If the first year of the Xiangfu era was one that startled the orthodox forces of Liyang yet still left them confident, then the second year was a time of gathering storms, where unease gradually seeped into hearts.
In the late spring of that year, under the personal command of Cao Changqing, the rebellious forces of Western Chu blazed with arrogance. The Qingzhou navy led by Prince Jing’an, Zhao Xun, arrived too late to aid, while the Guangling navy under Prince Zhao Yi was utterly annihilated. This directly shattered the hard-won equilibrium on the Guangling landfront that Song Li had painstakingly established, effortlessly tipping the scales on the waters of the Guangling River. More troubling was the fact that the elite southern reinforcements, now forced to avoid the weakened Qingzhou navy, could only land at a few narrow crossings upstream. Meanwhile, Prince Zhao Yi, having lost his entire naval force, was in full retreat. With Xie Xichui personally commanding the eastern front and coordinating with the Western Chu navy’s advance downstream, Zhao Yi’s remnants were squeezed into an ever-shrinking corner, effectively surrendering all the territory Song Li had reclaimed.
The river battle was a spark that ignited the entire front. The southern expedition’s commander, Lu Shengxiang, had no choice but to halt his advance, fortifying key positions to prevent Xie Xichui from turning northward in a counteroffensive. This dashed Liyang’s grand plan of a pincer attack from north and south, converging east and west to besiege the Western Chu capital—a vision now reduced to mere fantasy.
Yet amid the turmoil, the capital still hosted gatherings at the Xinran Pavilion, a sign that the people’s hearts remained steady. Moreover, Chen Zhibao led ten thousand elite troops out of Shu under imperial decree, while on the eastern Liaodong and northern Ji borders, the Grand Pillar of the State, Gu Jiantang, and the newly appointed Ji Province General, Yuan Tingshan, scored a series of brilliant victories.
At noon on the Guangling River, several newly captured warships, now flying the Jiang banner, sailed upstream without stopping near the Western Chu capital. These vessels, seized from Prince Zhao Yi, were ironically almost entirely intact despite their intended role in the earlier battle.
On the central towering warship, a group stood by the railing—among them, a man with temples frosted white, his green robes exuding unparalleled elegance; a young woman of peerless grace with a violet sword case strapped to her back; armored generals radiating vigor and solemnity; and a cluster of robed officials from the capital, chatting and laughing.
Two young men stood out. One, unremarkable in appearance yet poised, drew attention only by his position beside the green-robed man, his faint frown contrasting with the relaxed demeanor of the others. The other was a sight to behold—a figure so divinely handsome in white robes and jade belt that he seemed celestial, casting all others into shadow.
At the bow stood four: Cao Changqing, Jiang Ni, Xie Xichui, and Song Maolin.
Xie Xichui’s reputation in Liyang was immense, even among commoners who spoke of the Western Chu rebels’ prodigious young general, likened to the legendary strategist Ye Baikui of the Spring and Autumn era.
Song Maolin, though a rising star in Western Chu’s court, matched Xie Xichui’s military feats with his own literary brilliance. Dubbed one of the “Twin Jewels of Chu,” his ethereal beauty and talent also earned him the moniker “Song of the South” alongside the “Xu of the North”—a reference to the northwestern prince. Born into nobility, he was the epitome of heaven’s favored.
Cao Changqing, his temples now more silvered, turned to Xie Xichui with a quiet laugh. “What’s the matter? Just as we rid ourselves of Song Li, Chen Zhibao arrives at the Qingzhou navy, Wu Zhongxuan presses from the south, and Lu Shengxiang truly takes command in the north. Feels like the real fight’s only beginning?”
Xie Xichui murmured, “If General Kou were still here, it’d be easier.”
Cao waved it off. “Forget him—temper like a storm, ambitions just as vast.”
A heavy silence followed before Cao sighed. “Grand Tutor Sun once said Western Chu burdened me. Now I say the same to you—I’ve burdened you, my student.”
Xie shook his head. “Master, don’t think so. I was born a son of Chu, and for Chu, I’ll die.”
Cao chuckled. “There’s a young man who ought to meet you, to learn what a true scholar is. That fellow once sneered at us bookworms, asking the Sword Immortal Lu Baijie, ‘Sir, can you sell me a few pounds of virtue?’ And he spared me no courtesy either.”
Xie furrowed his brow. “Yet the Liang reforms—establishing schools, treating scholars with kindness—hint that the new prince may not be so contemptuous after all.”
Cao smiled knowingly. “Perhaps responsibility tempers a man. Regardless, Xu Fengnian is the most fascinating youth I’ve ever met—bar none.”
Then, laughing at himself, he added, “Not that my praise means much to the man who commands 300,000 cavalry and stands as my equal in martial arts. Call it mutual admiration. Truth be told, had I known he’d become this, I’d have thrashed him years ago—just for bragging rights now.”
Xie’s heart ached. His master, though approachable, was never this talkative.
Cao seemed to read his thoughts, clapping his shoulder. “Youth is for recklessness, for forced melancholy. At thirty, shoulder your burdens. At my age, accept your years—occasional smugness is a rare joy.”
Xie forced a smile. Could even the peerless Cao grow old?
Lowering his voice, Cao said, “Our guest arrives at dusk. Stay close—no need to act.”
Xie fretted. “Why would the 800-year-old Sage’s descendant seek you now? What’s left to say?”
Cao offered no answer.
When the Buddha Liu Songtao came from Lantuo Mountain, it was to urge him to let go. Likely, the Sage’s message would be the same.
Monarchs wield the power of life and death, yet scholars meet destiny with blazing passion. But if a single word could etch your name in history—as legend or villain—would you hesitate?
Gazing skyward, Cao murmured, “When country must be abandoned, so be it. The martial world, too. But some things… even knowing all reason, I cannot release.”
Xie’s mind wandered. To face the Liang cavalry in honorable battle—that would be a death without regret.
But such a chance would never come.
Jiang Ni had slipped away to the quiet stern, watching the churning waters.
Song Maolin hesitated, then approached. “Princess.”
She didn’t turn.
“I’ll speak just once,” he said gently.
With a sigh, she faced him. “Speak.”
His voice was warm. “I dare not question your recent journey or whom you met. I only beg you not to risk yourself again. Some burdens belong to men.”
Jiang Ni gave a noncommittal “Oh.”
As he turned to leave, she suddenly called his name.
Heart pounding, he turned back.
She smiled. “Someone asked me to tell you: next time he sees you, he’ll beat you until… nobody recognizes you.”
She’d softened the original “parents” to “nobody”—merciful, she thought.
Song Maolin froze, face ashen.
Poor celestial.
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