The wind rose over the northern Liang borders.
At the frontier where Liangzhou and Liuzhou met, a caravan of over a dozen people moved slowly from east to west. Among them was an elderly man who had lifted the carriage curtain to sit outside, middle-aged knights cautiously guarding the vicinity, and young men and women who, captivated by the vast landscapes of the northwestern frontier, couldn’t resist spurring their horses into a wild race to test their riding skills. At the head and tail of the caravan, two steady men with the unmistakable air of martial artists kept watch, wary of any unforeseen dangers.
The white-haired elder, clearly the pillar of the group, sighed softly, “The beginning of summer has arrived, the Dipper points southeast—this should be a season of growth for all things. Even plants and trees flourish, yet how many people must die?”
The coachman, a man of similar age but far more vigorous due to his status as a martial grandmaster, remained silent at his old friend’s lament. Privately, he couldn’t understand why his friend, having emerged from seclusion, hadn’t chosen to pursue his ambitions in the capital, Tai’an City. Even if he couldn’t quite match the legendary prowess of the Imperial Secretariat’s “If we do not act, what of the common people?” he was surely close—at least on par with Yao Baifeng, the newly appointed first scholar of the Six Academies. Yet when his friend had declared his intention to journey to the war-torn north, he hadn’t hesitated. Without a word, he’d gathered two younger martial artists who, like him, disdained the so-called “Martial Summit,” and escorted his friend’s party from the Shangyin Academy into the northwestern frontier of Beiliang.
But he had his limits. If his friend had aimed straight for Liangzhou’s Qingliang Mountain, he would have only escorted them to the outskirts of the city—never setting foot inside. After all, years ago, when the old Prince of Liang had led the Xu family’s iron cavalry to trample the martial world, his own sect had been among those crushed. Even now, long after retiring from the jianghu, the old man’s resentment remained unhealed.
Fortunately, this northwestern journey had only taken them on a detour through Youzhou’s Hulu Pass, skirting Qingliang Mountain to head for Liuzhou’s Qingcang City. The Beiliang Prince’s estate, for its own reasons, had turned a blind eye to their passage—despite the fact that the Second Princess, Xu Weixiong, was one of Han Guzi’s personal disciples, and several in their caravan, like Xu Huang, Sima Can, and Liu Duanmao, were her fellow disciples.
Han Guzi, whose reputation at Shangyin Academy rivaled even the Great Sacrificer Qi Yanglong, chuckled softly. “The beginning of summer—on this day, the emperor of Liyang traditionally leads his officials to the southern outskirts of Tai’an to welcome the season. Whether it’s the emperor, who always wears his golden dragon robes at court, or the high-ranking ministers in their yellow and purple, all must don crimson ceremonial robes under the relentless reminders of the Ministry of Rites. After the ceremony, the emperor opens the palace ice cellars to distribute last winter’s ice to officials rated ‘superior’ by the Ministry of Personnel. Pity my anonymous disciple Xu Gong, the Vice Minister of War—tainted by association with his junior sister Xu, he’s stuck patrolling the borders of the two Liao regions. Otherwise, he’d surely have received a share. By the way, Old Song, isn’t there a custom in your hometown of drinking ‘Farewell to Spring’ wine when summer arrives?”
The coachman grunted, “The wine we brought ran out long ago. Thanks to that rice-loving governor of Lingzhou, Beiliang’s under a liquor ban now. The best you can find is that ‘Green Ant’ swill—I won’t touch it.”
Han Guzi sighed. “Song Xinsheng, you old drunk, why pick a fight with Green Ant wine? If you’ve got the guts, go pick a fight with that young grandmaster surnamed Xu instead.”
Song Xinsheng snorted. “I’d lose! If I could win, I’d have drunk hundreds of pounds of his damned Green Ant by now.”
As the two elders bantered, four or five riders galloped toward them. Apart from Han Guzi’s granddaughter Han Guoxiu, the rest were his prized disciples: Xu Huang, a man in his forties, universally acknowledged as a master strategist yet unwilling to enter court politics; Sima Can, a diplomat in his thirties; Liu Duanmao, a rising star of legalism; and the coldly elegant swordswoman Jin Baoshi, known as the “Living Armory”—a martial prodigy with an eidetic memory who had memorized countless martial manuals yet never practiced them.
Liu Duanmao, with his sunken skull, flat nose bridge, and exposed gums, bore the face of one doomed to an early, impoverished death—especially when standing beside the striking Jin Baoshi. A single glance from him might give timid women nightmares.
Xu Huang approached the carriage and said softly, “Master, we just encountered Northern Mang scouts about three li north. Judging by their attire, they’re the Black Fox Lanzi under Liu Gui’s command—nearly a full unit. They’re likely targeting us. Soon, a cavalry force will emerge. Based on the scouting protocols of both sides, the cavalry behind them should number at least a thousand. Meanwhile, the Beiliang cavalry trailing us only has five hundred. If we press forward, they might not reach us in time. Should we turn south or retreat to buy them time?”
Han Guzi, with a map spread over his knees, glanced around and quickly performed a divination with his fingers. He smiled. “A favorable reading. No matter. Let us proceed boldly. Even if the sky falls, someone will hold it up.”
Xu Huang chuckled and said no more. Like everyone else, he trusted his master implicitly—so much so that the impending Northern Mang cavalry might as well not exist. This wasn’t arrogance or blind faith in Song Xinsheng’s martial prowess, but in Han Guzi’s unparalleled wisdom. Even Huang Longshi, in his youth as an ordinary scholar at Shangyin, had once boasted, “Beyond Master Guzi, no one else is worth a glance.”
Thus, the caravan continued westward into Liuzhou, utterly disregarding the Northern Mang forces. Jin Baoshi, unable to resist Han Guoxiu’s clingy pleas, reluctantly let her ride double. The two whispered secrets, and even the usually aloof Jin Baoshi cracked a smile.
Liu Duanmao rode alongside Xu Huang and Sima Can, curiosity getting the better of him. “Senior Brother Xu, compared to the fierce battles at Liangzhou’s Hutou City and Youzhou’s Hulu Pass, the standoff at Liuzhou’s Qingcang City seems eerily quiet. Apart from a minor skirmish, nothing’s happened. Will there even be a fight?”
Xu Huang, well-versed in military texts, smiled. “Ask Sima Can. I’m no use here.”
Liu Duanmao blinked. Sima Can, the master of diplomacy, grinned. “Whether Liuzhou sees battle depends not on Beiliang’s Dragon-Elephant Army or Northern Mang’s General Liu Gui, but on the southern court further north. Liu Gui, praised by the Northern Mang empress as ‘half a butcher,’ has become the biggest joke on the border. The southern court is clamoring to strip him of his western command and hand it to the Northern Court’s King Tuoba Pusa. But at this critical moment, the Prince of Beiliang did him a favor—didn’t we hear recently how the young prince fought Tuoba Pusa across a thousand li of desert? Two grandmasters, locked in combat…”
As Sima Can spoke, Xu Huang stroked his beard, lost in thought. Liu Duanmao, however, snorted—clearly no fan of the powerful young prince.
Sima Can continued, “Of Northern Mang’s three fronts, forget the central front under the Southern Court’s King Dong Zhuo. At Hulu Pass, General Yang Yuanzan, a sly old fox well-versed in court politics, has co-opted many noble scions from both north and south as vanguard commanders—like Zhong Tan. Yang shares the spoils of war, so despite heavy losses, he faces no censure. Liu Gui, however, refuses to play the game, making him unpopular. Fortunately, Tuoba Pusa himself publicly traveled to the northern court to meet the empress, even humbly consulting Liu Gui as a subordinate—quelling rumors of a power grab and buying the old general breathing room.”
Sima Can suddenly burst out laughing. “But the southern court’s oily officials, who’d once been turned away at Liu Gui’s door, aren’t done. When one plot failed, they hatched another—until rumors spread that the young prince’s duel with Tuoba Pusa was meant to preserve Liu Gui’s command, ensuring peace in Liuzhou. Without the conservative Liu Gui, Beiliang’s borders would face Northern Mang’s iron hooves on all three fronts. With over a hundred thousand Northern Mang dead and stalemates at Hutou City and Hulu Pass, Liu Gui became the scapegoat for the southern court’s fury. The empress, who still trusts him, likely sees through the rumors but tolerates them to maintain morale. I’d wager she’s sent Liu Gui a private letter of reassurance.”
Sima Can gazed into the distance, solemn. “Will Liuzhou, with no great walls, see battle? Absolutely—and it’ll be brutal. The death toll will surpass Hutou and Hulu. As for when, it depends on when Tuoba Pusa quietly returns to Liuzhou. Battlefields far from the throne are still stained with the blood of those beneath it—how much blood flows is decided by the one on the throne, or those near it.”
Liu Duanmao murmured, “Senior Brother, you belong in Tai’an City.”
Sima Can shook his head. “Xu Huang should go. Not me.”
Just then, Jin Baoshi and Han Guoxiu rode up. The latter, ever playful, grinned. “Why not?”
Sima Can laughed. “Because Tai’an’s full of armchair strategists but few real commanders. Xu Huang, with his military genius, would shine there. Me? I’m better suited to Beiliang, where fierce generals abound but strategists are scarce. Pity Master didn’t take us to Qingliang Mountain—I’d have loved to catch up with Junior Sister Xu and brag to that Deputy Administrator Song Dongming.”
Han Guoxiu stuck out her tongue. “Sima Can, no wonder Grandpa says your face is thick enough to rank among the world’s top ten martial artists!”
Sima Can turned and shouted playfully, “Master, must you praise me behind my back? Compliment me to my face—I won’t get cocky!”
Han Guzi, renowned for teaching without discrimination, snapped, “Get lost!”
Even Liu Duanmao, who seethed at the mere mention of Beiliang and its prince, couldn’t help but laugh.
Then, to the north, the silhouettes of the Black Fox Lanzi appeared. And directly ahead, a lone rider blocked their path.
The caravan’s vanguard, a martial artist on the cusp of the second rank and wielding a famed blade, tensed—until Han Guzi stood and called out, “Tao Duanyang, relax.”
The rider approached. Han Guoxiu peeked over Jin Baoshi’s shoulder and gasped. “Look at his face! Liu Duanmao, could he be your long-lost brother?”
Liu Duanmao nearly choked.
The rider bowed respectfully. “Master Han, three thousand Northern Mang cavalry approach. I’ll escort you.”
Han Guoxiu, fearless as ever, teased, “You’ve got nerve! Sure you’re not rushing to your death?” Then she yelled, “Sima Can! You’ve met your match in face-thickness! Time for a showdown!”
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