A contingent of five hundred elite cavalry from Tongguan escorted a carriage to the outskirts of Liangzhou City. The commanding officer, Xin Yinma, did not meet with the local garrison. Instead, two leaders from the Fushui Bureau of Liangzhou took over, guiding the carriage discreetly into the city and straight to the residence of the Deputy Military Governor, where the veteran general Yang Shenxing held court.
From the carriage emerged a graceful woman wearing a rough bamboo-rimmed veil hat, far cruder than the refined “shallow dew” veils favored by Central Plains’ noblewomen. She was accompanied by three burly retainers, their demeanor steady and proud, their exotic hairstyles marking them as non-natives of Northern Liang. Fortunately, the street outside the Deputy Military Governor’s residence was deserted, sparing onlookers undue speculation.
The closest of the three, a middle-aged warrior, whispered to the woman after surveying the residence, his face darkening with anger. The woman, of special status, quickly hushed him, though the burly man continued to mutter discontentedly. Beneath her veil, the woman sighed in resignation. The Kheshig guards were all scions of Northern Court nobility, and this one in particular was no exception.
She was curious about the young Prince’s choice of meeting place. According to intelligence from the Western Capital, the exiled Yang Shenxing had not been living comfortably in Northern Liang. His residence should not have been involved in such sensitive military affairs. Yet, since Qingliang Mountain had arranged it this way, she, as a guest from afar, had no choice but to comply. The worst-case scenario she had envisioned was dying en route without even glimpsing Liangzhou. That the young Prince was willing to meet at all was a relief. Her familiarity with Qingliang Mountain and the Northern Liang cavalry far surpassed that of her proud Kheshig guards, who had likely only dealt with submissive Southern Dynasty remnants and knew the Northern Liang army only from crude reports.
Their guide was a mild-mannered middle-aged man, dressed elegantly but not ostentatiously. Beside him stood a strikingly beautiful maid, her curvaceous figure and long legs drawing even the veiled woman’s gaze—let alone the Kheshig guard, who openly leered and reached for the maid’s waist. Before the woman could intervene, the burly guard found his arm effortlessly restrained by the seemingly scholarly steward.
“This isn’t the Northern Wastelands,” the steward said calmly, still smiling. “We don’t gift concubines or maids here. If you want a woman’s favor, earn it. Otherwise, control your men, or you’ll learn firsthand how Northern Liang has treated Northern Wastelands guests these past twenty years.”
Releasing the guard, the steward watched as the red-faced man stumbled back, only to be steadied by a younger Kheshig. Enraged, the guard gripped the hilt of his gold-peach-sheathed White Rainbow saber—a weapon reserved for royal kin—but the steward remained unfazed.
“If this is a test of our Prince’s patience,” the steward said lightly, “then as his servant, I must warn you: it’s pointless and tasteless.”
The guard restrained his fury but kept his hand on the saber, eyeing the steward warily. The bruises on his wrist vanished instantly, revealing both men’s hidden prowess.
“You’re not from this residence, are you?” the veiled woman asked.
The steward nodded. “I serve at Qingliang Mountain, handling miscellaneous duties.”
Realization dawned on her. “You must be Chief Steward Song from the Wutong Courtyard?”
Song Yu, whose family had served the Xu clan for generations, smiled. “I didn’t expect the Princess to know of me.”
The woman was Princess Qing Luan of the Northern Wastelands, famed for her drumming skills and once linked to the former Northern Protector Chen Zhibao.
“Prince Shu often mentioned your father in conversation,” she said softly.
Song Yu’s brow furrowed slightly. Few in Northern Liang knew that his frail-seeming father had co-founded the Fushui Bureau with Li Yishan and Chu Lushan. The old steward’s quiet heroism had once shielded the young Xu Fengnian from countless assassins. Before Bai Hu’er scoured the martial archives of Tingchao Lake, Song Yu had already done so. Though injuries in his youth had capped his strength at the second rank, his insight and mastery of esoteric techniques made him second only to Xu Fengnian himself in Qingliang Mountain.
When Princess Qing Luan was led to a lakeside pavilion, she immediately recognized the young Prince. Seated with him were an elegant scholar in white, a tall, imposing elder, and a middle-aged man resembling the elder.
Rising to greet her, Xu Fengnian introduced his companions: the White Lotus Scholar of Longhu Mountain, Deputy Military Governor Yang Shenxing, and his son Yang Huchen, acting deputy general of Ji Province. “Speak freely,” he said. “They’re all trusted allies.”
As she weighed her words, Xu Fengnian suddenly glanced at her Kheshig guards. “That White Rainbow saber was forged thirty years ago under imperial supervision—only sixteen exist. Nine were gifted outside the royal vaults, to men like Huang Songpu, Liu Gui, and Yang Yuanzan. The latest went to Dong Zhuo and Zhong Tan. For your man to wear one so aged, his status must rival yours. Why not join us for a drink?”
Princess Qing Luan’s surprise turned to anger when Xu Fengnian added, “We know of this blade not from study, but because Xu Xiao once took one from a Northern Wastelands prince, and Yang Yuanzan left another at Hulu Pass.”
“Spare me the gloating,” she snapped.
Xu Fengnian smiled. “If I wanted to flaunt, I’d have met you at Hulu Pass.”
She stood abruptly.
“Once you leave,” he said calmly, “sitting back down won’t be so easy.”
After a tense moment, she signaled the disguised Kheshig to join them and resumed her seat.
“Who sent you?” Xu Fengnian asked bluntly.
“The Crown Prince,” she replied.
“And what price did he offer for your emperor’s throne?”
She shook her head. “Your influence is significant, but not decisive.”
“Then why risk your life coming here?”
She hesitated.
The maid, having finished brewing tea, hesitated to interrupt.
Xu Fengnian gestured. “Try this year’s Spring God Lake tea. The water here isn’t ideal, but it’ll do.”
Princess Qing Luan accepted the cup with three fingers, sipping gracefully, her posture unwavering.
Xu Fengnian watched her, unperturbed by the Kheshig’s glare. “I thought it was Yelü Dongchuang’s idea. He visited me at Wudang Mountain with Deng Mao and made an offer. That’s why Hong Jingyan’s Rouran cavalry left Hulu Pass unscathed. Since your Crown Prince outranks him, your offer should be better.”
The revelation stunned her. Yelü Dongchuang’s audacity could spark unprecedented bloodshed between the rival clans.
Xu Fengnian’s jest chilled her further: “When I was a idle young master, I’d get angry if wandering heroes charged too little—it felt like an insult. So, your Crown Prince better bring enough ‘silver.'”
She met his gaze squarely for the first time, weighing her words.
Suddenly, Xu Fengnian looked past her. “Hmm? Killing intent?”
Before she could react, a blade flashed within the pavilion—a strike rivaling Gu Jianya’s “Inch Thunder.”
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