In a side room of the Huaiyang Pass Protectorate, it was said that pedantic scholars gathered like sour pickles, exuding an unbearable acidity, filled with officials no bigger than sesame seeds or mung beans, neither literary nor martial in talent. Yet the Protector himself often came and went from this side room. Apart from him, few others ever visited.
Contrary to the outside world’s imagination, the room was not cold and desolate, filled only with old scholars sighing in despair. On the contrary, the room was lively, and the presence of many young faces made it especially vibrant. On the east and west walls hung a series of strategic maps—some depicting the border geography of the three states of Beiliang, others showing maps of the Guse and Longyao provinces of the northern enemy state of Beiman. The maps on both walls showed the same territory, only differing in age—one side old, the other new.
Inside, two men sat facing each other at a table, while a third stood nearby with a brush in hand, silently waiting to record their words. The table was piled high with Beiman gazetteers and secret archives, many of which were likely unknown even to the Ministry of War and the Ministry of Revenue in the southern court. The reason the maps were divided into old and new on the east and west walls was the suggestion of a young junior official. Since the enemy commander Dong Zhuo had remained still without showing the slightest sign of mobilizing troops, the young man proposed that Beiliang should instead begin by examining the changes made by Beiman border forces in the two provinces bordering Beiliang over the years, looking for clues—marking cities and garrisons where troop numbers had increased recently, identifying newly constructed The Post Road (postal roads) built at great expense, and focusing particularly on the locations of Beiman’s past military drills.
The young man who made this suggestion was surnamed Yu. It was said that he had once been an idle scholar from elsewhere who came to Beiliang without connections or prospects, unable to find a well-funded government post, and had only managed to get in through backdoor connections. Along with Yu, there were six or seven other minor officials, some being local Beiliang youths born into military families, surprisingly well-read in military treatises, while others were like Yu himself—discarded talents from other regions, with lofty ambitions but fragile fates.
The older seniors in the room were mostly failed officials who had never made it in the bureaucratic world. They shared a common trait—stiff necks and ironclad knees, unwilling to bow or flatter. They often liked to drown their sorrows in wine, and when drunk, would talk loudly about politics and criticize the world. Then one day, they were suddenly seized by agents of the Fushui Bureau and taken to the border, without even being able to say goodbye to their families, vanishing into thin air.
At first, they were terrified, thinking they were about to be beheaded for sport by the unpredictable monster, General Chu Lushan. But later, they learned they were only being asked to help analyze battlefield strategies, so they gradually calmed down. Although they were now “guests” of the Protectorate, assisting the Protector himself, they held no official rank or salary, suspended between heaven and earth, hardly a desirable position. Fortunately, their ambitions had long been worn down by years in the bureaucracy, and they could endure the dull routine of the room. Moreover, with the terrifying reputation of General Chu looming over them, each worked diligently, fearing that one day they might be seen as slackers and have their heads chopped off.
The outsiders who occasionally entered the room were all agents from the Fushui Bureau, constantly bringing strange and unusual items. These included documents detailing recent promotions in the southern court’s Ministry of War, memorials from the Ministry of Revenue regarding grain and forage consumption across regions, and even pieces of paper—of varying quality—listing repair budgets down to the last coin for specific beacon towers and The Post Road (postal roads). These Fushui agents came and went in haste, entering the room silently, placing the secret files down without a word, and leaving without glancing sideways. As Hong, the temporary head of the room, once privately remarked, these were men who killed without blinking and slept with their eyes open.
The older ones, like Hong himself, believed in doing much and speaking little, occasionally muttering a few reflections. But the younger ones, like Yu Dezhi, were bolder, unafraid of challenging authority. Recently, the young scholar Li Yu, who had come to Beiliang from elsewhere, and Zhao Ying, whose father was a county magistrate in Lanzhou, had a fierce argument two days ago over whether the Beiman army was planning a real or feigned attack on Liuzhou, even drawing the attention of General Chu.
At dusk, Hong, whose eyesight was failing, lit an oil lamp even though he was seated by the sunniest window. As he turned his neck, he heard the familiar sound of light footsteps. Looking back, he saw a very young Fushui agent, his face still boyish, enter the room and hand a document to Wang Guifang, another senior official in charge of receiving materials.
Hong, once terrified of these Fushui agents who had haunted the dreams of every Beiliang official, had grown less fearful. Not that his courage had increased, but working for the Protector was like wearing a golden talisman of protection on one’s forehead—what was there to fear? Still, it was impossible for Hong to feel any affection for these people. He was not alone—most in the room wanted nothing to do with the Fushui Bureau, not even half a copper coin’s worth.
Hong noticed that after the young agent left, his old friend Wang Guifang wore a look of carefully concealed disdain and discomfort, pinching the document with his fingers as though it were dirty, and quickly placing it on the desk of the young man Yu Dezhi.
Hong stood up, pretending to examine the wall maps, and as he passed Yu Dezhi’s desk, he caught a glimpse of the paper—it looked like a torn page, soaked in blood, now dry.
Hong sighed helplessly. These Fushui agents were so careless. Their deliveries were often wrinkled, as though fished out of water, or still carried grains of sand. Today’s delivery was even more shocking—stained with blood.
Outside, in the evening twilight, the young agent raised his arm and wiped his eyes fiercely, then strode down the steps and disappeared.
As he stepped out, he saw a young man in civilian clothes standing at the courtyard gate. They exchanged glances. The agent’s gaze was filled with well-hidden caution. His instincts told him that if this man were an enemy, he would be dead in an instant. As they passed each other, the young agent, though certain that anyone allowed into the Protectorate watched by General Chu could not possibly be a Beiman spy, still instinctively bent his body slightly, one hand hidden in his sleeve. Only when they had passed did he finally relax, realizing that his palm was damp with sweat. The young agent was puzzled—this man was not much older than himself, yet he had triggered an automatic reaction of extreme alertness.
When Xu Fengnian quietly entered the room, Wang Guifang, whose desk was near the door, glanced up, assuming it was another Fushui agent, and extended his hand to receive the document.
Xu Fengnian asked softly, “Where is the item that was just delivered?”
Yu Dezhi, about to speak, looked up and saw the disguised Prince of Beiliang shake his head slightly. Understanding the signal, Yu simply stood and handed the paper to Xu Fengnian.
He was none other than Yu Luandao, the eldest grandson of the Yu clan, a prestigious family from the Central Plains, who had taken the alias Yu Dezhi and was working here as a lowly clerk. Though unknown to most, Yu Luandao could have easily obtained a high-ranking military post—General Hu Kui, the governor of Liangzhou, who was deeply respected by Xu Fengnian, would have gladly given him a fourth-grade general’s rank. The paper he handed to Xu Fengnian was a page from the famous essay collection *Xiaochuang Xianqing* by Liu Jingsheng, a renowned Beiman literary figure. This collection was widely circulated among the old scholars of the Spring and Autumn period. Though the page itself, from a rare edition of the southern Tang dynasty, was not particularly valuable, and the text was well-known, there was a hastily written line added to the back—perhaps not worth a thousand gold pieces per character, but certainly more precious than the life of the one who wrote it.
Before a great battle, scouts die first.
But few realize that spies die even before them—and they die silently, without even the dignity of tragedy.
Yu Luandao wanted to explain how those scattered, cryptic characters, in the secret code of the Fushui Bureau, could be pieced together into meaning. Few outsiders knew that the Fushui Bureau had a highly concealed *Jiezi Shu* (Character Decoding Manual), with each spy assigned a unique code. Thus, even if a secret message were intercepted by Beiman, it would remain meaningless. The agent who sent this page was known in the Fushui Bureau as Number Twenty-Four. Yu Luandao needed only to consult the twenty-fourth chapter of the *Jiezi Shu* on his desk to decipher the exact message.
Xu Fengnian remained silent, gripping the paper tightly as he walked to the wall and gazed up at the map of Guse Province.
Hong was puzzled. This man did not resemble the rigid Fushui agents. He speculated that the visitor might be a noble’s son somehow connected to the Protectorate, otherwise he would not have been allowed in. Judging from the situation, Yu Dezhi, whom he and Wang Guifang privately mocked as “Yu the Discontented,” seemed to know this man well.
Hong tugged at Yu Dezhi’s sleeve and whispered, “Xiao Yu, is he a friend? This is against the rules. If the Protector finds out, both of us will be ruined…”
Yu Luandao replied softly, “It’s fine.”
Even the usually gentle Hong could not help but grow anxious. The rules set by General Chu were more sacred than heaven itself on the Beiliang border. Could a mere scholar really say “it’s fine” and expect to escape punishment? If one man broke the rules, the entire room would suffer.
Hong was about to warn the young man to leave when he suddenly heard him muttering, “When history suffers, the nation thrives; when the nation falters, poetry flourishes…”
Hong, a scholar who had studied hard for years, immediately recognized the line—it was from *Xiaochuang Xianqing*, written by the great southern Tang essayist Liu Jingsheng.
Then, to Hong’s astonishment, the young man gently smoothed the wrinkled page and handed it back to Yu Dezhi.
Yu Luandao took the page and handed it to Hong, saying calmly, “Director Hong, this page can now be archived. The text has been decoded by this subordinate. Please arrange for someone to deliver it to Director Chu’s study later.”
Hong took the page, glancing at it briefly. It left no strong impression, except that the handwriting seemed stiff and awkward, with clumsy strokes and abrupt turns.
“Like a woman wielding a sword or a man doing embroidery—utterly unimpressive,” he thought.
Suddenly, Hong looked up to find the young man staring at him expressionlessly, making him shiver involuntarily.
But the young man soon smiled and said softly, “Director Hong, do you think the handwriting on this page is rather unimpressive?”
Caught off guard, Hong gave a sheepish smile, unsure how to respond.
The young man did not dwell on it but raised his voice slightly, “All of you inside—thank you for your hard work.”
Before Hong could even begin to grumble inwardly, the young man walked straight toward the door.
Hong first saw Wang Guifang standing frozen at the entrance, then looked outside and saw the Protector of Beiliang, Chu Lushan, standing there, flanked by the cavalry commander Yuan Zuozong and the infantry commander Yan Wenluan. Behind them stood many others—Hong dared not look any further.
If that wasn’t shocking enough, what truly made Hong’s hair stand on end was that the young man simply stepped across the threshold and walked out.
Outside, the most powerful and influential figures in Beiliang all stepped aside to make way for him.
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