The Imperial Astronomical Bureau, though inconspicuous among the common folk, was one of the foremost strategic locations in the capital of Liyang. Many high-ranking officials from the Three Departments and Six Ministries never had the chance to set foot inside it in their entire lives. Thus, whether an official could borrow a book or two from the Bureau’s library became an unspoken benchmark for measuring their influence in the capital.
Before resigning as the Minister of War, Lu Baijie’s final act was to secretly transfer eight hundred elite armored soldiers from the inner city’s imperial guards to guard the Imperial Astronomical Bureau.
Just two days prior, despite already being heavily guarded, the Bureau quietly added over six hundred more elite soldiers overnight.
Two armored generals, clad in military gear rather than official robes—one nearing sixty, the other in the prime of his youth—stood guard at the Bureau’s entrance like two “door gods,” hands resting on their swords.
The two men, separated by a generation, bore striking resemblances, almost like father and son.
And indeed, they were. The elder general was Li Shouguo, the Archery Commander stationed in the northern outskirts of the capital. During the Spring and Autumn Wars, his military achievements were mediocre at best, barely earning him the rank of a minor deputy. Thus, when he managed to climb the ranks five years ago to become one of the capital’s four great commanders, it became a laughingstock in both the court and military circles. He was mockingly dubbed the “Peace Commander,” implying that in turbulent times, with his lackluster skills, he wouldn’t even qualify as a captain, let alone one of Liyang’s most powerful commanders. Over the years, his true talent lay in flattery—useless in battle but adept at politics. By sheer luck, he managed to attach himself to the coattails of the Northern Expedition General Ma Lulang, securing this coveted position.
However, such derisive talk gradually faded after Li Shouguo’s eldest son, Li Chang’an, rose to prominence in the capital’s military last year. At just thirty, shortly after the current emperor’s ascension, Li Chang’an was swiftly promoted to the rank of Central Pillar General, a solid fourth-grade military position equivalent to a civil official’s appointment as a prefect. If he avoided major mistakes, his future promotions were all but guaranteed. Strangely, despite never having served at the border or earned any military accolades, Li Chang’an—though not entirely unknown—was far less distinguished than younger talents like Yin Changgeng or Han Xingyan. Yet, he inexplicably became one of the first generals promoted by the emperor, leaving the capital’s officials baffled.
To compound the family’s fortune, Li Chang’an’s younger brother, Li Changliang, merely accompanied a few young nobles, including Wang Yuanran, on a leisurely trip to Youzhou in Northern Liang. Upon returning to the capital, he was promptly assigned by the Ministry of War to become a captain in the elite Duoyan cavalry of Liaodong.
With the father as an Archery Commander, the eldest son as a Central Pillar General, and the younger son as a Duoyan Captain, the Li family suddenly found themselves the subject of envy in court, earning the nickname “Little Gu Family.”
Though father and son stood guard together at the Bureau’s entrance, Li Shouguo and Li Chang’an never exchanged glances.
While Li Chang’an remained composed, Li Shouguo, despite his calm exterior, was inwardly unsettled. Some time ago, his eldest son had been abruptly summoned to the palace by imperial decree and was soon reassigned to lead eight hundred imperial guards in guarding the Bureau. Li Shouguo himself had been urgently recalled from the northern outskirts, not by the Ministry of War but by the personal order of General Ma Lulang, their family’s patron.
At nearly eighty, Ma Lulang had been bedridden for years. In terms of seniority, only a handful of generals like Zhao Wei, Yang Shenxing, and Yan Zhenchun could compare. With Yang and Yan—two veteran generals of the Spring and Autumn era—either demoted or dead, Ma Lulang’s influence remained undiminished despite his decade-long absence from court. Both the late emperor and the current one had never failed to bestow honors upon the Ma family. Everyone knew that as long as Ma Lulang clung to life, his family would remain a formidable force in the capital.
Initially, Li Shouguo couldn’t fathom why the Bureau, seemingly irrelevant to politics, required such heavy security—six hundred imperial guards plus his own eight hundred elite soldiers from the northern outskirts. Who were they guarding against? Who warranted such treatment?
It wasn’t until he heard that the Prince of Northern Liang, upon entering the capital with just eight hundred northwestern cavalry, had effortlessly reduced the western capital garrison—led by Captain Yuchi Changgong—to mere escorts that Li Shouguo finally understood.
As a powerful Archery Commander and a savior of General Ma’s only son during the Eastern Yue campaign, Li Shouguo had long been a favored guest in the Ma household. Years ago, he had overheard a secret: the capital had once conspired against Xu Xiao, the Butcher, before he was enfeoffed as a prince. The late head of the Bureau, Nan Huaiyu, had played a dubious role in that plot. Ma Lulang’s son, Ma Zhongxian—now the Eastern Garrison General commanding the capital’s eastern forces—had once drunkenly alluded to the incident with pride.
Li Shouguo knew his rank was far too low to uncover the full truth. Perhaps only when his son Li Chang’an rose to the highest echelons of the military would he glimpse the horrifying reality buried beneath layers of secrecy.
Among the four great generals, Ma Lulang clung to life, his family’s favor undiminished. Zhao Wei, long detached from court intrigues, had resurged during crises to share power with the Southern Expedition commander, Lu Shengxiang.
Yang Shenxing had left the capital early for Ji Province, seemingly carefree but effectively sidelined from the empire’s core, stunting his son Yang Huchen’s rise. Had Yang Huchen not lost an arm on the Guangling battlefield—a sacrifice so great the court couldn’t ignore it—he might have faded into obscurity, dooming the Yang family to mediocrity after Yang Shenxing’s death.
Yan Zhenchun, a celebrated cavalry commander with immense contributions to the Zhao dynasty, had died with his entire army at the Guangling border, receiving only a posthumous honorary title—nothing more.
Four generals of equal rank, second only to the great Gu Jiantang, had met four vastly different fates.
After piecing together the hidden narrative, Li Shouguo felt both terror and chill.
Ma Lulang, a veteran of the old Ministry of War, had been among the first to openly oppose the old Prince of Liang, Xu Xiao.
Zhao Wei, once a staunch advocate for the Western Rampart campaign, had later aligned with Gu Jiantang instead of joining Xu Xiao’s forces in Shu. During the capital’s grand awards ceremony, he had clashed with Xu Xiao. In the power struggle between the late emperor and Prince Jing’an, Zhao Wei had been one of the emperor’s key supporters.
Yang Shenxing had barely any personal ties to Xu Xiao.
Yan Zhenchun, however, had deeply admired Xu Xiao. When Xu left the capital for his fiefdom, Yan had personally escorted him out of the city.
Li Shouguo wondered what the revered old general had felt when he led his final campaign.
After his unexpected promotion, the usually reticent and cautious Li Chang’an had refused his father’s suggestion to host a celebratory banquet. Instead, the two had a secret conversation—one that must never be revealed. In it, the son taught the father the art of politics, not the superficialities of socializing but the deeper skill of aligning with the emperor’s will. Only then did Li Shouguo learn that his son had long been a trusted confidant of the emperor. Unlike other generals secretly designated as “Dragon Supporters” by the late emperor, Li Chang’an had earned the then-fourth prince’s trust through his own merits.
Li Chang’an bluntly informed his father that the emperor had hinted at his future: starting as Central Pillar General, he would replace his retiring father as the Northern Pacification General in three years. Another three years, and he could be assigned to Liaodong, Guangling, or the northwest—whether he became a frontier governor clad in iron armor would depend on his own abilities.
At this moment, overwhelmed with emotion, Li Shouguo sighed softly.
From him to his two sons, the Li family’s fortunes were built on perilous gambles.
When Li Shouguo spotted the distant carriage, his breath quickened.
Even if he died here today, as long as Li Chang’an survived, the Li family truly had a chance to become the next Xu family—not just a “Little Gu Family.”
※※※
Behind the gate bearing the plaque “Realm of Subtle Wonders,” within the Imperial Astronomical Bureau, stood an altar of the earth, paved with five-colored soil from Guangling.
Green in the east, red in the south, white in the west, black in the north, and yellow in the center.
A middle-aged Confucian scholar crouched before the red tribute soil in the south, accompanied by a tight-lipped youth in the official robes of the Bureau’s head—a position equal in status to the current Heavenly Master of Longhu Mountain.
Wu Lingsu, the Taoist leader of Qingcheng Mountain and the empire’s second “Feathered Minister,” stood nearby. As the northern Taoist leader, he couldn’t crouch like the scholar but, being tall, had to bend slightly to avoid appearing disrespectful to the young head, nicknamed “Little Bookcase.”
Wu Lingsu and his son, Wu Shizhen, known as the “Great and Minor Immortals” of the capital, had enjoyed immense influence in recent years, even earning the respect of the powerful Jin Sanlang. Yet now, the usually composed Wu Lingsu was trembling, his Taoist robe soaked in sweat—whether from the sun or fear, it was hard to tell.
An elderly man in white approached. Wu Lingsu, the highest-ranking official present, hurriedly greeted him with utmost respect: “Vice Director, this humble Taoist pays his respects.”
The Bureau, responsible for celestial observations and calendar promulgation, truly relied on figures like the head and two vice directors—not the five seasonal officers or lower-ranking officials, but the white-robed immortals who held no official titles. This elderly vice director, whom Wu Lingsu had last seen as a middle-aged man, had aged decades overnight.
The vice director, who had broken through to the Heavenly Phenomena realm at the Xiamawei post station the previous day, wore a troubled expression. Addressing the crouching scholar, he said softly, “Master Xie…”
The scholar, Xie Guanying, spread his palm over the soil and smiled. “I know the Duke of Yan has left the capital. Don’t worry, I’ll personally oversee the operation of the grand formation.”
As the white-robed master hesitated, Xie Guanying stood, dusted his hands, and said, “Besides the Li family’s sixteen hundred men, three hundred imperial guards are already on their way.”
Still uneasy, the master glanced at the towering structure piercing the clouds—the capital’s audacious “Path to Heaven.” Xie Guanying smirked. “What, must I say the Prince of Shu is here for you to truly feel at ease?”
The vice director exhaled in relief, then smiled wryly. “Master Xie, having abandoned the Heavenly Path, I’m no better than mere martial artists like Xuan Yuan Dapan. Naturally, I couldn’t sense the prince’s arrival.”
X Xie Guanying’s tone turned playful. “Qi Xianxia first visited Hong Xixiang at Wudang Mountain, then Li Yufu, walking hundreds of miles along the Guangling River to the capital. After Yu Xinyang inadvertently shattered his illusions, he abandoned not just ascension but even the pursuit of terrestrial immortality. Jin Xin’an, what are your thoughts?”
Jin Xin’an, unused to being addressed by name for decades, momentarily lost himself in thought.
Xie Guanying gazed at the cloudless sky and murmured, “As Lü Zu said, ‘Ask not if gods exist—countless have ascended through the ages.’ And again, ‘Subdue the fire dragon, tame the tiger—then a true terrestrial immortal you shall be.'”
Wu Lingsu pondered the words, finding them profound yet of little use to a half-hearted cultivator like himself. But from the corner of his eye, he noticed Vice Director Jin lost in contemplation, his expression shifting.
Xie Guanying walked slowly toward the Heaven-Reaching Platform. The Prince of Shu, whom he had devotedly advised, had recently made two unexpected moves: entering the capital and now the Bureau.
Without pausing, Xie Guanying tossed a final remark to Jin Xin’an: “If you still dream of ascension, remember—kill Li Yufu before it’s too late.”
The young head of the Bureau, closely tied to the emperor and empress, followed Xie Guanying with no sense of impending danger. Grinning, he said, “Master Xie, there’s a chess player named Fan Changhou who’s better than you.”
Xie Guanying smiled. “Being better than me at chess means little. Even the notoriously bad player Li Yishan could beat me. I know my limits and avoid humiliation. But Nalan Youci? I once watched him lose sixteen straight games to Li Yishan and still refuse to concede. I’ve seen many sore losers, but none as stubborn as him. Well, except perhaps your late predecessor—he died still hoping you’d beat Huang Longshi one day, didn’t he?”
The youth sighed. “Exactly. I never liked chess, but the old man insisted I learn. What could I do?”
Xie Guanying flicked the youth’s forehead. “Countless would kill for what you take for granted.”
The youth grinned, then whispered, “Master Xie, are you poaching from the emperor?”
Unfazed, Xie Guanying continued ascending the steps. “Don’t tell him.”
“Why not?”
Xie Guanying chuckled softly. “Agree, and I’ll tell you why your predecessor always lost to Huang Longshi and never became the Chess Champion of the Thirteen Rankings.”
After a moment’s thought, the youth nodded. “Deal.”
“I’ll go help Jin Xin’an.” The youth turned and dashed down the stairs.
Xie Guanying approached Chen Zhibao, who stood near the “Path to Heaven” on the platform. “Still unwilling to take that step?”
Chen Zhibao remained silent.
Xie Guanying continued, “The northern and southern cultivators—Tantai Pingjing doesn’t realize she’s damaged her Dao heart, and Jin Xin’an is even worse, discarding fundamentals for trivialities. The one true seed of the Heavenly Path, nurtured for decades, was uprooted by his own haste. Meanwhile, the late director Nan Huaiyu convinced the late emperor to reject Li Dangxin’s new calendar, hastening the old Heavenly Path’s collapse. You and I have benefited the most. Even if Cao Changqing hadn’t died, even without his fate transferring to you, you could still become the first triple-sage realm cultivator since Lü Zu, overshadowing even Gao Shulu. Perhaps only Wang Xianzhi, Li Chun’gang at his peak, Xu Fengnian after defeating Wang Xianzhi, and Cao Changqing before his death could rival you.”
Chen Zhibao finally spoke. “And Deng Tai’e with a true sword, Xu Yanbing’s dying spear, and you, Xie Guanying—if you were willing to forsake a thousand years of mortal rule.”
Xie Guanying shook his head. “You know I wouldn’t risk so much for mere fame.”
He then asked, “Is your reluctance to take that step because you refuse to benefit from Xu Fengnian’s shadow?”
Chen Zhibao stayed silent.
Xie Guanying smiled wryly. “Then why come to the capital? To watch Xu Fengnian flaunt his power?”
Still, Chen Zhibao said nothing.
Xie Guanying sighed. “Contradictions.”
After a long pause, Chen Zhibao suddenly remarked, “We seem to have overlooked someone.”
Xie Guanying replied lightly, “No matter how much effort you invest, a disobedient piece is better off dead.”
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