The Jufeng Town in the southern outskirts of the Liyang capital was a hub along the longitudinal canal. Once a remote, unnoticed village, it had transformed within just two decades into a bustling town, rivaling even the renowned towns of Jiangnan in prosperity and amenities.
A scholarly man in a blue robe, carrying a small satchel, entered Jufeng Town, blending seamlessly into its diverse crowd. Nowadays, there was a saying in Jufeng: “Those heading north are cowards; those heading south are the true heroes.” Recently, the sound of galloping horses had become frequent near the town, as large cavalry units raced south to reinforce Guangling Dao. Rumors suggested the war was nearing its conclusion, prompting influential figures in the court, especially military leaders, to pull strings to get their descendants into the southern armies. The most extreme case was a veteran general from the two Liao borders, who had secured a prestigious post for his grandson in Liaodong, only to hastily reassign him to the Guangling front. There, the young man became a staff officer under the southern expedition commander, Lu Shengxiang, ensuring a bright future.
The scholar bypassed any inns and headed straight for Jufeng’s famous book market—a street lined with bookshops of all sizes. Though the town’s history barely spanned two decades, many shops boldly claimed to be “century-old establishments,” a claim buyers often dismissed with a laugh. The scholar ignored the flashier stores and entered a narrow, dimly lit shop in the back half of the street. Despite its modest size, it was well-stocked, run by a father-son duo who engraved, sold, and even compiled books. They didn’t deal in rare or forbidden texts but carefully curated their collection, occasionally offering obscure editions from the fallen Western Chu or regional imprints—whether they appealed was a matter of taste.
When the scholar stepped inside, the middle-aged shopkeeper, busy with a group of young customers, brightened and hurried over. This scholar was a longtime patron, visiting every couple of years for over a decade. Though he bought little, he had shared many drinks with the shopkeeper’s late father, who rarely drank but always made an exception for him, often polishing off nearly two catties of wine in their sessions.
The scholar smiled and asked, “Where’s Old Brother Chu? Last time, he mentioned struggling to find the illustrated edition of *Grass and Insects Singing Under the Lamp*. I brought it for him.” The shopkeeper replied calmly, “Mr. Cao, my father passed last year.” The scholar paused, visibly saddened, but still pulled the book from his satchel. The shopkeeper chuckled, “He went peacefully at seventy-one. He often said, ‘Few live to seventy,’ and counted himself lucky. He had no illness—just went to sleep and didn’t wake up. As his son, I can’t grieve too much. But before he left, he often spoke of you, saying if he could’ve shared one last drink with you, his life would’ve been complete.” The scholar, surnamed Cao, apologized, “I had a chance to come last year but was in a hurry and thought it inconvenient. Had I known, I’d have made time. Keep this book. Burn it for him when you offer wine at his grave.”
The shopkeeper joked, “Then I won’t pay you for it, Mr. Cao!”
The scholar waved his hands, laughing. “After all the free drinks over the years, how could I take your money? By the way, if I recall correctly, your son Yujiao should be coming of age soon?”
The shopkeeper’s expression soured. “Don’t mention that rascal! Mr. Cao, we’re no literary family, but we deal with sages daily. Yet that boy grew up stubborn—skinny as a bamboo pole but dead set on joining the army! Recently, he and some friends sneaked off to the county capital, thinking they could pull strings to get sent south. He came back sulking, refusing to say why. Now he’s up at dawn every day, running to the canal. Youthful folly—he doesn’t realize peace is the greatest blessing. Mr. Cao, he’s grown now, and my words mean nothing. But he’s always listened to you. If you’re not in a hurry, let me fetch him. If you can talk sense into him, I’ll gift you the Western Chongwen Pavilion edition of *Winter Snow on the Chessboard*—a treasure my father couldn’t bear to part with, insisting it stay in the family for generations.”
Before the scholar could respond, the shopkeeper dashed out, abandoning his customers to find his wayward son.
The young patrons, bored, chatted about the war in Guangling, now seemingly one-sided. Hailing from the capital’s elite, they spoke with authority, dissecting the merits of the court’s generals and mocking the Western Chu’s officials. Soon, they turned to Cao Changqing, the true backbone of the Western Chu’s revival. Opinions split: some claimed his martial arts and Go skills were unmatched, but his strategic acumen fell short; others argued he was hamstrung by circumstance, not incompetence. The debate grew heated until, to avoid blows, they shifted topics to the late Western Chu empress. The young women pitied her, while a dandy sneered, “A beauty who doomed a nation. After the fall, rumors blamed her for sapping Chu’s fortune—otherwise, they’d have lasted another 160 years.” Another quipped, “Why do people say ‘nine out of ten sheep are flawed’? Because she was born in the Year of the Sheep!”
Nearby, the gray-templed scholar in blue remained silent.
A young noble fiddling with a bronze seal remarked lightly, “Cao Changqing’s reputation is overblown, and the Northern Liang King blundered badly. The court eased Guangling’s grain transport, yet he led ten thousand cavalry south under the pretense of quelling rebellion—clearly aiding Western Chu remnants. But what can the court do? He holds the northwest with his so-called 300,000 iron cavalry. My father’s colleagues at the Ministry of War estimate 120,000 to 130,000 horsemen. If not for the Northern Desert, the Xu family would’ve been stripped of power long ago.”
The scholar set down a yellowed tome and smiled. “That’s why they say the world fears the word ‘if.’”
The group had noticed the refined scholar earlier. Though he didn’t seem an official, Liyang respected learned men, and recluses often carried such an air. Coming from official families, they treated him politely.
The scholar asked, “I’ve always wondered—why does the young Northern Liang King fight so fiercely at the border? Can you enlighten me?”
A pockmarked youth boomed, “Xu Fengnian’s a martial arts master! Since he’s hard to kill, why not lead his cavalry? If he loses, he flees; if he wins, he’s immortalized! I’d do the same—crush the Northern Desert!”
The scholar pressed, “Then why not ally with the Northern Desert? His 300,000 troops plus their million-strong army could sweep the Central Plains. Wouldn’t that be easier than fighting them?”
The youth blinked, then retorted, “Xu’s no fool! The Northern Desert savages would demand his troops as vanguard. After conquering the plains, his forces would be decimated, and the Northern Desert would betray him. He’d gain nothing but a severed head! Makes sense, right?”
The scholar nodded. “A fair point.”
Then, as if remembering, he waved a hand. “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ I’ve never held office in Liyang. Just call me Old Cao.”
The seal-fiddling youth ventured, “Your accent—Old Cao, are you from Guangling Dao?”
The scholar nodded wryly. “Hence no official post.”
They nodded sympathetically, assuming his Guangling roots barred him from high office. Too proud for a minor post, he’d chosen to wander as a poor scholar.
Suddenly, the dust-covered scholar glanced south, then seemed resolved to leave. Turning to the group, he said gently, “I had an ‘if’ to share, but duty calls. Please convey my apologies to the shopkeeper.”
A young woman cooed, “Stay and share your ‘if’!”
The scholar, his gray temples lending him a dignified air, shook his head. “Some things cannot wait.”
With that, he left the shop and walked toward the town’s edge.
His northward journey had been slow, his aura suppressed, as he visited old friends like those in Jufeng’s bookshops—lest they suffer collateral harm after his death.
The world fears “if”; people fear “what if.”
Thus, his “if” would remain unknown.
*If*, in his endgame, he had led the Western Chu north while Gu Jianyang’s Liao armies marched south on the capital, Wang Su held the Northern Desert at bay, and Xu Fengnian’s 300,000 cavalry stayed idle for a certain Jiang woman’s sake…
*If* Chen Zhubao’s Shu forces pinned down Wu Zhongxuan and Xu Gong in Guangling, leaving Zhao Bing’s southern reinforcements too late…
Would the world still belong to Zhao?
He thought not.
Cao Changqing thought not!
Outside Jufeng, he removed his satchel and took out two Go boxes.
*Let me, Cao Changqing, play one last game for you.*
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