Chapter 1053: The Final (Part 13)

The autumn wind was bleak and biting.

At the northeastern border where the prosperous Jiangnan Dao met the desolate Lianghuai Dao, a dozen riders halted atop a mountain peak. Among them were two of the former Four Fangs of Northern Liang—Dian Xiongchu and Wei Fucheng—and between them rode a young general who had followed them when they left Liang for Shu.

A man in white robes held the famed spear *Plum Wine* at his side. Riding beside this “White-Clad War Saint” was none other than the heir of the Yanchi King, Zhao Zhu, who clasped his fists and declared loudly, “Prince of Shu, I shall not escort you further!”

Chen Zhibao merely nodded, nudged his horse forward, and led the way north along the mountain ridge. Dian Xiongchu and Wei Fucheng followed closely, both grinning as they gave the young rider a hearty pat on the shoulder.

The young cavalry officer’s face was streaked with tears, but he remained silent throughout.

Zhao Zhu sighed dramatically, winking at the young man. “Che Ye! Why do I feel like some spoiled noble brat who’s just snatched a maiden away? It’s downright sinful!”

The youth named Che Ye snorted coldly, quickly regaining his stern, unyielding expression—fitting for the man known as the “Little Prince of Shu” in Western Shu Dao, a true inheritor of Chen Zhibao’s legacy.

Zhao Zhu adored this fellow. Handsome and dashing, ruthless in battle, even his most trusted generals—Zhang Dingyuan, Gu Ying, and others—held him in high regard. How could Zhao Zhu not be smitten? When Chen Zhibao decided to leave Che Ye with him, Zhao Zhu nearly set off firecrackers in celebration. Whether defending the Lazi Pass bordering Northern Liang’s Lingzhou, charging into battle with Chen Zhibao in Guangling Dao, or earlier, outmaneuvering Lu Shengxiang’s forces, Che Ye had displayed extraordinary tactical brilliance—swift, precise, and instinctive. Zhao Zhu often joked, “Che Ye, if you ever betray the Prince of Shu, I’ll make you my top general—for a hundred years!”

With Che Ye staying behind, the generals accompanying Zhao Zhu—Liang Yue of Hezhou and Ye Xiufeng of Yuanzhou—felt deeply gratified.

Zhao Zhu turned to the tall, striking young woman beside him and grinned. “Gao Xia, didn’t I tell you? I’ll take you into Tai’an City. Don’t forget your promise!”

Zhang Gaoxia, her ears burning red, replied impassively, “We’ll talk when you actually enter Tai’an City.”

Zhang Gaoxia was the fugitive daughter of the late Grand Chancellor Zhang Julu.

The two martial masters who had remained with Zhao Zhu since leaving Wudi City—Gong Banque and the female fist master Lin Ya—exchanged knowing smiles.

After long acquaintance, both had come to admire the Yanchi heir—a man who was both hero and warlord.

In short, a true lord.

A scholar never tires of learning, thus becoming a sage. A wise lord never tires of gathering talent, thus amassing power.

Zhao Zhu’s gaze flicked to the silent rider standing apart from the others.

His surname was Jiang.

But as Master Nalan had revealed, this Jiang Fuding was actually the illegitimate son of Yuan Benxi, the late emperor’s tutor.

Zhao Zhu only knew that Lin Ya, the fist master, was acquainted with him, and it was obvious to all that the proud woman harbored unusual feelings for Jiang Fuding, a man a decade her junior. Yet for some reason, neither dared to voice their affection.

Zhao Zhu found it maddening. He’d tried playing matchmaker a few times, only to be “gently” punched in the face by a furious Lin Ya, leaving him bruised for days. Each time he appeared in camp afterward, his loyal officers would “mournfully” remark, “The battles must be brutal—look how our prince suffers!” or “We’ve failed to share your burdens, a crime worthy of death!” Zhao Zhu would just laugh, grabbing their hands and calling them “father-in-law,” vowing to “consummate the marriage.” Once, when the handsome Gu Ying—who had no daughters—protested, Zhao Zhu solemnly declared, “With your looks, I can wait four or five years for your son to grow up!”

The moment his bruises faded, he earned another punch.

Yet whether it was Gu Ying and Zhang Dingyuan on the frontlines, Liang Yue and Ye Xiufeng by his side, or even former generals of Wu Zhongxuan like Tang He and Li Chunyu, every southern officer admired Zhao Zhu.

Nalan Youci had once summed him up: “Warm as winter sunlight, comforting without burning—who wouldn’t love him?”

Though Zhao Zhu was the legitimate son of Yanchi King Zhao Bing, he wasn’t the eldest. Yet when the southern fiefdom needed an heir, Zhao Bing bypassed both his elder brother and the youngest son, the queen’s favorite.

Zhao Zhu sighed inwardly.

He held reservations about Jiang Fuding.

In both the martial world and the court, this man bore a deep grudge against *him*.

But after Jiang Fuding’s arrival, Nalan had privately told Zhao Zhu: “The higher Jiang Fuding rises under you, the higher your own future throne. Ponder that.”

Finally, Nalan cut to the chase: “When you sit facing south in Tai’an City, can you tolerate men like Yuan Tingshan and Jin Lanting rising under your nose?”

Zhao Zhu had given no answer—whether unwilling or unable, even he didn’t know.

Perhaps he feared disappointing Nalan.

Or worse, disappointing himself.

Seated quietly on his horse, Zhao Zhu gazed northwest.

Not just because their southern masters—Cheng Baishuang, Mao Shulang, and Ji Liu’an—stood together there once.

But because there, a peer had once called him “Little Beggar.”

On the mountaintop, Lin Ya and Gong Banque also looked afar.

Their martial brothers Yu Xinlang and Lou Huang had been there—though Yu survived, Lou fell at Jubei City.

Jiang Fuding, too, had lost his closest friend, Zhao Kai—Emperor Zhao Dun’s bastard son—to that young prince. His own father had spent a lifetime opposing *his* father. Two generations of enmity, still unresolved.

Che Ye was no exception. Though born in the Northern Desert, he’d once ridden as one of Northern Liang’s 300,000 iron cavalry, fighting beside the White-Clad War Saint.

Liang Yue and Ye Xiufeng also looked westward. As warriors, how could they not yearn for such epic battlefields?

For a thousand years, the northwest frontier has forged the mightiest cavalry.

Zhao Zhu slowly turned away, calling out, “Master Jiang, has the Xu family’s letter reached Xu Gong yet?”

Jiang Fuding nodded.

Suddenly, Zhao Zhu dismounted. Before all, he plucked a half-yellowed blade of grass, chewing it with a grin. “If the ruler demands death, refusal is disloyalty. If the father demands death, refusal is unfilial. Let’s see whether this governor prioritizes loyalty or filial piety.”

Then he grimaced. “Yang Huchen and Han Fang—those shameless Hedong generals—imprisoned the courteous Ma Zhongxian and Wen Taiyi, seized Jing’an Dao’s forces, and now occupy the central plains. What a headache. I’ll drink with them someday—arm in arm!”

Zhao Zhu loved camaraderie, embracing friends high and low alike.

Raising his head, he announced cheerfully, “Wait for me below. I’ll be down within half an hour.”

Only Zhang Gaoxia remained as the others rode off.

Standing beside the crouching prince, she asked softly, “Afraid you’ll become enemies later?”

Zhao Zhu smirked. “That guy? Too broad-minded to hold grudges. Right?”

Perhaps he asked himself. Perhaps Zhang Gaoxia. Or perhaps, across mountains and rivers, he asked *him*.

Sitting cross-legged, Zhao Zhu looked up and murmured, “If you’re really angry, hit me twice—I won’t fight back! Though by then, this little beggar will be emperor. Let’s keep it between us.”

Zhang Gaoxia gazed down, astonished to see such vulnerability in this resilient man.

Only now did she truly know Zhao Zhu.

Kneeling, she wiped his tears. Unsure how to comfort him, she simply said, “I’ll always be with you.”

The young man nodded. “Mm.”