Chapter 274.2: A Game of Soldiers and Pieces

Not long after the morning court session, the Holy Emperor summoned her senior ministers to the Ganlu Hall for a private council.

The combined forces stationed in Luoyang and Bianzhou alone were insufficient to repel Xu Zhengye’s rebellious army.

As for the surrounding prefectures near Luoyang—she did not dare place her trust in them either.

Thus, she needed to dispatch additional reinforcements to Luoyang.

“...Luoyang is not like any other place—there must not be the slightest mishap. If we are to send reinforcements, we must send only the finest of troops,” said Prime Minister Ma Xingzhou. “Your Majesty, there are still seventy thousand elite soldiers within the capital who can be mobilized.”

Everyone present knew exactly which troops he was referring to.

They were Da Sheng’s most elite army—founded by the late Crown Prince—known as the Xuanzhe Army.

The Xuanzhe Command currently commanded a total of one hundred and fifty thousand men. Earlier, when Commander Cui Jing had departed for the northern frontier, he had taken eighty thousand with him, leaving seventy thousand still stationed in the capital’s Xuanzhe Camp.

At this, an official hesitated and spoke up, “Lord Ma… these seventy thousand soldiers of the Xuanzhe Army bear the vital duty of guarding the capital’s heartlands—how can they be easily moved?”

Indeed, while the capital was not defended by these seventy thousand alone, their presence formed an unshakable wall of protection, ensuring true stability within the imperial city.

In ordinary times, such cautious restraint might not have been necessary—but now, uprisings were breaking out across the realm.

Ma Xingzhou understood this as well. Yet he merely sighed. “The most urgent task now is to hold Luoyang.”

A few ministers echoed the sigh.

There was no perfect plan—every choice came with its gains and losses. And the final decision could only rest upon the emperor’s will.

The Holy Emperor fell into deep contemplation. She summoned the officials of the Ministry of War and several military officers to reexamine every detail of the situation and reassess the capital’s security.

In the end, she made her decision.

“Convey my command—order the seventy thousand soldiers of the Xuanzhe Army to march and defend Luoyang. The Xuanzhe Command must begin preparations for deployment at once!”

No matter what, she could not allow Luoyang to fall.

If the city were to be seized by Xu Zhengye today, imperial authority would be lost. And once imperial authority crumbled, the realm would change hands in an instant.

The Holy Emperor ordered Yu Zeng to personally deliver the imperial decree to the Xuanzhe Command.

Yu Zeng obeyed and immediately departed from the Ganlu Hall.

Leaving the Inner Palace, he entered his sedan chair with a retinue of palace attendants hurrying alongside.

Inside the sedan, Yu Zeng held the sacred decree in his hands. His long phoenix-like eyes lowered, concealing the expression within them.

As they passed by the Secretariat and moved toward the Six Ministries, Grand Tutor Zhu was just emerging from the Ministry of Rites, accompanied by several officials and Imperial Guards carrying blades.

The first session of the Spring Imperial Examination would begin tomorrow. They were personally escorting the sealed test papers to the examination hall—roads had been cleared, and no one was permitted near.

The solemn atmosphere did not stop Grand Tutor Zhu from voicing his discontent. Glancing toward the hastening eunuchs, he muttered, “Running about in such a rush… how unbecoming.”

The other officials dared not respond—each stared straight ahead, as if fearing their own breath might betray them.

They knew better than to speak carelessly; even a single misplaced word could be twisted into a charge of “leaking examination secrets,” a crime punishable by death.

Grand Tutor Zhu, elderly as he was, sat within his sedan under imperial exemption. With a sigh of satisfaction, he lifted the cup of health tea prepared for him and took a leisurely sip.

He had, of course, already heard of Xu Zhengye’s change of route toward Luoyang—but the old tutor remained utterly unruffled.

After all, his student was still there. What was there to worry about?

From what he had quietly observed in recent days, Grand Tutor Zhu suspected that the Holy Emperor herself might have already guessed something about that student of his.

If she knew, yet still acted in such haste—did it not mean she did not trust her?

He let out a soft, mocking laugh, setting the teacup down with a quiet clack.

“People… the higher they stand, the more they fear. And the more they fear, the less they see clearly.”

His voice sank into a sigh that was half mockery, half lament. “Pitiful. Truly pitiful.”

But the most pitiful of all—was still that unlucky student of his.

When that student first appeared before him, she had been no more than a small pawn.

A foolish little pawn who thought she had fooled the one upon the Dragon Throne—believing herself to be the deceiver, not the deceived.

The old tutor chuckled bitterly.

“None of them are any good,” he muttered, setting the cup down hard upon the small pearwood table beside him.

From the start, that was why he had paid her particular attention—curious to see what kind of fool she would grow into.

But later, he realized—she was not a fool at all.

The little pawn had grown into a large one.

“This time,” he murmured inwardly, “let her be clever enough not to be played again.”

Otherwise, he thought grimly, she would shame her teacher.

—

After the Holy Emperor decreed the Xuanzhe Army’s deployment, discussion turned to the question of who would lead the troops.

This choice was crucial. Even the sharpest blade, when placed in the wrong hands, became no better than a broken one.

Furthermore—

An official spoke up cautiously, “The Xuanzhe Army has always been… set apart from others. If the commander is not chosen wisely, it may arouse resistance among the ranks.”

Realizing how his words might sound, he quickly bowed and fell silent.

Wei Shuyi frowned slightly.

Was that man implying that the Xuanzhe Army was difficult to command?

He spoke, his tone calm yet firm. “The Xuanzhe Army follows the will of the late Crown Prince and remains loyal to the Da Sheng Dynasty. Its discipline is strict, and it is precisely this proud and unyielding spirit that has kept it undefeated and steadfast in defending our borders.”

“If an army were filled only with those who echo others’ words, then under a commander like Li Yi, it would easily become a blade in a rebel’s hand,” Wei Shuyi continued. “I daresay—if Li Yi had once commanded the Xuanzhe Army, not one of its soldiers would have been deceived by him.”

The official immediately nodded. “Indeed, Lord Wei speaks truly.”

Wei Shuyi gave a faint smile. “However, Lord Fang’s concern is not without merit. To make full use of the Xuanzhe Army’s strength, we must appoint a commander who truly deserves such a fine blade.”

Then he turned toward the Holy Emperor and bowed.

“Your Majesty, in such a time of crisis, none could be more fitting than Grand General Cui to command the expedition. Only thus can we ensure victory beyond doubt.”

 Chapter 274.1: A Game of Soldiers and Pieces

“The talk about the ‘thirteenth day’—now that is truly absurd! If this continues, the fall of the dynasty may not be far off!”

“Lord Qu, that statement is mistaken,” Wei Shuyi replied, unbothered by the other’s darkened expression. “She is not some nameless girl of no standing—” he corrected, “—she is the General of Ningyuan.”

He then turned toward the Holy Emperor above and cupped his hands. “The very same General of Ningyuan who has rendered countless military merits and was personally ennobled by Your Majesty.”

The civil official surnamed Qu looked faintly disdainful. “So, because she once showed valor in battle, she must now be beyond reproach? If right and wrong are blurred in such a manner, would that not upend the natural order of precedence?”

Wei Shuyi’s expression remained calm. “When the peril of Luoyang lies before us and no strategy yet devised, why are Your Excellencies so eager to condemn a general currently pursuing the rebel army? Would that not be the true inversion of priorities?”

The older official, more than a decade Wei Shuyi’s senior, flushed red. “Then tell me, Lord Wei—who bears the blame for Xu Zhengye’s march toward Luoyang?”

Wei Shuyi’s gaze steadied, his mildness withdrawing. He spoke solemnly: “Naturally, the blame lies with the rebel. It lies with Xu Zhengye.”

“And,” he continued, “if we fail to respond effectively—if we cannot devise a sound countermeasure in time and thereby allow Luoyang to fall—then the fault will be mine, Lord Qu’s, and that of the entire court.”

A hush fell over the hall.

Then the young minister spoke again: “The battle’s outcome remains uncertain. Why rush to pronounce judgment? If Grand General Chang and General of Ningyuan indeed cause the fall of Luoyang through grave error, the Holy Emperor will surely deliver justice afterward—none shall be shielded. But now, before the battle has even reached its end, to condemn them by a single proclamation—does this not chill the hearts of the one hundred seventy thousand soldiers still fighting the rebels? Shall this war be fought or not? Shall the rebels be pursued or abandoned?”

Qu Pingsheng’s expression flickered.

Even the few officials of the Cui clan standing behind him fell silent.

The Holy Emperor watched them all, her gaze deep and unreadable.

Voices of dissent and argument within the court were not inherently a bad thing. Yet, regrettably, such voices were seldom pure—they often hid ulterior motives and self-serving aims, far from the lofty righteousness they pretended to espouse.

At such moments, she needed men like Wei Shuyi—to quell these hidden agendas.

“Lord Wei speaks reason,” the Holy Emperor said at last. “To fix blame now is far too early and detrimental to morale. Though General of Ningyuan is young, Grand General Chang stands beside her. We, seated here in the capital, cannot fully grasp the situation in Jiangdu. Perhaps Grand General Chang has his own strategy to turn the tide.”

These words were meant for the court. The murmurs of disapproval that followed were not unexpected.

Was she truly without doubts herself?

Of course not.

Listening to the reports and analyses predicting that Chang Kuo and his forces would fail to intercept Xu Zhengye, the Holy Emperor’s heart grew heavy.

Yet her thoughts extended further than those of her officials.

What she had just said was, in truth, her genuine belief—only those on the front lines could truly comprehend the situation in Jiangdu.

Especially Ah Shang.

Ah Shang possessed a deep and seasoned grasp of warfare, along with an uncanny instinct for anticipating the flow of battle.

She was her daughter. And she knew her well.

Ah Shang acted with deliberate precision, as though every move were part of a long-laid game of chess. Impulsiveness was foreign to her. Every possible consequence of her proclamation—she must have foreseen them all.

So… it was understandable that others failed to predict Xu Zhengye’s sudden turn toward Luoyang. But Ah Shang—Ah Shang could not have failed to foresee it. Could she?

Moreover, she had previously devoted all her forces to fortification, forcing Xu Zhengye to “see the difficulty and change his route”…

Then she had chosen to defend without attacking, allowing Xu Zhengye to rally his troops…

And soon after, that very proclamation appeared, thrusting Xu Zhengye into a whirlpool of self-justification.

Piece by piece, these events aligned in the Holy Emperor’s mind—like chess pieces falling into formation, revealing a greater design.

She could almost see it now—A Shang had been setting her pieces in motion ever since pacifying Li Yi and taking command in the army.

Thus, Xu Zhengye’s turn toward Luoyang, seemingly unexpected, was in truth a step deliberately lured by A Shang’s design.

The Holy Emperor’s fingers tightened on the gold-threaded sleeve embroidered with dragons.

Xu Zhengye had entered the game. But was this game truly aimed at him?

Or rather—

Was Ah Shang leading Xu Zhengye into the Central Plains, to seize Luoyang and stand in defiance against her—the Holy Emperor herself?

Was she using Xu Zhengye… to strike back at her?

That was her daughter.

She did not wish to doubt her own child—what mother would?

But that child had refused to acknowledge her, fled from her at every turn, and denied her even the chance to speak.

Indeed, the Ah Shang she remembered was the one from before the marriage alliance to the Northern Di…

In those three years among the Northern Di, Ah Shang had endured torment beyond imagination. Such suffering… might well have bred hatred toward her own mother.

That thought plunged the Holy Emperor into a cold abyss.

She had longed for Ah Shang’s return, envisioned countless possibilities—yet never this one. Perhaps her understanding of Ah Shang had frozen at the moment she departed for the Northern Di.

The Ah Shang she remembered had eyes only for the Da Sheng Dynasty, its people, her soldiers… and her family—her mother and her brother, Ah Xiao.

But the Ah Shang who had returned… was no longer that same girl.

Was this estrangement merely temporary defiance—or would it harden into lasting hatred?

The Holy Emperor had wanted to speak with her, even once. Though that wish had gone unfulfilled, she had at least granted her the freedom to remain in the army, bestowing upon her a general’s title—a mother’s gesture of goodwill. Yet her daughter seemed blind to it.

A mother should not harbor suspicion toward her own child—least of all one burdened by guilt.

But she was not only a mother.

She lifted her gaze toward the gathered officials.

She was also an emperor.

A mother could afford unreasoned trust. An emperor could not.

What’s more—her daughter bore the surname Li. She, too, was a Li.

And as a ruler of another surname—an “outsider sovereign”—the Holy Emperor could not allow even the faintest complacency to endanger her fragile reign.

Thus, while she did not question the young general’s ability, she questioned her intent.

And she could not—must not—allow Luoyang to fall.

That day, the Holy Emperor issued a series of urgent decrees to Luoyang, commanding full fortifications and defensive readiness against Xu Zhengye’s rebel forces.

Some officials proposed sending reinforcements from nearby prefectures.

But the Holy Emperor denied it.

“Do my beloved ministers still recall Prefect Wei Jun of Chuzhou?”

At once, silence fell across the grand hall.

That same Prefect Wei Jun had secretly defected to Xu Zhengye, unnoticed by all—until Chang Kuo and his troops crossed into Chuzhou, and Wei Jun laid his ambush under the guise of a banquet.

The Luoyang region, too, was webbed with powerful noble clans. The Changsun family had originated there; even in decline, their influence lingered.

If the nearby prefectures—many of whose officials were tied to these clans—were dispatched to aid Luoyang, and another “Wei Jun” emerged among them… then they might well deliver Luoyang into Xu Zhengye’s hands.

With such bitter lessons behind her, the increasingly suspicious Holy Emperor dared not take that risk.

 Chapter 273.2: Has the Time Not Yet Come?

So… those thirty thousand soldiers were sent to their deaths for nothing?

Ge Zhiqing still thought that he had been favored by his lord, granted the honor of leading the vanguard, believing that soon the main force would follow to jointly attack Huainan Prefecture…

Little did he know that from the moment he took the command token, he had already become a discarded pawn—he and those thirty thousand soldiers together, nothing more than sacrifices in Xu Zhengye’s ruse of striking east while feinting west.

Looking at the calm expression on Xu Zhengye’s face before him, Luo Guanlin felt a chill rise from the depths of his heart—one steeped in sorrow and despair.

Sensing his unease, Xu Zhengye sighed lightly. “Guanlin, on the road to great ambition, mercy is a fatal weakness.”

Luo Guanlin lowered his gaze, answering only after a long silence, “Yes.”

Then Xu Zhengye’s voice sounded again. “Preparations for our journey to Luoyang have begun. Guanlin, will you accompany me?”

The words made Luo Guanlin feel as though he had been brought back to their first meeting.

That night, beneath the moonlight upon a painted barge, the man had invited him: ‘I seek to overthrow the usurping demon empress, restore the rightful Li dynasty, and save the realm from fire and water. Would you, worthy brother, walk this path with me?’

At that time, Luo Guanlin had been deeply stirred, readily pledging to follow him—believing he had finally met a kindred spirit, that the path ahead would not be lonely.

Yet as they journeyed thus far, he had only grown more disillusioned.

He raised his hand in salute and said quietly, “I am no man of the sword, and should I go to Luoyang, I fear I would only hinder my lord. I therefore wish to remain in Jiangdu.”

Xu Zhengye regarded him deeply, then nodded. “Very well. The journey will be perilous. If you remain here, I will be more at ease.”

He patted Luo Guanlin’s shoulder. “Jiangdu is of great importance. I leave it in your care for now. Once I have secured Luoyang, I will send for you to join me there.”

Luo Guanlin remained silent, bowing once more.

Soon after, someone came requesting an audience, and Xu Zhengye departed.

Luo Guanlin stood motionless for a long time before finally taking a step.

The next day, a friend sought him out. “How could you volunteer to stay in Jiangdu? Once the Grand General departs, this will be the most dangerous place! How could you possibly hold it?”

Then he sighed. “Even if you’re angry with the Grand General, you shouldn’t gamble your life out of spite…”

Luo Guanlin’s expression changed. “That’s not it!”

What foolish talk of anger or spite?

He was no petty, jealous woman!

At least this time—truly, he was not.

He simply could not, and dared not, go any farther. The road ahead was not the one he had envisioned.

Weary, Luo Guanlin closed his eyes, unmoved by his friend’s persuasion.

He had made a wrong choice in Jiangdu back then. Since it began here, it would end here.

He would guard Jiangdu—live with it if it stood, perish with it if it fell.

To live was his fortune; to die, his fate.

“Report!”

Two scouts galloped back to camp with urgent news.

They had discovered signs of Xu Zhengye’s army on the move—marching toward Shouzhou.

Xiao Min’s eyes flashed sharply, and he turned to Chang Kuo.

It was an instinctive motion, and the very next moment he saw the Grand General looking toward his daughter—the expression on his face just as instinctive.

Xiao Min was used to it by now, though he still didn’t quite understand it—and each time, he was still faintly shocked.

But now was the time for serious matters. Xiao Min turned to Chang Suining. “It seems Xu Zhengye truly intends to strike Huainan Prefecture!”

“He’ll strike, yes—but if he doesn’t, how could he feign an attack to conceal his real move?” Chang Suining said. “The question is only how much of his force he’s willing to sacrifice.”

The scout reported: the enemy numbered about thirty thousand.

Xiao Min was about to speak when the young woman had already risen. She turned to him and said, “Commander Xiao, since Xu Zhengye has moved, to seize the initiative, we must act without delay. Let us proceed according to plan.”

“But…” Faced with a choice that could determine victory or defeat, Xiao Min hesitated. “Is Lady Chang certain that Xu Zhengye intends to march on Luoyang?”

“Yes,” Chang Suining replied solemnly. “My father placed a spy in Xu’s army. I’ve just received a secret report—Xu Zhengye is already preparing to attack Luoyang.”

Chang Kuo: “?”

When had he planted such a spy—and one capable of uncovering such sensitive plans?

Xiao Min looked at him.

Chang Kuo nodded, grave and calm. “Mm…”

Indeed, he had planted such a spy… likely sometime during one of his dreams.

Chang Suining took the short blade from the weapon rack, slid it into her boot, then straightened and accepted the black cloak handed to her by Xi’er.

Chang Kuo stayed behind to command the army, first dispatching Deputy General Jin and Chu Xing to lead the troops against Xu Zhengye’s thirty thousand.

News of Xu Zhengye’s march from Shouzhou to attack Huainan soon reached the capital.

Ten days later, however, a more urgent report arrived—Xu Zhengye had suddenly led one hundred thousand troops out of Jiangdu, not toward Huainan or the capital, but northward—he had already crossed Xuzhou!

The court erupted in shock and fury. That traitor’s supposed assault on Huainan had been a ruse—his true goal was the Eastern Capital, Luoyang!

The Holy Emperor’s expression hardened as she addressed the messenger. “What are Commander Xiao and General Chang doing now?”

“Your Majesty, Commander Xiao has led the army in pursuit!”

“Pursuit…” The Holy Emperor closed her eyes briefly. To pursue meant to have already fallen behind—merely to chase in vain.

“Since Xu Zhengye has crossed Xuzhou, once he takes the Bian River and captures Bianzhou, he can march straight to Luoyang! If we only pursue from behind, it will be too late!” a minister cried. “Your Majesty must dispatch reinforcements to Luoyang at once!”

Luoyang and the capital faced each other east and west—Luoyang must not fall into the traitor’s hands!

As the court debated strategies, some began blaming Chang Kuo and Xiao Min for their failure to foresee this move. Others turned their scorn upon that widely-circulated proclamation.

It had been the perfect time to attack Yangzhou—yet instead of taking any real action, they had written a flashy, useless piece of rhetoric!

The proclamation had accused Xu Zhengye of scheming to crown himself King of Jiangdu, causing his allies to doubt him. Perhaps it was precisely to dispel those doubts that he now turned his ambition toward Luoyang—to prove his loyalty to the Crown Prince!

And to make matters worse, that girl had boldly declared she would take Xu Zhengye’s head within seventy-three days—yet now he was already on his way to Luoyang! What “severing his head” could she possibly speak of now?

That Chang girl’s fame might be small matter—but after this, the army’s credibility would be shattered, and the situation would only worsen.

She had sought glory with her pen, yet brought calamity instead—provoking Xu Zhengye into marching on Luoyang without the ability to clean up the mess!

A mere young woman, with a few scraps of talent and luck, was granted a general’s seal and immediately let it cloud her head—recklessly acting without foresight! And Chang Kuo, too, had failed to restrain her!

Thus, many at court began accusing him of “failing to discipline his daughter.”

“Why be so quick to judge, my lords?” Wei Shuyi finally spoke, his gaze sweeping across them. “The seventy-three days she spoke of—have they yet passed? To condemn now—is that not rather premature?”

 Chapter 273.1: Has the Day Not Yet Come

“It seems this proclamation serves not only to sow discord but also as a deliberate provocation.”

In Yangzhou, within the Command Headquarters of the Restoration Army, General Xu Zhengye gave a cold sneer as he flung several confidential letters across the table. “This is precisely her purpose.”

In recent days, nearly all the bureaucrats and aristocratic clans who had been supporting him—both openly and in secret—had been urging him to resume his offensive against Huainan Prefecture. Some even questioned why he continued to linger in Jiangdu instead of advancing, asking when he would finally bring about the grand plan of enthroning the Crown Prince.

Some went so far as to send “ultimatums,” declaring that if he failed to take Huainan Prefecture within a certain number of days, they would withdraw their financial and military support.

“Are these people fools?” one of Xu Zhengye’s generals fumed. “Can they not see that wretched proclamation was meant to divide us? Lately, even in our own ranks, there are unruly soldiers spreading rumors—clearly stirred up by their agents!”

By “their agents,” he meant the men secretly placed in Xu Zhengye’s army by those same noble families. They provided him with money and manpower—but in doing so, they also sought to keep him under their control.

It was a relationship of mutual exploitation; there was no such thing as a favor freely given.

“They are not fools—they’re far shrewder than anyone else,” Xu Zhengye replied, narrowing his cold eyes. “They’ve doubted me all along. That proclamation merely gave them an excuse to act on their suspicions.”

“In their eyes, since I’ve taken their silver, I ought to deliver them results. Now that I remain here in Jiangdu, they cannot help but believe the slander in that proclamation…”

That document accused him of using the slogan of “restoring the Li dynasty” as a façade—while secretly harboring ambitions to crown himself King of Jiangdu.

To the great clans, this second claim was the true threat. Having spent vast sums of money and lent him their strength, they would never tolerate being used merely to pave the road for Xu Zhengye’s own throne.

The general glanced at the pile of letters, resentment burning in his eyes. “They really think themselves my masters!”

Xu Zhengye, however, had regained his composure. His voice was calm again. “For now—and for what lies ahead—we must still rely on them.”

In other words, the time had not yet come to break with them completely.

His grand design required money, provisions, and manpower—but it also depended on those entrenched powers opening doors for him across the realm. Until then, he could not afford to lose his “Restoration” banner.

And to preserve that name, he could not remain entrenched in Jiangdu, lest he truly appear to be a self-proclaimed monarch.

“She goads me because she knows Jiangdu is easy to defend but hard to attack,” Xu Zhengye said, glancing down at the proclamation. “She dares not assault the city outright, so she plays her trick—pressuring me from all sides to force my hand.”

“This young woman’s words may sound arrogant, but her mind is far from reckless.”

He wondered who had advised her on this—Chang Kuo? Xiao Min? Or perhaps some other strategist altogether?

In his view, the reason that proclamation bore Chang Suining’s name was simply to exploit the mystique of her “reincarnated general star.” It didn’t necessarily mean the plan had been her own idea.

“What does the Grand General intend now?” the general asked through gritted teeth.

Xu Zhengye’s eyes grew darker. “Since she wishes to provoke me into battle, then let us oblige her.”

The general immediately stepped forward, cupping his fists. “Allow me to lead the army! I’ll take the heads of the Chang father and daughter to end these false rumors once and for all!”

That impudent young woman had dared to predict his commander’s death date—spreading panic throughout the ranks. She deserved to die for that alone.

Moreover, the general’s name was Ge Zhìqing, the cousin of Ge Zong, who had fallen beneath Chang Suining’s blade. Though they had not been close, their fates were tied by name and family—one’s glory was the other’s. For him, this was both vengeance and duty.

“Very well.” Xu Zhengye gave him a look of approval. “Then Zhìqing shall lead thirty thousand men to attack Shouzhou first. Probe their defenses.”

Ge Zhìqing’s eyes lit with murderous resolve. “Your command, I obey!”

Standing nearby, Luo Guanlin’s expression shifted, but he said nothing.

Once the strategy was set, Ge Zhìqing departed swiftly, eager to mobilize his troops.

Not long after, Xu Zhengye stepped out from the council hall and descended the stone steps. He paused beside a half-height lotus urn, gazing into its water. “After the Lantern Festival, the weather truly grows warmer by the day…”

A Daoist standing behind him, holding a horsetail whisk, smiled knowingly. “Congratulations, Lord Xu—the east wind has arrived.”

Warm weather meant thawed rivers and clear waters—the season for campaigns had come.

“I hadn’t meant to act in haste,” Xu Zhengye murmured, eyes fixed upon the reflection of the sky, “but someone chose to play clever tricks.”

He had wanted to wait until all his plans were set before moving, but the proclamation had forced his hand.

Thinking of that self-assured young woman, Xu Zhengye laughed softly. “Tell me, Master, do you think this ‘seventy-three days’ prophecy bears any truth?”

“Nothing but bewitching nonsense,” the Daoist replied, stroking his beard. “From what I see, Lord Xu’s destiny is flourishing—your great enterprise is near at hand. You need not trouble yourself over a girl’s empty boasts. If you truly fear she might pose a threat, you may simply remove her later.”

Xu Zhengye’s smile deepened. “I need not lift a hand. She’ll pay for her own arrogance.”

He looked back into the still water, where the blue sky mirrored his calm expression. “Jiangdu is a fine place—rich, defensible, and well-suited for long-term residence…”

But a true dragon cannot remain submerged forever.

His ambition was far greater than that little proclamation suggested. Jiangdu was merely his starting point—not his destiny.

Moreover, the current political climate would not allow him to linger. Should he stay any longer, doubts would fester and loyalty would wane. Everything he had built could unravel.

“Grand General.”

A figure in dark blue appeared at the edge of his vision. Xu Zhengye turned, smiling. “Guanlin—was there something you wished to say?”

He had noticed the hesitation earlier, during the war council.

He dismissed the Daoist with a gesture; soon only the two of them remained.

Facing that gentle smile, Luo Guanlin spoke carefully, the last thread of hope in his voice. “Grand General… you’ve ordered Ge Zhìqing to march on Shouzhou. Does that mean you’ve abandoned the plan to head for Luoyang?”

Luoyang—that had been Xu Zhengye’s secret plan before the Lantern Festival, discussed only among his closest advisors. The generals had yet to hear of it.

Xu Zhengye shook his head. “No—the plan remains. I am merely advancing the timetable.”

He had once intended to strike directly toward the capital. But since his defeat at Hezhou, he knew that road was no longer viable. Thus, he had chosen another path—

—to the eastern capital, Luoyang.

If he could seize and secure Luoyang, he would gain legitimacy and new allies. There, he could build the political foundation he needed.

Luo Guanlin was taken aback. “Then why send Ge Zhìqing to attack Huainan Prefecture?”

Xu Zhengye’s tone was quiet but firm. “Someone must draw Chang Kuo’s army away—and distract the imperial forces.”

Luo Guanlin froze where he stood.

 Chapter 272.2: A Grand Spectacle

Among the throng of refugees, a gaunt little girl with a pale face and clear, wide eyes peered up at the old man beside her and asked.

Children possess not yet a firm grasp of right and wrong, but she knew this much: on the day the marauding troops burst into Jiangning, her fair mother had been taken by those soldiers; her father, trying to rescue her mother, had been hacked down; her grandfather had surrendered everything the household owned, knelt and kowtowed to those men until his head was split open, and only then had they spared her life.

From that moment, her home was gone.

On the road of flight she learned, little by little, that those raiders served a general called Xu Zhengye—but the general of the tale was not the saviour of the storyteller; he was a slayer of men.

She wished that murderous general would die at once.

The old man, hearing this, clapped his hand wildly over the child’s mouth. “...Do not speak nonsense!”

“You’re wrong!” a boy of some ten or twelve stepped forward, clenching his fist and crying aloud, “It’s sixty-five days — not seventy-three. Eight days have already passed!”

No elders stood over him; no one kept him in check, and the other refugees fell into whispering.

They had all heard the proclamation in which the Ningyuan general vowed that within seventy-three days he would take the head of the traitor Xu. That proclamation had been carried far and wide.

Ordinary people would have laughed such words off as drowned stones—no one would heed them. But this Ningyuan general, though born a woman, had repeatedly won extraordinary deeds and carried a fame coated in peculiar wonder.

That which ordinary folk could not accomplish, a wonderworker might yet achieve.

Since the accession of the Holy Emperor, Taoist and Buddhist shrines had sprung up across Da Sheng, and people were wont to propitiate and consult the spirits and mysteries; they were the sort to prefer to believe in such things.

Some declared the matter with conviction, others wavered in doubt, and some scoffed—but none of that prevented them from beginning, in their hearts, to count down the days until that appointed time.

True or false, the answer would emerge in sixty-five days.

At that moment a patched monk in fraying robes passed the refugee column and, with a sigh, intoned “Amitabha.”

“Master,” a little monk trailing him asked, “do you think — that Young Miss Chang truly received guidance from a celestial immortal? Or is she merely speaking boastfully?”

“Perhaps it is to save people.” The old monk walked slowly and answered slowly. “If the villain is thus forewarned, like a sword hanging above him, his strength will be disordered and his path obstructed. For the stricken people, such a dawn gives hope and will to survive — the very seed of life.”

The little monk did not fully understand; his curiosity remained: “But is there truly a celestial immortal?”

“There can be.” The old monk replied. “If she makes her big words come true, then she is a celestial saviour.”

“And if she cannot?”

The old monk shook his head and sighed: “Then it will be a calamity...”

If she fails, she will no longer be a destined military star but a known deceiver; her renown will be shattered, and those who had seen in her a glimmer of hope will be driven by righteous anger to strike back. Her doom will be irreversible.

Hearing this, the little monk suddenly felt concern for that noble lady.

He asked one more thing: “Master, why must it be seventy-three days?”

The old man pondered, then shook his head; the mystery eluded him.

Not only they could not fathom it — Xiao Min, who read that proclamation three times a day, could not make sense of it either; it gnawed at him ceaselessly.

The rest of the manifesto’s purpose he understood; only that time limit vexed him.

One day, under the pretense of discussing military affairs, Xiao Min could not help himself and questioned Chang Suining.

Chang Suining answered softly and honestly: “I wrote it on a whim.”

Xiao Min was stunned. “...Then why an odd number like that?”

“It makes it seem more credible, more striking,” Chang Suining said. “Commander Xiao, you were pondering the same thing, weren’t you?”

Xiao Min was left speechless.

“Suining, is this a lie?” Ah Dian asked in a low voice.

Chang Suining: “When I turn it into fact, it will no longer be a lie.”

Xiao Min: “...”

A strange way to put it.

But just how much confidence did Young Miss Chang truly have in killing Xu Zhengye?

Sixty-odd days — a little over two months — and at present they could not so much as sniff out a trace of Xu Zhengye.

“Hard to say.” Chang Suining fed an intelligence dispatch she had read into the brazier. “Not yet. But I am already killing him.”

She was cutting away at Xu Zhengye’s name.

First kill the name, then the life becomes easier to take.

Watching the flames swallow the paper, Chang Suining’s eyes passed over the roads of Jiangnan filled with those endless lines of refugees, all full of grief and despair. She murmured: “I will have every circuit of Jiangnan, even the whole of Da Sheng, counting down his final days.”

Xiao Min glanced instinctively at Chang Kuo; he feared that such reckless measures would ruin the hard-won renown they had fought for.

Chang Kuo’s face, however, was even more resolute: “So many mouths counting his death — perhaps even the Lord of Death is alarmed. This man is already half dead from the shadow that clings to him; we need hardly lay a hand to finish him off!”

Xiao Min: “...!”

He trusted the general and the young lady, but at times, hearing such talk, he felt helpless alone.

Chang Kuo, noticing his concern, asked: “Commander Xiao, can you still hold the line?”

Xiao Min put on a steady face and lowered his voice: “The court presses repeatedly for the dispatch of troops...”

Chang Kuo, knowing his difficulty, offered a way to absolve him: “Just send word to the capital that everything is my old Chang’s arrangement — complain and groan as much as you please.”

Xiao Min sighed: “But then the court and the Holy One will surely hold you to account...”

“No matter.” Chang Suining said. “Once we have Xu Zhengye’s head, they will all hush themselves.”

Chang Kuo laughed heartily: “Exactly so!”

Who better than he to relish the comfort of a lord who will cover one’s back?

...

At the same moment, far to the north, Cui Jing also read that proclamation.

Before the piece had fully circulated, Yuan Xiang had already sent a swift-mounted courier to the northern territories.

“So... is this a provocation?” Cui Jing murmured, as if to himself; the usual calm between his brows now held a trace of worry.

Good night!

 Chapter 272.1: A Grand Spectacle

At first, Xu Zhengye did not take it to heart. Ever since he had ordered Luo Guanlin to compose that widely circulated “Proclamation Denouncing the Empress,” the court and various regions had retaliated with manifestos condemning him as well—but none had stirred much of a ripple.

Having such a precedent, the ever-busy Xu Zhengye did not even bother to glance at it personally.

Until a few days later, when he clearly sensed that the influence of this new manifesto was unlike those before it. Leaving aside the sentiments among the common people, even those gentry, scholars, and officials who had been his supporters were now repeatedly sending envoys or letters to question him.

Only then did Xu Zhengye have no choice but to take the matter seriously and ordered the manifesto to be brought before him for review.

The proclamation in his hands was evidently printed, yet the handwriting of its original author was preserved.

The script was open and flowing, yet firm and sharp—revealing three parts integrity, seven parts martial vigor. At a single glance, it carried a momentum that seemed to sweep through a thousand troops.

Such handwriting—excellent, and rare indeed.

Xu Zhengye himself hailed from an aristocratic family, with refined talent in both calligraphy and painting. Naturally, he could immediately discern the quality of the writing.

The calligraphy alone was captivating enough.

All the more so with those four bold and arrogant characters—

“On Behalf of All Under Heaven.”

“...‘On behalf of all under heaven’?”

One of Xu Zhengye’s advisors flared up in anger.

“A mere young woman dares to speak with such arrogance!”

What right did she have to represent all under heaven?

Who gave her such authority?

Luo Guanlin, standing beside them, said nothing, his expression far from optimistic.

A manifesto was, after all, a weapon that captured men’s hearts and steered public opinion. Whether its rhetoric was exaggerated or its reasoning “justified” mattered little—the fact remained: her purpose had already been achieved.

And the speed at which this manifesto spread, and the commotion it caused, was by no means coincidental.

He glanced at the paper in Xu Zhengye’s hand, his brows furrowing deeply.

This was no ordinary writing. Every line, every phrase struck like a blade at the enemy’s weak points. Whoever composed it possessed keen insight and deliberate craft.

As one equally versed in the art of writing, he could tell—the author must have foreseen from the start that once this document spread, it would cause an uproar.

If it was not ghostwritten by some talented hand, then this young lady of the Chang family who had appeared out of nowhere… was truly not to be underestimated.

The further Xu Zhengye read, the darker his expression grew.

As the “instigator” herself, Chang Suining could well imagine what kind of face Xu Zhengye must be making at this moment.

She had long wanted to emulate Luo Guanlin and produce a manifesto of equal brilliance.

To that end, she had done ample research and preparation—analyzing in detail why all previous denunciations of Xu Zhengye had failed.

Her conclusion was clear: most were too formulaic and conventional—so rigid and repetitive that one could simply replace Xu Zhengye’s name with another’s and reuse them wholesale.

Others were overly dull and long-winded, devoid of emotional force—enough to make even her yawn.

If she, with all her earnest study, found them soporific, how much less would they move the hearts of common folk?

After thorough reflection, Chang Suining concluded that in an era overflowing with proclamations, to compose one that would truly set the world aflame, the foremost thing required was a spectacle.

Thus, she boldly declared herself to be “acting on behalf of all under heaven.”

If she represented all under heaven—well, who among them was not part of it?

Whether out of curiosity or criticism, people would surely be compelled to read it. That alone would ensnare her audience.

But to have a catchy title was only the first step.

Next, it needed real substance—solid and compelling content.

So Chang Suining gathered one hundred men and women from Jiangnan of varying stations—officials and nobles, merchants and peddlers, beggars and scholars—and took their words regarding Xu Zhengye as reference.

Were they not the very “people under heaven” who had witnessed Xu Zhengye’s so-called acts of “restoration”?

This “Proclamation on Behalf of All Under Heaven to Denounce the Traitor Xu” spread swiftly throughout the land, even beyond Jiangnan itself.

It proclaimed:

“Wherever Xu Zhengye passes, the people are left destitute. Under his conscription and plunder arise the ‘boundless stores’ that Luo Guanlin so proudly speaks of. Beneath his grand ambitions lie heaps of white bones—those of innocent commoners.”

“Such cruelty and bloodshed, such wanton killing and disregard for human life—this thief who robs the people below and betrays the nation above—how dares he speak of ‘restoring righteousness’?”

The manifesto then listed Xu Zhengye’s crimes—somewhat exaggerated, perhaps, but all rooted in truth.

Within a few hundred words, an image of a treacherous, duplicitous, and ruthless schemer vividly took shape.

The closing lines were especially rousing, accusing Xu Zhengye of deceiving the world with a grand lie—pretending to restore the realm, while his true aim was manipulation and deceit.

It even cited evidence, claiming:

“Xu Zhengye gathers troops and fortifies Yangzhou and Jiangning, for it is said that the lands of Jiangdu and Jinling bear the aura of kingship. He intends to crown himself there. His wolfish ambition is plain for all to see—such a man deserves death.”

Following this came a skillful provocation—no, a call—urging those who still stood with Xu Zhengye to awaken while there was yet time. To persist in aiding the traitor, it warned, was to hasten one’s own doom.

At that time, as Chang Suining wrote up to this point, she still felt the piece lacked something—a final flourish, a grander spectacle.

After much thought, a scholar surnamed Lü beside her offered,

“You should take this chance to strengthen the renown of Young Miss Chang—to solidify hearts.”

Chang Suining blinked thoughtfully.

“And how does one do that?”

Naturally—through self-praise.

But to boast of oneself outright felt improper. Hence, she modestly sought the opinions of others.

Scholar Lü bowed and said,

“Since you speak on behalf of all under heaven, you should also echo what all under heaven believe—who does not know that Young Miss Chang is the reincarnation of a destined general star?”

“……”

The other scholars exchanged looks—was this flattery?

Such behavior was unworthy of learned men!

Yet gazing upon the valiant young lady before them, her bearing commanding and her future limitless—and recalling her respect toward them, her words praising them as the pillars of the realm—

Ah well.

How could they allow one companion to bear the weight of such disgrace alone?

And so, several more scholars stepped forth to add:

“You should invoke the will of Heaven!”

“Heaven’s Mandate alone defines true righteousness under heaven!”

“Indeed, indeed!”

Chang Suining composed herself solemnly.

“Though I am unworthy, in this time of life and death, I shall heed the counsel of my learned gentlemen.”

At that, the gathered scholars straightened proudly—she had called them gentlemen!

Thus, Chang Suining took up her brush and wrote the final, most audacious line of all:

“Though untalented, I have been fortunate to receive Heaven’s mandate and the guidance of a celestial immortal. Within seventy-three days, I shall sever the head of the traitor Xu and announce it to all under heaven.”

The statement was outrageous—yet irresistibly captivating.

The spectacle was perfect: with talk of celestial beings and divine mandate, its appeal was universal—from aged elders of eighty to children of three, none could resist discussing it.

It spread through streets and alleys in countless forms.

Even a passing dog, upon hearing it, might cock its head in puzzlement.

“A celestial immortal’s guidance? Could she truly be the reincarnation of a general star?”

“Why seventy-three days? What meaning lies in that number?”

“Grandfather… they say Xu Zhengye has only seventy-three days left to live. Is it true?”

 Just as the young boy was about to speak again, the study door opened from within—Grandfather stepped out.

“Grandfather!” the boy hurriedly saluted. “Father sent me to invite you to go out and see the lanterns!”

The old servant sighed inwardly—how treacherous human hearts can be!

What kind of father was this, sending his son straight to his death?

“Lanterns?” Grand Tutor Zhu glanced at the full moon of the Lantern Festival and, smiling, said, “Very well, then let’s go see them!”

The old servant gaped.

What in Heaven’s name was this?

Had the old master finally gained enlightenment through his recent Buddhist discussions?

The boy was overjoyed and hurried forward to take his grandfather’s arm.

Grand Tutor Zhu wore a smile, not minding the child’s clinginess for once.

He had only two sons. By his instruction, neither entered officialdom; instead, they passed their days in poetry and painting, gaining some renown in literary circles.

But the trouble was—they were far too idle. With nothing better to do, they kept producing children, turning the household into a veritable nest of cicadas, with nearly twenty grandchildren in total.

This one was the youngest—most mischievous, and the most prone to overstepping bounds.

Yet at this moment, Grand Tutor Zhu suddenly found his little grandson quite endearing. A child’s unruliness and innocence—perhaps there was nothing wrong with that after all.

However, just as they stepped out of the residence courtyard, Grand Tutor Zhu suddenly halted, changing his mind—he no longer wished to go.

The Lantern Festival was crowded and chaotic. At his age, if he were jostled or fell, what a calamity that would be!

Moreover, with the spring examinations approaching, the powerful noble clans were stirring again—openly and secretly plotting retaliation. Countless eyes were fixed upon him, all waiting for some “accident” to happen.

The little grandson blinked up at the suddenly hesitant elder. “Grandfather…”

“Grandfather fears death,” said Grand Tutor Zhu with a gentle chuckle, patting the boy’s head. “Grandfather wishes to live long—beyond a hundred years yet.”

The boy blinked again in astonishment.

Was this truly his grandfather—the same one who always muttered things like ‘better off dead,’ ‘life’s hardly worth the trouble,’ and ‘might as well enter the earth early and rest’?

“Enough, you all go on ahead.” Grand Tutor Zhu smiled. “When you return, bring a flower lantern back for Grandfather.”

He wished to hang a lantern in the courtyard—to honor whichever kind deity, spirit, or ghost might be watching.

He also wished to hang a lantern—to wait for his student’s return, just as he used to when she went to battle.

Now at last, he had a student to wait for again—a return to look forward to.

“This, indeed, is the greatest blessing in life…”

Hands clasped behind his back, Grand Tutor Zhu gazed at the full moon and let out a soft sigh, before suddenly raising one arm before him, striking a martial pose as seen upon the opera stage—brows arched high, stepping to the rhythm of drums: clang clang clang!

Then he began to sing in the bold tones of Qin Opera:

“Within the precious tent, the general gives command—

Soldiers great and small, heed my hand!

Tens of thousands march like a surging tide,

Pursue Liu Bei, let none abide!”

The old servant: “……?”

What on earth—he’s singing now?!

And not just any role—he’s performing a warrior’s part!

How did things suddenly become so grand and dramatic?

Seeing his master’s lively gestures and fierce “opera eyes” fixed on him, the old servant had no choice but to raise his sleeves, put on his best stage face, and respond with a trembling tune:

“Upon his horse, Liu Bei sheds his tears,

Weeping for his brother, the Prince of Jingxiang—Liu Zong so dear!”

“……”

On this festive Lantern Night, the old tutor’s courtyard was filled with the echoes of opera songs—resounding and lively.

That night, the capital too was unusually bustling.

The curfew was lifted; flower lanterns illuminated the entire city as bright as day.

In both the Eastern and Western markets, the Thousand Lantern Festivals were in full swing. Wherever one looked, brilliance dazzled the eyes. This vivid, dreamlike night of prosperity made people forget, if only for a moment, the turmoil and wars beyond the capital walls.

On this very day, Qiao Yumian came to the Chang residence to consult Physician Sun again for her eyes. As she left Xingning Ward, she happened upon Yao Xia, Wei Miaoqing, and several others—who promptly pulled her along to join the lantern festival.

Though it was supposed to be a night of leisure, a group of young ladies together could hardly avoid speaking of Chang Suining.

Qiao Yumian also shared what she knew of Ning Ning’s recent news. But being reserved by nature, she mostly listened.

Her eyes were still covered by a pale-blue silk cloth. Through it, faint lights and shadows mingled, and she could not help but lift her hand slightly, as if to touch them.

Those glimmers and colors, though blurred through the veil, were still piercingly bright.

After a few more steps forward, she faintly discerned a hazy shape rushing toward her.

Before she could make it out, the girls beside her cried out in alarm and reproach:

“You there—how careless can you be!”

“Which family’s young man is this?”

“…Cui Liu Lang?” Qiao Yumian asked tentatively.

“It’s me!” Cui Lang grinned, panting heavily. “I thought Yi Hu was lying to me—but you truly came to the lantern fair, Miss Qiao!”

Qiao Yumian smiled faintly. “Why is Sixth Young Master Cui running so fast?”

Cui Lang opened his mouth to reply—but before he could, voices sounded behind him: Qiao Yubai, Hu Yi, and others approaching.

Qiao Yubai cast a strange glance at Cui Lang. He had just heard that Yumian had gone to the lantern fair, and yet this Sixth Young Master had outrun even her own elder brother!

Though she had seen her brother, Qiao Yumian still preferred to wander the fair with Yao Xia, Wu Chunbai, and the other girls. Qiao Yubia could only instruct her maid carefully before leaving.

Soon, Qiao Yubai was dragged off by several fellow scholars to guess riddles.

Ever since Chang Suining’s deeds had spread throughout the capital, Qiao Yubai, being “the only brother of Young Miss Chang now residing in the capital,” had risen greatly in reputation and was in high demand wherever he went.

After wandering for a while longer, Yao Xia, unable to contain herself, whispered, “Sister Qiao… why does Sixth Young Master Cui keep following us?”

Qiao Yumian was surprised, instinctively turning her head as though to look.

Seeing her “look” his way, Cui Lang—though well aware she could not truly see—still felt guilty and averted his eyes, hurriedly barking to Yi Hu beside him, “Go, buy that butterfly lantern for me!”

Yi Hu blinked. “…What does Young Master want with a butterfly lantern?”

Cui Lang flushed, giving him a swift kick. “Mind your own business!”

Yi Hu could only clutch his backside and scurry off to buy the lantern.

Qiao Yumian pressed her lips together in amusement and turned her face away.

Yao Xia’s round eyes darted mischievously. After a moment, she leaned closer to whisper in Yumian’s ear, “Sister Qiao, why do I feel like Sixth Young Master Cui might…”

Before she could finish, a voice called out—“Ah Xia!”

It was her brother, Yao Gui.

Yao Xia paused and turned toward the sound.

Yao Gui pushed through the crowd in haste, his expression anxious.

Yao Xia passed Qiao Yumian’s hand to Wei Miaoqing, then went to meet her brother. “Brother, what’s happened?”

Yao Gui was out of breath. “It’s Sister Ran…”

“Cousin?” Yao Xia’s heart tightened. “What’s wrong with her?”

The crowd was noisy all around, and Yao Gui dared not speak openly. “Come home with me quickly—I’ll explain on the way!”

Yao Xia dared not delay. After excusing herself to her friends, she hurried away with her brother.

When the siblings returned to the Yao residence, they went straight to Grandmother Yao’s quarters.

The entire family was present. Yao Yi stood beside the old lady, looking down with a complicated expression at his daughter, who was kneeling and refusing to rise.

Yao Xia, panting from the rush, quickly greeted her elders, then rushed to Yao Ran’s side, taking her hand anxiously. “Cousin—why must you become a nun?!”

Her cousin had been praying in the small family shrine for nearly a year, seemingly more at peace lately—how had she suddenly decided to leave and take vows?

“When did I ever say I wished to be a nun?” Yao Ran smiled gently. “You must have misheard. I’m not leaving to take vows—I’m leaving home.”

Yao Xia turned instinctively toward her brother.

Yao Gui scratched his head awkwardly. Their mother had sent him to fetch his sister to persuade Ran Ran, but perhaps he’d misunderstood.

Still… what did she mean by leaving home if not to become a nun?

Uneasy, Yao Xia asked, “Then where is Cousin going?”

“To seek General of Ningyuan, Young Miss Chang,” Yao Ran said clearly. “I’m going to join the army.”

Yao Xia stared in shock. “Cousin—you’re enlisting?!”

Yao Gui was equally stunned. “Sister, what suddenly made you think of joining the army today…”

Yao Ran softly interrupted him. “It wasn’t sudden. I’ve long made up my mind. It’s just that yesterday, I received a reply from Young Miss Chang.”

As she spoke, she looked toward her father, Yao Yi, who held the letter in his hand.

Yao Yi’s expression shifted uncertainly.

Earlier that year, his daughter had asked him to send a letter to that young woman. Only today did he realize—it had been a self-recommendation!

And that young woman—she dared to accept it!

Her reply contained only a few brief lines:

The army makes no distinction of birth, nor imposes restriction.

Yet life in the army is harsh, and danger to one’s life constant.

If your decision is firm, then discuss it thoroughly with your family.

There was no encouragement, no persuasion, no refusal—only the choice, returned wholly to Yao Ran and her family.

Yao Yi’s heart was a tangle of emotions.

The first one had already gone off without a word, later becoming the first female general of fifth rank in Da Sheng, even appointed Chief Instructor of the troops!

Impressive as that sounded, he had spent every day in the capital terrified, burning incense three times a day—more faithfully than he ate his meals!

And now—another one?!

He felt as though lamb after lamb was leaping from his grasp, and he could catch none of them!

“…Rather than wallowing in ignorance, confined within a narrow Buddha hall and a few worn scriptures, endlessly seeking a way to redeem my sins—I wish to go to a broader place, to do something truly meaningful, to seek the true path of salvation.”

Yao Ran kowtowed once more. “Ran’er’s resolve is firm. I beg Grandmother and Father to allow it!”

That night, none in the Yao household slept.

Three days later, a carriage quietly departed from the Yao residence’s rear gate, rolling out through the city gates of the capital—heading southward, toward lands torn by war.

At that very moment, in Jiangnan, a newly circulating battle proclamation was stirring the region into mounting unrest.

A thousand-character supplement today! Good night!

 Chapter 271.1: How Did It Turn into Singing!

Unfolding the letter, the first thing he saw were two short lines—four characters in all.

Peace attained.

Abide by the Way.

Was this her response to his question?

“Are you well?” — Peace attained.

“What do you seek, where do you go?” — Abide by the Way.

Abide by the Way...!

Within Grand Tutor Zhu’s heart, at the sight of those two familiar words, a storm suddenly surged up from the depths of his soul.

He still had one more question... the most important one... Why?

At a glance, the letter held no third line of reply—only a neat signature.

It was a five-character signature:

Peace attained.

Abide by the Way.

Student, Chang Suining.

“…”

Student?

Student!

The old man’s gaze suddenly blurred.

As his trembling eyelids blinked, the handwriting on the letter also seemed to tremble, as if it had come from beyond the heavens—so unreal.

Staring at those nine trembling characters, Grand Tutor Zhu uttered a hoarse murmur:

“...Nine characters from the teacher, yet the student cannot write even one more? Seeking a beating, truly seeking a beating...”

Indeed, still as infuriating as ever!

His dim eyes lingered long upon the two characters for “student,” unwilling to part from them.

His aged fingers quivered as they stroked those words, as if to ascertain whether this was truly real—or but a delusion born of longing before death.

After a long while, his hand slowly moved upward, pausing upon the words “Abide by the Way.”

He had once heard these very words from his student’s lips.

That was before she departed for Northern Di to marry in alliance.

He had tried to stop her, lost his appetite for days; when she came to see him, she was calm and untroubled, even teasing him in return:

“Teacher, as the model of all scholars under Heaven, you should place the welfare of the world above all else.”

At that time, such words pierced his heart like needles.

Why must he put the world above all else? Who decreed that he must?

If he could not even protect his own student, what right had he to speak of protecting the people of the world!

In all his life, he had scarcely ever favored anyone; after so many years, he had finally found a student worthy of admiration—knowing full well how arduous and hard-won her path had been. How could he simply watch as she marched alone into a living hell?

Had she not already done enough for the world?

And what had the world ever given back to her?

This world was full of ignorance, malice, and selfishness beyond cure—why must it be his student who bore the burden of saving such a filthy world?

If such injustice was what the world called “reason,” then let the world rot with it! Why care for it any longer!

In a sense, those who are too intelligent and too clear-headed often stand beyond the world’s conventional notions of “right” and “wrong.”

He taught others to read the classics and follow the rites of sages, yet oftentimes he scoffed at those same pedantic doctrines—disdaining them, never allowing himself to be shackled by them.

He had once said he was no sage himself—only an old fool who wielded his brush to scold the world.

That day, he had said many reckless, angry words.

But his student had remained calm throughout, even sighing softly to remind him:

“Teacher must ever be a model to others... if such words spread, your good name will be ruined.”

He had been so enraged that he could not speak.

Pacing back and forth behind the desk, he finally demanded of the student who sat serenely drinking tea:

“Then answer me—what are you going to do? To die?”

The student’s expression finally turned serious. She answered solemnly,

“To abide by the Way.”

He pressed on, “What Way? Whose Way are you abiding by?”

“The Way of the student herself.”

The Way of her own choosing.

What Way that was—only she herself could decide.

No one could dissuade her. No one could persuade her otherwise.

He fixed his gaze upon her, speaking each word with force:

“You will die—it will be a thousand times more terrifying than death!”

“Each time I step onto the battlefield, I could die as well,” she replied. “To the student, both are the same—to abide by the Way. There is no difference.”

At last, his fury fell into silence.

He faintly remembered turning away from her, no longer wishing to look, turning his back as he faced the window lattice behind the desk.

“Since you are so obstinate, so hopelessly foolish... then go.” After a long pause, he said quietly,

“I shall pretend I never taught you.”

He had not seen her expression then—had no idea what her face looked like at that moment.

Was she disappointed? Sad?

He supposed she would not be.

After a time, he heard the faint sound of her setting down her teacup.

Her voice was still as infuriatingly composed as ever, without a hint of sorrow. She even said shamelessly,

“Teacher, don’t be angry. The student must live and return to care for you in your old age.”

He did not reply, his face still taut with anger.

Then, she likely gave her final bow, and said,

“Teacher, your student is leaving.”

Go, then!

Go and abide by your Way!

Until she departed, closing the door behind her, he never once turned back to look.

That night—had his words been spoken in anger?

Of course they had.

And soon enough, he regretted them deeply.

Later, he often wondered: if he had not been so stubborn, if he had simply said one sentence—

“Take care. Live well, and come back to look after me”—

would that have given her one more reason to survive?

Would she… perhaps not have died in a foreign land?

That thought pierced his heart like a blade each time it arose, so much that he dared not dwell upon it, burying it deep within himself.

So he could only curse her again and again as a liar.

That deceitful student… and yet, now, she had returned.

Before they could even reunite, she had once again gone off to abide by her Way.

Looking at those words, Grand Tutor Zhu let out a low, complex laugh mingled with a sigh.

He too, was a liar.

In truth, he had never blamed her—never thought her wrong, never thought she had disappointed him, never once thought she had wasted his teaching.

On the contrary, as a teacher, having such a student was his greatest pride.

He was only—heartbroken. Utterly heartbroken.

These simple words, “Abide by the Way,” were written at the cost of her blood, her life, and her pride.

As her teacher—almost a father—how could he not ache to the core?

That heart-rending pain had fermented into a lifetime of irreconcilable grief and resentment toward the world, leaving him at odds with every “principle” under Heaven.

Yet his foolish student—her resolve to abide by her Way was as eternal as Heaven and Earth.

Even after death, upon her return, that resolve had not dimmed.

She still told him, so naturally, that she sought to abide by the Way—that she was abiding by it.

Grand Tutor Zhu took a deep breath, and tears fell upon the letter.

“…It’s enough that you’ve come back.”

He gazed at the letter, smiling through tears as he whispered,

“It’s enough that you’ve come back.”

If you wish to abide by your Way—then do so.

So long as you have returned.

He looked toward the tightly shut study door, as though seeing, fifteen years past, the young girl turning to leave and closing it behind her.

That door had been shut for fifteen years.

Now, at last, he could see that girl once again push it open—

walking through fifteen years of time—

returning once more before his eyes.

Slowly rising from his chair, the old man put the letter away and took out a painting.

With careful, deliberate motions, he hung the painting—

the one he had retrieved from Dayun Temple that winter month—

on the wall before his desk, where he could see it with a single glance.

Before, he had not dared to hang it—

afraid of false hope.

But now, he was no longer afraid.

Outside the study, the night deepened, spreading across heaven and earth.

A boy of twelve or thirteen came running up, only to be stopped by an old servant at the door.

“I want to invite Grandfather to go see the lanterns with us!” the boy said brightly, eyes shining.

The old servant was startled and quickly blocked him, trembling as he spoke:

“Eighteenth Young Master, you mustn’t make such mischief…”

To invite the old master to watch lanterns?

Was he trying to court death!

The old master was not one to join such lively festivities—

let alone go out together with the whole family!

Translator's note:

My heart is full of distress and exhaustion, yet somehow, working on this translation brings me peace. I’ve been away for so long, but my love for novels has never faded. To think I’ve been reading since I was twelve — it’s amazing how that passion still burns within me. I may be a little drunk, here in the middle of a party, yet I still find comfort and joy in taking the time to read and work on a few chapters.