North and south of the great rivers, the late autumn had arrived. Cicadas clinging to trees made their final cries, their noisy chirping bringing an unbearable sense of irritation.
Spring brings blossoms to the boughs, autumn takes them away. A single word—sorrow—rises and falls, only to climb once more into the heart.
In this late autumn of the Xiangfu era, the Central Plains once again found themselves engulfed in smoke and flames of war. Many elders who had lived through the chaos of the Spring and Autumn conflicts were seized with dread. Nowhere was this more evident than in the Guangling Circuit, second only to the Southern Frontier in territorial size, where the fires of war raged without sign of abatement.
In the official histories of the Liyang court, the Great Chu had become the Western Chu, and the divine phoenix city had been renamed Dingding City. Now, even the historians were already preparing new terminology: the Western Chu would soon be known as the Later Chu. Despite the Liyang court, the recognized orthodox power of the realm, suffering setbacks on the battlefield, the historians still did not believe that the ghosts and wandering souls of the past—supposedly destined to vanish with the Spring and Autumn era—could truly accomplish anything great. In fact, so long as Gu Jiantang, the second Grand Pillar of the State after Xu Xiao, remained in his post and did not withdraw his forces from the northern frontier, it meant the court still held the reins of power firmly in hand.
The woman originally named Jiang Si did not follow her Go-playing imperial advisor uncle out of the city. Instead, she now sat quietly within this vast “home.” Across the stone table sat the elderly Grand Chancellor Sun Xiji, reporting to her the latest developments on the eastern front. She was no longer as distracted as she had been during her first visit to the White Deer Grotto; this time, she listened intently to every word, though she did not speak, nor did she attempt to use her exalted status to interfere in military or state affairs. Cao Changqing had personally arrived at the banks of the Guangling River, commanding the flagship of the navy, while the young general Kou Jianghuai coordinated land forces with him. Together, their forces targeted the Spring Snow Pavilion of the Guangling King Zhao Yi. Jiang Ni had grown accustomed to receiving reports of victories. First, the newly emerged Pei Sui, in collaboration with Xie Xichui, had not only defended the crucial fortress Kuixiao but also lured the enemy into a trap, pinning down the 40,000 veteran troops of the famed Spring and Autumn general Yang Shenxing within the Qingyang Basin. This was merely the first phase of a larger deception strategy. Soon after, Xie Xichui engaged in a brutal battle, annihilating the 30,000 elite cavalry of Yan Zhenshun’s Yan family. Meanwhile, Kou Jianghuai advanced eastward with great momentum, his achievements only slightly less than Xie Xichui’s. He led Zhao Yi’s elite forces on a chaotic chase, maneuvering with a combination of surprise and conventional tactics that completely caught the Liyang forces off guard. According to the Grand Chancellor’s earlier account, Kou Jianghuai’s ability to command his forces was as effortless as moving his own limbs. He had reduced Zhao Yi’s western defenses to a sieve, forcing three major armies totaling 60,000 troops to retreat to the areas of Shuzhuang Commandery, Youxian City, and Huozao Mountain. Furthermore, the naval forces of the Great Chu had so thoroughly intimidated Zhao Yi’s main rear forces that they dared not deploy westward to plug the gaps. The initiative was now entirely in Kou Jianghuai’s hands, and the only question remaining was which location he would strike next. To outsiders, Kou Jianghuai appeared to be consolidating power and acting independently, never reporting his battle plans to the imperial court, nor even consulting with Cao Changqing, who was stationed nearby.
Such behavior did not go unnoticed within the nascent three provinces and six ministries of the Great Chu, and some had already begun to voice concerns. There were suggestions that the more cautious Xie Xichui should be transferred to the eastern front, while the unruly Kou Jianghuai should be reassigned to the western front. Within the Great Chu court, the combined forces of several feudal lords from the Liyang side—such as Prince Zhao Ying of Huainan and Prince Zhao Xun of Jing’an—were numerically and militarily inferior to even one arm of Zhao Yi’s forces, who had the audacity to challenge the Northern Liang for the title of the strongest army in the realm. Two days prior, Kou Jianghuai’s father had nervously gone to the palace to apologize on bended knee, bearing a bundle of rods as a sign of submission. Jiang Ni had no choice but to offer kind words of reassurance. She clearly remembered how Grand Chancellor Sun, despite being a lifelong friend of the Kou family, had sternly reprimanded the elderly Kou patriarch, who was nearly eighty years old. As Jiang Ni watched the old man rise and turn away, his back soaked in sweat, she was reminded of the growing signs of factional infighting and power struggles within the court. Without her Go-playing uncle by her side to serve as her backbone, she was suddenly overwhelmed by a profound sense of helplessness.
The elderly Grand Chancellor, whose spirits were still relatively high, took a sip of tea to quench his thirst before setting the cup down with a smile. “This old man has a modest understanding of military affairs and dare not presume to guess Kou Jianghuai’s next move. However, I believe that if he can eliminate even one of the three locations in Shuzhuang, Zhao Yi’s favored general Song Li will find himself in a state of utter chaos from the very beginning of his command.”
Sun Xiji paused, then dipped his finger in the tea and marked three spots on the stone table. “Back in early summer, Old Kou brought his son Kou Jianghuai to visit me. I listened to this young man’s insights, which were unlike anything I had ever read in ancient texts or heard from the mouths of old scholars. He said that future warfare would gradually shift toward open-field battles, with fewer sieges and fortification assaults. In short, warfare would evolve from localized conflicts into nationwide strategies, revolving around the three core elements: points, lines, and surfaces. Kou Jianghuai emphasized the importance of the ‘line’ more than anyone else. His troops would be the most adept at rapid transfers and long-distance raids, ensuring that even if their overall numbers were inferior to the enemy’s, they could still concentrate superior forces at critical moments to overwhelm isolated enemy units. He does not seek unnecessary victories, only those that will decisively eliminate large enemy contingents.”
The old man’s mood brightened as he continued, “At first, I thought this young man, famous from the Shangyin Academy, was merely showing off his knowledge to an old man with failing eyesight. But now, upon reflection, I realize that Kou Jianghuai truly has a well-thought-out strategy.”
Smiling warmly, Sun Xiji added, “I’ve heard that the Spring Snow Pavilion has issued strict orders to the commander Liu Louya stationed at the strategic fire Jujube Mountain pass. If Huozao Mountain falls, all military officers of the rank of Colonel and above must personally present their heads to Zhao Yi, even if they survive the retreat.”
As he spoke, the old man seemed to recall something and sighed, “This reminds me of a saying from Xie Xichui: warfare is ultimately a battle of the mind, and the key lies in who can grasp the enemy’s mindset and the broader trend of events. This makes me think of that man, Chen Zhibao, known as the White-Robed Master of War. His brilliance lies not only in his mastery of troops but especially in his ability to read others’ thoughts. In that sense, Xie Xichui and Kou Jianghuai seem like his disciples, each with their own strengths. Of course, as the war progresses, their potential will be further revealed. How far they can rise will largely depend on whether the civilian officials attending daily court sessions drag them down…”
A senior eunuch hurried into the courtyard, bowed low, and handed over an urgent military intelligence report marked for immediate delivery. He then backed out silently, without a word or elaborate ceremony. Sun Xiji, accustomed to such procedures, opened the report and saw that it was from Cao Changqing. His face lit up with joy as he turned to the Princess with a beaming expression. “This Kou Jianghuai is determined to give us old gossips a warning. With a message from Changqing, I suspect no one will dare to speak during court sessions for some time. Your Highness, take a look—Song Li is clearly attempting a bold maneuver. He’s using the Hongshui Ravine in front of Huozao Mountain as bait, hoping to lure the elusive Kou Jianghuai into a trap. At the same time, he’s sending his elite troops to bypass Hongzao Mountain, confident that the general will never expect Kou Jianghuai to actually take the bait. But Song Li still won’t get the chance to pull the line. In just an hour and a half, Kou Jianghuai annihilated the 4,000 troops stationed at Hongshui Ravine, swiftly withdrawing eighty miles after devouring the bait. By the time Song Li, moving at full speed, arrived at Hongshui Ravine, the opportunity had long passed.”
Sun Xiji burst into laughter. “It’s not so much about the scale of the battle, but rather the fact that Song Li has suffered a humiliating defeat right at the start of his command. For the Spring Snow Pavilion, this is like adding insult to injury. For Kou Jianghuai, it’s a triple victory—undermining Song Li’s reputation, eliminating the Hongshui forces, and silencing those who criticize us without lifting a finger. No wonder Changqing added a line in the report: ‘The east belongs to Kou, the north to Xie. Both may act as they see fit.’ What a bold declaration!”
Jiang Ni asked softly, “Isn’t Lu Shengxiang, the Liyang commander leading the southern campaign, a renowned general from the Spring and Autumn era? And what about Xu Gong, the Dragon General praised by your Go-playing uncle as both wise and brave? Why doesn’t Liyang deploy them? And on our side, we have Xie Xichui and Kou Jianghuai. Does the enemy have no young generals of equal caliber?”
The old man’s smile faded slightly as he replied patiently, “It’s like the game of Xiangqi, first devised by Huang Sanjia. In our Great Chu, the generals, officers, and soldiers each have their distinct roles—those meant to charge lead the charge, and those meant to command lead the command. But on the other side of the border, in the Liyang court, the Zhao family claims to have gathered all the talents under heaven. The emperor has so many capable men and so many pieces to play that they end up congested, like a tangled mess. Take Lu Shengxiang, for example. He stands at the border, but ahead of him are Yang Shenxing and Yan Zhenshun, and behind him, another old Spring and Autumn general. There’s no room for him, a relatively inexperienced minister of war, to take the lead. As for Xu Gong, he ranks even lower within the Liyang court than Lu Shengxiang. Neither a capital official nor an old general, he must first carve a path through his own ranks before he can hope to command independently.”
Jiang Ni sighed, listening to the ceaseless chirping of cicadas, her heart filled with unease.
The old man smiled faintly, gazing up at the evergreen trees that still cast thick shade despite the autumn chill. He rose to his feet and muttered a few words before taking his leave. “The cicadas’ cries bring no sorrow of their own; it is only the grieving heart that finds torment in them.”
Jiang Ni remained lost in thought, whispering to herself.
She did not wish to admit it, but compared to this grand home—this imperial palace rivaling the Taian City palace—she often found herself thinking of that mountain, that small house that had once been hers alone. It was humble, sweltering in summer and bitterly cold in winter, with a narrow wooden bed and patched windows. The worn-out quilt, always silently facing her like an old companion, had shared her loneliness. Back then, there were no flatteries or sweet words, only the cold remarks of servant girls. But that hatred was always worn openly, and she understood it, even if she hated it. She never felt uncertain. Unlike now, when she had to ponder the hidden intrigues behind every solemn, respectful face, and bear the weight of responsibility on her shoulders.
Sometimes, she would dream of returning to the Thatched cottage on Wudang Mountain, tending to the small vegetable patch that always seemed lush and green. She would dream of herself crouching in the garden, counting the harvest one by one with her fingers.
After she learned to fly on a sword, she had seen countless magnificent sights across the world. But once seen, they were quickly forgotten.
Many years ago, at this very time of year, a carefree boy had struck a tree with a branch, startling a cicada into a mournful cry. He turned to a young girl with a grin and said, “Chirping, chirping! What do you really know? Little Ni-ren, do you know anything?”
At that moment, Jiang Ni instinctively blurted out the same words as back then.
“Know your ass!”
Back then, the boy had laughed heartily, pointing at her with the branch in one hand and holding his belly with the other. “Little Ni-ren, you understand me! If I ever can’t find a wife, you’ll just have to do!”
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