Chapter 935: Chaos in the Central Plains

On the banks of the Guangling River, the Chunxue Tower was filled with distinguished guests tonight.

Prince Guangling, Zhao Yi, hosted a grand banquet, inviting only the wealthiest and most powerful figures. Among them were the newly appointed Military Governor of Guangling, Lu Baijie; Wang Xionggui, the former strategist of the Zhanglu faction; and Song Li, who had risen from the rank of Hengjiang General to Zhennan General and now served as Deputy Military Governor of the region. Song Li was an old acquaintance of Chunxue Tower, once Zhao Yi’s lucky general—it was he who had successfully thwarted Kou Jianghuai’s elusive raids, delaying the war until Wu Zhongxuan’s northern expedition. In a highly classified military evaluation by the Liyang Ministry of War, Song Li was ranked fifth among the empire’s greatest war heroes.

Besides these three representatives of the capital, the governors and generals of Guangling’s three provinces also attended. Compared to the turbulent years before, these six regional magnates now carried themselves with the refined grace of high-ranking nobles, their demeanor exuding confidence and prosperity.

Rumors had suggested that the King of Shu, Chen Zhubao, would attend, but for unknown reasons, he did not appear. Instead, the heir of the Prince of Yanchi, Zhao Zhu, arrived uninvited—an unexpected but welcome addition. If Zhao Zhu was the flower of the evening, then in Chen Zhubao’s absence, Prince Jing’an Zhao Xun became the resplendent brocade that stole the show. When Zhao Xun’s carriage halted below Chunxue Tower, Zhao Yi himself descended to greet him.

As the host, Zhao Yi raised his priceless luminous cup once all guests were seated and declared with a hearty laugh:

*”In the great Dafeng Dynasty, a renowned scholar once proclaimed: ‘There are four things I wish to remain unharmed in this life—green mountains, old friends, treasured books, and rare flowers.’ I, being fond of pretentious elegance, would add one more wish—that Chunxue remains unharmed. Hence, I named this tower Chunxue. Tonight, with so many distinguished guests gracing us, Chunxue Tower is honored beyond measure. I drink to this!”*

Lu Baijie, the Sword Immortal of Tangxi, and Wang Xionggui, the former Minister of Revenue, sat at the head of the table as the highest-ranking civil and military officials of Guangling. Both raised their cups when Zhao Yi did, though Wang drank deeply while Lu merely sipped before setting his cup down. Lu’s gaze flickered toward Zhao Yi’s son, Zhao Biao, seated beside his father, and his brow furrowed slightly.

With the young Empress of Western Chu having perished in flames at the Battle of Xileibi and her court officials surrendering en masse, the Guangling campaign had entered its final phase. The Emperor had strictly forbidden the army from harassing civilians or executing prisoners without trial—any violations would be met with immediate execution, bypassing the Ministry of War and Justice. Yet, while outright killings were prohibited, the fate of those who had served the Western Chu regime remained grim. Many had resorted to desperate measures—bribing generals with carts of gold and antiques, or worse, “pawning” their daughters to curry favor with Guangling’s new elite. Among them, Zhennan General Song Li and Prince Guangling’s heir, Zhao Biao, were the most notorious. While Song Li at least limited himself to collecting a few famed beauties, Zhao Biao had no such scruples—demanding women from every prominent Western Chu family, whether maidens or married women, under threat of ruin.

Lu Baijie lifted his cup again, then set it down, his expression somber as he surveyed the room.

The true heroes of the Guangling campaign—Lu Shengxiang, Wu Zhongxuan, Chen Zhubao, Xu Gong, Zhao Ying, Yan Zhenchun, Yang Shenxing—were either absent or dead.

*What am I doing here?* Lu thought bitterly. *Only because of this hollow title of Military Governor.*

Song Li, seated beside him, seemed aware of the unbridgeable gap between himself and the upright Sword Immortal. The youngest standing general of Liyang did not attempt to ingratiate himself, instead chatting amiably with an old acquaintance, the General of Jizhou.

Soon, slightly intoxicated, Song Li glanced up at the ornate ceiling of Chunxue Tower, twirling his cup with a faint smirk. *Once, I lived under another’s roof. Now, who is the one truly dependent?*

To command armies in waking hours and rest upon a beauty’s lap in drunkenness—such was the life of a true man.

Chunxue Tower brimmed with revelry, music, and dance.

As if peace in this tower meant peace in the world.

Lu Baijie’s gaze drifted to Wang Xionggui across the hall. The soon-to-be-reinstated Minister of Revenue, a paragon of scholarly virtue, raised his cup to Prince Guangling and his son with impeccable grace.

Then Lu looked further back, where former high-ranking officials of the Western Chu court now sat with subdued expressions, though their relief at having survived was palpable.

Lu lowered his eyes to his cup, suddenly recalling a young man who had once asked him, *”Sir, how much of your righteousness and morality would you sell me?”*

Abruptly, he raised the cup and drained it in one gulp.

The hall was filled with men in brocade robes, all basking in their success.

Zhao Zhu, the heir of the Prince of Yanchi, had arrived late and uninvited. Instead of taking the seat prepared for him beside Zhao Xun, he casually settled among the lower-ranked guests. To his left sat Qi Shence, a noble scholar from Shangyin Academy—handsome, reserved, yet amiable. To his right was Zhou Daliang, a burly former subordinate of Lu Shengxiang, now a deputy general in Guangling. The two did not fawn over Zhao Zhu, but neighboring officers eagerly toasted him. Zhao Zhu, ever affable, returned each toast, soon drawing Qi and Zhou into the merriment. Their table, free of the usual political posturing, became a rare island of genuine enjoyment.

Midway through the feast, seven swordswomen of Chunxue Tower entered, their robes a riot of colors, their waists slender as blades—capable of severing the heads of heroes.

Their sword dance was breathtaking, a dazzling spectacle that culminated in a rainbow-like arc as they leaped in unison.

A scholar’s loud praise sparked a chorus of applause.

Just as the dancers prepared to withdraw, an androgynously beautiful stranger appeared at the entrance.

Zhao Yi’s face paled, his luminous cup nearly slipping from his grasp.

Zhao Zhu, spotting the newcomer, shuddered as if a mouse facing a cat, wishing he could vanish under the table.

The seven swordswomen, blocked from leaving, stood frozen in distress.

The intruder, holding a wine jar, casually sat on the threshold. Behind him, five stunning women in white—each more striking than the swordswomen—stepped forward, their blades drawn.

These were the legendary attendants of “Southern Border’s Second Prince,” Nalan Youci, named after ominous locales: Dongyue, Xishu, Fengdu, Sanshi, and Chenglü.

With a synchronized cry, the five women advanced, their blades slashing forward with the force of a thousand cavalry—sending the swordswomen fleeing in terror.

The guests, bewildered and pale, wondered if this was Zhao Yi’s idea of entertainment or an outright provocation.

Then the stranger—Nalan Youci—sang loudly, swaying his wine jar:

*”Look closely at those before you—*

*Year after year, they return to the grass,*

*Where countless graves lie,*

*Half forgotten, unswept by any hand!”*

The room fell silent. This was no performance—it was a direct challenge.

Zhao Yi forced a smile. *”Master Nalan, to what do we owe this visit?”*

Wang Xionggui, feigning ignorance, barked, *”Who dares disturb this gathering?”*

Nalan Youci paused, then grinned drunkenly. *”Me?”*

Rising unsteadily, he declared, *”I am Nalan Youci—just a scholar!”*

His attendants advanced again, their blades carving through the air with terrifying precision.

Then Nalan delivered a thunderbolt:

*”My Southern Border’s 150,000 armored troops have crossed the Guangling River, marching north unopposed!”*

Wang Xionggui collapsed into his seat. Cups shattered across the hall.

Zhao Yi’s face darkened. Song Li’s eyes narrowed in calculation. Zhao Zhu sat stunned—even he had been kept in the dark.

Lu Baijie stood, demanding, *”What does the Prince of Yanchi intend?”*

Nalan Youci feigned puzzlement before smiling. *”Rebellion, of course. Isn’t it obvious?”*

Lu scoffed.

Then two figures strode in side by side.

One was an imposing old man in royal robes, resembling Zhao Zhu but radiating authority. He grinned at Zhao Yi. *”Fatty Zhao Yi, long time no see! Twenty years in that godforsaken south, and I’ve hungered for Guangling all this time. Though, truth be told, this land should’ve been mine from the start—you were just keeping it warm for me!”*

Zhao Yi trembled, his face ashen.

But it was the man beside the old prince who truly struck fear into the room—Chen Zhubao, the King of Shu, clad in royal serpentine robes.

If the Southern Border’s rebellion alone was alarming, Chen Zhubao’s involvement spelled doom.

With him at their side, the rebels’ chances soared.

Some in the hall suddenly remembered the Northwestern Iron Cavalry—and wondered if, with Xu Xiao and Zhang Julu still alive, such a rebellion would have been unthinkable.

Xu Xiao was dead. Zhang Julu was dead.

In their time, the empire had known true peace—no Southern Border incursions, no Northern Mang invasions.

Now, rebellions and wars erupted one after another.

None could fathom why Chen Zhubao, after defecting from Beiliang and swearing loyalty to Liyang, would now stake everything on a fringe warlord.

Chen Zhubao met Lu Baijie’s gaze impassively.

Lu sighed and sat back down.

*How many must die before this ends?*

Chen Zhubao’s lips curled slightly.

*Only through bloodshed will the Central Plains remember those who died for them.*

*I am not Xu Fengnian. I do not fear war—nor death.*