Zhang Bian Guan slowly lifted his head, tears streaming down his face, his voice trembling: “Father, you always stand high and speak with the loudest voice in the world, doing the most audacious deeds. But have you forgotten to turn around and glance down at us, your children, just a few times?”
Zhang Ju Lu did not turn to look at his youngest son, scoffing: “What, are you afraid? Indeed, who in the world is not afraid of death? Even those upright officials who readily ask their families to prepare coffins before heroically sacrificing themselves still fear death. I suddenly recall an amusing incident—some ministers thrown into the imperial prison, perhaps genuinely unafraid of dying, but more terrified of dying without understanding why. Nearly every one of them used charcoal to write their final words on the prison walls. People may not know that a single piece of charcoal inside the imperial prison costs hundreds of taels of silver to obtain. Those with less money still manage, dipping their fingers in blood to write moving farewell letters soaked in crimson.
Your eldest brother is rigid in character and cannot do such things to build a reputation. Your second brother is slightly more clever; if he ever by luck becomes an esteemed official, he might want to but dare not. As for you, Zhang Bian Guan, perhaps you simply disdain such acts?”
Zhang Bian Guan stood up, snatched the small brazier from Zhang Ju Lu’s hands, and smashed it furiously onto the snow-covered steps below. The glowing embers scattered and quickly vanished.
Zhang Ju Lu did not reprimand his son for this act of defiance.
He did not dwell on paternal affection, and was even prepared to personally serve his sons three bowls of farewell meals before their executions. If his sons wanted to strike him, the Grand Chancellor, a few punches, it seemed trivial enough.
Zhang Ju Lu slowly turned his head, gazing at his youngest son’s livid face, and asked, “Do you really believe your elder brothers know nothing of court affairs? That they don’t understand the fate of our entire Zhang family? Do you think only you, Zhang Bian Guan, are wise for a lifetime, while they are not even allowed one moment of insight?”
Zhang Ju Lu turned his gaze away, coldly adding, “Then you are too conceited. Among my sons, you, Zhang Bian Guan, are the most calculating. But your two older brothers, though stubborn, are not fools. After years of exposure to political affairs, even the purest minds have long since awakened.”
Zhang Bian Guan crouched down, murmuring, “Back then, you insisted that all three of us could only marry women from humble families. Was it all for this day? If they were from noble clans, more people would be implicated when disaster struck. The emperor would hesitate to kill them. Truly, you are a rare conscience among chancellors, not wanting to embarrass the throne even at the end. Your elder sisters-in-law are capable housekeepers; their families have benefited greatly from our Zhang family’s favor, becoming local aristocrats. You turned a blind eye to that, chuckling—you were just trying to ease your own conscience, weren’t you?”
Zhang Ju Lu remained silent.
Zhang Bian Guan rubbed his face, gazing at the small brazier left by his grandfather in the snow, and softly said, “Father, to be a good official, from the very beginning with my grandparents, you ceased being a good son. Then you stopped being a good husband. Now, with us, you are not a good father. In the end, you won’t even be a good grandfather. Is it really worth it?”
Zhang Ju Lu raised his hands, exhaling warm breath into the cold air, and chuckled, “A good official?”
He fell into a daze, recalling his closest friend, the Old Man Tantan, once drunkenly saying: for oneself, it is easy to be a loyal or treacherous minister, a clean or corrupt official. But the hardest is to be a good official caught between the emperor and the people. Words cannot easily explain it. To settle the emperor’s affairs is already difficult; to win fame in life and after death is even harder.
Suddenly, Zhang Ju Lu spoke, “When I was young, I read a border poem by an unknown poet, which included the lines: ‘Riding westward as if reaching the sky, crossing the desert, I feel the heavens lower.’ I was deeply moved, always dreaming that if my official career faltered, I would cast aside my brush and take up arms, to witness with my own eyes the vast, boundless scenery of the frontier. That would not be a wasted life. But later, my career stabilized, and when your mother gave birth to you, I named you ‘Bian Guan.’”
Zhang Bian Guan, for reasons unknown, felt calmer, offering a wry smile: “Because of this name that doesn’t quite fit, I’ve been mocked by the sons of nobles in the capital for years. They say you, the Grand Chancellor, might as well have named me Zhang Tai An or Zhang Jing Cheng.”
Zhang Ju Lu smiled, walked down the steps, bent to retrieve the small brazier, and with his own hands, used tongs to add fresh coals. He handed it back to his youngest son, softly saying, “I know your hearts have been cold for many years. There’s little I can do.”
Zhang Bian Guan froze, at a loss for words.
Zhang Ju Lu gestured, and the steward brought another small stool. Sitting down, he asked, “Did this visit begin because Man Er asked you for a divorce? Feeling a deep resentment? After all these years of ‘follow the rooster or the dog,’ she leaves you at the most critical moment? Like a pair of birds startled by calamity, parting in fear and bitterness?”
Zhang Bian Guan, bombarded with questions, shook his head: “I don’t mind what she did.”
Zhang Ju Lu hesitated, then finally said, “Don’t blame her. Among my three daughters-in-law, she has suffered the most. It was hard for her to play the villain. Such a kind and clever girl has been wronged by our Zhang family.”
Zhang Bian Guan stared at his father, who countered, “Do you understand now?”
Zhang Bian Guan suddenly recalled something and choked up.
When a woman is heartless, she hurts the most.
When a woman is devoted, she moves the most.
Zhang Bian Guan seemed to untie his emotional knot, nodding firmly.
Zhang Ju Lu smiled and asked, “The Old Man Tantan always says, ‘Even a thousand-year legacy pales beside a single cup of wine in life.’ I never believed it before. How about we have a few cups today?”
Zhang Bian Guan naturally did not refuse.
Thus, the highest official in the capital and the most useless young noble in Tai An City sat on either side of a brazier, each on a small stool, slowly sipping wine, the pot resting on the edge of the fire.
Zhang Bian Guan said, “Father, truly, no one blames you.”
Zhang Ju Lu took a sip of wine, silent.
Cup after cup, father and son drank.
The steward quietly brought a second pot of wine and handed the Chancellor a thick fur cloak.
Eventually, Zhang Bian Guan staggered away, drunk, and Zhang Ju Lu walked him to the gate of the estate, finally wrapping the cloak around his son.
Standing on the steps, Zhang Ju Lu stretched out his hand, catching a few snowflakes in his palm.
The world is full of helplessness, and people are helpless too. When one can speak, he does not wish to. When he wishes to speak, it is already too late.
※※※
Perhaps half a year ago, no one would have believed that the Western Chu navy could now face the Guangling fleet downstream with such overwhelming might, like a lion pouncing on a rabbit.
Like an arrow drawn to its target, ready to surge downstream straight for the Spring Snow Pavilion.
Even now, in the night, illuminated only by lanterns, the towering warships exude a fierce aura of war. Every elderly Western Chu exile who sees this scene must feel an uncontrollable mix of sorrow and joy. For twenty years, the world has only heard of the Northern Liang cavalry’s supremacy. But do they still remember the mighty naval power of the old Chu kingdom?
Cao Chang Qing personally commanded the naval forces!
His flagship, Shen Feng, bore the name of the old Chu capital. A middle-aged scholar in green robes, previously studying maps by lamplight, extinguished the flame with a gentle pinch, stepped out of the top-deck cabin, and gazed toward the right bank of the Guangling River. There, a cavalry unit unlike the naval forces had abruptly appeared. At its head, a knight and several attendants leisurely crossed the river on a small boat. Standing proudly at the bow was a tall, graceful figure—the kind of man women dream of, a jade tree in the wind.
As the boat approached, the knight’s face became clearer in the lantern light—sharp-featured, confident, and brimming with vigor. He lacked the gentle warmth of a refined gentleman, but for a young man who had, in just three months, trampled underfoot the dominion that Prince Zhao Yi had cultivated for over a decade, one could hardly ask for more.
Song Yuan Hang, one of the deputy admirals of the Chu navy, stood beside the scholar in green robes. Upon seeing the unexpected visitor, he did not hide his displeasure. It wasn’t just him—several naval officers who had emerged from the lower decks of the Shen Feng also regarded the young man with disdain. A young man showing his sharpness was not bad, but to treat rules as if they did not exist was intolerable. Among the elite of the great Chu aristocracy, Pei Sui, who had gained distinction earlier, was humble and modest. If not for the commander overseeing the navy constantly smoothing things over for him, Kou Jiang Huai would have been dismissed long ago to return to the Shang Yin Academy to study military treatises. Repeatedly disrupting formations, unauthorized redeploying troops—those could be overlooked. But tonight, arriving unannounced at the naval camp without a word of notice? Did he truly believe the great Chu kingdom could not succeed without him?
The following scene enraged the naval commanders aboard the ships.
Kou Jiang Huai did not board the flagship to pay respects to Cao Chang Qing, the supreme commander of the Chu forces. Instead, he stood at the bow of the small boat, sword in hand, lifting his gaze to the figure in green robes, calling out his name and demanding, “Cao Chang Qing! Why did you forbid me from annihilating Song Li’s six thousand troops that had already fallen into our trap?!”
Cao Chang Qing, his temples streaked with white, remained silent, meeting the young man’s gaze.
Kou Jiang Huai, tall and imposing, showed no awareness that he was speaking to the second pillar of the Chu kingdom, the successor to Ye Bai Kui. His voice brimmed with anger and dissatisfaction, bordering on accusation: “Opportunities vanish in an instant. Song Li is no ignorant fool. Once he stabilizes his position on the eastern front and resolves the internal conflicts within the Spring Snow Pavilion, my chance for a decisive strike will be gone!”
“Kou Jiang Huai, you are already a general. As for the imperial decree stripping you of command, you will receive it a few days later. But whether it arrives early or late, it makes no difference.”
“Cao Chang Qing!”
“What I believed was that the Chu kingdom still had at least two and a half men who understood warfare, enough to contend for the realm. But if tonight only half remains, then our restoration is doomed. Whether I remain in office or not is irrelevant. I will watch with open eyes to see if that half can help you seize the Spring Snow Pavilion!”
With that, Kou Jiang Huai angrily hurled his sword into the Guangling River.
The small boat turned and departed.
Song Yuan Hang softly asked, “Secretary, has this young man lost his mind?”
Cao Chang Qing smiled: “He hasn’t gone mad. Kou Jiang Huai is clear-headed. His assessment of the eastern front is also correct.”
“This…”
“What Kou Jiang Huai does not realize is that he is blinded by a single leaf.”
“Secretary, what do you mean?”
“The eastern front commander I seek should not fixate solely on the Spring Snow Pavilion and Zhao Yi. If that is all he sees, then even Xie Xi Chui could accomplish it.”
The official in green robes lowered his gaze to the rolling waters of the Guangling River, lost in thought.
Kou Jiang Huai, you should see further. You should be looking toward Tai An City.
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