At the easternmost front of the Northern Desert, Wang Jingchong of the Nabo clan, fresh from a defeat in Jibei, rode westward in silence with only two hundred personal cavalry, under the mocking gazes of his peers, heading toward Gusei Prefecture.
His grandfather, the head of one of the prestigious families of the Southern Dynasty, had passed away at the ripe old age of seventy. His great-grandfather, already in his nineties and on the verge of being honored as a centenarian sage, still lived, though he had long withdrawn from family affairs and turned a deaf ear to the politics of the Southern Court. This was a case of white-haired mourning white-haired, a situation that seemed oddly inappropriate. Yet the Wang family, always dubbed as “fence-sitters” in the Western Court, continued to thrive no matter how strong the winds blew. Wang Jingchong remembered how, during his youth, many elderly refugees from the Spring and Autumn Period had begun preparing for death before the infamous purge that swept the Southern Dynasty. His great-grandfather was neither the first to wish to be buried in the Central Plains after death, nor the first to declare he would be buried in the South to show loyalty to the Northern Court. He always acted unhurriedly, never rushing, never standing out. To put it bluntly, he followed the tide, he was pragmatic, even calculating. But Wang Jingchong knew that without his great-grandfather’s deliberate slowness and his decisive words in times of crisis, the Wang family would never have risen from a minor clan to become one of the great houses of the South—they would have been swept away by the first storm that came their way.
Wang Jingchong had an instinctive feeling: the successor to the family headship would be none other than himself.
As for why he and another Nabo had suffered heavy losses in Jibei, it was not due to carelessness or negligence on their part, nor was it because their subordinates were weak in battle strength. Nor was it because Yuan Tingshan had chosen such an impeccable time and place to strike, as the Liyang Dynasty believed.
The truth was that the Taiping Edict had sent a message to the two of them: the battle at Jibei must end in defeat, not victory, and only a minor defeat, not a crushing one.
As Wang Jingchong galloped forward on horseback, he smiled faintly.
Yuan Tingshan, Gu Jiantang—you wait, Liyang Dynasty.
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In the ruins of the old palace of the Great Chu.
A man in a green robe, long removed from the title of Imperial Go Player, entered alone the courtyard that had been abandoned for many years and never reoccupied. Once, this place had gathered the finest Go players in the land, and he had been the most brilliant among them.
He searched for a long time, but could not find the two ancient jars from which he had so often drawn stones to place upon the Go board.
Before leaving the courtyard, he reluctantly took up two other old Go boxes, the only ones he still recognized.
He murmured softly, “The next time I appear outside Taian City, I will tell the world that the Great Chu had no beauties who brought ruin.”
On this day, Cao Zhangqing, the Grand Go Master, ascended from the path of the Confucian Sage to the Overbearing—the path of dominance.
※※※
To outsiders, the Southern Frontier was a land of miasma and savagery. Since the founding of the Great Qin Dynasty, serving there had always been considered a dreaded exile. Emperors often sent disobedient officials they could not execute to this forsaken place. Thus, Zhao Bing, who had finally earned the title of Prince of Yan Chi instead of being merely the Prince of Huainan, had diligently guarded the border for many years, strictly abiding by the royal clan’s laws without complaint. Even his eldest son, the Crown Prince, and his other sons had never been accused of any reckless behavior in the north, which earned him much sympathy. Moreover, Zhao Bing treated his subordinates with respect and kindness. Many officials who had come to the Southern Frontier expecting death but eventually survived and returned north held him in the highest regard. Occasionally, when Jiangnan literati made jokes about Zhao Bing’s intimate relationship with Nalan Youci, he never showed any sign of anger or shame.
Had it not been for the disappointment caused by Zhao Zhu, the Crown Prince with an otherwise commendable reputation, who failed to live up to expectations during the Jingnan Campaign, perhaps even more people would have felt a sense of closeness toward the Southern Frontier. After all, their hopes for Zhao Zhu had been high. This young man, who had joined the army at an early age, often hunted among the barbarian tribes, building pyramids of skulls. Compared to Zhao Ying, the Prince of Huainan, who died heroically in battle, Zhao Zhu’s deeds paled in comparison. Worse still, the Prince of Jing’an, Zhao Xun, had even come to his aid from a thousand li away, nearly sacrificing his entire army in the process.
Nalan Youci had always been a figure shrouded in mystery, often described as someone who belonged only in tales of chivalry and romance. Some claimed his beauty surpassed even that of women, and that he had bewitched Prince Zhao Bing with both his looks and his strategic brilliance, keeping him in the Southern Frontier for twenty years. Others insisted that the most extravagant figure in the Southern Frontier, Master Nalan, had five personal maidservants who were each said to be peerless beauties, named Fengdu, Dongyue, Xishu, Sanshi, and Chengli.
In the Southern Frontier, there was no snow in winter, and the bone-chilling spring cold that plagued Jiangnan never arrived.
At the top floor of a thirteen-story tall, grand multi-eaved library, a refined middle-aged scholar, dressed lightly, was having a group of beautiful attendants help him move and air out his books. He sat calmly on a small sandalwood couch, leisurely reading.
He sat up straight, placing the yellowed book on his lap, and smiled at the nearest young beauty, whose figure was full and graceful.
“I know there aren’t many women in the world who can rival your beauty,” he said, “and yet, finding more of you would be easy for me. So why did I end up with only you five?”
The woman known as Chengli turned her head, her eyes crinkling into crescent moons as she smiled, “Master, your knowledge rivals heaven and earth. How could a servant like me possibly guess your thoughts?”
The scholar teased, “With flattery like that, had you entered the palace, you’d have been lucky to become a minor concubine.”
Her smile deepened, her gaze filled with adoration, naturally alluring. “But I really mean every good word I say about you, Master.”
The man smiled warmly, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Alright then, enough of your flattery. You five, stop bustling about. Go downstairs and play. Let this heaven-rivaling scholar have some peace to study.”
Without hesitation, the five women gracefully descended the stairs.
This scholar, who could be called even more influential than Prince Zhao Bing himself, was none other than Nalan Youci.
He lowered his gaze to the worn book gifted by an old friend many years ago. It was nothing special—just an ordinary Confucian classic, not a finely printed edition that grew more valuable with age. This book, over twenty years old, was probably not even worth giving away. Yet Nalan, a man whose extravagance was unmatched in the Southern Frontier, had cherished it for over two decades, airing it out himself and only taking it from its sandalwood box for a few days each year to read.
Zhao Bing had once jokingly asked him, laughing, whether this old book meant more to him than the wealth he had given him. Nalan only shook his head, and Zhao Bing, ever indifferent to such minor matters, never pressed further.
Nalan Youci gazed at the book left behind by a friend who had died without even a grave.
He chuckled softly. “You were so poor that even a few copper coins made a clinking sound. But you were pitifully destitute, not even owning a coin purse. When we traveled together from state to state, at our parting, you gave me this book, owning only two volumes. Tell me, how could Zhao Bing compare to you? Would he ever give me half of his fortune?”
Nalan Youci raised his head, squinting at the sky. “Fengdu, Dongyue, Xishu, Sanshi, Chengli—five names, ten people. That was the sum of our efforts. Over the years, there have been three confirmed deaths, two missing. Five remain—more than we expected. It’s enough. For these last five, Zhao Bing has killed tens of thousands in the Southern Frontier. And in your Beiliang, not counting the refugees, nearly ten thousand border troops have perished.”
He placed a hand over his forehead, his expression deeply conflicted, as if caught between sorrow and fulfillment. He smiled gently.
“I remember when, ever since the rise of wandering scholars, after centuries of evolution, the roamers became aristocrats. The phrase ‘nation and family’ once placed the nation first, but now it’s ‘family and nation,’ with family first. You, a poor scholar back then, told me you wanted to try to make scholars once again place the nation before the family. For this, you set up this grand scheme, and in the end, aside from those five, only I know the truth.”
The tower stood high into the clouds, winds blowing from all directions. A breeze swept across Nalan Youci’s face, tousling the hair at his temples.
The book on his lap rustled softly, the pages fluttering.
Nalan Youci closed his eyes, listening carefully to the sound of the turning pages, his lips curving upward.
“You once seriously asked me, ‘When the moment of death suddenly arrives, how will you face the battle between life and death?’ I once cleverly replied, ‘Life and death are small matters. True friendship is greater. Where my heart finds peace, there is a pure land, there is a lotus pond.’”
The spring wind flipped through the pages, one by one.
As if the departed soul himself were turning the book.
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