Chapter 164

Lin’an, Chui Gong Hall.

The late autumn wind swept in from the direction of West Lake, carrying the cloying sweetness of osmanthus. Inside the hall, high-quality dragon’s Xian incense burned, yet it could not mask the faint, lingering mildew scent—emanating from the old maps brought over from the Privy Council.

Su Shidan, the Privy Councilor, knelt below the dais, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. In his hands he held a thick stack of military reports, their edges frayed from having been flipped through countless times.

“Speak,” came Han Tuozhou’s voice from beside the imperial desk. He wore no court robes, only everyday attire, a jade-hilted sword at his waist, his demeanor relaxed, even a faint smile on his lips.

Su Shidan swallowed hard and said, “Reports from the north are growing more numerous. I’ve synthesized intelligence from border couriers, merchant testimonies, and defectors, and I can now piece together a rough outline.”

He opened the first page.

“This spring, a great battle erupted on the steppe. On one side stood the alliance of Wang Han’s Kereyit, Zhamulan’s Jada’lan, the Taiyang Khan of the Naiman, and over a dozen other tribes—claiming a force of one hundred thousand cavalry.”

“And the other side?” Han Tuozhou asked.

Su Shidan paused, glanced down at the paper, as if even he found it absurd: “The other side… is an organization called the ‘Xinming Party.’ Their leader, according to defectors, is a boy named Zhang Chu’an, seemingly only seventeen or eighteen, and another, even more unbelievable, is a ten-year-old child named Guo Jing.”

The hall fell silent for an instant.

Han Tuozhou burst out laughing.

“Seventeen or eighteen? Ten years old?” He shook his head. “Do steppe people now settle battles by comparing whose children are younger?”

Su Shidan did not laugh. His fingers trembled slightly as he continued reading.

“The outcome… the allied army was annihilated. Wang Han died in battle; the Kereyit were fully absorbed. Zhamulan was captured and executed. The Naiman’s Taiyang Khan fell in combat; his people scattered, and his son Kuchlug fled west with the remnants. Within a month, news spread across the steppe, and the Tartars, Merkits, Oirats, and others either surrendered or were destroyed. The entire Mongolian steppe now has no force capable of opposing them.”

Han Tuozhou’s smile froze on his face.

“...Annihilated? One hundred thousand cavalry?” His tone had changed. “Is this verified?”

“Verified by multiple sources,” Su Shidan’s voice was dry. “Several defectors were Han slaves who escaped from the Kereyit; their testimonies match. Additionally, our envoys to the Jin have brought back corroborating intelligence—the northern border markets of the Jin have been largely shut down, all frontier troops are on full alert, Emperor Wanyan Jing has ordered thirty thousand elite troops from Zhongdu to march north, and even two commands from Tongguan have been withdrawn.”

He presented several silk scrolls: “These are military reports smuggled out by our spies within Jin territory. The Jin are constructing massive fortifications along their northern frontier—three deep ditches, watchtowers every hundred paces. This is not the scale of defense against nomadic raiders; it is clearly meant to repel a large army advancing from the north.”

Han Tuozhou took the scrolls, scanned them quickly, and his brow gradually furrowed.

“This ‘Xinming Party’… what is their origin?” he asked. “Which tribe? What background?”

Su Shidan’s sweat grew thicker.

“Your Excellency, this is precisely the most troubling part. They are not a tribe.” He said, “According to defectors, the Xinming Party has a rigid organizational structure, divided into committees and branches. Their army is not called an army—it is called the ‘People’s Armed Forces.’ They do not organize by tribe, but by divisions, brigades, regiments, and battalions, with uniform uniforms and standardized orders. Soldiers attend daily ‘political lessons,’ learning to read and study some ‘doctrine.’ Their leader Guo Jing does not call himself Khan or King—he calls himself ‘General Secretary.’”

He paused, his voice dropping lower: “And there is another matter… they have purged every noble on the steppe, regardless of tribe, who refused to submit. All populations have been broken up and reorganized; pastures redistributed. Defectors who witnessed it say the corpses of tribal leaders were hung along the roads—wind blew for half a month and still did not clear them away.”

The hall fell utterly silent.

The incense smoke rose straight, without a single tremor.

Emperor Zhao Kuo, seated behind the desk, had said nothing until now. He spoke softly: “What is their stance toward our Great Song?”

Su Shidan shook his head: “No contact yet. They are separated from the Jin border by hundreds of miles of steppe, with no sign of southward movement. The Jin have not launched any offensive either—only desperate defense. There are rumors that the Western Xia have attempted contact with this force, but nothing has come of it.”

“Have they fought the Jin at all?”

“Not a single battle,” Su Shidan said. “The Jin dare not fight; they have no intention of fighting either. The two sides simply face each other across the border.”

Han Tuozhou fell silent for a moment, then laughed. This laugh was different from before—before it was contempt; now it was relief.

“Your Majesty,” he turned to Zhao Kuo and bowed, “this is a divine opportunity.”

Zhao Kuo looked at him, his eyes questioning.

“I was somewhat concerned earlier,” Han Tuozhou continued, “but now I understand. The Xinming Party may have the ability to absorb the steppe tribes—truly impressive. But Your Majesty, consider: history shows this always happens on the steppe—a great leader arises, unites the tribes, and then what? Then comes fragmentation. The Xiongnu, the Turks, the Uyghurs—all followed this pattern. It is the steppe’s fatal cycle; no one can break it.”

He stepped to the map, his finger pointing north.

“Moreover, their refusal to attack the Jin now—what does it prove? It proves they lack the strength. Absorbing tribes is one thing; capturing fortified cities and major towns is another. Steppe cavalry ride fast and vanish quickly—they excel in open battle—but the Jin’s northern defense system has been perfected over decades: walls thick, moats deep—not easily breached.”

He turned, his eyes gleaming: “And the Jin? Wanyan Jing has pulled troops from Tongguan! Tongguan is the Jin’s first line of defense against our Great Song. He has stripped it bare—what does that mean? It means the Jin are in panic, so pressured from the north that they must rob Peter to pay Paul.”

“This is the divine opportunity for northern expedition!” His voice rose. “The Jin face a powerful enemy to the north, internal famine year after year, an empty treasury, and stretched-thin troops. Now is the moment for our Great Song to launch an offensive and reclaim the Central Plains—within reach!”

Su Shidan hesitated, then spoke: “Your Excellency… the Xinming Party’s methods differ from those of past steppe lords. Their ‘People’s Armed Forces’ organization, their purging of nobles and dismantling of tribes—it sounds unlike mere nomadic clans…”

“Just bandits,” Han Tuozhou waved dismissively. “Burn, kill, loot—has any tribal conquest on the steppe ever been different? They’ve just dressed up murder in new clothes. It may frighten the steppe barbarians, but not our Great Song. As for these ‘political lessons’ and literacy—do you expect a ten-year-old boy to teach anything meaningful? Merely sorcery and showmanship to win hearts. Once this momentum fades, the steppe will be the steppe again.”

He turned to Zhao Kuo: “Your Majesty, opportunity is fleeting. The Jin are pinned down by the north—this is our finest chance to reclaim the Two Capitals and wash away the humiliation of Jingkang. I beg Your Majesty to issue an edict ordering the armies of Jianghuai and Jing-Xiang to prepare for war—next spring, we shall launch our northern campaign!”