The Northern Liang cavalry surged into the heart of Jiangnan Dao. With the cautionary tale of the tens of thousands of Lianghuai border troops still fresh, this mounted force, marching under the banner of quelling rebellion, encountered no resistance along their path. Moreover, their strict discipline—leaving no trace of harm in the lands they passed—gave the Zhao imperial court a semblance of face.
From the current perspective of Liyang’s territory, Jiangnan Dao, situated north of the Guangling River, hardly lived up to its name. Yet in the early days of the Spring and Autumn era, the lands south of Guangling were regarded as pestilential barbarian territories. The old Southern Tang, which once held most of the territory south of the Guangling River, had fought several stirring battles under the leadership of Gu Dazu, causing significant trouble for the Liyang forces led by the renowned general Gu Jiantang. Later, when the imperial Ministry of War and Ministry of Revenue jointly tallied the losses, they arrived at a ludicrous conclusion: the number of Liyang soldiers who perished from disease was roughly equal to those who fell in battle. Legend has it that after the old Liyang emperor secured the realm, he remarked to the surrendered Southern Tang ruler, “The hearts of the people were with Western Chu, the terrain favored your Southern Tang, but the Mandate of Heaven belonged to my Liyang. The world says ‘Heaven’s timing is inferior to Earth’s advantage, and Earth’s advantage is inferior to human unity.’ Yet in my view, such words cannot be taken too seriously.”
Later, under the reign of Emperor Zhao Dun, Liyang annexed provinces into administrative circuits, and when Jiangnan Dao was established, some court officials objected, suggesting “Jiangbei Dao” would be more fitting. But Zhao Dun, celebrated as one of the most accomplished rulers in history for both civil governance and military prowess, dismissed the idea with a laugh. His reasoning carried the whimsical flair of unofficial histories. During a court assembly, he brandished a newly compiled anthology of poetry from the Hanlin Academy and quipped, “Since ancient times, how many scholars and refined men have penned verses about Jiangnan’s scenery and beauties? Should future readers of this tome be forced to pause and note that ‘the Jiangnan of old is today’s Jiangbei’? Moreover, the character ‘north’ carries too harsh an aura—it would spoil the poetic charm.”
In Jiangnan Dao, a land of fertile plains that nurtured a golden age of literature, the sight of the armored, battle-hardened Northern Liang cavalry was starkly incongruous. Young warriors like Hong Shuwen, born and bred in the harsh northwest, found the terrain unsettlingly soft, their horses’ hooves sinking without a sound. The lush scenery of swaying willows and singing warblers along the roads failed to impress them, leaving only a stifling frustration in their chests. In contrast, veterans like Yuan Zuozong and the seasoned riders of the Great Snow Dragon Cavalry, who had weathered the wars of the Spring and Autumn era, remained composed.
The cavalry maintained a disciplined march, not rushing through Youzhou, Hezhou, or Jizhou but accelerating swiftly upon entering the Central Plains. Yet the Northern Liang border army’s meticulous regulations remained unshaken. To forge an invincible cavalry, robust soldiers, sturdy armor, powerful steeds, ample supplies, strict discipline, and battlefields were all indispensable. For two decades, the whetstone of the Northern Liang cavalry had been the Northern Mang armies—like the Liangzhou scouts who frequently clashed with Dong Zhuo’s elite Raven Riders. This bred an intriguing misconception among the Northern Liang troops: they overestimated the overall strength of the empire’s forces. This stood in stark contrast to the so-called elite troops of Liyang, particularly those in the Central Plains. For instance, Yang Shenxing’s Jizhou infantry scoffed at Yan Wenluan’s foot soldiers, while the cavalry of Prince Zhao Yi of Guangling believed they could rival the Northern Liang iron riders. The Qingzhou army of Jing’an Dao dismissed the Northern Liang cavalry outright, with one commander even mocking, “What iron riders? Just because they wear a few pounds of metal? And that barren wasteland of Northern Liang—do half their soldiers even have armor?”
Then, when the Great Snow Dragon Cavalry appeared in full force across the Central Plains, the courts and armies shut their gates, closed their cities, and—of course—fell silent.
Under the cover of night, near the scenic Twin Phoenix Pool in Wucai County of Jiangnan Dao, the cavalry halted for a three-hour rest. Northern Liang scouts fanned out in squads, returning after scouting ten li. Each squad leader received a meticulously detailed terrain map from their commander, marking not only mountains and passes but even villages and outposts. Clearly, these were not hastily gathered maps, nor borrowed from local authorities—they were long-held secrets of the Northern Liang border army. The age of the paper suggested the oldest were from just three years prior. What did this imply? That for twenty years, the Northern Liang border army, perched in the northwest, had never truly turned a blind eye to the Central Plains. Such subtle, unspoken clues ignited a smoldering intensity among the troops, from scouts to commanders, like a fire beneath snow.
Amid the silent, disciplined army, a small group rode away from the camp toward the famed Cold Mountain Temple by Twin Phoenix Pool. Among them were Xu Fengnian, Yuan Zuozong, Xu Yanbing, and two locals: one, a sixty-year-old spy master of the Fushui Bureau in Jiangnan Dao, known only by the alias Song Shanshui—a man who looked like a weathered farmer but was a founding figure of the bureau, trusted by Chu Lushan. The other, Zhang Longjing, was Wucai County’s wealthiest man, a power broker nicknamed “Chief Minister” for his influence. Though his family had risen only twenty years prior, Zhang had lavishly supported scholars, some now holding high office.
Zhang, long unaccustomed to riding, struggled, his thighs chafed raw. Once a fierce cavalry officer under the Xu family, he now felt the weight of years. His decision to aid the Northern Liang had stirred turmoil in his family and severed ties with former protégés, now officials who might soon denounce him. Yet he harbored no regrets—he owed his rise to the shadowy Song Shanshui.
As they rode, Xu Fengnian addressed Zhang: “When we return north, will your family’s relocation face obstacles? Speak now, for once we leave, your clan will be isolated. I guarantee safety in Liang, but staying means enemies on all sides. Warn any reluctant kin—family strife is better than ruin. In Liang, your clan will find opportunities in civil or military posts. I’ve reserved fifty positions, split among seventeen families.”
He added wryly, “A fifth-rank post may seem meager for a county’s leading family, but in the border army or Liuzhou’s government, ranks can be higher. With the second Liang-Mang war looming, weigh your choices.”
Suddenly, Xu Fengnian turned to Zhang, his voice earnest: “Seventeen families, including yours, have risked treason to stand with us. I am grateful, and I will fight to secure your future.”
Zhang fell silent, conflicted. His family, long adept at navigating Jiangnan’s politics, now faced exile. Yet staying meant doom.
Song Shanshui, privy to darker truths, knew twenty-four families had been approached, not seventeen. Four in Hezhou and Jizhou had pledged allegiance, but further south, some wavered or betrayed their oaths. Yet the Fushui Bureau took no action—perhaps, he mused, they would simply part ways.
A hardened spy, Song felt a pang for Liang’s plight but no disappointment in Xu Fengnian. The young prince, now infamous in Liyang, struck him as true to form.
Xu Xiao had never forsaken his veterans, tolerating even the corrupt among them, upholding his oath: “If I, Xu Xiao, gain wealth and honor, my brothers shall share it.”
Would Xu Fengnian have purged Lingzhou’s rot without the Liang-Mang war? Song wondered but dared not ask.
As Xu Fengnian and Yuan Zuozong discussed Liyang’s movements—Jizhou’s southward march, Shu’s elite advancing east, Jing’an Dao’s restlessness—Zhang grew anxious. Liyang seemed to be laying a trap.
Song, breaking his silence, taunted Zhang: “Afraid?”
Zhang sighed, “Not fear, but worry—like a tiger stranded on plains.”
Song scoffed, “A tiger on plains? More like a tiger roaring—what dog would dare bark?”
Ahead, Xu Fengnian called back, “Old Song, flattery noted, but promotions are Chu Lushan’s call.”
The spy chuckled. Zhang glared at him, “Don’t expect a drink from me, Song!”
Song replied softly, “I’ll stay here. You’ll have no chance to offer.”
“Why not return?” Zhang asked.
Song smirked, “Too old. Here, my experience matters. There, I’d shame the young troops.”
Suddenly, Song shouted, “Prince, may I flatter you again?”
Xu Fengnian turned, amused, “Speak, but no rewards.”
The spy straightened, declaring his long-forgotten true name: “If I, Song Hetian, were twenty years younger, I’d follow you to slay barbarians! Like under the Great General, I’d fight till death, surrounded by comrades, knowing others would live on. A worthy death!”
Xu Fengnian rode on. Yuan Zuozong slowed, offering his sword: “Old Song, the prince has given many blades. Take mine.”
Song clasped the Liang saber, sheathed after slaying 300,000 Mang, but shook his head, “A spy needs no sword.”
Zhang frowned, “Then why grip it so tight?”
Song hung the blade at his waist.
The old soldier wore a new sword.
“Let this old soldier,” he said solemnly, “bear a Liang blade for just ten li.”
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