failure to supply sufficient military funds were, in fact, merely lining their own pockets. Under the joint administration of Zhang Julu and the Finance Minister Wang Xionggui, who was exceptionally skilled at “turning stones into gold,” the court had never stinted on the garrisons.
It was not unusual for local troops to loudly demand more resources—after all, the loudest child gets the milk. But in Xu Fengnian’s eyes, the greed of these Guangling Dao generals was truly shocking. Yet, this was also the consequence of Zhang Julu’s own policies. It was he who had orchestrated the system where “southerners served as officials in the north, and northerners served as generals in the south.” Although this policy effectively severed the ties between the aristocratic families of Jiangnan and the northern regions from their local power bases, the northern generals who arrived in Guangling Dao had family connections in the nearby regions close to the Zhao imperial heartland, serving as their backings. Could these generals, who believed their fathers had built the empire, possibly behave with restraint? Moreover, Guangling Dao was a fertile land deliberately oppressed by the court as a place of punishment—how could they possibly feel any fear or restraint?
Over the past decade or so, nearly every powerful post in Guangling Dao had been rotated among officials—some serving two terms, others up to four—each taking their turn to exploit the land. Who truly cared about the people’s livelihood or public sentiment?
Xu Fengnian murmured softly, “Excess is as bad as deficiency.”
He stood up and walked to a wall where a detailed map of the former Chu territory and the entire southern region of the capital was displayed.
“If names are not correct, words will not be in accordance; if words are not in accordance, affairs cannot be carried out successfully.”
Currently, both Liyang and Western Chu could claim legitimacy. The former possessed the throne and claimed to be suppressing rebellion, while the latter raised the banner of orthodox legitimacy. This was not two hundred years after the fall of Chu, but merely twenty. At the time of Chu’s fall, even historians believed the blame did not lie with the emperor, officials, or people. Chu’s downfall was mourned by countless scholars as the “submersion of the Divine Land.”
Xu Fengnian gazed at the map, which was far more detailed than ordinary maps. It meticulously depicted mountains, rivers, passes, and military garrisons. Any location that could potentially become a battlefield was marked without omission. The number of troops and civilian households were clearly annotated, and the map was frequently updated with temporary changes.
On this map, a subtle contrast of movement and stillness was visible. The stillness belonged to the forces of the regional princes assigned to suppress the rebellion, and to the temporary generals—Lu Shengxiang’s headquarters, Yang Shenxing’s four thousand elite infantry, and Yan Zhanchun’s three thousand cavalry.
It was said that military orders could hardly be enforced in Youlu Pass where Lu Shengxiang was stationed.
Yang Shenxing had stationed his forces in the western Yu region, watching closely. Behind this old general of the Spring and Autumn era followed a group of aristocratic youths, eager for spoils. The western Yu was mountainous, crisscrossed with rivers, and filled with east-west corridors and valleys—neither a death trap nor isolated, but a place of mutual support.
As for Yan Zhanchun in the eastern Yu plains, the terrain was open and flat, not defensible by natural barriers, but historically it was a thoroughfare suitable for cavalry. If it weren’t for Yan’s minimal connections with the noble families of the capital, even more people would have wished to join his command to gain military merit sooner. After all, the remnants of Western Chu could be crushed with a single finger. On foot, infantry could never match the speed of cavalry on horseback.
The three armies remained still for now, but according to the latest intelligence, Western Chu’s forces were in constant motion beneath the surface. Except for the relatively quiet south, the former capital’s forces had already dispersed and spread out, especially along the northern front, where their movements were unpredictable. At first glance, it seemed like a headless fly darting about, full of obvious flaws and vulnerabilities.
Xu Fengnian narrowed his eyes, staring at the map, trying to imagine Cao Changqing, the Confucian general who had not shone brightly during the Spring and Autumn era. Although Xu Fengnian himself was merely a successor maintaining the empire built by his father, he understood the importance of hidden forces. Just like the thousands of hidden soldiers on Qingcheng Mountain, the two bands of horse thieves on the border, and the cavalry he planned to deploy in the Western Regions for future offensives—these were all similar in principle. In any campaign, the precise deployment of reserve forces was crucial. That was why heavy cavalry could decisively tip the balance on the battlefield.
Over the years, many bands of rebels had crossed borders and caused chaos around the former Western Chu territory. The relatively high combat effectiveness of Prince Guangling Zhao Yi’s forces owed much to these training opportunities. This was why Zhao Yi dared to scoff at Prince Yanchi Zhao Bing and even boasted that his troops could rival the Northern Liang Iron Cavalry.
Among the feudal lords, Jiaodong Prince Zhao Sui, despite his advantageous border location, had been unable to confront the Northern Mang directly due to the dual suppression from the court and Gu Jiantang. Consequently, his forces had been steadily declining over the years.
Xu Fengnian was searching for the hidden elite troops of Cao Changqing, and he was certain that the top generals in the Ministry of War in Tai’an City were also watching closely.
Once, the mighty Chu, besides having the military sage Jiang Baikui as its pillar, had countless capable generals. Its twelve thousand elite halberdiers represented the peak of infantry power, and its cavalry, fed with gold and silver, was unmatched in both light and heavy formations.
Now, the halberdiers of Western Chu had vanished, and a new heavy cavalry had yet to emerge. The forces currently displayed on the map mainly consisted of two thousand “rebels” guarding the former capital, and about eight thousand troops spread across various garrisons and passes. In addition, hidden among the regions were an estimated thirty thousand rebels and bandits, whose combat effectiveness far exceeded the eight thousand regular troops and was comparable to the two thousand imperial guards. However, in war between two nations, the underlying strength supported by public sentiment and national resources was crucial. With prestige came recruits willing to fight, and with wealth came the ability to maintain superior equipment. Two armies of similar strength could be decided by the quantity and quality of weapons and armor, unless one side made a fatal command error.
But the real question was: how many thousands or tens of thousands of Western Chu remnants would willingly die for the name of Jiang?
Xu Fengnian shifted his gaze further north, where Gu Jiantang’s thirty thousand border troops stood—the true elite of the Liyang Empire.
He slowly withdrew his gaze and turned his attention to the border between Xishu and Nanzhao.
The two greatest generals of the current Liyang Empire were both idle—one unable to move north or south, the other seeking trouble under the pretext of an imperial timber scandal, reportedly marching south with only eight hundred armored soldiers.
Xu Fengnian returned to his desk and closed his eyes, deep in thought.
There was no need for a map of the Liang-Mang confrontation in the room—it was already etched into his mind. Nor did he need to personally oversee border military affairs, for the reason was simple:
After nearly twenty years of painstaking development, the defenses of Northern Liang had reached their peak.
If the Northern Mang merely sent its forty thousand southern forces southward,
Northern Liang would swallow them whole.
If the Northern Mang launched a full-scale invasion,
Then it would be a battle to the death.
Of course, one could also call it waiting to be slaughtered, or more poetically, mutual destruction.
Xu Fengnian stepped outside and walked to the Xixiang Pond. The path was paved with smooth river stones from the pond, tightly arranged and worn smooth by years of rain and water. He took off his boots, holding them in his hand as he slowly walked along the stone path, a cool yet not cold comfort seeping into the soles of his feet.
He leaped onto a large green stone, lying back to gaze at the stars, closing his eyes.
How many tens of thousands in Guangling Dao would not survive this autumn?
And how many tens of thousands in Northern Liang would not live to see the next?
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