On the western front of the Guangling Dao battlefield, the war raged like a blazing inferno. With the addition of ten thousand elite cavalry from Ji North under Wu Chongxuan’s command, the imperial forces had already gained the upper hand. Soon after, Xu Gong led the elite troops from the capital and twenty thousand Shu soldiers to the battlefield, solidifying the imperial army’s overwhelming advantage over the Western Chu forces. Among them, the remnants of Wang Tongshan’s forces breached the defenses of Mount Laodu, breaking the stalemate and making the second Battle of Xileibi an inevitable certainty. At this critical juncture, Wu Chongxuan, in his capacity as Minister of War, convened a military council in a small town called Wutong. Except for Song Li, the eastern front commander who was separated by the ancient battlefield of Xileibi and thus unable to attend, nearly all the imperial generals involved in suppressing the Guangling Dao rebellion gathered in the town. For a time, the scouts and patrols outside Wutong Town were as numerous as carp swimming across a river.
At dusk, a middle-aged man in black robes and a high crown stood atop the city wall, gazing into the distance. By his side was only a tall young man clad in iron armor, serving as his escort. The latter, his face twisted in indignation, gritted his teeth and said, “That old fox Wu is truly cunning. Knowing that his title of ‘General of the Southern Expedition’ couldn’t command the various troops, he flaunts his position as Minister of War to throw his weight around. If not for this, General, as the nominal commander-in-chief of the southern expedition, your title of ‘Piao Yi Grand General’ would outrank even the four expeditionary and garrison generals by half a step. Though it’s not a permanent imperial rank, this is wartime—how dare that old man Wu belittle you! Shamelessly, he made you personally come to this godforsaken place. Wu is despicable, and Yang Kui is even worse. As one of the few veteran generals from the Spring and Autumn era, he can’t even compare to the late General Yan Zhenchun, let alone Yang Shenxing, who was exiled to the Northern Liang to drink the northwest wind!”
At this point, the young man grew puzzled and lowered his voice, cautiously asking, “General, why didn’t you rebuke me today? Do you actually agree with what I said?”
The middle-aged man, who wore neither armor nor the official robes of a military officer, seemed not to hear. He placed his hand on the rough arrow embrasure of the wall, his expression solemn. Gazing into the distance, he saw the lush greenery of spring, the gentle breeze brushing his face. Below, small squads of elite cavalry, once part of the Southern Border Army, galloped in and out of the town with impeccable horsemanship, rivaling even the elite riders of the Two Liao border. It was hard to imagine these soldiers hailed from a land plagued by miasma. This visitor to Wutong Town was none other than Lu Shengxiang, who rose to fame in the mid-to-late Spring and Autumn period, alongside Chu Lushan, the man who conquered Shu with a thousand cavalry. Compared to Lu Shengxiang and Chu Lushan, the fierce generals of the Southern Border—Tang He, Li Chunyu, and others—paled in both achievements and reputation. Even Xu Gong, the former Longxiang General who had never experienced the fires of the Spring and Autumn wars, held Lu Shengxiang in high esteem, once praising him as “the pillar of the southeast.” The young officer beside Lu Shengxiang was Guo Dongfeng, who had spent years tending horses at Youlu Pass. As a vanguard commander in the southern campaign earlier that year, he had distinguished himself in battle and reportedly caught the emperor’s eye. Regardless of whether his patron Lu Shengxiang rose or fell, Guo Dongfeng’s future seemed secure. The unruly Guo Dongfeng was accustomed to speaking his mind and being reprimanded by Lu Shengxiang. This time, however, Lu Shengxiang surprisingly did not stop his insolence, leaving the ambitious young general, who dreamed of earning a marquis title on the frontier, feeling oddly unsettled. Half of his grievances remained unspoken. Lu Shengxiang’s unusual silence weighed heavily on Guo Dongfeng, who, restless by nature, resorted to tapping his scabbard against the wall.
Guo Dongfeng’s frustration was not without reason. The Guangling Dao campaign was nearing its end, but as the nominal supreme commander of the southern expedition, Lu Shengxiang had first found his orders ignored at Youlu Pass. Later, after finally breaking free from the cautious and risk-averse Deputy General Yang Kui, Lu Shengxiang personally led a daring offensive, only to face harsh criticism from the court in Tai’an City. Some courtiers even insinuated that while Lu Shengxiang was undeniably a talented general, he lacked the strategic acumen to command an entire campaign—a thinly veiled suggestion that he was fit to lead troops but not to orchestrate grand strategies. Guo Dongfeng despised the aging Yang Kui, who, devoid of any ambition to expand territory, sought only to avoid mistakes. With a mere twenty to thirty thousand troops, Yang Kui had packed his ranks with over two hundred scions of Tai’an City’s noble families—far worse than Yang Shenxing, who at least only accepted the sons of military officers. With so many ornamental figures in his ranks, Yang Kui dared not take any risks, clinging to Lu Shengxiang’s coattails and waiting for the Western Chu’s inevitable collapse to claim his share of the spoils. The cautionary tale of Yang Shenxing had made the already conservative Yang Kui even more timid. Guo Dongfeng had witnessed Yang Kui’s main force advancing at a snail’s pace, with scouts deployed at an unprecedented frequency—almost one squad every three miles, casting a wide net. When news arrived that the Northern Liang cavalry was heading straight for Guangling Dao, Yang Kui, stationed west of Lu Shengxiang and separated by the Ji cavalry and Xu Gong’s forces, immediately ordered a halt. Guo Dongfeng heard that nearly half of the two hundred noble scions had retreated overnight under the pretext of escorting grain supplies from the capital. The absurdity nearly made Guo Dongfeng laugh out loud.
A refined man in military official robes ascended the city wall alone, without an escort. Guo Dongfeng turned to look. Though unfamiliar, the man’s third-rank insignia marked him as someone of high status—Xu Gong, Vice Minister of War and the pillar of the Xu clan of Gumu in Jiangnan Dao. After the fall of Lu Baijie, the former Minister of War and leader of Jiangnan scholars, in Tai’an City, Xu Gong had naturally become the new representative of Jiangnan officials in the capital. Guo Dongfeng bore no ill will toward him. Xu Gong and his patron Lu Shengxiang were kindred spirits. Shortly after Xu Gong assumed his post as Vice Minister of War, he was sent to inspect the Two Liao borders. Only after a series of victories alongside Grand Pillar Gu Jianfang on the Liaodong frontier did he regain military authority. His southern expedition had also been fraught with setbacks. Were it not for Xu Gong drawing most of the censors’ fire in the capital, Lu Shengxiang’s situation would have been even more difficult. Thus, the Tai’an court had already coined the jest “the beleaguered vice minister.”
Lu Shengxiang, known for his aloof and unyielding demeanor in both the Guangling Dao’s Chunxue Tower and the Tai’an court, surprised Guo Dongfeng by stepping forward with a smile as Xu Gong approached. Clasping his fists, Lu Shengxiang said, “Lu Shengxiang greets Vice Minister Xu.”
Xu Gong, with his dignified bearing—a blend of martial prowess and aristocratic refinement—cut a more scholarly figure than the humbly born Lu Shengxiang. Responding to Lu Shengxiang’s overture with genuine warmth, he said, “Xu Gong has long admired General Lu. To finally meet you in person makes this thousand-mile journey south worthwhile.”
Lu Shengxiang smiled. “Gu Dazu of Southern Tang’s *Collection of Ashes* pioneered the theory of military circumstances. I once thought no work could surpass its ‘grand discourse on warfare,’ save perhaps Shu King Chen Zhibao’s meticulous military treatise, which delves into the minutiae of command and embodies the essence of military strategy—’subtle words, profound meaning.’ When Vice Minister Xu entered the capital, I was no longer there, but I happened upon a military text you authored in your youth. While idling at Youlu Pass, I studied it intently and found it immensely enlightening, making my days there feel less wasted. You once called me ‘the pillar of the southeast.’ I had long held prejudices against Jiangnan scholars, mistakenly assuming you were another armchair strategist. Had I read your work years earlier, I would have said, ‘Xu Longxiang is the true pillar of the southeast,’ even if the world dismissed it as mutual flattery.”
Xu Gong laughed heartily. “To hear such words from Lu Shengxiang himself is worth more than a thousand praises from afar.”
The “afar” Xu Gong referred to was, of course, the clamor of the Tai’an court. His implication was clear: even if he were stripped of his position and banished from the capital, it would be no great loss.
“Kindred spirits at first sight” aptly described Xu Gong and Lu Shengxiang.
Guo Dongfeng, ever the spoiler, interjected, “Vice Minister Xu, isn’t the famed Ji Province General Yuan Tingshan supposed to be here with you?”
Xu Gong replied candidly, “General Yuan set out two days ahead of me. The western Shu infantry commander, Che Ye, accompanied me instead.”
Guo Dongfeng smirked. “No wonder when old General Yang Kui entered the town yesterday, Minister Wu had that young and accomplished General Yuan by his side. So, Vice Minister Xu, are you here to catch a glimpse of the Prince of Jing’an as well?”
Unfazed by the young general’s bluntness, Xu Gong shook his head. “The Prince of Jing’an is Minister Wu’s guest. I heard the King of Shu might arrive today and wanted to see him up close.”
Lu Shengxiang said calmly, “During the northern Guangling Dao campaign, the King of Shu and I fought side by side but only met briefly before parting ways. It’s a regret I share with Vice Minister Xu.”
Gu Jianfang, Chen Zhibao, Lu Baijie, Wu Chongxuan, Lu Shengxiang, Xu Gong, Tang Tieshuang—these seven were the most prominent figures in the Ministry of War over the past five years. Among them, Lu Baijie, burdened by the Guangling Dao campaign, had resigned in disgrace. Gu Jianfang, overseeing the Two Liao’s military and governance, and Chen Zhibao, enfeoffed as King of Shu, had risen to lofty heights. Wu Chongxuan, meanwhile, was at the peak of his power. Among the vice ministers, Tang Tieshuang, the latest arrival in the capital, seemed poised to overtake Xu Gong and Lu Shengxiang, with the court increasingly viewing him as the next Minister of War. Xu Gong’s failure to stop the Northern Liang cavalry had cost him dearly in reputation.
As a large contingent of riders galloped out of Wutong Town, including many young nobles on proud steeds, Guo Dongfeng lazily leaned against the embrasure, watching them with a sneer.
Standing beside Lu Shengxiang, Xu Gong remarked with a smile, “It seems the Prince of Jing’an enjoys quite the reputation.”
Lu Shengxiang replied wryly, “Who in the realm doesn’t know of the Prince of Jing’an’s loyalty to the court? They say he’s a model for all vassal kings. Four or five years ago, before the court granted single-character princedoms, among the various princely heirs, Xu Fengnian of the Northern Liang was notorious as a wastrel, Zhao Zhu of the Southern Border famed for his valor, Zhao Biao of Guangling for his cruelty, and Zhao Yizhi of Liaodong relatively unknown. Zhao Xun of Jing’an was merely a minor literary figure in Jiangzuo. Few expected him to inherit his father’s title. Yet in just two or three years, he first gained fame in the capital with his ‘Two Memorials and Thirteen Strategies,’ then became renowned throughout the land for his desperate defense of Prince Zhao Ying of Huainan. Now hailed as both wise and brave, the young nobles who followed General Yang Kui to Wutong Town likely came to admire their peer, the Prince of Jing’an. Guo Dongfeng, how does that saying go?”
Caught off guard, Guo Dongfeng blinked in confusion.
Xu Gong said softly, “On my journey south, I heard this: ‘The northwest has Xu and Chu has Song, but alas, our heartland has Xun.'”
Hearing this for the first time, Guo Dongfeng erupted in anger. “How does this ‘Prince of Death,’ who knows nothing of warfare, deserve to be called ‘the heartland’s Xun’?! At least that Xu fellow held back a million barbarian troops—I’ll give him that. As for that flowery Song Maolin, famous for his pretty face, I wouldn’t deign to compare myself to him. But who the hell is this Zhao Xun?!”
With no soldiers nearby, Guo Dongfeng’s outburst went unchecked.
Xu Gong smiled. “What a ‘but alas.'”
Almost simultaneously, Lu Shengxiang said, “What a ‘our heartland.'”
The two renowned generals, meeting for the first time in this small town, exchanged a knowing smile.
Before long, the Prince of Jing’an, Zhao Xun, clad in a python robe, arrived from the Guangling River navy with only a squad of elite cavalry. The young nobles who had ridden out ten miles to greet him were charmed by his courteous demeanor, feeling as though they had met a kindred spirit too late.
As the large contingent approached the town gate, Zhao Xun spotted the two men on the wall and immediately smiled, clasping his fists from horseback. Xu Gong and Lu Shengxiang returned the gesture. Zhao Xun took no offense at their lack of deference, but his young entourage, accustomed to wielding influence in Tai’an City, bristled on his behalf, resentful that the two vice ministers—now “high in rank but low in power”—dared to stand on ceremony. They felt the least Lu and Xu could do was descend the wall to greet the prince. Their indignation grew when three riders abruptly galloped down the street, refusing to yield to their illustrious party. Only Zhao Xun’s slight swerve prevented a collision. The three haughty riders sped past without a glance.
When someone was about to lose their temper, a quiet reminder would quickly follow, and then everything would dissipate like a passing cloud.
It turned out that the three riders from Western Shu were none other than Che Ye, Dian Xiongchu, and Wei Fucheng. Particularly, Dian Xiongchu and Wei Fucheng had once been part of the “Four Fangs of Northern Liang” beyond the northwestern frontier. Later, the two followed Chen Zhibao out of Liang and into Shu without a single soldier, a feat that had resounded like thunder through the courts of Liyang.
Xu Gong watched the backs of the three riders with an unreadable expression. In truth, had it not been for the sudden retreat of the twenty-thousand-strong Shu army, the Northern Liang cavalry’s advance into Guangling would never have been so unstoppable. Yet the Minister of War, who had lost much favor in court because of this, seemed to bear no grudge.
Lu Shengxiang glanced at Xu Gong without a word.
About a quarter of an hour later, three riders left the city, only to return as four.
Leading them was a man in white, casually holding a long spear, his demeanor divine.
Lu Shengxiang and Xu Gong, as if by silent agreement, stepped down from their high vantage point, moving to a less conspicuous spot near the city wall.
The four riders did not stop, but the man in white nodded slightly at the two from horseback.
Guo Dongfeng’s eyes burned with fervor as he murmured, “One day, I shall be like him.”
The two high-ranking generals, who did not feel slighted in the least, watched quietly as the four riders rode away.
Besides, in this small town of Wutong, every visitor was a dragon crossing the river—too many eyes, too many ears. If two disgraced ministers were seen together, it could be dismissed as natural camaraderie in adversity. But if they were seen associating with a frontier prince wielding real power, that would be inviting trouble.
Yet, whether it was Lu Shengxiang, who had risen to fame early in the Spring and Autumn era, or Xu Gong, a rising star in Liyang’s military, both held genuine admiration for this man named Chen Zhibao.
No matter how high the civil officials rose or how low the military officials fell in Liyang’s court, in their hearts, Chen Zhibao remained a figure worthy of mutual respect. Logically, the battlefield was a place of death, not romance, yet Chen Zhibao was undoubtedly the only strategist since Ye Baikui’s death who could be called a military genius. So much so that two successive emperors of Liyang were willing to regard him as the nation’s shield. The late Emperor Zhao Dun had even wished Chen Zhibao could become like the stone mountain in his private garden—both a delight to the eyes and a stabilizer of feng shui.
Standing in the shadow of the city wall, Xu Gong chuckled softly, “Xu believes that General Lu need not worry over temporary setbacks. Your rise lies beyond the frontier, not in Guangling, nor in the capital.”
Lu Shengxiang smiled without a word.
Xu Gong left first.
Guo Dongfeng was startled to sense a faint aura of killing intent emanating from his superior, Lu Shengxiang.
Staring at this unfamiliar version of the valiant general, Guo Dongfeng grew uneasy.
Lu Shengxiang took a deep breath and sneered, “Truly worthy of Xu Longxiang. It seems you will be my only rival in the race for frontier glory.”
Guo Dongfeng was baffled but, for once, suppressed his curiosity and dared not ask.
Lu Shengxiang exhaled slowly and walked on.
His killing intent toward Xu Gong, who had seen through his plans, was but a flicker. But his rage toward Cao Changqing, who had changed course at the last moment, was a tempest.
In Lu Shengxiang’s eyes, had Cao Changqing stuck to the original strategy, Gu Jiantang would have become the new dynasty’s Xu Xiao. And if he had opened the gates wide when the Western Chu army marched north, he would have become the new dynasty’s Gu Jiantang.
Regardless of whether the new dynasty bore the surname Zhao, Jiang, or any other, Lu Shengxiang knew the court would no longer tolerate parasites like Yang Wei lounging on their laurels, nor would there be Zhao princes carving out fiefdoms across the land. Xie Xichui and Pei Sui were still young and unfamiliar with the northern terrain. Once the vast Northern Wilderness became a battleground, military glory would be ripe for the taking—unlike the cramped, tangled politics of Guangling.
But Cao Changqing had inexplicably sabotaged his own endgame, turning Lu Shengxiang’s patience at Youlu Pass into proof of his mediocrity.
His face dark, Lu Shengxiang muttered, “Cao Changqing, you deserve to die!”
※※※
On the highway outside the town, dust billowed as a formidable cavalry approached—no fewer than a thousand riders.
Inside a jostling carriage, three passengers swayed with the bumps. A tall, striking young woman, clearly not from the south, wore a sword at her waist, exuding a roguish charm. A young man lounged lazily, flattering the third passenger obsequiously.
“Master, you wouldn’t believe how arrogant those ingrates Tang He and Li Chunyu were. Back then, I didn’t even dare approach Wu Zhongxuan after he rebelled in the south—too scared to even fart! But with you here, I finally have the guts to venture into Wutong Town.”
The one addressed as “Master” was breathtakingly beautiful, his gender ambiguous—the very embodiment of grace.
Nalan Youci.
He glanced sidelong at Zhao Zhu, heir to the Prince of Yan, and said, “Wu Zhongxuan is no saint, but you, who borrowed thousands of his cavalry and never returned them—are you any better?”
Zhao Zhu grinned. “You’re right, Master. Scold me all you want.”
Nalan Youci pointed at the now-notorious prince but directed his teasing at the woman surnamed Zhang. “Zhang Gaoxia, oh Zhang Gaoxia, you must be blind to fancy this good-for-nothing coward.”
Zhang Gaoxia, daughter of the “Green-Eyed” Zhang Julu, merely smiled.
Though thick-skinned, Zhao Zhu flushed under Nalan Youci’s mockery. He lifted the carriage curtain and peered out. The low walls of Wutong Town were now visible, as were the Southern Frontier generals Zhang Dingyuan and Lin Ya, along with two disciples of Wang Xianzhi.
Nalan Youci closed his eyes, hands resting on his knees, tapping lightly.
Zhao Zhu withdrew his head and asked curiously, “Master, why insist on bringing me to this town? Honestly, I loathe and fear Wu Zhongxuan, care little for Xu Gong and Lu Shengxiang, find Yuan Tingshan revolting, and though I used to despise Prince Jing’an Zhao Xun, now I don’t mind him.”
Nalan Youci scoffed. “Of course you don’t. In this tiny Wutong Town, among so many heroes, you can only measure up to this doomed prince.”
Zhao Zhu sulked. Zhang Gaoxia smirked.
Nalan Youci grew serious. “I have four tasks here: berate Wu Zhongxuan, host Xu Gong, meet Lu Shengxiang in secret, and test Chen Zhibao.”
Zhao Zhu whispered, “Was I right? Does Lu Shengxiang truly harbor treacherous ambitions?”
Nalan Youci shook his head. “Hard to say before meeting him. Afterward, it won’t matter.”
Zhao Zhu sighed. “Fine. These grand affairs are beyond me. I’ll leave them to you, Master.”
Suddenly, Nalan Youci asked sharply, “Zhao Zhu, answer me this: If you ascend the throne one day and Xu Fengnian still commands the northwest army while the Northern Wilderness can no longer threaten us, what will you do?”
Zhao Zhu gaped, about to reply when Nalan Youci’s eyes turned icy. “Think carefully!”
After a stunned pause, Zhao Zhu smiled brightly. “The old Liyang emperor’s brotherhood with Xiao Nian’s father is nothing like mine with Xiao Nian.”
Nalan Youci sneered. “Where are you sitting now?”
Zhao Zhu hesitated.
Nalan Youci’s gaze deepened. “Where will you sit in the future? Do you think Zhao Li always intended to kill Xu Xiao? Or that his son Zhao Dun truly wanted Zhang Gaoxia’s father dead? Or was it simply the demands of the throne?”
Zhao Zhu paled, tormented by thoughts he’d never considered.
Nalan Youci looked down. “Huang Sanjia reluctantly chose you before his death, entrusting his legacy to me. With Jiang Fuding by Wu Zhongxuan’s side, and that fool Wang Tongshan dead, Wu Zhongxuan is no threat. Care to guess who among Tang He and Li Chunyu is a spy?”
He continued coldly, “You are halfway to destiny. With Chen Zhibao biding his time, you have no real rivals. Think carefully about who among your father’s retainers—Zhang Dingyuan, Gu Ying, Ye Xiufeng, Liang Yue—will betray you, who will incite north-south strife, who will be your Zhang Julu, and who will demand Xu Fengnian’s—or my—death.”
Zhao Zhu trembled. “Master, I don’t know… I truly don’t.”
He clutched his head, unwilling to dwell on such questions.
Grand ambitions demanded grand deliberations.
Zhang Gaoxia, her eyes sorrowful, hesitantly reached out to grasp his arm.
Nalan Youci’s expression was unreadable—was it pity or mockery?
His tone turned sardonic. “I’ve long despised your carefree act. How does it feel to face reality?”
Zhao Zhu looked up, gripping Zhang Gaoxia’s hand, and stared at Nalan Youci—the last surviving strategist of the Spring and Autumn era.
Suddenly, he knelt and bowed deeply. “Master, I know your ambitions differ from all others. I only ask that you be my Yuan Benxi. If I ever wear the dragon robe, I vow to kill anyone who dares harm you. Should I die before you, I will let you choose my regents. I swear my descendants will never become like today’s Emperor Zhao Zhuan!”
Nalan Youci laughed but said no more.
Drenched in sweat yet relieved, Zhao Zhu sensed that Nalan Youci, though perhaps not wholly satisfied, was secretly pleased.
Nalan Youci closed his eyes, a faint smile playing on his lips, indifferent to the prince’s discomfort.
“Leave if the carriage stifles you,” he said softly.
Zhao Zhu hastily led the veiled Zhang Gaoxia out.
*Yishan, remember when Huang Longshi spoke of a future where scholars would grovel before petty officials? You raged, while I laughed.*
*You spent twenty years teaching your disciple to be a hero, not a conqueror. Then you died, your ashes scattered beyond the northwest frontier.*
*Now you laugh, while I rage!*
*I see Huang Longshi’s scheme. He lost once to a wanderer and sought to win after death. He believed Zhao Zhu and Xu Fengnian would turn on each other.*
*But I, Nalan Youci, will make you both lose again!*
Nalan Youci opened his eyes and looked up at the carriage roof, humming a folk tune.
*A young scholar climbed the mountain, his bookcase worn.*
*A maiden descended, bearing orchids’ scent.*
…
He lifted the curtain, the spring breeze caressing his face as he gazed northeast. “Cao Changqing, we both suffer. But you are luckier than I.”
Suddenly, he dropped the curtain and clutched his mouth. Blood stained his palm.
“Alas, we were all once young,” he murmured.
※※※
Outside Liyang’s southern gate, the broad highway lay empty two hours prior.
The entire city awaited one man.
A siege by one.
Iron-clad defenders lined the walls.
That day, the elite armies of the capital’s four garrisons stood arrayed, tense before a lone figure in green.
A scholar in blue robes walked slowly down the road, stopping half a mile from the city.
He sat cross-legged, facing west, a chessboard in his lap.
Not toward the greatest city under heaven, but away from it.
Black boxes hold white stones, white boxes hold black stones.
He placed these two boxes—relics of the imperial court unearthed from the Western Chu’s chess archives—before him, separated by the distance of a board, both lids open.
In distant memory, the Grand Preceptor Li Mi once boasted in drunken splendor: *”Of all the elegance under heaven, Great Chu claims eight-tenths, and Cao Deyi alone claims eight-tenths of that!”*
How could such a man not be peerless in grace and triumph?
Sitting upright, he extended two fingers toward the nearest box, pinching a stone but not lifting it. Instead, he smiled across the board as if facing an opponent in silent play.
The gray-templed scholar in blue robes, his gaze tender, murmured softly, *”You take black first.”*
The once cloudless sky erupted in an instant, winds surging, clouds roiling.
Above Tai’an City, strange phenomena unfurled.
As those five words left the scholar’s lips, a single black stone leapt from the distant snow-white box, tracing an ethereal arc before landing gently at the center of the intangible board.
First move: Tengen.
A brazen opening.
Yet even more brazen was the sight of a radiant pillar descending from the heavens, crashing to the earth with thunderous force.
The mighty city trembled as if struck by a quake unseen in centuries.
Heaven and earth shook!
Across Tai’an City, from the eaves of the Martial Glory Hall to every pavilion, countless tiles shuddered and lifted.
The scholar in blue plucked a translucent white stone between his fingers, eyes brimming with mirth, and placed it lightly upon the board.
Simultaneously, a second pillar of light arrived as promised.
Tai’an City quaked once more.
Before the city walls, tens of thousands of Liyang’s armored soldiers stood, yet it was the lone figure who first advanced upon the city.
From the ramparts, a volley of ballista bolts loosed at last.
The air roared as if split by wind and thunder.
The middle-aged scholar paid it no heed.
A second black stone leapt from its box, settling upon the board, rooted in place, hovering motionless.
Within the city, the ten guardian tiles adorning the Martial Glory Hall’s ridges—immortals, dragons, phoenixes, qilin, sea beasts, xiezhi, and more—crumbled to dust one by one.
Beyond the walls, nearly a hundred massive arrows, mighty as sword immortals’ blades, shattered midair.
The blue-robed scholar lifted a second white stone, murmuring before placing it, *”I regret becoming a Confucian Sage too late. I regret embracing the Overbearing Path too slow.”*
He brought his fingers down heavily upon the board.
A metallic ring echoed.
Tai’an City convulsed a fourth time.
This tremor was the fiercest yet.
Many warhorses beyond the walls snapped their legs, collapsing to their knees.
Upon the towering battlements, several figures could no longer restrain themselves—some descended on flying swords, others lunged forward in lethal strikes, still others swept in like shadows.
Another pair of black and white stones found their places on the board.
The figure in blue seemed unwilling to meet his “opponent’s” gaze, lowering his eyes to the board. *”The elegance of Cao Changqing is only true elegance when witnessed by you.”*
As the fourth white stone danced playfully from its box and drifted down, the assailants were now within thirty paces of Cao Changqing.
This time, he did not place the stone from above but swept it sideways with a faint tilt, letting it settle upon the board.
A surge of noble qi swept horizontally forth.
The martial masters defending the capital were struck as if by an invisible force, hurled backward at terrifying speed, embedding themselves into Tai’an City’s very walls.
In the spring breeze of the third year of Xiangfu…
The Western Chu’s Chess Master made his move upon Tai’an City.
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