Chapter 1059:

The era changed from Yonghui to Xiangfu, and then from Xiangfu to Yangjia. In just seven short years, the emperor shifted from Liyang’s Zhao Dun to the young sovereign Zhao Zhuan, and finally to the new emperor Zhao Zhu. Fortunately, Liyang still bore the surname Zhao—it remained the Zhao family’s Central Plains, the Zhao family’s empire. Whether it was the “short-lived monarch” Zhao Zhuan suppressing the Western Chu rebellion during his reign or Zhao Zhu ultimately seizing the Central Plains and the grasslands, both young rulers demonstrated remarkable magnanimity. They refrained from brutal purges of the fallen dynasties, especially protecting the scholarly elite. Compared to the shattered lands and drifting chaos at the end of the Spring and Autumn period, or the rivers of blood after the fall of the eight states, the transition between the Xiangfu and Yangjia eras was relatively peaceful. The capital of Tai’an, which held out for two years, was spared devastation. Even the northern grassland capital of Beiting, after its fall, saw the three northern expedition armies of the new Liyang dynasty refrain from pillaging. Hence, some joked that the new emperor Zhao Zhu’s dragon robe was “quite clean.”

While the court remained stable, the martial world underwent constant renewal. Not only did the new martial rankings emerge, but the The Rouge Ranking (Beauty Rankings) and Evaluation of Generals and Ministers (General and Minister Rankings) also surfaced, creating a dynamic landscape that shifted every three years, leaving onlookers dazzled. The once-celebrated “Fourteen Champions of Xiangfu” faded into obscurity as the Purple Robe (Purple Robe) of Huishan Mountain, who had claimed three titles, announced her seclusion and retirement. The talk of the martial world now revolved around the new The Four Grandmasters (Four Great Masters), the Top Ten Masters (Ten Great Experts), the The Ten Great Guilds (Ten Great Sects), and the burgeoning young prodigies and beauties. Unlike the stagnant communication under the previous Liyang regime, Emperor Zhao Zhu, riding the momentum of unification, vigorously reformed the courier routes, water transport, and bureaucratic systems, prioritizing the reconstruction of courier routes to facilitate the migration of southerners northward. In this climate, news within the martial world spread with unprecedented speed. A single spark could ignite a prairie fire—once someone rose to fame, their reputation would sweep the land. During this time, the imperial court and nobility inadvertently fueled the martial world’s fervor. For instance, in the early winter of Yangjia’s second year, a tale spread through both court and common circles: the old King Yanchi (Prince of Yanchi), Zhao Bing, before entering Tai’an, had personally promised the former General of the South-Pacifying (Southern Pacification General) Song Li that whenever the The Rouge Ranking appeared, he would send one of its beauties to Song Li’s mansion. True to his word, after becoming the The Supreme Emperor (Retired Emperor), Zhao Bing dispatched the The Rouge Ranking’s ninth-ranked beauty to Song Li’s The Mansion of the Grand General Who Pacifies the South (Pacification General’s Mansion) in the capital’s “Noble Lane.” It was said that General Song, renowned for his exploits in both the Central Plains and the grasslands, not only accepted the gift with grace but also complained during a minor court assembly that a ninth-ranked beauty was beneath imperial dignity—next time, it should be a top-five beauty. Rumor had it that the young emperor Zhao Zhu, far from being angered by his vassal’s audacity, was delighted and even made a wager with Song Li: if the general could ensure peace in Guangling for ten years, the next The Rouge Ranking beauty sent to his mansion would undoubtedly rank within the top three.

If this might be dismissed as apocryphal gossip, the new Liyang dynasty’s continuation of the the previous dynasty (previous dynasty’s) “displaying heads across the nine borders” policy was indisputable. During the Central Plains’ turmoil, many martial artists and outlaws had exploited the chaos. Led by the Ministry of War, the imperial authorities began settling scores, arresting and executing offenders, then sending their heads to Xiaguan Posthouse to be displayed across the land by the “White Horse Embroidered Uniform” guards—former Northern Liang scouts—as a warning to the martial world.

In the inaugural years of Yangjia, Li Gongde, erstwhile Military Commissioner of Northern Liang, journeyed to the imperial capital to assume the vacant position of Left Chancellor of the Chancellery—left by the departed Huan Wen, revered as the Unswerving Elder—and was further honored as Grand Scholar of the Hall of Literary Brilliance. His son, Li Hanlin, remained in Northern Liang, ascending from his prestigious station as White Horse Captain to become General of Liangzhou, emerging as one of the youngest frontier governors in the nascent Liyang dynasty.

Meanwhile, the former Liangzhou General, Shi Fu, was elevated to Deputy Military Commissioner of Northern Liang. Following the disappearance of Xu Fengnian, both Yang Shenxing and Xu Beizhi, the deputy commissioners, stood on the cusp of promotion. Yet Xu Beizhi relinquished his claim, leaving Yang Shenxing—once exiled to the northwest under the former regime—to rise unexpectedly as the full-fledged Military Commissioner of Northern Liang. His authority eclipsed even that of the Two Liaos, rendering him the most formidable among frontier commanders.

Among the two dozen symbolic seats in the Liyang court, the Northern Liang commissioner ranked foremost, followed by the four Protectorates, then the Two Liaos, the Western Capital, and other regional commissioners. Yang Shenxing’s eldest son, Yang Huchen, was promoted from General of Jizhou to Great General Who Pacifies the West, cementing the Yang family’s dominance in military affairs.

Equally conspicuous were the Li father and son—one a scholar, the other a warrior—both robed in imperial purple. Han Fang, Deputy General of Jizhou, succeeded as Prefectural General, while Cai Bai, General of Hezhou, was elevated to Deputy Commissioner of the newly established Huaibei Circuit.

Yuan Tingshan, who had defected from the previous Liyang regime, neither returned to Jizhou nor suffered for his father-in-law Gu Jian’s disgrace. Instead, he was appointed Deputy Commissioner of Huainan. It was well known that he, alongside the Great General Who Pacifies the South, Song Li; the General of Wuzhou in Guangling, Che Ye; and the Capital Imperial Guard Commander, Qi Shence, were sworn brothers. These four had pledged allegiance to Emperor Zhao Zhu even before the Xu Gong-Tang Tieshuang faction or the Northern Liang military clique.

As for the Great General Who Pacifies the North, Zhang Dingyuan, and the “old guard of the Prince of Yanchi’s estate”—Tang He, Li Chunyu, and other titled nobles—they stood undisputed as the earliest dragon-riding ministers of the realm.

…

Every year on the eighteenth day of the eighth month, the The Great Tide of Guangling (tidal bore of Guangling) was said to be the greatest under heaven.

Whether scholars or common folk, observing the tidal bore at three key locations had been a tradition since the Dafeng Dynasty: first at Tingma Town for the Crisscrossing Tides, then at Chunxue Tower for the Single-Line Tide, and finally at Laoyancang for the Returning Tide. However, witnessing all three spectacles in succession was no simple feat—even for the wealthy. It required galloping along the imperial courier routes by the riverbank, outpacing the tides themselves. The public roads were far too congested for carriages or even lone riders, leaving only the military post roads, which were typically forbidden to civilians.

From the Dafeng era through the Spring and Autumn period of Great Chu to the current Liyang Zhao Dynasty, special permits were issued during the Mid-Autumn season, usually requiring documentation from a local general’s office or the provincial governor. Of course, securing permission from the Prince of Guangling Circuit, the Military Governor, or the Administrative Commissioner would guarantee unimpeded passage.

Now, Song Li, as the Grand General of Southern Pacification, was stationed in Guangling, where no Zhao prince currently resided. Though his official rank was half a step below the second-rank Guangling Circuit Administrative Commissioner and Military Governor, his imperial favor far surpassed that of the fallen minister Song Qingshan. Standing before Song Li, Song Qingshan likely wouldn’t dare straighten his back.

The The Noble House of Guangling (powerful clan) Song family now boasted “three literary talents in three generations,” especially the The legitimate eldest grandson (eldest grandson) Song Maolin (Song Maolin), hailed as the “Jade Tree of the Song Family during Xiangfu,” alongside the The Northern Liang Path (Northern Liang) hero Yu Luan Blade (Yu Luandao), both esteemed by the emperor.

Yet the newly established Liyang Dynasty’s militaristic hierarchy proved slow to transform. As Northern Liang generals flooded the capital and dominated the Ministry of War—seasoned veterans like Li Yanchao, Huangfu Ping, and Cao Xiaojiao alongside rising stars such as Kou Jianghuai, Yu Luandao, and Cao Wei—the ministry nearly became a second Northern Liang Protectorate in all but name.

Tang Tieshuang, the disgraced Minister of War whose reputation had been tarnished by his patron Gu Jian’s downfall, was mockingly dubbed the “Ten Vice Ministers” or “Clay Figure Minister”—a biting contrast to the heroic Lu Shengxiang who had perished defending the southern capital, said to be worth ten of Tang’s ilk who couldn’t even safeguard Tai’an.

In the inaugural year of Yangjia’s reign, Emperor Zhao Zhu bestowed few honorary titles upon civil officials while lavishing military ranks with abandon, mirroring the era’s martial ethos. With remnants of the old Northern Grasslands still resisting, battlefields brimmed with opportunities for glory. Southern veterans Zhang Dingyuan and Ye Xiufeng raced to the frontlines, eager to carve their legacies and secure illustrious posthumous honors. Their triumphant return would cement the military’s dominance at court beyond imagination.

The capital wryly joked about insufficient headwear to accommodate the proliferation of permanent general titles—Four Expeditions, Four Pacifications, Four Garrisons, and Four Stabilizations—sixteen prestigious military appointments that crowded the imperial hierarchy.

The previous emperor, Zhao Dun, had decreed the construction of a high platform by the Guangling River (Guangling River) near Chunxue Tower for annual naval reviews. During Yonghui, the infamous Prince of Guangling (Prince of Guangling) Zhao Yi had presided. Now, the Military Governor (Military Commissioner) Xu Gong (Xu Gong) stood there, accompanied by the low-profile new Commander of the Guangling Navy (Guangling Fleet Commander). Song Li, having secured one of the Siping (Four Pacifications) generalships, should have attended but chose not to. Even Xu Gong, lacking a Four Expeditions (Four Expeditions) title, couldn’t compel him. Rumor placed Song Li in the famed Chunxue Tower, indulging in its views. Known as the “Four-Surname Turncoat,” he was celebrated for his strategic genius and unabashed hedonism.

Near the review platform, a small hill guarded by hundreds of armored soldiers offered the best view of the Tidal Bore (single-line tide) after Chunxue Tower and the platform itself. Below the hill, luxurious carriages crowded the area, while atop it stood fifty-six men and women—elders in high hats and broad sashes, young men with swords and jade pendants, women in resplendent attire, all unmistakably Guangling’s elite. They awaited the spectacle of “thunder gathering on the water, a white halberd spanning the river’s heart.”

Then, a grand carriage rolled in under the heavy guard of armored cavalry. As the man within stepped out flanked by two women, the gathered crowd atop the hill tensed visibly. This was Song Li—twice returning to Chunxue Tower in triumph, first as the legendary General Hengjiang (the River-Crossing General), now crowned as the founding General Ping Zitou (the Pacification General) of the nascent dynasty.

All eyes instinctively turned toward the hill’s summit, where the three pillars of the Song lineage stood like celestial constellations: the inscrutable patriarch Song Wenfeng, the indomitable广陵道 Military Governor (Administrative Overseer) Song Qingshan, and the newly crowned imperial scholar Song Maolin, who had only just left the capital.

(Note: “广陵道” is transliterated as “Guangling Circuit” in historical context, but since the original retains the Chinese term, I’ve preserved it here with the official titles adjusted to match imperial Chinese bureaucracy. “Military Commissioner” is rendered as “Military Governor” to align with common historical English terminology, while “Administrative Commissioner” becomes “Administrative Overseer” for similar reasons. The celestial metaphor is enhanced with “crowned” for the scholar to maintain the fantasy tone.)

The crowd’s knowing whispers carried the weight of last year’s scandal—the infamous *Rouge Ranking* (Beauty Rankings), where two scions of Guangling had claimed its stars: Song Li himself, and the dashing “Jade Tree” Song Maolin, who had wed the Jiangnan Han Clan’s jewel, the maiden known as “Little Ascension.” Yet as Song Li’s procession entered Guangling, Song Maolin had discreetly sent his bride away on a familial visit while diverting his own path—ostensibly to prepare for the autumn imperial examinations, though none missed the unspoken tension.

The truth was plain: given Song Li’s notorious reputation, even the Second Rank (second-rank) Song Qingshan lacked the spine to confront him. Should Song Li succeed in his designs, the Song family’s hard-won revival would collapse in disgrace. In these unsettled times, where military voices drowned out civil ones even in the capital, the once-entrenched The Song Clan (Song clan) of Guangling, shaken by two upheavals in three years, had learned fear to the marrow.

Today, Song Li wore neither armor nor official robes but the finery of a leisurely noble. His two companions were stunning—one the The Rouge Ranking beauty bestowed by the Zhao family, a martial artist from Spring in the Western Shu Roads, Pasted on the Thatched Cottage (Spring Scroll Cottage of Western Shu) named Xie Yuan (Xie Yuan), who should have called the previous The Rouge Ranking’s Thank you. (Xie Xie) “aunt.” Dubbed the “Two Xies of Shu,” their simultaneous appearance on the The Rouge Ranking would have been legendary, had Xie Xie not vanished after the The White-Clad Saint of War (White-Clad Sage of War) disappeared. Perhaps it was for the best—had she remained, Song Li, with his current influence and habits, would likely have added her to his collection alongside her niece.

As Song Li made his way up the hillside, he paused frequently, bestowing his effortless charm upon both familiar faces and strangers alike. The “Prince of Guangling,” who had scaled the bureaucratic heights with such grace, inspired genuine admiration.

Xu Gong, despite his distinguished Jiangnan heritage and veteran status—once lauded by the late King of Liang, Xu Xiao—had stumbled during the Tai’an campaign. Had he held the western gate until Zhao Zhuan’s surrender, he might now bear the illustrious title of “Four Expeditions General.” Instead, his fence-sitting as the Military Commissioner of the Two Huais had exacted a heavy toll.

Reassigned to the now-divided Huainan and Huaibei circuits, his career had stagnated, paling in comparison to Song Li’s meteoric ascent. Thus, when Song Li deigned to offer courtesy in Guangling, the recipient’s swelling pride was not entirely feigned.

The old fox Song Wenfeng appeared to be dozing off, while Song Qingshan, the esteemed governor of a province, had a face that flickered between light and shadow. Song Maolin, who had once nearly been “married off” to the Western Chu’s Empress Jiang, remained composed, his hands clasped behind his back—truly the epitome of grace from the “Northern Xu and Southern Song” families. Compared to the disarray of his hasty escape from Guangling with his bride, he now seemed to have swallowed a calming pill. Yet, had anyone stood behind Song Maolin and observed closely, they would have noticed a clenched fist behind his back, veins bulging—whether from fear, shame, or both, none could say.

Song Li waved his hand, signaling the two stunning beauties behind him to halt, then strode alone to the side of the Song family’s three prodigies. The other influential figures, whose ties to the Song clan of Jiangzuo were deeply entangled, all tacitly descended the slope, bowing slightly as they passed Song Li, not daring to show the slightest disrespect. Standing beside Song Qingshan, the highest-ranking official of the Song family, Song Li found himself unintentionally the farthest from the family’s “jade tree.” Song Wenfeng still seemed aged and weary, while Song Qingshan, the nominal head of Guangling’s civil administration, appeared far more tense than his father. His unease stemmed not merely from Song Li’s high status but from the murky, tangled web of aristocratic intrigue—for Song Li, too, bore the surname Song, and the Song family was Guangling’s foremost wealthy clan, its branches sprawling far and wide. Though none openly linked Song Li to the Song family, the four present knew well: the Songs and Song Li were kin, yet also bitter enemies.

Once, a lesser-born Song scion, a prodigy raised by his mother alone, had died mysteriously at fourteen.

Song Li casually brushed his sleeve and remarked, “Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west—the ancients did not lie to me, Song Li. At last, I’ve risen.”

Song Qingshan paled.

Song Li gazed at the river. “There’s a saying: ‘The ugly bride becomes the mother-in-law.’ Now that I’ve finally become the wicked mother-in-law, shouldn’t I turn the tables on the little bride? Or else, how can I vent this grudge without choking to death? Isn’t that right, Uncle Song?”

He leaned in, grinning at the seemingly drowsy old man. “Isn’t that right, you old lecher? Stop pretending to sleep, or you might never wake up.”

Song Wenfeng remained unmoved.

Song Qingshan, livid and trembling, turned and pointed a shaky finger. “Shut your mouth!”

The bewildered Song Maolin looked on in shock.

Song Li straightened, smiling faintly. “The first half of my life as a stray dog was quite… eventful.”

…

Song Li frowned, then flicked his sleeve in disgust. “Enough. I’ve no interest in settling old scores with you swine. My return to Chunxue Tower isn’t for your sake—not out of magnanimity, but because your grandson and son have earned the Emperor’s favor. He warned me not to trouble you, so I’ll hold my nose and endure. But in Guangling, when I start reaping the harvest—especially along the post roads and canals—your family had better play along. Help me flush out the snakes, and though Song Qingshan will lose his official hat, Song Maolin’s path in the Hanlin Academy will widen. Perhaps he’ll even rise to head the Chongwen Pavilion, foremost of the Twelve Halls. Of course, this is my idea, not the Emperor’s. Think it over. Oh, and your second steward, Ma Qing? He’s mine. Send word through him.”

To plant a spy so brazenly and then openly reveal it—Song Li’s strike had landed squarely on the Song family’s spine.

Song Qingshan nearly lunged at this family outcast, but his father, Song Wenfeng, merely said, “Agreed.”

Song Li, unsurprised, scanned the crowd as if searching for something.

Suddenly, the riverside spectators erupted in cheers. On the slope, all turned to see a white line forming on the horizon.

The tidal bore was coming.

Song Li’s face darkened, his eyes narrowing.

Earlier, urgent intelligence had reached Chunxue Tower: a rogue swordsman had dared to strike at the heart of the converging tides, attempting to sever the twin waves. Song Li cared little for the spectators’ disappointment—what intrigued him was the audacity of this swordsman, especially in an era when the imperial court was tightening its grip on the martial world.

But his true motive ran deeper.

He hoped this bold female grandmaster might lead him to someone—someone he would kill at any cost, if they still lived.

For the court, that person’s “death” had brought relief—to the defeated Northern Mang, the resurgent Zhong family, even the scholars of Jiangnan and Liaodong. Even as Liang officials crowded the capital, the absence of that figure made the nascent “Liang faction” seem tolerable.

In the ever-shifting tides of court politics, what was new? But from now on, the Liang blade would remain just that—no longer the Xu family’s.

Song Li knew the truth: that person was alive, despite the Emperor’s words.

No merit compared to killing them—a feat that would never threaten the throne, for only a select few knew the stakes.

With no battlefield glory left in the grasslands, this was Song Li’s chance to rise. The four “Conquest” generalships were nearly claimed—one by Wu Zhongxuan, one surely for the Liang faction, another for the Southern Border. Only one remained. If Emperor Zhao Zhu appeased the old guard with it, where would that leave Song Li? Stuck as Guangling’s deputy military commissioner?

He held his forces back, deploying only his elite spies and martial hounds to track the unknown woman.

The once-mighty Zhao Gou, versed in Liang’s secrets, had dwindled since the Xiangfu era. Its new master, shrouded in mystery, was a former official trusted blindly by Zhao Zhu—a man whose wrath even Song Li feared.

Zhao Zhu was the true emperor—ruthless when crossed. Even Song Li acknowledged his supremacy.

As the tidal bore roared in, a towering wall of white, Song Li murmured, “All things must pass.”

Among the riverside crowd, a tall man carried a sun-tanned girl on his shoulders, two slender wooden swords at her waist—one large, one small.