Emperor Xu’s descent into tyranny and folly had been a long time in the making. During those eight years of sleepless nights, weapon in hand, awaiting battle, what seemed to have been exhausted was not his grace, elegance, or clarity of judgment, but his very lifespan. From the day he ascended the throne, the one seated upon it was but a soulless, decaying shell.
He knew this was what people said. They still feared him, for he was the emperor—and a ruthless one at that. From the inner palace to the court, no one dared meet his gaze. Even so, he could see the clouds of fear and silent resentment that pervaded the court. In those eight years of chaos, with the world turned upside down and enemies closing in from all sides, he had campaigned east and west, forging alliances and breaking them. The Battle of Red Medicine Plains had been so bloody that the river ran crimson for miles. Now that the fractured land had been stitched back together, he felt entitled to no longer bother with the tangled affairs of state. With the empire unified, people could manage their own lives. And so, he studied the delicate banyan bonsai in his palm and gently snipped off a wayward branch. When pruning a tree, one need not ask the tree’s opinion—that would be far too troublesome.
Twenty-one years earlier, the rebellion had erupted in the late summer of the twenty-seventh year of Lintai. The weather had been oppressive, the sky a stark, pale blue—an omen of chaos, people said. He was seventeen that year, newly enfeoffed as the Prince of Xu after the Spring Sacrifice. His father, Emperor Xiu, had fallen gravely ill, and his uncle, the Prince of Yi, Chu Fengyi, under the pretext of quelling unrest in the capital region, marched his troops in the name of “protecting the throne,” though his true intent was usurpation. Forces rose on all sides, swarming the city walls. At night, the fires they lit dyed the sky beyond Chengji Gate a blazing red. The three main garrison armies had been dispatched over a month earlier, and the sixty thousand troops sent to Ming Pass and Mohe Pass had instead joined the rebels, turning to besiege the capital. Only thirty thousand troops from the Capital Garrison and twenty thousand Imperial Guards remained in Tianqi. The fall of the capital was inevitable.
Only he stood firm, leading the resistance. At great risk, he dispatched three thousand Imperial Guards to escort Crown Prince Boyao out of the capital, hoping to regroup and fight another day. Yet, despite his desperate stand—personally executing three deserters and cutting down dozens of rebels scaling the walls—when the three thousand guards returned to Chengji Gate, Boyao was nowhere to be seen. The crown prince, though gentle and timid by nature, possessed a stubborn sense of honor. He had declared he would share the fate of the nation and, in despair, hanged himself. Of the late emperor’s four sons, the third, Shuyun, had died young; the youngest, Jichang, had been sent as a hostage to the kingdom of Zhunian in the Western Continent of Leizhou in his childhood. Now, with Boyao dead, he was the only legitimate imperial son left in the Central Plains.
“All my efforts to carve a path of survival for him, and Boyao…” Zhongxu slashed down another rebel climbing the wall, “…dies without a word.” On the battlements, defenders fell in waves, only to be replaced by others. In the mere half-hour it took for the three thousand guards to return, corpses had piled waist-high on the walls, and they were soon used as makeshift barriers, pushed over the edge.
“Your Highness… no, Your Majesty! Allow us to escort you to Hanzhou to muster troops and crush the rebels!” A young captain of the Imperial Guards, clad in heavy armor, knelt with a metallic clang.
Zhongxu turned and studied the young man’s face, partially obscured by his war helmet. Then, with a faint, cold smile, he pointed toward the chaotic rebel banners below, where the character “Su” blazed in the firelight. “What is your relation to Su Jingfei?” he asked softly. Those nearby who heard the question felt a chill.
The young captain lifted his head and replied plainly, “I am his illegitimate son, Su Ming.” In the glow of the beacon fires, his candid face bore a striking resemblance to Su Jingfei, the rebellious governor of Tulin County."Su Ming, by protecting me, you are taking up arms against your own father," Zhongxu said with a faint smile. He wore no armor, and blood stained his jade-like face. He tilted his head and wiped it on the embroidered silk robe draped over his shoulder.
"Until the age of fourteen, I knew nothing of my father. From this day forward, I have no intention of acknowledging him either." "The sword you carry, however, is the broad-bladed straight steel saber commonly used by the Su family, forged by the Carving Insect Studio." "It was my mother’s keepsake. I have sworn to use this blade to challenge Su Jingfei. Today, I ask to lead the vanguard and clear the path for Your Majesty. I also beg Your Majesty to grant me the chance to fulfill this long-held vow." As Su Ming spoke, his voice trembled with suppressed emotion, and a glimmer of moisture shone in his eyes.
"You are still young, and the rebel generals below the city walls are seasoned commanders. Are you truly willing to lead your men to their deaths?" Su Ming pressed his lips together stubbornly and remained silent.
"That is entirely unnecessary. We have already lost too many lives covering for Boyao—a futile sacrifice. We cannot afford such losses again." Zhongxu glanced up at the sky. Midnight was approaching, and a fierce wind swept across the Chengji Gate. He took up his horn bow and fired a whistling arrow into the air. Its sound was distinct—sharp and resonant, like the cry of a falcon.
As the arrow’s whistle faded into the night, chaos erupted in the right flank of the rebel army below. A force bearing the "Qinghai" banner surged toward the city gate—the Liushang Army under the command of the Duke of Qinghai. Caught off guard, the rebels were thrown into disarray. At the gate, the Heyuan Army, loyal to Prince Yan Chu Fengyi, reacted swiftly and engaged the Liushang Army in fierce combat. The forces on the flanks and in the rear—commanded by Wang Yannian, Cao Guang, Luo Siyuan, and Su Jingfei—were assembled from regional garrisons and held back, unwilling to plunge recklessly into the fray.
Pressed from both sides by the Heyuan Army, the Liushang Army’s formation thinned but remained tenacious, stretching into a serpentine line over a mile long from the city gate. Just then, another whistling arrow, identical to the one Chu Zhongxu had fired from the Chengji Gate, shot skyward from within the Liushang ranks. In response, the city gate swung open, and a contingent of troops charged out from the capital.
Though thinly spread, the Liushang Army’s formation proved unbreakable. As the Heyuan Army struggled to gain ground, another whistle sounded from the Liushang lines. The soldiers, who had been fighting back-to-back, suddenly surged forward, splitting the serpentine formation into two and carving a bloody path through the gate. From this opening, over six thousand cavalrymen burst out of the capital. The two halves of the formation then closed ranks, tightening around the riders, and together, a force of more than forty thousand broke free from the imperial capital.
At the head of the charge, a young man rode beneath a large black banner embroidered with a golden coiling dragon. Sharp-eyed soldiers in the Heyuan Army recognized it at once—it was the very banner used by the founding emperor when he rose to power, long enshrined in the imperial ancestral temple. The news was swiftly reported to Chu Fengyi.The unexpected defection of the Liushang Army on the battlefield was already unforeseen. The fact that both the Imperial Guard and the Liushang Army raised this banner must mean that a legitimate heir of the imperial clan had escaped. Although Chu Fengyi had taken the capital, he was deeply unsettled. When the rebel forces entered the Forbidden City and he learned that the one who had escaped was not Crown Prince Boyao but Prince Xu Zhongxu, he stomped his feet repeatedly, exclaiming, "That boy is dangerous, that boy is dangerous."
Over 40,000 troops marched out of the capital, heading north. The rebel forces under Luo Siyuan pursued them relentlessly, suffering several setbacks but continuing to trail behind, waiting for an opportunity to strike. After fighting their way through the Qiyue Pass, it was already noon the next day, and the ranks gradually began to regroup.
Su Ming rode alongside Zhongxu, occasionally glancing at him. Though Prince Xu was only seventeen, his face showed no trace of youthfulness. His gaze was sharp and clear, revealing a mind of profound depth. Su Ming couldn't help but ponder.
The Duke of Qinghai, Lord Fang, was one of the rare non-imperial dukes of the dynasty, with his fiefdom in Liushang County on the Qinliang Peninsula of Lan Province. He commanded the Liushang Army and, proud of his lineage as a founding hero, had long been at odds with Emperor Xiu. It was no surprise that the Duke of Qinghai had colluded with the rebellious Prince Yi. What was astonishing, however, was that the Liushang Army under the Duke of Qinghai had secretly agreed on a plan with Prince Xu long before—a mutiny at the city gates, an inside-outside coordination, and even the battle formations seemed to have been practiced beforehand. Prince Xu's earlier mention of "laying a path of survival for Boyao" had meant exactly this.
"Brother Xu, Brother Xu!" Hearing the call, Zhongxu quickly reined in his horse. He saw a figure steering a Khanzhou steed against the flow of the army, heading straight for him. As the rider drew near, he cheerfully removed his war helmet, revealing an elegant and fair face—clearly a young nobleman, tall and likely a year or two younger than Zhongxu.
Noticing a fresh, shallow cut at the corner of the young man's mouth, Zhongxu used his own sleeve to wipe the wound, but the bleeding wouldn't stop. "Jianming, what happened? Are you going to be scarred now?" The young man smiled brightly, evading the question: "Father is unwell and has to guard against the surrounding rebel troops and bandits, so he assigned half of the Liushang Army to me, saying to hand them all over to you." Zhongxu turned to Su Ming and said, "This is Fang Jianming, the eldest son of the Duke of Qinghai. The Liushang Army at the city gates earlier was under his command." Su Ming clasped his hands in salute, inwardly astonished. Amidst the chaos of the rebel forces, the thirty-thousand-strong Liushang Army had maintained perfect formation, shifting seamlessly. This young man was truly a gifted commander.
That night, when they camped, Zhongxu and Fang Jianming shared a tent. The wound at the corner of Jianming's mouth had gathered dust and scabbed over, leaving a reddish-brown mark that gave him a faintly smiling expression.
"Brother Xu, that Su Ming... he wouldn't be related to Su Jingfei, would he?" Jianming suddenly sat up, leaning close to Zhongxu's ear to whisper.Zhong Xu spoke without opening his eyes, his voice low: "He came straight to the point, claiming to be Su Jingfei’s illegitimate son, yet locked in a bitter feud with him." "Can we trust him?" "Su Jingfei had many concubines, but later he took in a singing girl and doted on her so excessively that he dismissed or sold off his other consorts. The part about his children being cast out seems plausible. However, this Su Ming—the moment he heard of Boyao’s death, he immediately addressed me as 'Your Majesty.' Cleverness is one thing, but excessive shrewdness demands caution." "Brother Xu." "Hmm?" "It’s been two years since we last trained and studied together. Everyone assumes I’ve been a hostage in the capital, never imagining how close we are. When I returned to Liushang, my aunts even asked if you’d ever bullied me." "The pursuers aren’t far. We have a tough battle ahead tomorrow. Stop chattering and get some sleep." "You’re just eager to reach Shuanghuan quickly to see Sister Zizan, aren’t you? So impatient." Jianming chuckled.
Zhong Xu didn’t reply, merely flicked him lightly on the forehead with a bent finger before turning over to sleep, a faint, irrepressible smile playing at the corners of his lips.
After a hundred days of relentless warfare between the Liushang Army and the Imperial Guards led by Prince Xu, they arrived at Shuanghuan, the capital of Han Province, as the autumn winds began to stir. Along the way, they absorbed righteous militias and loyalist troops from various regions, swelling their forces from forty thousand to seventy thousand. The troops originally stationed at Huangquan Pass, combined with the thirty thousand newly recruited in summer, now totaled sixty thousand deployable soldiers.
With the Eastern Continent in turmoil, the port city of Quanming had fallen to the usurper king, severely disrupting supply routes. The sea lanes east of Minzhong were blockaded, while the Yingge Strait to the west was frequently plagued by treacherous white tides. Of the three major maritime routes, two and a half had become impassable. The entire Western Continent now relied on this single half-functional route for a third of its transport and supplies. Only the merchants from Leizhou, devout followers of the Dragon-Tail God, dared to navigate the treacherous Chuliao Sea, relying on their magnolia-wood ships and seasoned feathered sailors to travel between the Western and Northern Continents.
Shuanghuan and Qizhou had become the commercial hubs of the Northern Continent, attracting an increasing number of Leizhou trade caravans accompanied by Kua Fu warriors. Horse traders, armor sellers, grain merchants, oiled canvas vendors—even aspiring shamans, monks, and strategists hoping to attach themselves to the army—all converged here. Envoys from countries like Zhuoni and Tuhulu arrived, pledging military support to quell the rebellion. Yet Zhong Xu knew well that these Western nations had likely dispatched similar envoys and merchants to the usurper in Tianqi. Across the vast Nine Provinces, nearly all known gold veins lay within the Eastern Continent—the territory of the Zheng Dynasty. Though Zhuoni and Nihualuo, the wealthiest Western nations, still nominally supported Zhong Xu due to alliances, they would not miss this opportunity to exploit the chaos and acquire Eastern gold at bargain prices.
Zhuoni and the Zheng Dynasty had a longstanding alliance. Zhong Xu’s youngest brother, Ji Chang, was sent to Zhuoni to study Leizhou language and customs—effectively as a hostage—while a Zhuoni princess was raised in the Zheng court, intended to marry into the imperial family. This princess, Zizan, disliked the Eastern climate and spent half the year in Shuanghuan. She was the one who had captured Zhong Xu’s heart. Zizan possessed a radiant complexion and captivating eyes, her gentle nature so innate she seldom wore elaborate hairpins or jewelry. The Zhuoni people excelled in maritime trade and revered the merfolk as Dragon-Tail Gods, a belief Zizan held deeply. She wore only a single pendant—the Zhuoni royal merfolk emblem—its simplicity unmatched in elegance.At the foot of Frost Return City, they spotted from afar a figure in white robes standing atop the battlements, the wind billowing through his garments like a shadow on the verge of taking flight, gazing into the distance at the dusty path from which they had come.
Zhong Xu abandoned his horse and rushed up the city tower. Zizan simply smiled at him, and after a long pause, she spoke a single sentence: "Half a year apart, and you've aged." People often said that during those hundred arduous days of relentless warfare, they had watched as the Prince of Xu and his young commanders matured, gradually acquiring the bearing of renowned generals. Only Zizan, like an ordinary woman with no grand perspective, cared solely for his gaunt frame and weathered appearance.
He had not shown a trace of anguish even when his father and brothers perished and the capital fell. Yet, because of Zizan's words, tears streamed down his face. He was the Prince of Xu, the future emperor, the commander of the suppression forces—he was all these things, but he could not afford to be an ordinary man with emotions, susceptible to illness and age. In these turbulent times, she alone remained, treating him as a mortal being of flesh and blood.
Luo Siyuan's pursuing forces besieged the city for less than two months before the winter of Han Province arrived. Bitter winds, snow, and extreme cold made it impossible to sustain supplies, forcing Luo Siyuan's troops to retreat across the sea. From October to April, seventy thousand soldiers rested, trained, and recuperated in Han Province, lying low until the following spring. Zhong Xu steadfastly refused to proclaim himself emperor, and his newlywed wife, Zizan, was only granted the title of Princess Consort of Xu.
From the 28th to the 31st year of Lintai, time rushed by as turmoil spread across the map of the Zheng Dynasty. The war dragged on, bringing no peace to the people. Many villages and towns were left without a single adult male; fields lay abandoned, and grain and cloth became nearly impossible to obtain. The common people wore rags, and there were even rumors of cannibalism. Meanwhile, Prince Ji Chang, who had taken refuge in Zhunian, grew from a child into a young man. Through his relentless diplomatic efforts, the royal army's supplies were barely sustained by the Kingdom of Zhunian. Their calculation was simple: if Zhong Xu could reclaim the throne, Princess Zizan of Zhunian would rightfully become the empress of the Zheng Dynasty.
By the spring of the 32nd year of Lintai, of the fourteen prefectures and commanderies of the Zheng Dynasty, only the capital region and the three easternmost coastal prefectures remained under the control of the usurper Chu Fengyi. The rest had been recovered. With Frost Return as the secondary capital, Zhong Xu and his Six Wings generals had expanded the royal army to nearly three hundred thousand troops, supplemented by another hundred thousand militia forces from various regions. Everyone believed that recapturing the capital region would be achieved by winter at the latest, and the pacification of the entire territory seemed imminent. However, that summer, the newly stabilized situation was once again thrown into chaos.
Cavalry from the northwest Huku tribe covered over three thousand li in just seven days, invading Zheng territory through Balinduo west of the Yellow Spring Pass and advancing directly toward Frost Return. Yet, instead of engaging the intercepting royal forces in prolonged battles, they relied on their speed and ferocity, striking and retreating swiftly while pillaging and harassing the countryside. Meanwhile, Duke Qinghai, Fang Zhiyi, leading troops from the northeastern prefectures of He'an and Chishan to suppress rebels in Tulin Prefecture, faced a desperate counterattack. Chu Fengyi personally commanded seventy-five thousand soldiers south from the capital region, reclaiming three southwestern prefectures—Cuo'e, Jinzhou, and Lilan—within two months. Rebellious banners were raised across Wannan and Yuexi, while rebel forces from the capital region, along with Guanglu and Tulin Prefectures, advanced westward in a massive, wolf-like onslaught.That year, Fang Jianming was nearly twenty years old, already tall in stature. Even without his armor, he retained the graceful and upright bearing of a youth. Among the Six-Winged Generals, he was the youngest, yet he had already spent over five years in military campaigns. Chu Zhongxu was three years his senior, decisive and insightful in battle, already exuding the aura of a king. In warfare, whether it was covering, reinforcing, or flanking maneuvers, the two could coordinate seamlessly from afar, as if they were brothers born of the same mother. The royal army boasted many outstanding young commanders, and years of shared battles had forged deep camaraderie, with countless tales of risking lives to rescue comrades or holding positions at all costs. Yet everyone knew that the only person Prince Xu would entrust with his life was Fang Jianming, the eldest son of the Duke of Qinghai.
In July, news of the death of Fang Zhiyi, the Duke of Qinghai, reached Shuang Huan. Scouts reported one after another that Liushang and He'an counties had fallen, and the Fang clan had been exterminated. The message arrived just as the eighty-thousand-strong army was about to march to Tongping City, the newly captured capital of Lilan County in Wanzhou. Upon hearing the news, Fang Jianming fell silent for a long while. Zhongxu called out to him from his horse. The young deputy commander lifted his head slightly, gazing at the man before him who was both an elder brother and a lord. He opened his mouth but ultimately said nothing. Silently, he left the front ranks and returned later, having changed into mourning attire beneath his armor. He mounted his horse lightly, his eyes slightly reddened, yet his face showed no trace of tears.
The royal army marched swiftly for eleven days and encamped fifty li west of Tongping City. They first dispatched small forces to taunt and harass the enemy for several days. When the rebel army opened the city gates to engage, they feigned retreat, repeating the tactic until they finally provoked Chu Fengyi to lead his main force out of the city, deploying his formation along the narrow plains by the Lilan River.
The Lilan River, a tributary of the Jianshui River, flows from Baishui to Liunan, where it empties into the sea. Near Tongping City, the plains on the southern bank stretch no more than five or six li wide, giving way to rolling hills further south. Before dawn, the sky was pale, the mountains lush and dark, with the stark outlines of trees and grass lining the ridges. The occasional clang of swords against light armor sent ripples through the quiet air, and the crimson banners of the Liushang army faded to deep black in the dim light—Fang Jianming was now the fifty-third Duke of Qinghai of the dynasty, the lord of Liushang County. In this world of black and white, the trees cast dusky gray shadows, leaving no room for a third color.
Zhongxu looked up at the youth on horseback.
Beneath his armor, Fang Jianming still wore his pitch-black mourning robes. His dark brows were hidden beneath his war helmet, leaving Zhongxu only able to see his thin, pale lips pressed into a tight line. The youth turned his head, and Zhongxu guessed he was looking at him. In the cool, silent air of the early morning, the invisible gaze of the youth radiated a piercing chill—a suppressed, frozen rage, like black transparent flames devoid of heat yet capable of consuming everything. That fury was not directed at Zhongxu; what churned in the youth's chest was a thirst for battle and blood.
"Jianming," Zhongxu said softly, "remember, at sunrise tomorrow, we charge and encircle." Jianming gave a slight nod, turned his horse, and silently headed toward the southern hills, soon disappearing into the thick green morning mist of the forest. The massive formation extended into a column, following silently behind him. Countless footsteps and hoofbeats trampled over the summer grass, still wet with dew.The young Duke of Qinghai led two thousand elite cavalry and thirty thousand infantry, maneuvering eastward through the hills for over sixty li. By late afternoon, they had stealthily reached the weakly defended eastern gate of Tongping City. Dark clouds blotted out the sky, and a violent downpour ensued, with thunder shaking the earth, making men’s legs tremble.
On the plains south of the Lilan River, rain hammered against iron armor, creating a clanging resonance that echoed for miles. Zhongxu had already engaged the royal forces with the rebel army led by the usurper Chu Fengyi. The world turned murky yellow, blood and mud mingling into a gruesome paste. As the battle seesawed back and forth, the pathways gradually became choked with corpses. In the torrential rain, the narrow plains resembled a path to the underworld. The royal troops, weighed down by heavy armor and waterlogged clothing, struggled to move freely, while Chu Fengyi’s seasoned forces, having campaigned in the southwest for years, were accustomed to such storms, their movements nimble and their blades sharp. After nearly an hour, the royal army had been pushed back to within three li of the central command tent. War drums thundered, their vibrations seeping up from the ground into the very marrow of the soldiers’ spines. The rebel formation tightened, preparing for an all-out charge. The royal vanguard, in turn, gathered into a spearhead formation, ready for a desperate resistance.
Suddenly, the drums fell silent. Apart from the furious roar of the muddy Lilan River and the relentless drumming of rain on blades and armor, the plains were eerily quiet. The dead made no sound, and the living uttered none either. Men breathed silently, their faces streaked with blood and mud, filthy rainwater streaming down their heads and blurring their vision. After the next clash, many would join their fallen comrades, collapsing into the mire, their cold, lifeless bodies left to the mercy of the rain, which would wash their fatal wounds clean.
Then, from east to west, a ripple of unrest spread through the rebel ranks.
“Look, on the city walls!” a hoarse cry pierced the dense curtain of rain.
In the eastern sky, several columns of wolf smoke shot upward. Moments later, a faint red glow broke through the stormy heavens—the emergency beacon fires of Tongping City were ablaze.
“It’s the Eastern Army! The Eastern Army is attacking the city!” A wave of exultant and savage shouts erupted from the royal forces.
Tongping City was now caught in a pincer attack by the Imperial forces from both east and west, its situation growing increasingly precarious. Within the rebel ranks, the pretender’s command banner began shifting eastward—likely an indication that Chu Fengyi was rushing back to relieve the besieged city. The narrow stretch of plains was left to the rebel general Luo Jihan and his 25,000 troops, who struggled desperately to hold their ground.
Chu Zhongxu, commanding the western division of the Imperial army, advanced steadily eastward, while Luo Jihan’s forces retreated slowly toward Tongping, fighting a bitter rearguard action. With every step, corpses and severed limbs littered the muddy, reddish-yellow earth.
By nightfall, the eastern gate of Tongping was ablaze. Trapped between two fronts and unable to advance or retreat, the rebels attempted to flee through the northern and southern gates, only to fall into a deadly ambush that inflicted heavy casualties. This devastating blow, however, ignited a desperate, cornered-animal ferocity in them, and they fought back with renewed resolve. Just as Chu Fengyi’s vanguard reached the western gate of Tongping, half of Fang Jianming’s eastern forces had already entered the city through the northern and southern gates, assembling in formation, ready for battle. The eastern gate continued to burn fiercely in the night rain, its flames leaping high like a blazing archway to hell, looming ominously against the dark sky.
The gate had been reduced to charcoal and ash, sparks flying as it finally collapsed with a thunderous roar, sending charred wood and red-hot metal crashing down. Under a hail of embers, scores of soldiers surged forward, shields raised overhead. Silhouetted against the raging flames, their dark figures struck fear into the enemy. Several warhorses followed, leaping boldly over the corpses of fallen rebels. With that leap, the soaked, massive banner held by the standard-bearer unfurled with a snap, revealing an ominous, blood-dark crimson in the firelight. The black horses’ coats gleamed like satin in the torchlight, and the young rider clad in black robes and silver armor wielded an exceptionally heavy silver spear. His silver helmet obscured his eyes, while a mix of rain and blood dripped from his proud, chiseled jaw. Lifting his head to gaze at the fallen gate behind him, the helmet’s strap came loose and clattered to the ground, revealing a handsome, well-defined face. Above, the rebels’ banners on the battlements still smoldered.
A faint, enigmatic smile tugged at the corner of the youth’s lips, where an old scar curved upward. Pointing his bloodstained spear toward Chu Fengyi’s command banner, he stood wreathed in destructive flames like a god of slaughter.
“Kill those who fight, and kill those who surrender!” In response to the deputy commander’s terse order, the eastern troops let out bestial roars and surged toward the rebels like an iron tide.
With bows drawn and blades bared, their might shook the realm. On the fourteenth day of the seventh month of the thirty-second year of Lintai, Tongping was decisively conquered, with fifteen thousand rebels slain.
— Annals of the Kings, Chapter 142: The Pacifying Wing King , The Book of Conquests
By the latter half of the night, the rain had ceased, and the clouds parted to reveal a star-studded, clear sky. In the deep summer night, a chilling aura mingled with the scent of blood rose from the ground, creeping up men’s legs like wild vines.
The western Imperial forces were gradually buckling under the intense pressure from the east. The main rebel army, driven out of Tongping after their attempted return, merged with Luo Jihan’s troops, still numbering nearly fifty thousand in total. With the city breached and the ferocious, wolf-like eastern Imperial forces in pursuit, the rebels, now desperate and cornered, turned westward in a frantic, last-ditch assault.
“The eastern army charged early! What in blazes are those bastards doing?” soldiers of the western division cursed loudly, swinging their blades in a desperate attempt to stem the tide. Only the next day would they learn that, on that night, Deputy Commander Fang Jianming of the eastern army had issued an order: a reward of one hundred thousand gold pieces to whoever could bring him the head of the pretender king. But not all of them would live to see the dawn.Chu Zhongxu steadied his restless steed, surveying the battlefield from atop the small hill. Seven hours had passed since the two armies clashed, and of the 120,000 troops gathered on the plain, fewer than 90,000 remained. The rebel forces pressed westward, while the imperial army retreated in the same direction.
Amolan, one of the Six Wing Generals, stood beside him with a longbow strapped to his back, his voice heavy with concern. "Your Highness, if this continues, we will soon be forced into the narrowest pass of the plain. That bottleneck will severely hinder our mobility, costing us at least several thousand additional soldiers. Moreover, it will become nearly impossible to complete the encirclement with the Eastern Army." Zhongxu nodded silently, his brow furrowing deeper. Was this expedition to Lilan County destined to end in vain, with ten thousand lives lost for nothing? They couldn't hold on any longer. He heard a whisper in the air—faint yet immense, pervasive as a miasmic wind weaving through the chaotic fray. It was the collective voice of men's hearts, detached from flesh and consciousness, converging into the murmurs of fate. The soldiers' hands gripping their blades had gone numb, their arms lifeless, the flesh between thumb and forefinger torn to the bone. Yet they slashed on and on, ceaselessly.
In an instant, countless memories of light and color swirled around Zhongxu, spinning past him as swiftly as rolling tumbleweeds.
His father's deathly pale hand clawed frantically at the air while the other gripped his own throat. An inexplicable illness, sudden and violent, had claimed the emperor overnight.
Enemy troops besieged the city.
Grain transports along the Hanzhou route repeatedly faced mutinies, and most of the provisions his younger brother Jichang had procured from Zhu’nian Kingdom were plundered.
Assassins infiltrated the palace in Shuanghuan City, frightening Zizan into losing her two-month-old fetus.
Jianming’s slightly reddened eyes.
Zhongxu tightened his grip on his curved blade and took a deep breath.
Fate, you toy with men so cruelly. But why—the young man wiped the blood from his cheek and lifted his head defiantly toward the starry sky where clouds had parted. His cold, mocking gaze seemed not to seek answers but to challenge—why must I submit to you? The heavens stretched boundlessly, stars hanging low over the wilderness. Beneath that vast canopy, his figure appeared infinitesimally small.
With a swift motion, Zhongxu deflected a thin crossbow bolt beside his ear, then spurred his horse forward, charging toward the front lines like lightning cleaving through the rebel ranks.
"Charge! Follow me if you wish to live!" His clear voice soared above the battlefield. Every soldier of the imperial army heard their commander, their prince—and for the first time, they heard their emperor.
The clashing of blades grew abruptly fiercer, and another powerful, tangible roar surged from the masses. It was the fervent cry of over forty thousand men, initially disjointed but soon coalescing into a thunderous, overwhelming chorus—Long live the emperor! Long live! Long live the emperor! The sound swelled like a tidal wave behind him, yet Zhongxu heard none of it. Plunging deep into the enemy ranks, his curved blade swept out in a fierce, relentless arc—as if aiming straight for the throat of fate itself.
Warm blood splattered across his face. Amolan’s cry of alarm went unheard.When the royal army's eastern and western forces finally succeeded in their encirclement, there was still a small half-hour left before the originally scheduled charge. The eastern army had launched their assault prematurely, nearly pushing the entire force to the brink of annihilation. Even so, as the eastern army's commander's banner emerged from the night fog at the edge of the plain, the tide of battle had turned, and the soldiers of the western army finally breathed a sigh of relief from the depths of their hearts. The eastern army had truly fought with bloodshot eyes, stubbornly refusing to accept surrender. Less than thirty thousand rebel soldiers remained alive, all discarding their armor and begging for mercy from the western army. The gongs signaling the retreat had to sound three times before the eastern army finally began to calm down.
Under Zhong Xu's black banner embroidered with golden coiling dragons, Amolan narrowed his eyes and gazed eastward. The crimson banner of the Qinghai Army stood tall above the swarming masses, weaving its way toward them. The captives, dragging their wounded legs, fearfully parted to the sides, revealing the pure black steed beneath the Qinghai Army's banner and the young general astride it. As he drew closer, Amolan could see that his long spear was gone, a winding trail of dried blood clung to his temple, and he bore nearly twenty wounds of varying sizes—his entire body bore the marks of a fierce battle. But his eyes—the eyes of that young man—were like molten iron freshly cast, still bursting with sparks and embers. A violent, restless flame seemed to be consuming his very being.
"Where is Chu Fengyi?" The young man's lips were cracked and peeling, and as he spoke, blood seeped out. He licked his lips, swallowing the metallic taste of blood. "Has Chu Fengyi been found?" Amolan did not answer, only shaking his head.
The young man's gaze grew even more scorching in an instant. Silently and swiftly, he turned his horse around, raising his whip to gallop eastward once more when Amolan firmly grasped his shoulder. Unable to shake him off, the young man was pulled back around. His brow furrowed tightly, and his right hand already rested on the saber at his waist.
"Prince Xu," Amolan paused slightly, as if carefully choosing his words, then pointed westward, "Prince Xu is in the central command tent." The young Duke of Qinghai looked at him with suspicion. This man, who, like Fang Jianming, was one of the Six Wing Generals, appeared to be in his early thirties. His skin bore the purplish-red hue of the southern sea tribes, his features deep and intense, making his light tea-colored pupils resemble those of a cat. Even Zhong Xu only knew that he came from the Zhenla Kingdom in the southern seas, that he was skilled in gambling, taming horses, and mounted archery. As for his real name, his place of origin, or why he had fled to the eastern continent, no one knew, and no one asked too many questions. During the reign of Emperor Xiu, Amolan had enlisted in the royal army, spending seven or eight years in obscurity before being promoted by Prince Xu two years ago to become the captain of the royal guard. By now, he spoke the official language fluently.
Amolan glanced around briefly, and only then did the guards following Fang Jianming step back slightly. Amolan urged his horse closer to the young man and opened his palm, facing upward. The young man's breath caught abruptly, the wound at the corner of his mouth tightening. His face, which had been terrifying to behold due to rage and bloodlust, suddenly lost all expression—like a mask stained with blood and fire, unnaturally handsome, cold, hard, and lifeless.In Amolan's palm lay an exquisitely carved cypress doll the size of a domino tile. The figurine had split into two halves, with several lines of tiny characters inscribed across its chest in minute calligraphy. Fresh yellow-white wood grain visible along the fractured surface was stained with ochre, while the varnished miniature limbs were covered in half-dried crimson fingerprints that clung stickily to the skin, as if recently soaked in a pool of blood. Jianming recognized the object—many soldiers carried such dolls when going to battle. Folk called them "Cypress Sacrifices," talismans meant to ward off calamities and curses. Should their owners fall gravely ill or suffer severe injuries, these dolls would be split and burned, allowing the Cypress Sacrifice to bear the disaster in their stead.
After Zizan happened to see these charms, she personally crafted over a dozen for the unmarried generals, inscribing each with their names and birth dates. Both Jianming and Amolan received one, which they kept behind their breastplates during campaigns.
The one in Amolan's hand, they both recognized, belonged to Zhongxu.
"An hour ago, His Highness was struck by a stray arrow. The arrowhead pierced through this doll and shattered it. To prevent morale from collapsing, His Highness endured the pain, broke the arrow shaft, and left only the arrowhead embedded in his chest. It wasn't until the battle was firmly decided that he allowed me to bring him back to the command tent. The physician said—" Amolan abruptly cut himself off, as though speaking the words aloud would make them real. Silently, he placed the fragments of the doll into Jianming's hand, then turned and gave a soft whistle. The standard-bearer, holding Zhongxu's black banner embroidered with golden coiling dragons, followed Amolan as he headed deeper into the corpse-strewn plain. There was still much to do: taking prisoners, clearing the battlefield, and reorganizing the troops.
The armor on his shoulders suddenly felt unbearably heavy. The young man in black robes and silver armor opened his hand, staring down at the bloodstained wooden fragments in his palm. Then, lifting his head, he kicked his horse's flank with force. The black steed let out a long whinny and galloped westward toward the central command tent.
The guards had no time to stop him. The horse leaped over the antler-shaped barricades outside the camp, and the rider drew his blade, knocking aside the golden sabers of several guards stationed before the tent. Horse and rider nearly charged straight into the tent before he sharply reined in. The black steed reared, neighing angrily. As the guards raised their bows to shoot, the rider leaped lightly from the saddle and swept into the tent like a storm. Finally, a sharp-eyed guard recognized him and shouted, "Hold your fire! That's the vice commander!"
His right hand had already discarded the saber outside the tent, but in his left hand, he still clutched the wooden fragments, now slick with sweat. His palm was smeared with mud and blood, and where a splinter had pierced his skin, a vivid crimson drop had congealed.
A fire burned in the empty outer tent, and his numb, frozen limbs tingled with a painful warmth as if immersed in hot water. The young man stood motionless, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on a trail of coin-sized blood droplets that led around the curtain into the inner tent. Lanterns illuminated the inner space, casting the frantic shadows of several figures onto the fabric.
The chief physician, a bead of sweat hanging from the tip of his nose, shook his head repeatedly, too preoccupied to wipe it away, murmuring something in a low voice to the figure lying on the bed.Zhongxu’s voice, clear and cold yet pleasing to the ear, rose weakly but stubbornly. “How many times must I say it? Take it out for me.” The chief physician, frantic, raised his own voice in response: “Your Highness, it cannot be removed now! The arrowhead is lodged between your lungs. If we pull it out now, the bleeding will be uncontrollable, and that would—” “If it cannot be removed now,” Zhongxu rasped, his words broken by labored breaths, “then will it be any easier to remove tomorrow or the day after?” The chief physician fell silent, repeatedly wringing his hands. Someone peeked out from the tent curtain and called into the inner chamber, “Your Highness, Lord Qinghai has arrived.” As if about to speak but choked by something, Zhongxu broke into violent coughing. With each cough, he drew in long, hissing breaths—the sound of air leaking from his injured lungs. Panic erupted in the inner chamber, with several voices crying out, “Your Highness! Your Highness!” Amid the clamor, Jianming still heard two or three soft, pattering sounds against the tent curtain, like raindrops hitting an oilcloth. Suddenly, everyone fell silent. From within the heavy curtain, thin red threads slowly seeped out, spreading along the warp and weft of the fabric, gradually soaking through.
Jianming’s heart clenched in alarm. “Brother Xu!” he shouted, and without another thought, he lifted the curtain and stepped into the inner chamber.
The physicians were pressing thick layers of cloth firmly against Zhongxu’s chest. A man nearly fifty years old, the chief physician trembled with anxiety, disregarding all decorum as he repeatedly exclaimed, “Your Highness, you are throwing your life away!” Fang Jianming took a step back.
Chu Zhongxu’s entire body had taken on a ghastly pallor, his frame seeming smaller than usual. From his neck down to his navel, he was covered in blood—dried, wet, and dried again, with dark scabs layered beneath fresh, bright red blood that had just spurted out. His lips moved, but those standing farther away could no longer hear him.
Jianming rushed to the bedside, too panicked to speak.
Zhongxu smiled faintly, gesturing with his eyes for Jianming to come closer. Jianming complied, leaning in as Zhongxu seemed about to speak, pressing his ear close. He heard Zhongxu’s near-silent, strained words: “You see… even if I die, I can’t bear to keep that thing inside me.” Shocked, Jianming pried open Zhongxu’s right hand and found a bloodied iron arrowhead, still attached to a short inch-long fragment of the shaft.
Just then, a messenger arrived outside the tent, announcing that a letter had been delivered to Lord Qinghai from Liushang County. At the mention of Liushang, Jianming’s throat tightened. Nominally, he was still the lord of Liushang County, but now, with his father and clansmen fallen in battle and Chu Fengyi having ordered the extermination of the Fang family, Liushang had fallen into rebel hands. Who could be sending a letter from there? Outside the camp gates, the courier, who had ridden hard to deliver the message, could barely stand. His wounds had festered, emitting a foul odor. Seeing Fang Jianming emerge from the tent, the courier tremblingly retrieved a soiled, sodden envelope from his chest, likely drenched by rain and sweat. Inside the envelope was a single thin sheet of paper, which had traveled for over a month from Liushang in the northeast to Lilan in the southwest.
My son Jianming, you are the last of the Fang bloodline. Take care of yourself.
The handwriting was that of the late Lord Qinghai, Fang Zhiyi—hurriedly written, with crooked lines, yet still bearing the dignified and solemn style characteristic of the family.At first, he thought the envelope was made of crimson paper, faded and worn from being passed through many hands. Only when he saw the letter inside, half-stained with reddish-brown and marked with two fingerprints, did he realize it was blood.
He knew then that his father was gone. As a nobleman’s son, he had entered the palace in his youth to study alongside the crown prince. During court celebrations, his father would often visit him, though he always felt a sense of unfamiliarity toward the man. His father never seemed troubled by this, always smiling serenely as if undisturbed by ripples on water, pressing one or two trinkets into his hands, and if he didn’t shy away, patting his head. In the autumn of his sixth year, when he began learning archery, his father gave him a gold archer’s ring inlaid with pale green glass, meant to protect his fingers from the bowstring. The ring was sized for a grown man, but his mother had wrapped it with green silk thread, making it fit perfectly.
In today’s battle, though he had resolved to kill Chu Fengyi for revenge, a sliver of hope had lingered in his heart. His father had always seemed gentle and warm; it was said that in his youth, he had also been an exceptional martial artist. The Fang clan was vast and flourishing—how could they all have perished so easily? But now, with this letter in his hands and the sight of his father’s blood soaking the white paper, he finally understood the truth.
They were all gone. Even if he were to personally behead Chu Fengyi and offer the head before their memorial tablets, there would be no one left to answer. These words had no one to hear them; he could only repeat them silently in his mind, overwhelmed by an indescribable emptiness and desolation.
Nearly half of the wounded soldiers had been carried near the central camp for the physicians to tend to. Their mournful cries of pain rose and fell—some sounded like wolves that had lost their cubs, some like bellows, and some like nothing human at all. He ordered the messenger to be taken for treatment, but the soldier supporting the messenger muttered under his breath, “We can’t even save our own men. If it weren’t for those damned Eastern Army charging too early, so many wouldn’t have died.” The sun had not yet risen; a faint glow in the east made it seem as if Tongping City was still engulfed in raging flames. On the plain before him, he saw his own troops, every one of them wounded, driving prisoners to dig pits and bury their fallen comrades. He saw a rebel soldier, his left arm bound by a rope, linked in a chain with other captives, dragging his broken right arm as he dug with his left hand. He saw these tens of thousands of men, after half a day and a night of fierce battle, all hungry, cold, and bleeding, collapsing onto the muddy ground to sleep where they fell. He saw former enemies who had fought to the death, one’s blade still piercing the other’s chest, now buried together, eternal neighbors in the earth. They might have had wives, children, and elders back home, but even if their families came searching, they would never find their loved ones. Among so many skeletal remains—Zhang, Li, Wang, all indistinguishable—who could possibly identify them?
He felt no pity. Though still young, he had served in the army for many years and understood deeply that if they had been the ones defeated, the enemy would likely have shown no greater mercy. Yet, as the newly risen sun cast the Lijiang River in a bloody hue, tens of thousands of men squinted into the grand dawn, the ten-mile plain bathed entirely in red, evoking an overwhelming sense of sorrow.
However, if not for a single misjudgment of his, some of these men might not have had to die. At this thought, he jolted awake, turned abruptly, and strode swiftly back into the command tent, tucking the letter into his robe as he went. Passing the warming brazier, he tossed the remnants of the Bo Xi figures into the fire. The flames leaped up for an instant, then subsided, devouring the wooden fragments until no trace of their human shapes remained.Outside, the sky was half-lit with dawn, but inside the tent, it felt like the depths of night. Zhongxu’s face was frighteningly pale. The cloth over his chest had been changed several times, barely managing to stop the bleeding—likely only because there was little blood left in his body to flow. If not for his own misjudgment, Zhongxu would not have ended up like this.
As he entered, Zhongxu’s eyes opened a sliver, and the corners of his lips lifted almost imperceptibly.
Jianming knelt by his bedside, taking hold of his fingertips—long, slender fingers cold as iron. In the dimness of the tent, they faintly evoked ominous memories from their childhood.
As if summoning every last ounce of his strength, Zhongxu’s voice remained as faint as a whisper: “Jianming, have you found some relief?” The young deputy commander looked up in shock, his gaze meeting Zhongxu’s. Those eyes were weak and clouded, yet they held a trace of a smile.
They were both children who had lost their fathers, the last remnants of their clans. From childhood companions, they had grown into comrades who could entrust their lives to one another. In this world, only he and Zhongxu needed no words between them.
So, he had understood all along.
Fang Jianming suddenly found his face streaked with tears, choking out, “Brother Xu…” “…You’re about to become the commander. Don’t make such an unsightly scene.” With that, Zhongxu closed his eyes, as if utterly exhausted. He was still alive, but his severely weakened body likely wouldn’t hold on for more than two days.
The young man finally broke down and wept aloud.
At daybreak, Lord Qinghai dismissed the chief physician and all others from the main tent, leaving only twenty personal guards to take turns standing watch outside the entrance. He also ordered a cauldron of cold water, half a pound of magnetite, and several medicinal herbs such as duhuo and cinnabar to be brought inside.
Half a day later, when the chief physician sought to check on Prince Xu’s condition, the guards at the entrance stopped him, explaining that Lord Qinghai had given strict orders: unless someone emerged from within, no one—not even the princess consort—was to be allowed entry. Violators would be executed on the spot, and no tea, medicine, or other supplies were to be delivered.
Furious, the chief physician was in the midst of a heated argument when the tent flap was abruptly thrown open. Lord Qinghai stepped out. The chief physician turned, ready to vent his anger, but found himself speechless.
The young man before him had transformed into someone entirely different.
His appearance, posture, and attire were not obviously altered, yet in just half a day, the youthful exuberance had vanished from his eyes, replaced by a resolute determination and presence. He had matured into a young man.
Fang Jianming, Lord Qinghai, dispatched a small team to escort the chief physician and the eight physicians who had previously attended to Prince Xu back to Shuanghuan City, ordering a new chief physician to be appointed. The thirty-five physicians treating the wounded soldiers were permitted to stay. Upon hearing this command, everyone fell silent. The imperial army of eighty thousand had taken over a month to travel from Hanzhou to Lilan. Even with light gear and swift horses, a round trip would require at least twenty-five or twenty-six days. By the time the new chief physician arrived, Prince Xu would likely be long gone. However, with the commander-in-chief incapacitated, all matters fell under the deputy commander’s authority. Though privately skeptical, everyone had no choice but to comply.
Fang Jianming ordered Amolan to oversee the aftermath. Amolan nodded quietly and, as he turned to leave, couldn’t resist glancing back one more time. The young Lord Qinghai was lifting the tent flap and stepping back inside. On the half-dried muddy ground where he had stood, a small pool of blood had gathered.
The team sent to Hanzhou to escort the new chief physician rode at breakneck speed, exhausting over forty fine horses along the way. In just nineteen days, they managed to deliver the new chief physician to Tongping. The new bogui doll personally crafted by Princess Consort Zizan could not be brought into the tent and was temporarily entrusted to Amolan for safekeeping.
Over those nineteen days, the lamps in Prince Xu’s tent burned day and night. At first, sounds of water and clinking utensils could be heard, but in the final two or three days, it grew so silent that it seemed as if no one inside was alive. Were it not for the occasional delirious murmurs of fever overheard by the guards, one might have thought both Prince Xu and Lord Qinghai had already passed away. A few impatient cavalry officers attempted to force their way into the tent to check, but Amolan drew his blade and stopped them.
Upon arriving at the camp, the new chief physician inquired about the situation and grew increasingly uneasy. He decided to begin by treating the wounded soldiers. Just as he was about to prescribe a new topical remedy for a soldier with a festering blade wound, a commotion erupted outside. Several young infantrymen burst into the tent and, without explanation, dragged him out, pulling him all the way to the entrance of the main tent.
It turned out that movement had been detected inside. Soldiers dropped their whetstones and rice bowls, rushing to gather outside the main tent. Thousands of them stood in a dense, silent crowd, holding their breath and listening intently. The faint sound of the Lilan River flowed from three or four miles away.Inside the tent, the distinct clinking sound of armor being fastened piece by piece was clearly audible, followed by the sharp ring of a saber being drawn from its sheath. It seemed the owner had merely inspected it before sliding it back into the scabbard. Then, footsteps emerged from the inner tent and approached the entrance of the outer tent. They belonged to a young man—light and steady, though somewhat frail. Only one set of footsteps. Lord Qinghai had neither slept nor eaten for nineteen days in the tent, so it was no surprise his strength was failing. As for Prince Xu, everyone knew he was likely gone.
The fear the chief physician had forcibly suppressed in his chest surged up in an instant. Earlier, when he’d heard that Lord Qinghai had sent his predecessor back to Hanzhou and barred others from entering, he’d already sensed the gravity of the situation—this journey to Wanzhou boded ill. But with his wife and children in Shuanghuan City, he had no choice but to follow these soldiers. If Prince Xu were truly dead, Lord Qinghai would become the foremost figure in the royal forces. Once the realm was stabilized, he could welcome Prince Chang back from Zhunian and install himself as the regent general—a shadow emperor, a natural progression of events. Prince Xu, being of imperial blood, would require the chief physician’s examination of his remains. To keep his head, the physician would have to play along, but judging by the current situation, even a single dishonest word might cost him his life. As he listened to the approaching footsteps, his heart trembled violently.
With a rustle, the tent’s entrance curtain was swept aside. The chief physician shuddered, his hair standing on end as if pulled taut, his skin tightening all over.
A roar erupted from all directions, so loud it felt as if it could hurl a person into the sky. Standing amidst tens of thousands, the chief physician could no longer discern whether the uproar was fueled by anger, disappointment, or joy. He simply stared blankly at the young man stepping out of the tent.
The young man’s face was unnaturally pale, like a shadow cast by sunlight on a gloomy day, so fragile it seemed a breeze could scatter him. Though the hand that held the curtain still trembled, his brows were arched with a sharp, defiant pride.
He spoke. “Are you the physician?” His voice, once as clear and sharp as a blade’s edge, was now hoarse from days of silence.
The chief physician heard the chattering of his own teeth. He should have felt relieved, but such an unbelievable turn of events was something he had never witnessed in his thirty years of practice. How could someone so severely injured walk on their own feet after nineteen days? Prince Xu, still holding the curtain, narrowed his eyes and fixed them on the physician, enunciating each word: “Go inside and see.” He tilted his head slightly toward the tent, but his cold, piercing gaze never left the physician’s face.
Flustered, the chief physician muttered “As you command,” then ducked past Prince Xu and hurried into the tent. As he entered, he overheard Amolan reporting that after the beacon fires were lit in Tongping City, the usurper Chu Fengyi had not personally returned to aid the city. Instead, he had traveled east for a few li, ordered someone to carry the commander’s banner to feign his return, and then, with a few dozen close followers, headed directly north. They hurried to the riverbank, found a boat, and sailed upstream to Baishui City, from where they had now fled back to Tianqi.
The chief physician glanced back and saw Amolan handing Prince Xu a small wooden figurine. Prince Xu took the object, examined it for a long while, then silently removed his chest armor and tucked it into his robes.Lord Qinghai Fang Jianming had single-handedly cared for Prince Xu without rest for nineteen days, until his strength finally gave out. He contracted a severe illness and could not be moved, remaining bedridden in Tongping City for three months before returning to Hanzhou to recuperate. It was not until the following January that he returned to the front lines.
Destiny holds a scale, placing human souls on one end. As for what weights its mighty hand places on the opposite pan, or when that most fatal weight will drop to declare death’s arrival—these are things that blind humanity cannot know. What we call catastrophic ruin, in the hands of the great spirits of ruin and desolation, might merely be one of countless grains of sand carelessly slipping through their fingers.
A year later, on the eve of the Battle of Hongyao Plain in the second month of the thirty-fourth year of Lintai, news arrived that Chu Fengyi’s secret agents had infiltrated the city and poisoned the water supply with a slow-acting toxin. Nearly ten thousand perished, and Zizan, along with the child in her womb, were among the victims. When the news of her death reached him, he was by Chu Zhongxu’s side. He watched as Zhongxu opened his mouth but could utter nothing, only quietly laying his palm over his breastplate as if he could still feel the touch of another pair of delicate hands that had once caressed the cold metal. Beneath the breastplate lay a small cypress wood figurine. Zhongxu lifted his head to gaze at the leaden, rolling clouds—a look akin to that of a cornered beast poised to strike back.
"Do you think this means you’ve defeated me?" Amid the heavy snowfall on Hongyao Plain, Jianming thought he heard Zhongxu’s voice, but he suspected it was merely a fleeting delusion of his own.
In the Battle of Hongyao Plain, the rebels were completely annihilated, and Zhongxu led 120,000 royal troops back to Tianqi. Eight full years had passed since he escaped the capital at the age of seventeen.
Kicking open the long-locked doors of Zichen Hall, the choking dust filled the air. Lingering traces of old, cloying incense, like reluctant lingering spirits, were torn apart and scattered by the summer night’s strong wind. Deep within the dim hall, the imperial throne glittered faintly with layers of pearls, jade, and gold. Zhongxu walked forward slowly, as if an intangible river lay between him and the throne, and he feared misstepping with every cautious stride. On this path, countless had died to obstruct him, countless had died to protect him, and countless more, unarmed and carrying their young and old, had been swept away like chaff by the storm of chaos—whether by rebel forces or those suppressing the rebellion. The hollow echo of his footsteps resonated. Twenty-five years of life—the first seventeen were a dazzling, illusory reflection on shimmering water, while the last eight were savage, jagged scars of blades, each strike shattering his human heart completely. By the time he returned to Zichen Hall, lines had etched the corners of his eyes, and his temples, at twenty-five, were already streaked with frost.
Zhongxu reached out, wiping a finger’s worth of dust from the imperial throne, studying it for a long time. Then he turned, straightened his sleeves, and sat down. A cloud of dust rose from the throne.
The crowd bowed like a receding tide, from the great hall down the layered vermilion steps, extending to every corner of the forbidden city. The thunderous cry of "Long live the Emperor!" shook the capital’s night sky. From that day on, Prince Xu Chu Zhongxu formally ascended the throne, becoming Emperor Xu, and changed the era name to Tianxiang.
Zizan was posthumously honored as Empress. On that day, the seat beside the throne, meant for the empress, was occupied only by a spirit tablet wrapped in phoenix-embroidered ceremonial robes, surrounded by a profusion of gold, jade, and brocade.
Fang Jianming stood at the forefront of the officials, looking up at the young emperor.Amid the roaring tide of voices, the young emperor suddenly felt a profound weariness seep from his very bones. He gazed silently at those who had once fought alongside him, his closest companions. The palace attendants in charge of the lamps finally squeezed through the crowd, lighting the lanterns one by one. The magnificent, lofty hall gleamed like a luminous pearl, set at the heart of the Forbidden City, atop the imperial capital. No one knew that, before this, the newly enthroned emperor had wept silently in the darkness.
Soon, the Zhu’nian people sent a princess, her face and form concealed throughout the journey. When she reached the emperor’s presence and the eighteen layers of black gauze were removed, gasps of astonishment filled the hall. The princess wore robes of gold, red, and peacock blue, with a pendant bearing the dragon-tailed mermaid emblem of the Zhu’nian royal house hanging from her neck. Her features and spirit were unmistakably a reincarnation of Zizan. That was Tilán, Zizan’s niece. When Emperor Xu first saw Tilán, he was momentarily speechless. Yet, he did not dote on her excessively and treated her with even less favor than his other consorts, reserving the position of empress for Zizan alone. Accompanying Tilán on her journey from Zhu’nian was the twenty-one-year-old Prince Chang, Chu Jichang.
As for Fang Jianming, the scar at the corner of his mouth had never faded since the twenty-seventh year of the Lintai era, lending his face a perpetually ambiguous expression, as if caught between a smile and a smirk. The once exuberant youth, whose laughter had been as radiant as a spring day, now wore a solemn and vigilant look even when dressed in the resplendent robes of a noble—"Anyone could tell he had killed," Tilán had remarked. Emperor Xu merely smiled at the comment. He himself was no different.
After that, what history would later call the "Severing of the Six Wings" began.
Few young nobles of the Zheng dynasty remained. Over the eight years of turmoil and displacement, some had died, others had scattered. Even during the second year of the Tianxiang era, when Emperor Xu issued an edict to seek out imperial relatives and nobles, most of those who came forward were impostors.
Not long after the edict was issued, a young man and woman appeared at the government office of Baiyan County, a thousand li away, claiming to be Princess Yanling, Chu Linlang, and her consort, Zhang Yingnian. When the rebel army had swept through the summer palace in their fiefdom, Princess Yanling was only thirteen, and Zhang Yingnian twenty. Eight years later, no palace attendants who had served them closely could be found. Given the princess’s growth and the hardships she had endured during those turbulent years, her appearance was inevitably altered. As for Zhang Yingnian, his entire family had perished at the hands of bandits during their flight south. In the ambiguity of resemblance, no one dared to make a definitive judgment, leaving it to Emperor Xu to decide.
Emperor Xu and Prince Chang summoned them to the Golden City Palace. The pair walked slowly along the corridor toward the main hall. Since their identities were yet to be confirmed, they wore ordinary attire to avoid presumption, yet their bearing was graceful and noble. It was late spring, verging on early summer, with a warm and gentle breeze. The wind chimes under the eaves tinkled crisply, evoking a fleeting memory of the young princess’s first visit to the Zhang family after her marriage. She had returned to the palace in the nine layers of silk reserved for married royal women, carrying a basket of pruned peonies, her ornaments tinkling softly as she approached. Back then, the relentless shifts of fate and peril had not yet driven them to the ends of the earth, and the childlike purity of her fair cheeks bore none of the frost-like marks of today.
Prince Chang sprang to his feet, calling out her childhood name, "Sister Peony." With that single cry, tears streamed down his face, and he rushed toward her like a child.Chu Linglang laughed through her tears, saying, "Little Qi, you've grown into an adult now." Emperor Di Xu laughed from afar in the hall, "Mudan, I still owe you a hairpin from that year we bet on a game of chess. Over the years, the interest has compounded into something immense—let me repay it all at once." The news of Princess Yanling, Chu Linglang's return, was announced to the world the following day. Among the five princesses of the late emperor, only Chu Linglang remained alive, and thus Emperor Di Xu doted on her excessively, granting her residence in the Phoenix Tree Palace within the Forbidden City, an annual stipend of 1.8 million dan of grain, five hundred servants, and countless rare treasures and curios.
By that time, Emperor Di Xu had gradually withdrawn from state affairs. At first, he would still attend the morning court sessions as a formality, but later he stopped going altogether. Yet, he had no particularly favored consorts or engrossing pastimes, leaving the civil officials with nothing specific to criticize or abolish. However, the military officials who held significant power began to die one after another. In the second year of Tianxiang, three of the Six Wing Generals died in succession—one from a startled horse, one in childbirth, and one from being convicted of a crime.
On the seventh day of the first lunar month in the third year of Tianxiang, Fang Jianming, the Duke of Qinghai, sought an audience with Emperor Di Xu early in the morning. When the eunuch on night duty relayed the message, the emperor was in Yu'an Palace, the residence of Consort Tilan.
"Whatever it is, wait until I rise to discuss it. Who did you say is outside?" "Your Majesty, the Duke of Qinghai requests Your Majesty's approval of the memorial he submitted yesterday," the eunuch replied in a hushed, sharp voice, bowing even lower.
For a moment, silence fell over Yu'an Palace, inside and out.
"Summon him in." As Fang Jianming entered the inner chamber of Yu'an Palace, he had an illusion: the lavishly decorated, massive bed in the Zhuannian style seemed empty, with only layers of brocade quilts and pillows piled so high they appeared to spill over the edges.
"Jianming, you think I'm wrong too, don't you?" From the heap of luxurious fabrics, Emperor Di Xu slowly sat up, revealing a plain white robe.
Fang Jianming reverted to the old form of address, saying, "Brother Xu, the situation is still unstable. With you alone in the palace, I am uneasy." Emperor Di Xu gazed at him for a long while before murmuring, "Silly child, you are the only one I trust. Aside from myself, you hold the military power of the realm. Just focus on being the Duke of Qinghai. Remember, if you die, I won't live long either." The young general standing below met his gaze, the scar by his lips quirking as if in a smile, his expression clear and open. "This subject only wishes for Your Majesty's peace of mind." Emperor Di Xu closed his eyes briefly, as if suddenly unable to bear the sight of that all-too-familiar face. After a pause, he murmured, "Tilan, rise." The brocade quilts behind the emperor shifted, and a woman's elegantly slender bare back and hair, black as silk, gradually emerged from the covers. Facing away from the curtain, she turned her head in confusion to look at her sovereign.
"Stand up, face this way, stand up," Emperor Di Xu pointed toward Fang Jianming. Tilan hesitated, then turned and stood. The brocade quilt slid over her smooth, delicate legs and fell to the floor.
Fang Jianming's gaze did not waver.Emperor Xu said, "Keep a close watch on her. I bestow her upon you, or any woman more beautiful than her—if you desire it and she exists in this world, I shall grant her to you. Do you truly feel no attachment? Besides, you are only twenty-four and have no heirs yet." Fang Jianming smiled faintly. "The Fang family has served as ministers for generations, yet I have never heard of any man among them who met a peaceful end. They either died on the battlefield or in the political arena. Why bring a child into this world only to suffer such oppression and slaughter?"
Emperor Xu, enraged, laughed coldly. "Very well. I grant your request. You may leave as you wish." Outside the door, the eunuch on duty watched as the Duke of Qinghai exited Yu'an Palace and bowed respectfully. After a long moment, noticing the Duke had not yet departed, he stole a glance and saw the young Duke looking up at the winter sky, where layers of clouds shifted between light and shadow.
"Xiao Luozi." "Yes?" The young eunuch raised his sparse, characteristically eunuch-like eyebrows.
"Your loyalty to the Emperor is commendable." Xiao Luozi bowed slightly, offering an ingratiating smile. "Of course. Those of us who have been cleansed and entered the palace to serve can neither lead troops into battle nor assist the Emperor like the top scholars. We can only devote ourselves to serving attentively." "Indeed... without military authority or involvement in court politics, you are the least ambitious for power." The Duke of Qinghai smiled, a seemingly pleased expression on his face.
After that, Fang Jianming returned to Liushang once to settle his lands and properties. When he reentered Tianqi, he did not seek an audience with Emperor Xu.
On the fourth day of the intercalary second month of the third year of Tianxiang, the Duke of Qinghai, Fang Jianming, died suddenly of a heart ailment. He was granted the imperial surname. Posthumously, he was given the name Jingyi Wang—"Jing" for his gentle virtue that brought peace, and "Yi" for his resolute strength in battle.
Half a month later, on the coldest and gloomiest day of winter, the Department of Internal Affairs reported that Fang Zhu had been cleansed and entered the palace. Emperor Xu boarded his palanquin and went to see him. In the vast courtyard of the palace, only the north wind swept in, carrying fine, scattered snowflakes.
Inside the dimly lit silkworm chamber, it was impossible to tell how many braziers were burning. Pushing open the door, one was met with a wave of scorching heat. Emperor Xu immediately removed his heavy fur coat and handed it to an attendant, then glanced around the room. There was only a low bed and nothing else. The faint red glow of the charcoal fire cast a deathly pallor on a hand hanging from the bed. Emperor Xu hurried forward, abruptly drawing back the bed curtain, then stepped back in shock. The supervising eunuch quickly moved half a step closer, observing the Emperor's expression but not daring to speak rashly.
For a moment, the room was deathly silent, broken only by the faint crackling of the charcoal.
The supervising eunuch almost thought Emperor Xu would say nothing more.
The bloodied and disheveled figure on the low bed furrowed his brow and shifted slightly, but the effects of the medicine kept him from waking. Only the scar at the corner of his lips remained stubbornly fixed in a faint, mocking smile. The plain cotton bedding beneath him was soaked and stiffened with layers of blood, now almost a dark brown. Fresh blood trickled onto the bedding, unable to seep in or congeal, pooling into a stark, crimson stain.
"Jianming... why must you go to such lengths?" The Emperor's voice, soft and fading, sighed with sorrow.
The supervising eunuch stole a glance and saw a glimmer of moisture in Emperor Xu's eyes, as if tears were about to fall. That look reminded one eerily of the young Prince Xu from eleven years ago, drawing his bow against the wind at Chengji Gate. Yet his expression now was as still and solemn as a stone statue.Another quarter of an hour passed before Emperor Xuan turned his head and addressed the attendants standing behind him: "Prepare the carriage. We shall return to the palace." By then, his expression had reverted to the detached demeanor he had worn in court in recent years—aloof and unseeing, as if nothing in the world could capture his gaze. The brilliant spark that had briefly illuminated his eyes had turned to ashes—or perhaps it had never truly ignited at all.
After that day, rumors began to circulate: a covert force of black-clad imperial guards, known as the "Black Feather Guard," operated in secrecy under the emperor's command, led by a eunuch. Their influence extended not only within the imperial capital's garrisons but also throughout major military camps. Gu Dacheng, one of the Six Wing Generals, was slain by a wandering warrior for allowing his troops to plunder, yet among the people, whispers persisted that it was the Black Feather Guard who had ended his life.
On the thirtieth day of the tenth month in the third year of Tianxiang, Princess Yanling attempted to poison Emperor Xu but failed and fled. Pursued by the Imperial Forest Army to the turret of the outer city wall, she was struck by two arrows. Raising her voice in a desperate cry, she shouted, "I am but the illegitimate daughter of the Prince of Fenyang! The usurper emperor slaughtered my parents and brothers! If I cannot slay the usurper with my own hands in this life, I would rather never be reborn—may I become a vengeful ghost, haunting his lineage for generations!" With that, she tore the arrow piercing her chest from her body and threw herself backward from the fifty-foot-high turret, plummeting to her death upon the resplendent Yongle Avenue.
The Prince of Fenyang, Nie Jingwen, who had joined Chu Fengyi’s rebellion, was the brother of the late emperor’s consort Nie—thus the maternal uncle of Princess Yanling and Prince Chang. His daughter and Princess Yanling were cousins, so it was hardly surprising they bore a resemblance. Yet Commandant Zhang Yingnian, the princess’s consort, driven by greed for wealth and status, had aided this girl in impersonating the princess. The following day, after his trial concluded, he was publicly executed by dismemberment.
Among the common folk, rumors spread that the real Princess Yanling had indeed attempted to poison Emperor Xu in order to assist Prince Chang in usurping the throne, but her plot had been exposed. To protect Prince Chang, she had deliberately claimed to be the illegitimate daughter of the Prince of Fenyang before leaping to her death. Most people dismissed these rumors as absurd. Prince Chang’s frivolous and ambitionless nature was notorious even among the populace—who could possibly mold such worthless mud into something of substance?
On the eleventh day of the fourth month in the fourth year of Tianxiang, Su Ming, the last surviving member of the Six-Winged Generals, was dispatched as an envoy to Shangzhou. Before even crossing the border, he encountered a violent sandstorm in the desert between Juzi and Dumulan and vanished without a trace. The news reached the capital on the fifteenth day of the sixth month—the very day when tribute pearls from across the land were presented to the throne.
Emperor Xu set down the banyan sapling he had been tending and frowned at it for a long moment. The plant’s leaves and branches were already mangled from his pinching. He casually picked up a pot of freshly brewed tea from his desk and poured it directly over the roots of the potted plant. Then he asked aloud, "What is the date today?"
A eunuch replied respectfully, "Your Majesty, today is the fifteenth of the sixth month. This morning, you reviewed the newly tributed pearls."
"I am asking you—what year is it?"
"...Tianxiang... uh, the fourteenth year, Your Majesty." The eunuch thought to himself, It seems the Emperor truly is losing his grasp.
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