The Qi Refiner Jin Xin’an and the Great Perfected Wu Lingsu had not left the small building. Though Wu Lingsu had managed to secure the title of a living immortal through unorthodox means, he was always acutely aware of his own limitations. His smooth sailing in Tai’an City hadn’t made him lose his head—not because his self-control was particularly strong, but because the tigress at home kept a close eye on him. Every time he grew complacent, she would douse him with cold water, making it impossible for him to stay deluded. After all, the vermilion talismans pasted on the palace gates during every New Year’s celebration were all her handiwork; Wu Lingsu merely went through the motions of pulling them from his sleeves and sticking them up. Now, the mere thought of the demand she had recently made sent shivers down his spine, drenching him in cold sweat.
Would he truly become a servant to two families? Strictly speaking, it wasn’t two families—they shared the same surname. But the bloody infighting among imperial clans, the strife between brothers, was far more terrifying than the factional struggles in the court. If he could ensure the prosperity of the Wu family and secure the hereditary title of “Feathered Minister” for his only son, Wu Shizhen, it might be worth it. But following her plan meant greater risks alongside greater rewards.
Wu Lingsu trembled with fear. Before today, he had believed that the Zhao royal family of Liyang could protect him—after all, the emperor was far away, and what could a distant northwestern prince do? But now that the young man had stormed Tai’an City and even directly confronted the Imperial Astronomical Bureau, Wu Lingsu had to reconsider.
Jin Xin’an didn’t dwell on Wu Lingsu’s distress, assuming it was merely the reaction of a fake immortal encountering a real one, worried about the Wu family’s standing in the Liyang court. Besides, Jin had his own troubles and couldn’t spare the effort to care about a puppet manipulated by two generations of emperors. He gazed at the portraits on the wall—the paintings remained intact, but many of the figures within had vanished without a trace. For a Qi Refiner like him, who aspired to ascend to immortality before the Heavenly Gate closed, this was a devastating blow. Since ancient times, cultivators had clung to one truth: those who ascended achieved eternal life! But if even immortals could perish, then what was the point of helping Xie Guanying play the villain? Even if he ascended, could he truly escape the cycle of fate?
Having connections in court made governance easier, and the same applied to becoming an immortal. Why had the Heavenly Master’s Mansion on Longhu Mountain produced ascendants generation after generation since the Dafeng era, while the equally prestigious Wudang Mountain had withered in influence? If Lü Dongbin hadn’t turned away from the Heavenly Gate, would things have been different? With the profound cultivation of Huang Manshan and Wang Chonglou, wouldn’t ascension have been effortless? Why had there been no immortals in the blessed land for four hundred years?
Compared to Wu Lingsu’s terror and Jin Xin’an’s distraction, the two elderly Daoists who tended the incense here year-round appeared gaunt and weary. One leaned against a pillar, his gaze vacant, while the other knelt devoutly on a cushion, silently reciting scriptures.
Xie Guanying lounged lazily on the edge of the Heavenly Platform, his legs dangling in the air, seemingly unconcerned about the chaos brewing below. In truth, whether it came to hiding his abilities or fleeing for his life, Xie Guanying considered himself second to none. He had once evaded Deng Tai’a’s deadly flying sword in Western Shu and, earlier still, survived two harrowing pursuits during the Hongjia era. Back then, the rivalry between “Northern Xie” and “Southern Li” had been fierce—Xie Guanying and Li Yishan, both young prodigies, had once collaborated to critique the world. Xie, with his mastery of divination, had even dared to reveal heaven’s secrets, bringing down calamity upon himself.
Li Yishan, a scholar without backing, should have died long ago, but by sheer luck, he had attached himself to Xu Xiao’s tree and weathered the storm. Meanwhile, Xie Feiyu, born into nobility, was abandoned by his own kin and marked for death by the Martial Emperor of the Eastern Sea. Even the dowager empress who later ascended the throne bore a grudge, sending Tuoba Pusa to assassinate him in Liyang. Forced into hiding, Xie Guanying concealed himself in plain sight, even his own children unaware of his fate. Thus, the world lost Xie Feiyu, the man who once dreamed of leaping over the dragon’s gate, leaving only Xie Guanying, the shadowy strategist lurking behind the scenes in Tai’an City.
In Xie Guanying’s eyes, after decades of coldly observing the world’s affairs, Li Yishan and Nalan Youci were one kind of person. Xun Ping, Zhang Julu, and Yuan Benxi were another. And Huang Longshi, whose three-inch tongue had wreaked havoc during the Spring and Autumn era, was a breed apart.
But ultimately, Xie Guanying believed they were all the same—people who schemed for others, for regions, for nations, even for the world, but never for themselves. If one couldn’t even safeguard their own well-being, how could they hope to save the world? Among them, Yuan Benxi had tried to scheme for himself but failed. Huang Sanjia could have succeeded but disdained the effort.
What Xie Guanying sought was truly a case of “silent until the thunderous roar”—he wanted the Central Plains to sink into chaos once more, only to rise again under his own hand, securing a thousand years of prosperity. If anyone thought Xie Guanying merely coveted the position of prime minister, imperial tutor, or even an immortal ascension, they sorely underestimated him. Since Huang Longshi claimed there had never been an emperor who ruled for a century or a dynasty that lasted a millennium, Xie Guanying was determined to challenge this self-proclaimed “outsider” who claimed to know the future.
Suddenly, Xie Guanying felt a pang of loneliness. Most of his old acquaintances were gone—except for Nalan Youci, they had all perished. Though there were many newcomers, aside from the politically astute Chen Wang, most still needed time to mature. Comparatively, Xu Beizhi and Chen Xiliang of Northern Liang had risen swiftly. Jin Lanting, the Left Vice-Minister of Rites, whose official rank matched Chen Wang’s? Xie Guanying had never regarded such a clown with any seriousness—flashy success was never sustainable, merely a fleeting bloom.
In the transition between old and new, Xie Guanying held little hope for Zhao Youling and Yin Maochun. Instead, Lu Baijie, Yuan Huo, and Han Lin—three civil officials who had been either demoted or promoted to regional posts—stood a chance of inheriting the mantle from Qi Yanglong and Huan Wen. But even their rise would only pave the way for Chen Wang, Yan Chiji, and Li Jifu.
During the Yonghui era, the true pillars of the Liyang Dynasty were just two: the green-eyed Zhang Julu in civil affairs and the “Butcher of Men” Xu Xiao in military matters. Their presence alone had cowed all the serpents and minnows in court. With Zhang Julu in power, ambitious scholars focused on governance, while those who preferred idle talk continued their philosophical debates. With Xu Xiao in the northwest, Chen Zhibao couldn’t leave Western Shu, Cao Changqing couldn’t restore his kingdom, Prince Yan Zhao Bing dared not march north, Gu Jiantang remained confined to his post as Governor of the Two Liao Provinces, and the Northern Mang army wouldn’t dare invade.
But precisely because of these two men—one controlling official promotions in the capital, the other commanding 300,000 elite cavalry in the northwest—the late Emperor Zhao Dun hadn’t dared pass the throne to his son Zhao Zhuan. The throne was simply too thorny.
The crux of the matter was this: as long as Xu Xiao lived, Northern Mang wouldn’t dare gamble everything on invading the Central Plains. Northern Liang could hold the line, allowing Liyang to grow stronger while wearing down Northern Mang. But if Liyang launched a northern campaign, victory was uncertain, and Zhao Dun wouldn’t dare risk it. Xu Xiao wouldn’t rebel, but if the campaign succeeded and Xu Fengnian gained prestige, might Xu Xiao consider securing a higher throne for his son? Even if Xu Xiao resisted the idea, would Xu Fengnian, remembering the “White Clothes Case,” seize the opportunity to revolt? Even if the Xu family only conquered half of Northern Mang, with the vast southern territories as a strategic buffer and supply base, how could Liyang withstand the battle-hardened Northern Liang cavalry?
The late emperor’s strategy—using the Western Chu rebellion to weaken regional warlords while showcasing Liyang’s military might in Guangling—had been a desperate gamble to buy time before Xu Fengnian matured. Even if Western Chu hadn’t rebelled, Liyang would have forced Cao Changqing’s hand. By stationing Gu Jiantang in the Two Liao Provinces and Chen Zhibao in Western Shu, Liyang had pressured Northern Liang at every turn, making it seem vulnerable to Northern Mang’s twenty-year buildup. Without allies, Northern Liang appeared ripe for conquest—especially now that Xu Xiao no longer commanded its border armies.
Now, however, the grand schemes of both dynasties had deviated. The Guangling campaign remained stagnant even after Wu Zhongxuan defected from the Southern Border to Liyang. Northern Liang, meanwhile, had achieved a pyrrhic victory—brutal yet glorious. Worse still, Northern Liang’s border forces had suffered far fewer casualties than Liyang’s projections, with its 130,000-strong cavalry still largely intact at around 100,000. Originally, Northern Liang was supposed to be crippled in the second Liang-Mang war, with battles spilling into its own territory, possibly even Lingzhou. Now, it seemed Northern Liang could indeed fight to the death beyond the passes.
Thus, when Xu Fengnian left his fiefdom without permission, Liyang’s retreat wasn’t out of sudden benevolence—it feared that the emboldened Northern Liang might retaliate unpredictably.
Sadly, the masterminds of the older generation had all passed away, leaving only the disheartened “Unswerving Elder.”
Now, everything hinged on how Qi Yanglong, the Grand Academician whom Zhao Dun had pinned his hopes on, would respond.
Before his death, Zhao Dun had laid many schemes, planting seeds in the bureaucracy to give Zhao Zhuan room to maneuver between kindness and authority. So far, the young emperor had performed decently. Even the resentful Huan Wen served diligently in the new Xiangfu era, working alongside Qi Yanglong to mend the empire’s fractures.
Unlike Xu Fengnian, who earned his soldiers’ loyalty through bloodshed on the battlefield, the young Emperor Zhao Zhuan was like the world’s most caged bird, relying solely on the dragon robe for authority. His imperial majesty would require years of meticulous cultivation. Of course, if Zhao Zhuan possessed Xu Fengnian’s martial prowess—say, defeating Cao Changqing before Gu Jiantang or Liu Haoshi could intervene when the Western Chu princess visited—that would be a different story. But martial arts demanded relentless effort; even the prodigy Yuan Benxi’s illegitimate son, Jiang Fuding, trained by masters like Gu Jiantang and Liu Haoshi, had ended up as a mere tide-watcher in the Eastern Sea.
Xie Guanying murmured, “Several pillars can prop up a tottering golden hall, but a single central pillar can keep a dynasty standing through century storms. Zhao Zhuan, your Chen Wang is still too young. Becoming a figure like Zhang Julu takes time. You can wait—but others won’t.”
He closed his eyes, serene and composed.
He cared little that the immortals stepping out of the portraits were rushing to their deaths like moths to flame. Their losses only drained the fortunes of the Xu and Zhao families—a scenario Xie Guanying had orchestrated himself.
If both northern and southern Qi Refiners perished, it would only benefit Xie Guanying’s long-term plans. Jin Xin’an’s obedience was ideal, but if he refused, Xie Guanying had more than just escape tactics. Tantai Pingjing’s accidental flight to Northern Liang with her “family” had complicated matters, and now her solo journey to Guangling posed a new threat. Worse, the once-reclusive Lantuo Mountain in the Western Regions had abandoned its neutrality after Liu Songtao’s death, aligning with Northern Liang. Even the white-robed monk Li Dangxin had gone north, along with the Huyan Daguans—why did they all travel with families? Most recently, the unexpected departure of the Sage Descendant from the capital added to the chaos—especially since he had previously counseled Cao Changqing on behalf of Liyang.
Xie Guanying, who had been faintly smiling, suddenly frowned and sat up, gazing northwest.
Annoyed, he realized his vision was blurring—had he too become a piece on the board?
Then, abruptly, he looked down and saw the seemingly innocent young Supervisor, the boy nicknamed “Little Bookcase,” grinning up at him.
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