The phrase “watching a fire from across the river only to end up burning oneself” perfectly encapsulates the fate of the Northern Pass defense line of Liyang.
With the simultaneous fall of the twin cities of Yinyao and Hengshui—gateways to the northern Ji region—the 50,000-strong cavalry of the Northern Mang surged southward, plunging the entire Ji Province into panic.
The imperial court in the capital was abuzz with heated debates. Some proposed that Xu Gong, the Left Vice Minister of War, who was conveniently stationed nearby, should fill the vacancy left by Tang Tieshuang’s promotion to the capital, “assisting” the Grand Pillar of the State, Gu Jiantang, in managing the northern military affairs. Others suggested that Zhao Sui, the Prince of Jiaodong stationed in Liaoxi, should reinforce Liaodong, striking where the enemy must defend, forcing the 50,000-strong cavalry to retreat eastward and preventing the Ji region from collapsing entirely. Still, others impeached General Yuan Tingshan of Ji Province for poor command, allowing the northern Ji war to escalate, and proposed that Deputy General Han Fang, a scion of a military family, take full charge of Ji Province’s military affairs.
Meanwhile, on the western front of Guangling, thanks to Xie Xichui’s strategic deployment, not only was the 100,000-strong southern army that had crossed the river successfully stalled, but a surprise attack was also launched on a strategic pass south of the Guangling River, throwing the southern forces into disarray. With the Western Chu navy pressing forward aggressively, the southern infantry and Qingzhou navy were forced to huddle together, retreating across the board. In this dire situation, the civil and military officials of Tai’an City grew increasingly anxious. They could no longer tolerate the inaction of the two Liao border armies. While it was understandable for Gu Jiantang to remain unmoved when the Northern Mang savagely attacked the northwest, now that even the easternmost line of the Northern Mang—the very line Gu was supposed to be watching—had shifted to raid Ji Province, clearly aiming to bypass the heavily fortified two Liao defense line and use the weakened Ji Province as a breakthrough to invade the Central Plains, how could the great General Gu remain indifferent?! Did he not fear the 50,000-strong Northern Mang cavalry charging straight to the western outskirts of the capital? Though Gu Jiantang was the dynasty’s last remaining Grand Pillar of the State, his nonchalance was truly staggering.
Near the Ji-Liao border stood Taiping Town, populated mostly by retired border soldiers and exiled officials. Occasionally, merchants passing through would trade goods. A few years prior, the affordable and popular Lüyi wine had been in high demand here. However, after Gu Jiantang stepped down as Minister of War and took up the dual titles of Grand Pillar of the State and Governor of the Two Liao, the border troops, well aware of his feud with Northern Liang, saw Lüyi wine—produced in Northern Liang—gradually disappear from the market. Despite its small size, Taiping Town had everything: three or four taverns, a proper brothel, and numerous underground prostitutes. The border generals turned a blind eye, believing suppression futile. The Liaodong border army, hailed as the dynasty’s “pillar of stability,” was composed of vigorous young men. But after years of standoff with the Northern Mang, with little actual combat, how were the soldiers to vent their frustrations? Should they turn to each other? Thus, towns like Taiping sprang up like mushrooms. Some well-connected border officers even managed to procure young women from the capital’s outskirts or the Jiangnan region, bringing hundreds at a time to the two Liao territories.
The most renowned tavern in Taiping Town was the Longevity Inn, privately owned by a formidable garrison commander. Aside from Lüyi wine, any prestigious Liyang liquor—such as Jiannan Chunshao—could be purchased here for the right price. The establishment always featured female entertainers, though their beauty was merely passable. Yet in this desolate frontier, they were a rare spectacle.
Recently, a brother-sister pair arrived at the tavern. The young woman played the pipa and spun tales, while her brother collected coins from the audience. This would have been unremarkable, except that the woman insisted on recounting the legends of the Northern Liang King, Xu Fengnian—how he roamed the martial world of Liyang, ventured alone into the Northern Mang, and won the loyalty of Northern Liang’s soldiers and civilians. This enraged the townsfolk. When a mob attempted to harass her, her unassuming brother soundly thrashed them.
Seeing profit in the spectacle, the tavern struck a deal: the woman could continue her storytelling, provided her brother fought daily in the arena. Ten days later, the brother had defeated every local challenger from the military ranks. Ever the opportunists, the tavern began taking wagers, amassing nearly a thousand taels of silver—while the brothels suffered a sharp decline in patronage.
One evening, as the arena battles concluded, a distinguished company swept into the tavern. Four gentlemen claimed a table by the second-floor balcony railing. Below, the storytress prepared for her second performance of the night, her brother now clad in threadbare yet meticulously mended garments that spoke of countless journeys.
These siblings had wandered far—from the windswept plains of Liangzhou through the mountain passes of Lingzhou, across the riverlands of Hezhou, all the way to the heart of Ji Province before finally arriving at this unremarkable border town. Unlike the typical blind minstrels of Liyang who relied on theatrical flourishes and exaggerated pathos, this woman carried only her weathered pipa as companion. Her delivery held neither dramatic affectation nor vulgar pandering. Even the most harrowing tragedies or glorious epics flowed from her lips with the same detached cadence—as though she were merely observing events unfold, utterly unconcerned whether her audience wept, cheered, or tossed coins into her brother’s begging bowl.
Among the four men upstairs, two sat while the others stood. The younger of the seated pair wore an ancient longsword at his waist, his demeanor proud and spirited. The older man, presumably his elder, remained expressionless as he poured himself wine from a jar of the notoriously strong “Jiannan Chunshao” and the milder “Ancient Well Immortal Brew.” The two standing men carried standard two Liao border army sabers. Though not of equal status to the seated pair, their commanding presence marked them as seasoned military leaders.
The young man glanced impatiently downstairs. “Where’s that Ji fellow? Acting like he’s one of the Snowy Ridge’s top ten masters,” he sneered.
The older man, his temples streaked with gray, remained silent.
One of the standing officers, unimpressed by the young man’s arrogance, smirked. “General Yuan, Ji Liu’an *is* one of the Snowy Ridge’s top ten. No pretending about it.”
The young man, addressed as General Yuan, took a sip of wine and scoffed. “A woman’s frivolous martial rankings only impress country bumpkins. Aside from the old master of the Wu Family Sword Mound, who barely qualifies as a true expert, the rest are mediocrities. Chai Qingshan of Dongyue Sword Pool? A big fish in a small pond. And this sneaky Southern Dragon Palace master slinking into Liaodong—what’s he worth?”
Rotating his cup between two fingers, the young man smirked at the officer who’d contradicted him. “Even the so-called ‘Southern Zhao’s top master,’ Wei Miao, would get lost in the Central Plains martial world. And don’t get me started on that ‘Top Sword of Tai’an,’ Qi Jiajie—what a joke! ‘Flying sword across ten thousand li,’ what a spectacle! But where’s he now? His sword reached Hezhou, but the man vanished. These ‘top ten’? The bottom five combined wouldn’t last against any of the true top four.”
The burly officer, about to retort, was tugged by his colleague and swallowed his words, settling for a disdainful snort.
The young man turned his attention to a middle-aged man two tables over, dressed in a short jacket, green headband, and leg wraps—a typical mountain traveler’s attire. Yet the voluptuous, exotically dressed woman beside him, adorned with silver bells and a crescent moon saber, was impossible to ignore. Her vibrant, tie-dyed robes and seductive posture marked her as a Miao tribeswoman from the southwestern mountains.
Noticing the young man’s gaze, the woman downed her wine and winked provocatively.
The young man set down his cup and mimed cupping something heavy at his chest.
Instead of taking offense, the woman laughed, pushing a wine jar toward him with a force like rolling thunder. The jar veered past the young man, spinning to a stop on the table.
In accented Central Plains speech, she teased, “Pretty boy, drink up, and big sister will play with you.”
The officer who disliked the young man muttered a warning: “These Miao aren’t ordinary martial artists. That jar’s likely poisoned. Miao poison is insidious—best not touch it.”
Just then, two newcomers ascended the stairs: an elderly Confucian scholar in blue robes and a swordsman with two prized blades at his waist.
The older seated man, who hadn’t spoken until now, set down his cup. The two standing officers stepped aside as the guests took their seats.
The scholar bowed slightly. “Cheng Baishuang, a humble scholar from the southern wilds, pays respects to the Grand Pillar of the State.”
The swordsman, his face cold as stone, added, “Ji Liu’an of the Dragon Palace is honored to meet the Grand Pillar of the State.”
After the death of the old Liang King, Xu Xiao, Gu Jiantang was the empire’s sole remaining Grand Pillar of the State, holding half of the Zhao dynasty’s military authority.
Gu Jiantang nodded. “You’ve traveled far from the southern wilds to the northern border. Your efforts are appreciated.”
As the two southern masters sat, the Miao couple approached, taking the last vacant bench. The burly officer behind Gu Jiantang moved to block them, but Gu had already picked up the poisoned wine jar, prompting the officer to release his grip on his saber.
The woman winked at the young general before addressing Gu Jiantang. “My husband doesn’t speak your tongue, so this humble wife will speak for us. Forgive the informality.”
Cheng Baishuang frowned briefly, then smiled. “Grand Pillar of the State, who are these…?”
Gu Jiantang remained silent, pouring wine for Cheng, Ji, and the couple. Meanwhile, the neglected young man interjected, “Cheng Baishuang, Ji Liu’an, what’s the matter? My father-in-law personally pours you wine, and you’d refuse his hospitality? Prefer punishment instead?”
Ji Liu’an, already displeased by the arduous journey, narrowed his eyes.
Cheng Baishuang, unperturbed, lifted his bowl. “We wouldn’t dare. Merely curious.”
Sitting so close to Gu Jiantang seemed to unnerve the woman, who dropped her flirtatious act. “My husband is Wei Miao, somewhat known in Southern Zhao—though not as famed as Master Ji or Scholar Cheng. He’d never have come north, but the Shu King and Master Xie commanded it, so here we are.”
Gu Jiantang had only one daughter, making the young general his son-in-law: Yuan Tingshan, General of Ji Province.
Yuan was about to taunt the woman further when the storyteller below began recounting Xu Fengnian’s visit to Snowy Ridge. Yuan, who bore a deep grudge against the Xu family, sneered and vaulted over the railing, slamming into the storyteller’s brother like a thunderbolt.
The elder brother, despite his eleven consecutive arena triumphs, barely managed to parry the strike. The force sent him skidding backward, crashing into a table that toppled over—drenching him in a cascade of food and wine. His freshly laundered garments were once again reduced to ruin.
Yuan didn’t press the attack, merely grinning. “Not bad. Almost a second-rank master. No wonder you’ve been unbeatable here. But a mere storyteller’s brother? More like a Northern Liang spy, here to scout our defenses, eh?”
The storyteller froze. Her brother glanced at her apologetically, then nodded and shook his head.
Yuan’s smile widened, but his murderous aura chilled the room.
The spy—for that’s what he was—wiped blood from his lips. “Er Yu’s just a storyteller. Kill me if you must, but spare her.”
Yuan laughed. “Whether you die depends on my mood. But ‘she can’t die’? Based on what? Your pathetic skills? Or do you think your Northern Liang spy status scares me?”
The spy smirked. “Me alone? No. But kill her, and you’ll answer to our king.”
Yuan’s hand tightened on his saber. “Oh? Now I’m terrified.”
The spy said evenly, “She’s Er Yu, a guest of Commander Chu. More importantly, a friend of our king. I don’t know what’ll happen if she dies here, but I guarantee our king will personally demand answers from all of two Liao.”
Yuan’s fingers clenched, ready to draw his blade. Xu Fengnian, the Northern Liang King and one of the world’s top four masters, was too far away to protect a mere spy and a storyteller.
But then Gu Jiantang, who hadn’t risen for either group of guests, appeared at the railing. “Enough,” he said coldly.
Yuan didn’t turn, his saber half-drawn.
Gu Jiantang retrieved the famed saber he’d once gifted Yuan and sat back down.
Yuan stormed out, leaving Taiping Town and Liaodong altogether, returning to Ji Province.
The Miao woman sighed. The task entrusted by the legendary Xie Guanying had likely failed. Gu Jiantang’s refusal was clear.
For the southern and western factions held starkly different views on Northern Liang—and Xu Fengnian.
Cheng Baishuang sipped his wine with a faint smile.
Good wine.
Pity it wasn’t the Lüyi wine their young master so often praised. That would’ve been better.
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