Chapter 175

His youngest son returned from Shaoxing with a newly issued official gazette. Lu You took it and saw, boldly printed across the front page, these large characters: “Grand Tutor Han Mobilizes for Northern Expedition, Million Strong Troops Cross the Huai River.” He could not decipher the flowery bureaucratic prose, but he saw one name—Han Tuozhou. He slammed the gazette onto the table and exclaimed repeatedly, “Good!” Then he picked up his brush and added a line to his recently completed poem: “Grand Tutor Han rises to fulfill Heaven’s will, sweeping the barbarian dust a thousand li clean.”

His son leaned over to glance, then asked softly, “Father, there’s much public debate about Grand Tutor Han. Won’t writing such a poem…?”

“Debate what?” Lu You didn’t look up. “Debate that he seized power? That he’s arrogant? That he crushes dissent?”

His son said nothing.

Lu You sneered, his brush never pausing. “I know what Han Tuozhou is. A powerful minister, an imperial relative, a domineering figure monopolizing court affairs. But he is the one who stands for northern expedition. That alone is enough. The Song has stood two hundred years; how many have spoken of northern expedition? How many have dared to act? Yue Fei dared—and was killed. Yu Yunwen dared—and died. Zhang Jun dared—and failed. For decades, countless men shouted of reclaiming the Central Plains, yet all remained confined to memorials and poetry. Han Tuozhou, flaws and all, has at least stepped forward. He has at least drawn his sword. That makes him ten thousand times better than those who chatter from the safety of Lin’an.”

He set down his brush, raised his head, and his eyes grew red again.

“I’ve lived over eighty years, written ten thousand poems. Ten thousand poems cannot buy back an inch of Central Plain soil. Poetry is useless—only the sword is useful. Han Tuozhou is the one who wields the sword, so I write him poems. Whatever poem he wants, I write it. however many he needs, I write them. I, Lu You, never held a sword to fight my way back to the Central Plains—so I will beat the war drums for those who do, with my poetry.”

He glanced at the line he had just written—“Grand Tutor Han rises to fulfill Heaven’s will”—and felt it insufficient. He added two lines before it. The final poem read: “The holy sovereign decides the moment for battle, Grand Tutor Han rises to fulfill Heaven’s will. The three armies surge like demons and tigers, a thousand li of mountains and rivers enter the drum and banner.”

His son watched beside him, lips parted but silent. He didn’t understand poetry, but having grown up beside his father, he sensed these poems were different from his father’s earlier ones. The early poems had fury, resentment, bone-deep hatred, skin-deep pain—like blades quenched in fire. These poems were too smooth, too bright, like a mirror polished so clean it reflected light but cast no shadow. Yet he dared not speak. His father had waited eighty years for this moment—he had no right to douse it with cold water.

Half a month later, Lu You finally received the man he had been waiting for.

Xin Qiji arrived.

Xin Qiji came from Zhenjiang. He had been recalled to service by the court, appointed Prefect of Zhenjiang, overseeing river defenses. With northern expedition imminent, he was among the most vital generals on the front—and should not have left his post. Yet when passing through Shaoxing, he deliberately detoured to Shanyin. First, to visit an old friend; second, to hear Lu You’s views on northern expedition—for in all of Song, if one sought the most sincere, purest, most unreserved supporter of northern expedition, it would surely be this eighty-something mad old man by Mirror Lake.

Xin Qiji arrived at dusk. He rode an old horse, accompanied by only one attendant, wearing no official robes—only an old cloak. Far off, he saw the faded military banner outside Lu’s gate and pulled his horse to a halt. He stared at the banner for a long time. He recognized it—fifty years old, a relic from the Nanzheng front. Of course he recognized it. He had once owned one just like it—burned in Geng Jing’s camp, later replaced during his uprising in Jiangxi, passed through many hands, now lost to time.

From his study, Lu You heard the hoofbeats from afar. He set down his brush, rose, and pushed open the window. There stood Xin Qiji outside on the dirt road, leading his old horse, his cloak snapping in the wind, a crimson sunset blazing behind him.

“You’an!” Lu You nearly shouted as he rushed out.

Xin Qiji leapt from his horse and hurried forward. The two men embraced beneath the faded banner, in the biting winter wind. Xin Qiji carried the strong scent of strong liquor mixed with dust—the unmistakable odor of a lifelong frontier soldier. Lu You breathed it in, and for a moment, he was back fifty years in Nanzheng camp, back in that snow-blanketed night when bows were frosted with blades.

“You’an is here—good, come in, I’ll show you something.” Lu You tugged Xin Qiji’s sleeve inside, his steps brisk as a man half his age. The study was littered with poems—on desks, shelves, floors; some finished, some half-written, some blurred by ink, some still wet, blown to the ground by the wind. The whole room reeked of thick ink and wine.

“Look, these are what I wrote in seven days.” Lu You shoved a pile of poems into Xin Qiji’s hands, his eyes blazing like a child awaiting praise.

Xin Qiji took the poems and read them slowly, one by one. He nodded after each. He saw “Book of Indignation,” the line: “Night snow on boats at Guazhou Ferry, iron horses beneath autumn wind at Dasanguan.” He smiled faintly—he had been there, had seen that snow, that wind. He saw the line: “Grand Tutor Han rises to fulfill Heaven’s will, sweeping the barbarian dust a thousand li clean.” His gaze halted there, but he said nothing. He kept reading, encountering dozens of passionate poems—some praising the valor of frontline soldiers, some voicing the hopes of Central Plain civilians, some envisioning the splendor of recaptured Kaifeng, some thanking the court. Each was masterfully written. Lu You’s poetic genius had grown sharper with age—any one of these poems could be passed down for millennia.

Xin Qiji finished the last page, neatly stacked the poems, and pressed them flat with his palm. Lu You sat across from him, eyes alight, waiting for a reply.

Xin Qiji lifted his head, lips moving: “Brother Fangweng, your poems are truly excellent.”

“Better than your lyrics?” Lu You laughed heartily. He knew Xin Qiji never praised lightly—“truly excellent” was the highest compliment.

Xin Qiji did not take the jest. He rose, walked to the window, hands behind his back, gazing at Mirror Lake sinking into dusk. He stood there so long that Lu You’s laughter faded, so long that the air in the study slowly chilled. He turned to Lu You, as if about to speak. He opened his mouth, drew a breath, his chest rising.

Then he waved his hand.

Not a deliberate, formal gesture—but an unconscious, bone-deep motion. His hand fluttered weakly in the air twice, then fell limp to his side, as if surrendering something.

Lu You froze: “You’an? What does that mean?”

Xin Qiji offered no explanation. He only waved his hand again, then sighed deeply. The breath escaped his chest, condensing into a wisp of white mist in the winter night’s cold air.