During the Yonghui era, the world only knew of the Zhanglu and Gulu factions in the imperial court, unaware that a strategist known as “Half-Inch Tongue” resided on the fringes of the palace. By the current Xiangfu era, the civil and military officials still remained ignorant that, not far from Yuan Benxi’s residence, a quiet house had gained a new blind occupant named Lu Xu, attended only by a single maidservant who tended to his daily needs.
On this day, a young man of special status arrived at Lu Xu’s dwelling. He was both a guest and a master—though a guest in this small courtyard, he was the sovereign of the entire Liyang Dynasty.
The reigning emperor, Zhao Zhuan, did not wear his dragon robes but instead donned a jade-belted blue robe. He sat across from Lu Xu, who had secretly become the dynasty’s top spy.
On the table lay only a box of chess pieces, no board—a small habit of Lu Xu’s. Whether flipping through books or deep in thought, he always kept a box of chess pieces nearby, idly picking them up to roll between his fingers.
Zhao Zhuan’s tone was indifferent, laced with a hint of reproach. “Why did you not only order the Zhao Gou agents along the route to stand down but also strictly forbid local martial artists from showing themselves or obstructing the Northern Liang cavalry?”
Lu Xu, holding a handful of cool chess pieces, flexed his fingers slightly, producing a faint creak. Faced with the emperor’s anger, the blind young man, who had risen overnight to the heart of the dynasty, remained expressionless. He spoke slowly, “The dignity of Liyang does not lie in such trivial matters but in the border conflicts of Liaodong, Northern Liang, and Huaidong. If Your Majesty believes that while you can tolerate anyone in the world, you cannot bear Xu Fengnian, and thus demand I act impulsively—then it’s simple. Though the Zhao Gou’s high-ranking members have been decimated, they remain a formidable force locally. It wouldn’t be hard to have scholars and martial artists stir trouble, or even have people step forward at every prefecture, county, and town along the Northern Liang cavalry’s southward march, only to die beneath their blades and hooves. But is that truly necessary?”
Zhao Zhuan fell silent, though his indignation remained.
Lu Xu extended his arm, letting a single chess piece drop from his palm onto the table. “Materially speaking, resources like wealth and troops are finite—whether in terms of money, soldiers, or intangibles like popular support, military morale, and the tides of fate. Regardless of future gains, what we have now diminishes with use. The Northern Liang cavalry’s southward advance, though framed as quelling rebellion, is seen by officials as naked ambition and by the common folk as the young prince’s arrogance. The worst-case scenario is Xu Fengnian colluding with Western Chu, disregarding the Northern Mang conflict, and agreeing with Cao Changqing to divide the Central Plains—perhaps even marrying the female emperor Jiang Ni, orchestrating a seamless transition where the throne shifts from left hand to right, the state remaining ‘Chu’ but ruled by a Xu. In essence, keeping power within the family. Correct?”
Zhao Zhuan nodded sullenly. “Just as you say.”
Lu Xu smiled faintly. “But let me ask—does Your Majesty truly believe Northern Liang would rebel?”
Zhao Zhuan shook his head. “No. Not after 100,000 Northern Liang soldiers died beyond the frontier, with only 10,000 cavalry venturing south to Guangling. Northern Liang will not rebel.”
Lu Xu dropped a few more pieces onto the table. “If so, then the court must not push Northern Liang into rebellion—or at least, not openly. Let them exhaust themselves against Northern Mang. The Guangling grain shipments? Let Xu Fengnian have them. Fallen heroes? If he won’t ask, the court will offer compensation. If Northern Liang lacks troops for the second Liang-Mang war, lend them Cai Nan’s forces from Huaidong. If that’s insufficient, add Han Fang and Yang Huchen’s troops from Jizhou.”
Zhao Zhuan frowned deeply.
Lu Xu continued calmly, “The court should not obsess over guarding against Northern Liang but instead focus on separating Northern Liang from the Xu family. Don’t hope the second-generation Xu leader remains passively disloyal—work to ensure Northern Liang’s officers feel no disloyalty, to make the entire region see itself as part of Liyang, with the Xus merely stewards. Even if the Xu cavalry vanish one day, and the Liang-Mang war turns dire, let Northern Liang’s people know they have refuge—in Huaidong, Shu, Zhao, even Jiangnan.”
Zhao Zhuan’s brow relaxed slightly. “If that’s possible, whether the Xus rebel becomes irrelevant?”
Lu Xu chuckled dryly. “Your Majesty, remember: draining the Xu family’s influence will take time. First, the court must act deliberately, sacrificing short-term gains. Second, let the Liang-Mang war grind them down. Third, win Northern Liang’s hearts—no longer treating them as barbarians, nor restricting their scholars in imperial exams. Fourth, ensure Northern Liang has officials like Sun Yin and Yao Baifeng in court, not just Jin Lanting types. Fifth, promote capable generals like Xu Gong, Lu Shengxiang, and Song Li to end the Guangling conflict swiftly. Don’t weaken regional military power excessively—water too clear breeds no fish. If generals are utterly silenced while Northern Mang remains strong, who will fight but the Xu cavalry? Wouldn’t that render the prior four points moot?”
Zhao Zhuan picked up the scattered chess pieces, clenching them tightly as he pondered.
Unconsciously mimicking the blind man’s gesture, Zhao Zhuan rubbed the pieces in his palm. “In essence, you advise the court to retreat to advance?”
Lu Xu uttered treasonous words without hesitation. “I advise *Your Majesty* to retreat to advance.”
Zhao Zhuan gave an awkward laugh—strangely, the young emperor showed no anger.
Lu Xu suddenly asked, “Doesn’t Your Majesty wonder why visionaries like Zhang Julu and Yuan Benxi never considered this straightforward strategy of cutting the root?”
Zhao Zhuan stiffened, then laughed. “I only know your methods are anything but straightforward.”
Lu Xu opened his palm, letting pieces clatter onto the table. “Those two elders simply couldn’t conceive it. Their schemes targeted two people in Northern Liang—not Xu Fengnian. The same prescription, applied differently, yields opposite results.”
Zhao Zhuan looked baffled. “Besides Xu Xiao, who else?”
Lu Xu lifted his face, expressionless.
Zhao Zhuan understood. “Chen Zhibao!”
Lu Xu grew bolder. “Years ago, none foresaw Xu Fengnian inheriting smoothly. Yet even talents like Zhang and Yuan could have remedied it—had the late emperor given Zhang Julu a chance, and had you given Yuan Benxi one.”
Zhao Zhuan’s face darkened.
Lu Xu “gazed” at the young ruler. “In truth, Your Majesty came to reprimand me, didn’t you? Furious that upon taking control of Zhao Gou, I dared ‘act first, report later’ by enfeoffing Cai Nan as the Earl of Loyalty and Righteousness?”
Zhao Zhuan smiled instead. “Initially, yes—I even considered killing you. But after your tangential remarks, I’ve calmed. Still, I hope this doesn’t recur.”
Lu Xu shook his head frankly. “It won’t. Your Majesty’s trust in me is nearly spent, and I’ve only one head to lose.”
Zhao Zhuan stopped fidgeting with the pieces. “Master Lu, I promise: serve Liyang faithfully, and even if you someday commit a capital crime, I’ll tolerate it—once! If you doubt me, I’ll swear before my ancestors—”
Lu Xu waved him off, smiling. “Unnecessary. You’re a good emperor—I’m certain. Else why would a blind man like me, doomed to never rise in office, come to Tai’an City?”
Zhao Zhuan asked softly, “Master, I know some questions shouldn’t be asked—history shows ministers who answer them never fare well—but I hope for your candor.”
Lu Xu replied coolly, “Since Your Majesty lacks multiple heirs, you must be asking who, after Qi Yanglong, should be the next chief minister—and whether you’d tolerate another ‘standing emperor’ like Zhang Julu, unchallenged in court. Does this mean you distrust even Chen Wang? Then you’d truly be alone.”
Zhao Zhuan said earnestly, “It’s not that I distrust Chen Wang.”
Lu Xu ignored this, continuing, “Chen Wang is the only choice—unquestionably. Yan Chiji, Sun Yin, Fan Changhou, Li Jifu—all have fatal flaws compared to the ‘flawless’ Chen Wang. Interim figures like Yin Maochun, Zhao Youling, or Han Lin will be short-lived chief ministers, irrelevant.”
Zhao Zhuan spread his palm, staring at the pieces. “I see clearly now.”
Suddenly, he looked up, smiling. “Have you more pieces to give me?”
Lu Xu smiled. “None left.”
Zhao Zhuan clenched his fist and stood. “Then I’ll keep these.”
Lu Xu rose as well. “Then I won’t see you out.”
Zhao Zhuan laughed heartily. “No need to escort me—but keep sending pieces. Let’s hope we two, ruler and servant, live long enough to sit like this again, counting pieces and reminiscing before returning them to the box. What joy!”
After Zhao Zhuan departed quietly, Xinghua—the maidservant who’d followed Lu Xu from the Jing’an Palace—noticed her master sitting rigidly, a lone chess piece left on the table, ungiven to the emperor.
Curious, she asked, “Why keep one for yourself?”
Lu Xu murmured, “Not for me. For someone else.”
The woman shuddered.
Lu Xu pressed a finger lightly on the piece. “Repay a true patriot as he deserves!”
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