In the first year of the Xiangfu era, following the tail of the Yonghui reign period, the year was about to end on the brink of winter. Although the new era name sounded auspicious, the year itself was anything but peaceful. The first and second halves of the year were worlds apart. At first, Chen Zhibao arrived in the capital to assume the post of Minister of War, officially severing all ties with the Xu family—a great cause for celebration. Then came the long-awaited announcement of the Crown Prince’s identity, followed by the enfeoffment of various princes to govern distant territories, all proceeding smoothly and joyfully. Not long after, Yin Maochun presided over a grand appraisal of officials. His work was orderly and precise, like a cook deftly dissecting an ox, living up to his reputation as the “hidden chancellor.”
If not for Xu Fengnian’s hereditary succession as the Prince of Beiliang, the first half of Xiangfu would have been filled with nothing but good fortune. But then came the season of troubles. Rebellion erupted in the Guangling Circuit. The Vice Minister of War, Lu Shengxiang, was appointed commander to lead a campaign against the rebellious princes. Two veteran generals from the Spring and Autumn era met tragic fates—one died in battle, the other remained besieged and trapped. Tens of thousands of elite troops were effectively lost in an instant.
Even before the Frost Descent and the official arrival of winter, rumors spread that a million Northern Liang soldiers were marching south into the Central Plains. If not for their decision to bypass the northwest, the entire court of Liyang would have been thrown into chaos. Yet Lu Shengxiang’s command was now precarious. The Confucian Sage, Cao Changqing, had appeared on the eastern front of Guangling, facing off against Prince Zhao Yi. The situation was poised to ignite at any moment. Meanwhile, on an even grander eastern front, Gu Jiantang, the Grand Pillar of the Northern Border, remained motionless.
Chen Zhibao, the Prince of Shu, had vanished like a clay ox sinking into the sea. Prince Zhao Bing of Yankei intended to watch the chaos from afar. The imperial capital, Tai’an City, would have already fallen into panic during this season of withering leaves and fading greenery, had it not been for the arrival of Qi Yanglong, who had emerged from retirement in his twilight years to serve the court.
Tai’an City was indeed a place where every inch of land was worth its weight in gold. Many officials who attended court daily toiled for twenty years without being able to afford even a modest residence. And as time passed, property became ever more unattainable. A few years prior, a tragic incident occurred: an official living on the outskirts drowned in a river during a heavy rainstorm while rushing to attend the morning roll call.
The current emperor, though ruling over a vast empire, was a ruler of near-obsessive frugality. He imposed strict discipline upon the imperial clan and aristocracy. In previous dynasties, the nobility’s encroachment upon civilian property often escalated within a generation of the dynasty’s founding. Yet in this court, such behavior was exceedingly rare, further emphasizing the emperor’s stark contrast to other rulers throughout history. However, the emperor never hesitated to show generosity toward his most trusted ministers. Among those who rose to prominence during the Yonghui Spring, and more recently, the three high-ranking military officials—Chen Zhibao, Lu Baijie, and Lu Shengxiang—were granted the finest mansions in the capital upon their arrival, along with countless gifts and honors.
Yet none of these men could rival the treatment received by Qi Jijiu, Qi Yanglong. His residence, once belonging to a prince whose hereditary title had been revoked during the previous emperor’s reign, was now bestowed upon him. The prince’s eldest son had already been demoted to the rank of General Protecting the Nation, which was not particularly remarkable. To accommodate Qi Yanglong, who had once styled himself the “Gourmet of Yue,” the emperor, who rarely indulged in culinary luxuries for the imperial kitchen, specially established a Yue-style cooking bureau within Qi’s mansion. Two master chefs from the former Eastern Yue were summoned solely to cater to Qi’s tastes. Thus, Qi Yanglong was spared the customary adaptation expected of new officials arriving in the capital.
Qi Mansion, with its prime location and prestige, naturally became the place every official and aristocrat aspired to visit. Being granted entry through its gates was considered a rare honor. The status and depth of each visitor were often judged by the order in which they were received. For a time, Qi Mansion’s entrance became a gateway to success, a phenomenon unseen even during the reign of Zhang Julu, who once presided over the The Department of State Affairs (Shangshu Sheng). This was partly due to Zhang’s famously austere nature, while Qi Yanglong was quite the opposite. He accepted the emperor’s gifts of grand estates and silk without hesitation, and he welcomed gifts of refined treasures and books from his colleagues. Some even estimated that within a mere month, Qi’s Iron Sword and Zither Hall had already collected no fewer than eighty volumes of *Feng Ban* books—each page valued at a gold coin. These *Feng Ban* editions of the Great Feng Dynasty were renowned for their fine paper, ancient script, and exquisite printing. It was well known that the most famous private libraries of the age, which had accumulated generations of wealth, possessed no more than a hundred such rare volumes.
Throughout Qi Mansion, red lanterns hung high.
Qi Yanglong had just seen off Yan Jiexi, the esteemed scholar of the Dongyuan Pavilion, after sharing two jars of aged wine. Now alone, the elderly man appeared flushed with vigor as he made his way to the library. Wrapped in a thick fur coat, his small, frail frame seemed almost overwhelmed, especially in a land where men were typically tall and strong.
As he approached the bookshelves, he paid no heed to the priceless rare editions lining the walls. Instead, he pulled down a local gazetteer of Beiliang, sent to him by Gu Jiantang. The author was unknown. As he flipped through the pages, a wave of solitary indignation seemed to rise from the concise text:
*”The lands of Liang and Long are bitterly cold in winter. The people wear animal hides, even treasuring the coarsest pelts. They clothe themselves in thick wool. In severe winters, fingers fall off and skin cracks. For miles, bones freeze. The land is high and harsh. The people of Liang endure cold and hunger, brave and fearless, unafraid of death. They value the strong and despise the old. They ride cliffs as if flying, cross rivers without boats, floating on horseback. Their archery and hunting skills are unparalleled…”*
The old man moistened his finger with saliva, turning page after page. At one point, he read:
*”Born in the saddle, they value armor and weapons above all. On horseback, they gather like the wind; dismounted, they graze and gather. Every man is a soldier. A million households in Liang surpass ten million in Jiangnan. Whoever controls this land shall rule the realm. Their nature is fierce, unyielding. Their hearts are volatile. Gentle persuasion alone cannot tame them. Only those with extraordinary military achievements can earn their loyalty and defend the borders. If our dynasty holds this land, we control the northwest and can ride northward at any moment. If Northern Liang gains it, within ten years, they will cross the Guangling River with countless troops.”*
Unknowingly, Qi Yanglong had read far into the old gazetteer, his expression heavy with sorrow. He already knew the author’s identity—his disciple, Xun Ping, a scholar he had regarded more highly than Yuan Benxi or Xie Feiyu, considering him the true heir to his legacy. Qi never believed in the notion of “talent envied by heaven.” In his view, if one’s talent was unrecognized, it was due to insufficient merit. Yet Xun Ping was the sole exception.
If Xun Ping had not died young, Qi was certain he would never have had to wade into this murky water. And now, it was no longer just murky—it had become a raging torrent. Anyone who entered it would emerge with a mixed reputation at best.
With a sigh, Qi gently returned the book to the shelf. Soon after, a steward arrived to announce the arrival of an esteemed guest, one who had come through the back door with the help of Prince Rong, Zhao Hui. The old man showed no sign of annoyance, merely saying he would come shortly. The steward had intended to remind him that Prince Rong was the leader among the capital’s aristocrats and could not be slighted. But he soon realized his caution was unnecessary. Almost every notable family in Tai’an had visited Qi Mansion. Even the “Prince of Peace,” Zhao Hui, the emperor’s younger brother, had not visited only because of his advanced age. This guest was likely just another noble scion from the old prince’s lineage—certainly not someone worthy of the master sweeping the mat to welcome him. Thus, the steward left with a relaxed smile.
Qi Yanglong, never one to rest, made his way to the main hall. He saw several young figures pointing at a pair of auspicious stones in the courtyard—relics left behind by the previous owner of the estate. They were too cumbersome to move, or else such giant stones from the Spring God Lake, standing two men tall, would fetch no less than four hundred thousand taels of silver in the capital.
The old man did not rush to greet them. He quietly approached, catching sight of their profiles with a knowing smile. These were indeed rare and notable young figures.
Wu Shizhen, son of Wu Lingsu, the former head of Qingyang Palace, was now the leader of Northern Daoism, having divided the region with the Celestial Master Temple of Longhu Mountain. The Two Chan Temple had even been personally sealed by this man. When one ascends to heaven, even the chickens and dogs follow. How much more so for Wu Shizhen, the only son of the “Divine Wu.”
Wang Yuanran, the youngest son of Wang Xionggui, the Minister of Revenue, who handled the most silver in the empire. He had once angered a group of powerful young nobles, prompting his furious father to force him to kneel in the snow outside someone’s door in apology. Afterward, he was sent to the Imperial Academy, where he remained quiet for nearly half a year. Now, it seemed, he had returned to the public eye.
Besides these two rising stars, there were also two grandsons of Spring and Autumn veterans, recently gaining influence. With the deaths of Yan Zhenshun and the fall of Yang Shenxing, the foundations of the Yan and Yang families in Tai’an had been shaken, suffering heavy losses. Other military families harbored no sense of shared sorrow. Most of the older generation who had personally earned immortal glory in the Spring and Autumn campaigns had died peacefully in old age, nowhere near the vitality of Yang Shenxing, who remained alive and well. Yang had controlled much of the Han family’s legacy in the western capital region, commanding several thousand elite troops from Jizhou. At times, imperial decrees carried less weight than a single word from Yang.
But once the wall falls, everyone rushes to push it down. Once Yang lost his military authority, it was not just a general’s seat that would be vacated—it would mean upheaval across the entire Jizhou bureaucracy, opening the way for a flood of new four- and five-rank officials.
The four young men, seeing the elderly man who barely reached their shoulders, all knelt respectfully. Qi Yanglong accepted their bows without hesitation. As they rose, he smiled and asked, “Besides waiting for this old man, you must be expecting someone else. None of you have the means to afford Prince Rong’s favor yet.”
Before Wang Yuanran could speak, a familiar laughter echoed from behind. Qi Yanglong turned to see three new visitors—equally young faces, but with far greater presence and status than those beside him.
It was the former Fourth Prince, now Crown Prince Zhao Zhuang.
Beside him stood Jin Lanting, the Right Director of the Imperial Academy, and a third man Qi Yanglong did not recognize. The man radiated an unmistakable aura of bloodshed. Even in the company of the Crown Prince and Jin Sanlang, he showed no inclination to play the role of a humble background figure.
Qi Yanglong thought for a moment and recalled a name—likely the very one: Yuan Tingshan, adopted son of Gu Jiantang, son-in-law of the Yan Fortress in Jizhou. There had once been a secret dossier in the old Gu Lu School of the Ministry of War, categorizing individuals by age into upper and lower scrolls. Those listed on the upper scroll, especially the lower one, had mostly risen to the rank of general of no less than the fourth rank within twenty years, save for a few who had ruined their own futures. Yuan Tingshan was among the top three names on the current “lower scroll.”
The three bowed together.
Qi Yanglong bade them rise, then sighed with emotion, saying with a smile, “It’s truly a blessing to be young.”
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