A carriage came to a halt on the outskirts of Liangzhou City. A young nobleman, adorned with a jade pendant and a hanging blade, stepped down, clutching a freshly purchased jar of Green Ant Wine. As he gazed into the distance, scattered persimmon trees dotted the plains, their branches weighed down by clusters of bright yellow fruit, lending the barren northwestern land a fleeting semblance of harvest. The young man walked slowly, occasionally glancing at the familiar trees, some near, some far. He recalled the days when he would sneak out of the city to wander here, idly bestowing nicknames upon the persimmons. One tree, its branches sprawling wildly half a mile away, he had dubbed “Armor-Hanger”—a sight that could be unsettling at dusk. Another, a stunted companion to its neighbor, had grown taller over the years and now bore a bountiful golden harvest. He had once playfully named it “Little Yellow Robe.”
Following the dry bed of a creek, the young man eventually arrived at a thatched hut, unenclosed by walls, with a few gnarled elms growing crookedly behind it.
The hut no longer had an owner.
Approaching a tree stump, the young man crouched, wiped away the dust with his sleeve, and sat down. He placed the jar of wine on his lap and called out, “Old Blind Xu, I’ve brought you wine.”
In the waning years of the Yonghui era, a blind and lame old man would have hobbled out eagerly, taken the jar, expertly broken the seal, inhaled deeply, and broken into a grin as warm as the autumn persimmons. Yet, even as they shared the wine, the old man would chide him for squandering his meager savings. “Even the smallest coins must be saved,” he’d say, “for nothing matters more than finding a wife and raising children.”
Old Xu often spoke wistfully of a place in Youzhou called Rouge County, where the women were said to be the fairest. “If you, young Xu, ever marry a lass from there,” he’d say, “send word, and I’ll walk three days and nights just to toast at your wedding.” Once, the old man hesitantly asked if his presence at such a grand occasion would embarrass the young man’s family. The youth had laughed and assured him that if Old Xu didn’t attend, he’d be furious—and that the old man would have a seat at the head table.
Back then, Old Xu had simply thought the young man was just another restless soul, drifting through life like he once had. He never imagined the boy might be connected to the illustrious Qingliang Mountain. After all, how many Xus were there in the world? The youth often spoke of dreams beyond Liangzhou—of becoming a wandering swordsman, wielding the finest blade, drinking the fiercest liquor, and finding the most beautiful woman in the martial world, one even fairer than the ladies of Rouge County. The old man would counter with the wisdom of experience, urging him not to aim too high. “No matter how fine the Central Plains may be,” he’d say, “they’ll never be home.”
Sometimes, as they chatted, Old Xu would doze off in the sunlight, leaning on his cane.
Perhaps, many years ago, on the battlefields of Xileibi, there had been a young soldier from the Old Battalion, his legs unbroken, his eyes unblinded, who had napped just like this—though his cane had been a spear, and nearby, a banner bearing the character “Xu” might have flapped in the wind.
Now, in the autumn of the third year of Xiangfu, Old Blind Xu was long dead, and his ramblings were no more.
He never lived to toast at the young man’s wedding.
And the young man, who had once promised to carry the old man’s coffin, had failed to keep his word—for he had been far away in Jiangnan.
Today, he poured the wine onto the ground before the stump and murmured, “Old Xu, this jar was sneaked from the West Beauty’s shop. Times are troubled, and war looms. Private brewing is banned in Liangzhou now, so this wasn’t cheap. The shopkeeper’s daughter has grown into a beauty, just as they say. She’s taken a fancy to a young scholar teaching at a nearby school. The shopkeeper joked that I was too late—her girl had waited years for me. See? I wasn’t lying when I said she had good taste…”
Regret, like an old dog whimpering in an alley, gnawed at his heart.
Leaving the jar on the stump, he rose and departed.
The carriage returned to Qingliang Mountain.
The Northern Liang Palace now boasted two famed sites: the Wutong Courtyard, mockingly called the “Phoenix Pavilion,” and the Deputy Jinglue’s residence halfway up the mountain, overseen by Song Dongming and nicknamed the “Dragon Gate.”
Upon his return, an official from Dragon Gate hurried to inform him that the Deputy Jinglue had urgent matters to discuss.
Seeing Song Dongming himself waiting outside the humble government quarters, Xu Xiao knew the news—good or bad—was significant.
“Four pieces of news,” Song Dongming said briskly as they entered the central hall. “Concerning Liuzhou, the Central Plains, the capital, and Beimang. All require your judgment, Prince.”
Xu Xiao smiled. “Let’s start with Liuzhou.”
Song Dongming nodded. “Fengxiang Garrison near the Western Regions sent an urgent report. Cao Wei and Xie Xichui have deviated from the Protectorate’s strategy, choosing to attack and annihilate Chong Tan’s cavalry at Miyun Pass.”
Xu Xiao remained calm. “The monks of Mount Lantuo must not have joined Chong Tan’s forces.”
“Even so,” Song Dongming fretted, “the numbers are nearly even. A head-on clash contradicts Liuzhou’s original strategy.”
Xu Xiao shook his head. “If they fail to wipe out Chong Tan’s cavalry, the battle will be meaningless—even disastrous. But since even Xie Xichui agreed to the gamble, I trust their judgment.”
Song Dongming sighed. “Those two never make things easy.”
Xu Xiao grinned. “If they win, there might be a pleasant surprise.”
Song Dongming understood. “True. If Chong Tan’s cavalry is destroyed, Mount Lantuo may reconsider its stance.”
“And the Central Plains?” Xu Xiao asked. “Have Wen Taiyi and Ma Zhongxian stopped obstructing the grain shipments?”
Song Dongming chuckled. “That’s hardly the most pressing news.”
Xu Xiao raised an eyebrow. “Something bigger?”
After they seated themselves in the council hall, the Deputy Jinglue—now officially recognized by the imperial court—smirked. “The once-loyal Prince Jing’an, Zhao Xun, has defected to the two rebel princes.”
Xu Xiao was stunned.
Song Dongming scoffed. “A masterstroke of opportunism. I suspect he’s sold himself at a king’s ransom.”
Xu Xiao frowned. “Surely Zhao Bing and Chen Zhibao don’t mean to make him emperor?”
Song Dongming laughed. “Precisely!”
Xu Xiao fell into thought. With Jing’an Dao now aligned with the rebels, and Shu and Nanzhao already under Chen Zhibao’s control, the entire region south of the Guangling River was united—half the empire in rebel hands.
Yet, despite his strength, Zhao Bing was ill-suited to declare himself emperor prematurely. The court’s legitimacy still held sway, especially among southern gentry. Chen Zhibao, an outsider, was even less viable. That left Zhao Xun—a convenient figurehead.
Xu Xiao found it darkly amusing. The man he’d twice tossed into Spring God Lake was now poised for the throne?
Shaking off the thought, he asked, “And the capital?”
Song Dongming toyed with a jade pendant at his waist. “The Eunuch Directorate has dispatched envoys with a slew of new edicts—including your title as Grand Pillar of the State, posthumous honors for Liu Jinu and Wang Lingbao, and noble titles for your future wives, Lu Chengyan and Wang Chudong. They’re moving slowly, likely hoping to coincide with your wedding for a triple celebration.”
Xu Xiao mused silently.
Song Dongming, gazing outside, reflected on the complexities of court politics—how merit could be both rewarded and feared, how power ebbed and flowed.
Here in Liangzhou, governance was simpler. But he knew that if the Xu family’s influence ever expanded beyond these four provinces, the same entanglements would arise.
Factions would form—between him and Bai Yu, between the Lu and Wang families, between young talents like Xu Beizhi and veteran generals, between the honorable and the notorious, between cavalry and infantry, between elite units.
And one day, perhaps, between Xu Xiao and the rest.
“Song,” Xu Xiao’s voice pulled him back, “what of Beimang?”
Song Dongming smiled. “The Beimang princess, alias Fan Bainu, has entered through Jizhou and reached Youzhou. She identified herself to Huangfu Pin and is en route to Qingliang under escort.”
Xu Xiao blinked. “Why?”
“No idea,” Song Dongming admitted. “But she’s brought several Kheshig guards from the Northern Court.”
Xu Xiao chuckled dryly. “Since when did Liangzhou become so lively?”
Song Dongming’s eyes gleamed. “The fate of the realm now rests in our hands.”
Xu Xiao smiled faintly. “My father loved hearing that.”
“And you?”
“Who doesn’t enjoy flattery?”
For a moment, his expression dimmed.
In his later years, despite all his achievements, perhaps Xu Xiao’s only regret was never hearing a single word of praise from his son.
Not one.
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