Chapter 1041: The Final – No One, No Central Plains

In the third year of the Xiangfu era, late autumn.

The royal army, which had participated in the annual autumn hunt, did not march south beyond the Liangzhou Pass as expected. Instead, it swiftly turned north, heading straight back to the capital of the Northern Court.

Throughout the hunt, His Majesty the Emperor had only appeared once during a late-night strategy session marked by drawings in the ashes. Otherwise, he remained unseen, accompanied only by the Taiping Order and the three-dynasty regent minister, Yelü Chucai.

Amid the layers of palace walls, in a small, far-from-luxurious chamber, candlelight flickered gently, casting not brightness but an eerie gloom—a silence so profound it seemed to amplify the chirping of cicadas.

An elderly woman lay peacefully on her sickbed, her expression serene, as if reminiscing about the tumultuous years of her past or the vibrant days of her youth.

Beside the bed, the Taiping Order, the Northern Mang Emperor’s mentor, sat on a small stool, gazing down at the gaunt-faced woman with her frost-white hair.

Li Mibi, the architect of the Northern Mang’s intricate spy network, behaved oddly, sitting on the threshold like a lonely, aging man—a stark contrast to the shadowy chancellor who had once struck fear into the hearts of the Northern Mang’s nobility.

“Your Majesty, are you in pain?” the Taiping Order asked softly, his tone neither anxious nor sorrowful, but carrying an unusual gentleness.

The old woman answered obliquely, “Are you puzzled why I refused the gift of the heavens, unwilling to cling to life for another four or five years?”

The Taiping Order nodded, then shook his head. “It no longer matters,” he murmured.

The old woman chuckled dismissively. “Do you think my foolish son, whose ambition outstrips his fate, can take Jubei City with his four hundred thousand troops?”

The Taiping Order replied cautiously, “If Tuoba Pusa defeats Xu Fengnian, the outcome is certain. Even a dozen more Central Plains martial masters wouldn’t change that. And even if Tuoba Pusa loses, we may not. Your Majesty need not worry over the war.”

The old woman folded her hands over her abdomen, her lips curling slightly. “Worry? I care not for the war beyond Liangzhou Pass. Once I handed command to Yelü Hongcai, I let it go. That child endured decades as a humiliated crown prince—let him have his moment of glory. As for whether the flames spread to Liangzhou or the Southern Dynasties, what concern is it of mine, a dying woman? I’ve lived my life mastering the art of letting go—regrets over people or myself never lingered. The first half of my life was spent treading on thin ice, but the latter half was comfortable. And as the first woman to wear the dragon robe and sit the throne, whether history praises or reviles me, my name will endure. What great regrets could I have? Perhaps none.”

Rarely had she rambled so freely, and even more rarely with such detachment.

The old man hummed in acknowledgment.

This Taiping Order of the Chess Sword Music Manor had once stormed off the grasslands, spending twenty years incognito in the Central Plains under a dozen identities, traversing rivers and mountains, witnessing the world’s myriad faces.

Among the countless scholars of the world, perhaps only the great scourge of the Spring and Autumn era, Huang Sanjia, had “read ten thousand books and traveled ten thousand miles” more thoroughly than this Northern Mang mentor whose true name had long been forgotten.

The old woman caught her breath and asked, “Can Zhao Bing and Chen Zhibao march north all the way to the gates of Tai’an City?”

The old man nodded. “Without a doubt. But they’ll likely hold back, waiting for the outcome of our battle with the Northern Liang border army. Taking Tai’an too soon risks us retreating to the grasslands or abandoning the Southern Dynasties entirely, recreating the awkward stalemate of the early days when the Zhao family unified the Central Plains. With Zhao Bing’s temperament, he won’t risk half-measures. If that happens, Xu Fengnian truly becomes the next Xu Xiao, and Northern Liang remains an unshakable thorn in their side—hardly worth it. The only wildcard lies with Gu Jian’s two Liao border armies. With three hundred thousand elite troops, if he seizes the moment, he could become the next Xu Xiao post-Xilebi. And Gu Jian won’t miss his chance—not with the old emperor Zhao Li gone and the world changed. Back then, Xu Xiao’s division of the realm was unpopular, but if Gu Jian takes Tai’an, it would be seen as destiny fulfilled—a different story altogether.”

Seeing the old woman still alert, he continued succinctly, “In these chaotic times, among the Central Plains’ generals, only a handful like Lu Shengxiang and Xu Gong stand outside the storm, free to choose their allegiances. Those in Tai’an, like Tang Tieshuang, will likely meet grim fates. As for the court’s scholars, the short-lived Emperor Zhao Xun aside, whether Zhao Bing or Zhao Zhu usurps the throne, they’ll treat the literati well—except perhaps for Left Imperial Censor Chen Wang. His fate hinges on whether the new emperor’s magnanimity is genuine or feigned.”

The old woman mocked herself, “By forgoing those extra years, I’ll miss the grand spectacle. Was I wrong?”

The Taiping Order murmured, “If Your Majesty—”

She cut him off with a laugh. “No. Regret is the blandest of medicines. I’ve no taste for it.”

The Taiping Order smiled. “Your Majesty is truly a hero.”

Suddenly, the old woman veered off-topic. “Li Mibi, that woman need not die, but she must never see daylight again.”

From the threshold, Li Mibi replied just loud enough for her to hear, “Understood.”

She then asked, “That Southern Dynasties official Wang Du, the one who loves planting plum blossoms—is he truly a pawn?”

Li Mibi raised his voice slightly. “Though there’s no proof, I’m certain he’s Northern Liang’s spy.”

The old woman sighed. “Li Yishan of the Listening Tide Pavilion is formidable indeed.”

The Taiping Order nodded in genuine admiration. “Indeed.”

Li Mibi asked, “What of the Winter Nabapo Wang Jingchong?”

The Taiping Order answered for him, “His ten thousand family cavalry have surely joined Yu Luandao’s Youzhou light riders. With the Southern Dynasties’ forces weakened, like a house full of holes, unless we send assassins, we can’t stop him. But his involvement only hastens the inevitable—no great loss.”

Li Mibi said coolly, “If Your Majesty truly wants him dead, I’ll go myself.”

The old woman laughed. “Let it be. Even if I handed the Southern Dynasties to Northern Liang on a platter, their meager cavalry couldn’t swallow it. Let them stir trouble.”

Discussing the war’s trajectory visibly wearied her. She closed her eyes, as if to shut out the world’s scheming and deceit—unwilling to carry such burdens to the grave.

With sudden resolve, her frail face hardened. “Three final orders: Dong Zhuo must take Huaiyang Pass! Yelü Hongcai must die before me! The Murong clan must endure—male or female!”

At the last, she burst into laughter, utterly delighted. “Redundant! Make it two orders, then.”

For the first time that night, she turned to the Taiping Order, who had devoted his life to the state’s affairs, and asked with a smile, “You, the scholar of heaven and earth, tell me—does man’s plan trump heaven’s, or heaven’s man’s?”

The Taiping Order replied calmly, “It varies by time, place, and person. In the end, neither is certain.”

She looked away, murmuring, “A muddled ledger.”

A long silence followed, the candlelight still dim.

Softly, she whispered, “The air grows cold… Leave me. I wish to rest.”

The crisp autumn air hung heavy.

If not now, then when?

The Taiping Order rose quietly, bowing deeply and lingering in his reverence.

Outside, Li Mibi waited on the steps.

After shutting the door, the two old men stood side by side.

Li Mibi sighed. “Too much remains unresolved.”

The Taiping Order offered no comment.

Li Mibi sneered. “The more left unsaid, the greater your power. With no regent named, it suits you perfectly.”

The Northern Mang Empress’s death would be kept secret. Knowing her time was short, she had entrusted all affairs to the Taiping Order, replacing key officials with his loyalists. Her final words about her son—”My descendants do not resemble me”—had long circulated, a mercy that the word “resemble” wasn’t replaced with “obey,” sparing Yelü Hongcai greater anxiety. In truth, his survival and command of four hundred thousand troops owed much to his perceived weakness—had he been more like his iron-willed mother, their clash would have been fatal.

The Taiping Order remained unfazed by Li Mibi’s barb.

The man who once vowed to “buy Tai’an with black and white” now weighed his pieces.

Crown Prince Yelü Hongcai was not as mediocre as believed, but his secret meeting with Wang Du had cost him his mother’s favor.

The young general Dong Zhuo, though favored, was a wildcard—for even the best, once crowned, could commit the worst. The world divides into two: emperors, and all others.

Would Yelü Dongchuang, stripped of his grandfather’s protection, falter?

Could Murong Baoding save his clan?

Had Tuoba Pusa, the loyal guardian of the grasslands, ever dreamed of the throne? For him, the Empress’s presence or absence meant everything.

…

At last, the Taiping Order turned with a smile. “You, I, and Xu Huainan—it seems we all lost.”

Stunned, Li Mibi scoffed. “Each lives his own way. Xu Huainan thought deepest, lived hardest. You’re no better—chess players crave victory. Only I thought least, lived lightest.”

The Taiping Order chuckled. “Not least—you conceded earliest.”

The spymaster neither confirmed nor denied.

The Taiping Order sighed. “The hard work falls to you now.”

Li Mibi grunted. “Duty is duty. No hardship in that.”

The Taiping Order clapped his shoulder. “True. You relish skulking in shadows, plotting. It’s your joy.”

Unused to such gestures, the solitary shadow chancellor frowned, though some weight lifted from his heart.

In the deep night, the two most powerful men of the grasslands parted at the courtyard gate.

Long after, the Taiping Order turned back, tears streaming. “Lady Murong… Lady Murong…”

Inside, the old woman drew an aged marten fur over herself and drifted to sleep, her withered fingers brushing the pelt—

Like the peach-blossomed girl of yore, meeting her Liaodong youth in a foreign land, bathed in spring’s warmth.