Chapter 2041: The Final Journey 9

The mountain-like great vessel still sailed south against the current, swaying slightly under the river's assault. The autumn wind of the ninth month had already turned quite cold, blowing even the old Emperor until he could barely endure it—yet it also seemed to blow his mind clearer.

On the deck, beneath the ceremonial canopy, the old Emperor shrank into his wide chair like a piece of rotten wood, though his aged eyes remained wise, calmly gazing down at Guo Xin.

And Guo Xin—his performance at this moment was rather spectacular. On one hand he was trembling with fear, on the other he kept stealing glances up at the old Emperor, cautious yet guilt-ridden, his expression shifting constantly, as if putting on a farce. After all, he was a man nearing sixty; all this commotion was genuinely exhausting for him.

The autumn wind gently brushed his graying hair, whispering by his ears. The old Emperor's gaze gradually grew distant. Slowly, what he saw was no longer this nervous, timid, even contemptible brother-in-law before him, but the Guo clan he represented.

As the development of the Guo clan over the past years surfaced in his mind, the old Emperor couldn't help but wonder—had he let his guard down toward these meritorious officials and honored relatives of the Guo family, even allowing them to grow and expand unchecked?

Take the Guo clan for instance. The old Emperor's former wariness had been extraordinarily deep, but looking back, his apprehension back then had been directed more at Guo Wei personally. Once Guo Wei grew old and feeble, he relaxed; after Guo Wei passed away, he was even more at ease.

However, Guo Wei's death was only a temporary setback for the Guo clan. The family's development continued to deepen over the following ten to twenty years, its influence spreading throughout court and countryside alike, sharing the nation's fortunes.

In the current upper echelons of the Great Han's nobility, there were certainly no ostentatious titles like the "Four Great Clans" or "Eight Great Houses" that would draw attention, but undeniably, at the very summit of the Great Han Empire's ruling class, there existed certain top-tier nobles—and the Guo clan was one family that could not be circumvented.

The Guo clan rose and flourished during Guo Wei's time, but true consolidation came in the second generation. Guo Wei had three sons in total. The eldest, Guo Tong, most conventionally inherited the Duke of Xingguo title. In his early years he was considered a capable official at court, having served as an attendant to the throne, moving from local posts to the capital and back to local posts again—a rich résumé. From age thirty-five onward, his official rank never fell below the third grade, and he always held posts as regional magnates or key positions of importance.

However, Guo Tong was a shrewd man—perhaps even overly shrewd. He was also excessively self-interested, or rather, family-interested. But at the same time, he knew how to read the times. Before reaching fifty-five, he submitted a memorial requesting retirement, citing illness.

Careful consideration reveals that Guo Tong's retirement came at roughly the same period when the old Emperor began acting "abnormally." And during these years of recuperation, he got one of his concubines pregnant—a child in old age, and not just one but two, twins of both sexes.

The old Emperor naturally saw through Guo Tong's "cleverness." It certainly displeased him, but in the end he let it pass with a smile. Better that he be clever—it made their interactions more pleasant.

Among Guo Wei's three sons, the one the old Emperor valued most was undoubtedly the third, Guo Yi. After all, Guo Yi had formed a bond with the old Emperor while still in swaddling clothes. The jade pendant he carried on his person—if he merely produced it and explained its origin, everyone present would have to bow in salute.

Of course, Guo Yi was indeed worthy of cultivation. He was meticulously groomed by old Guo Wei with the remainder of his life. At forty years of age, he had already become a pillar of the Great Han, and a banner figure among the generals of the late Kaibao era.

Most notably, after returning to court from Anxi, Guo Yi was ennobled by the old Emperor as Marquis of the Long March. Were it not for the Son of Heaven's special favor, Guo Yi's military merits and seniority would not have sufficed. How difficult advancement within the Great Han's current system was—far beyond what ordinary people could imagine. Others struggled merely to secure a minor promotion, yet Guo Yi could leap directly to nobility, and a high rank at that. This was certainly due to imperial authority, but it also reflected the most universal principle in this world: birth determines destiny.

Compared to his elder and younger brothers, Guo Xin appeared far more ordinary—ordinary to the point of mediocrity. Of course, to put it more kindly, he was honest. However, honest people going about their work did not necessarily mean they were diligent and hardworking. On the contrary, they could be infuriating—enough to drive one to death!

Guo Xin was a typical example. In his post at the Jinghu Southern Circuit, to say he had done anything evil would be an overstatement, but to say he had accomplished anything—well, that could be counted on one's fingers.

It wasn't that he neglected governance; he was diligent enough. He did no less work than anyone, had more ideas than hairs on his head—politics, economics, people's livelihoods, water conservancy, transportation, agriculture—he touched upon every aspect. But none of it ever landed anywhere concrete. Not only did he fail to bring actual benefits to the people under his jurisdiction, he exhausted them to the bone.

In the end, when he stood still or even regressed, he could still argue eloquently, believing he had done his utmost for the people. If subordinates criticized him, retaliation followed. If the court corrected him, he felt wronged.

To be frank, Guo Xin as Administration Commissioner was a case of virtue not matching position. At Yuezhou, before even entering the Hunan Circuit's territory, the old Emperor had already begun hearing these reports about Guo Xin. Now, having personally received and examined him, he discovered that placing this man in the Jinghu Southern Circuit had been a mistaken decision—it had delayed the Hunan Circuit's development by more than three years.

Recalling who had suggested transferring Guo Xin to the Hunan Circuit—well, it was himself. At that thought, the old Emperor's expression grew even worse. He couldn't even determine whether he had misjudged the man, or had truly grown senile.

A surge of anger, even resentment, rose in his heart. Yet looking at Guo Xin's pitiful appearance, there was also a stifling sense of frustration with nowhere to vent. The sovereign and his minister stared at each other for a while, until finally the old Emperor waved his hand impatiently: "Go, go, go! Get to your own vessel and lead the way—to Changsha!"

The old Emperor's tone was somewhat harsh, but to Guo Xin's ears it sounded like heavenly music. He hurriedly acknowledged, then went off beaming with joy. That simple-minded look made the old Emperor's teeth ache.

The Xiang River—especially the stretch from Changsha down to Dongting Lake—was extremely busy. During the harvest season, it was a hundred boats contending, a thousand sails racing. The closer one got to Changsha, the more river vessels of all kinds appeared, coming from north and south—ships carrying grain, salt, tea, and all manner of civilian goods, nothing lacking.

On the southward journey, one could spot some peculiar vessels, large and small, their common feature being green banners planted all over—clearly belonging to the same force. Over the past twenty or thirty years, right here on the Xiang River, a new power that was half-black, half-white had risen: the Xiang Gang.

Boat gangs as a force of the social underclass had existed since ancient times, but the Xiang Gang could be considered the most formal and systematically complete of any dynasty. It had clear organizational structure, mature operational mechanisms, and most importantly, reliable backing.

After all, some transport tasks of the Hunan Circuit's government were entrusted to the Xiang Gang, and in civilian activities they often operated under a semi-official banner. Retired vessels from the naval forces also flowed into the boat gang. There was a local saying that half the ships plying the Xiang River belonged to the Xiang Gang.

It could be said that the Xiang Gang was also a byproduct of Changsha Prefecture's decades of development. By now, its influence touched every aspect of the social underclass. The government seemed to need such a flexible "chamber pot" for handling affairs, and for the powerful and noble, having the Xiang Gang's big shots serve as their dogs was something many could only wish for.

The old Emperor's southern tour affected local affairs in every way imaginable—including these boat gang forces that seemed completely unrelated. It wasn't a matter of public security, but rather that the old Emperor's arrival had impacted a major event in the "jianghu" world.

The Xiang Gang was in reality only an external alliance. In earlier years, the forces were quite fragmented, constantly slaughtering each other for profit. Later, under the mediation of a certain "Mr. Wang," the leaders of over a dozen major boat gangs gathered together, swore a blood oath, and established the Xiang Gang.

That was how the jianghu legend went. And for so many fierce, combative boat bosses to set aside their conflicts and reach consensus—the story behind it was clearly not so simple. The identity of that "Mr. Wang" drew particular attention. What abilities did this man possess to have such power?

Only later did it gradually leak out that "Mr. Wang" was none other than Wang Jue, the Chief Constable of Changsha Prefecture. No one questioned it after that. Within the official system, Wang Jue was merely a humble low-ranking official, but in the eyes of commoners, he was an enormously important figure.

Especially for those who ran the rivers, his deterrent power was even greater. Having served as Chief Constable of Changsha for decades, his disciples and followers were spread throughout all of Changsha and even the entire Hunan Circuit. This was a man whose single cough could make the Xiang River tremble three times.

Of course, for Wang Jue to undertake the laborious task of uniting the Xiang Gang, there was clearly even deeper backing behind him. These matters were things people in Changsha's territory were tight-lipped about.

Besides reducing armed conflicts and stabilizing public order, there was another important reason for establishing the Xiang Gang: outward expansion.

The south was crisscrossed with waterways, dense with rivers, and thus had many boat-running forces. Though the Xiang River was a major tributary of the Yangtze, anyone with any ambition would naturally want to dip into the Yangtze's profits. But this was extremely difficult. The boat gangs that dominated the Yangtze were hardly easy to provoke. Territories were divided, and outsiders were not permitted to intrude.

After the Xiang Gang's alliance was formed, the first order of business was a "northern expedition"—organizing men to probe the Yangtze. But they had barely left Dongting when they were beaten back by a bunch of "Hubei gangs."

That battle was known in jianghu legend as the "Battle of Baling," and from it began nearly a decade of conflict between the boat gangs of the two lakes. The two forces, like two domesticated dogs, fought repeatedly over the Dongting and the Yangtze—for their masters' interests, and for a bit of dog food at the corner of their mouths.

For such armed conflicts between non-commoners, the government generally did not intervene. The two sides also had an unspoken understanding—even if blood stained the great river, they followed jianghu rules, never involving the government or causing trouble for their masters.

When the fighting got too fierce and losses too great, they would cease hostilities and negotiate, working out a balance of interests. Once they secured a year or two of peace, they would resume fighting—a cycle repeated endlessly. Interests were eternal; human lives were worthless.

Of course, there were times when things went too far, affecting public order and endangering people's livelihoods. Only then would the government exert pressure and the navy deploy. The most absurd incident was when the two sides fought their fiercest battle, each mustering several thousand men to slaughter each other on Dongting Lake, with the naval forces of both lakes arrayed nearby watching. Officially, it could still be passed off as drill exercises—just with a bit more commotion than usual.

Had it not been for the old Emperor's southern tour, the Dongting Lake would likely have been awash in blood and storm by now—it was forcibly halted. No one dared to make trouble. The boat gangs were full of desperate outlaws, but not fearing death didn't mean wanting to die. The great reorganization of the Hubei naval forces had intimidated more than just the various fleets.

And during the internal rectification in Hunan, three Xiang Gang leaders who had incurred excessive public resentment had their heads taken, used to placate the people's anger.

Therefore, the situation in Hunan, from top to bottom, from officials to bandits, was one of silence and stillness. What the old Emperor could see was naturally a prosperous, peaceful southern land of rivers and lakes, with its local customs and scenery.