Chapter 176

Xin Qiji stood by the window; the white mist of his sigh had dispersed, but no words followed. He fell silent for a long time—so long that Lu You could not help but open his mouth to press for an answer—before finally turning around. The candlelight in the study flickered, casting his face, roughened by the northern winds, in shifting shadows. His brows were not furrowed, yet something lay in his expression that Lu You had never seen on his face before—not hesitation, not fear, but a deeper, almost mournful clarity.

“Fangweng,” Xin Qiji spoke, his voice soft, as if afraid of disturbing the ink still wet on the poems scattered on the desk, “every one of your poems is excellent. So excellent that I feel the northern expedition has already been won.”

Lu You opened his mouth, but Xin Qiji raised a hand to stop him.

“But there are a few things I must tell you.” He returned to the table and sat, unfastening his waist sword and placing it down. The scabbard struck the wood with a dull thud. “You’re not on the front lines—you don’t know what’s happening. The reports from Grand Tutor Han won’t mention it. The teahouses of Lin’an won’t speak of it. But in Zhenjiang, I see the courier reports, the military intelligence, the intelligence brought back by spies. The northern expedition I see is not the same as the one you write about in your poems.”

Lu You’s smile slowly faded. He was not angry—he knew Xin Qiji well. This man had spent his life dreaming, but he had also spent his life dismantling every dream to check whether its bones were strong enough. If Xin Qiji said “not the same,” then it truly was not the same.

“Speak,” Lu You sat up straight.

Xin Qiji extended one finger.

“First, Han Tuozhou’s preparations are utterly inadequate—not merely insufficient, but so inadequate they don’t even reach the passing threshold.” His voice suddenly hardened, like a commander barking orders on a Zhenjiang parade ground. “The court demands a three-pronged advance—Huai River, Jinghu, and Sichuan. Sounds grand, but have you calculated it? Where will the grain for these three armies come from? The granaries of Huai and Jiang suffered drought last year; reserves are less than sixty percent of normal. Jinghu has grain, but transporting it to the front via the Han River means fighting upstream—there aren’t enough haulers. Sichuan is worse—Shu Road is treacherous; you’ve walked it yourself. To deliver one dan of grain from Chengdu to the front at Lizhou, three dan are consumed en route. Only a quarter reaches the front—how can you fight a war like this?”

Lu You’s lips moved, as if to speak, but Xin Qiji gave him no chance to interrupt.

“Now consider weapons. Grand Tutor Han claims he’s rushing arrowheads for the front. Do you know what quality they are? I inspected a batch in Zhenjiang—the tempering was insufficient; they curled on impact with iron armor, leaving not even a dent. The bowstrings? Made of southern hemp. In northern winters, they freeze brittle and snap at the first pull. How degraded has our military industry become after decades of peace? The largest ironworks in Lin’an usually make scissors, woks, and door rings. Now they’re suddenly expected to forge arrowheads, horseshoes, swords, and spears—what do you expect them to produce?”

He drew his sword three inches; the candlelight flashed along its blade.

“This is my own sword. I had it forged by a local smith on the northern frontier. I don’t trust the swords made by Song’s official arsenals.”

Lu You stared at the exposed blade for a moment, then raised his head: “You’an, I know all this. Insufficient arms, inadequate grain, shoddy equipment—these are problems, but has any northern expedition ever not faced them? When Zhang Jun launched his campaign, wasn’t the situation worse? When Yu Yunwen won at Caishi, it wasn’t because of superior gear—it was because the soldiers gave their lives! If the army fights with resolve, these difficulties can be overcome—”

“Fangweng,” Xin Qiji interrupted, his voice dropping low, “that’s the second thing I must tell you. Does the army even fight with resolve?”

Lu You froze.

Xin Qiji sheathed his sword, pressed both hands on the table, and leaned forward slightly: “Do you know what the Song army is like now? The Imperial Guards collect phantom pay—five men’s salaries under one name, while only one soldier actually serves. The regional troops have become government laborers—repairing roads, hauling cargo, carrying palanquins—rarely touching their swords for a year. How many truly combat-capable units remain? The Huai River front claims 150,000 troops—I counted them myself. The real number is under 80,000. And of those 80,000, no more than 30,000 are properly trained.”

His voice held no anger—only a chilling, detached recitation.

“And the generals? They’re worse. Since Yue Wumu, how many capable commanders does Song have? In recent years, Han Tuozhou has replaced the Ministry of Military Affairs and the Privy Council with his own men—how many among them have ever led troops or fought a battle? Wu Xi in Sichuan, long stationed at Shukou, outwardly obedient, inwardly plotting rebellion—this is no secret to the court, but no one dares speak it. Fangweng, I’m not dousing your fire—I’m asking you to open your eyes. You dream of the people offering food and wine, of the imperial army reclaiming the north—but this army can’t even cross the Huai River.”

Lu You fell silent for a long time. A candle flame popped, sparks splattering onto the table—no one brushed them away. He stared at the stack of poems he had written, their paper glowing warm gold in the candlelight, every character still burning. But Xin Qiji’s words were a bucket of ice water—not dousing the ink, but extinguishing the fire that had burned in his heart for eighty years.

“There is a third thing.” Xin Qiji’s voice dropped even lower. “I still haven’t fully understood it.”

He rose and walked to Lu You’s map—the hand-drawn world map Lu You had spent decades refining, its borders redrawn and erased countless times. Xin Qiji’s finger landed on the northern frontier of the Jin, where Lu You had sketched faint circles labeled “Grassland Tribes.”

“The Xinming Party.” When Xin Qiji spoke those four words, his tone changed. Earlier, when speaking of Han Tuozhou and the army, his voice had been disappointed, angry. Now, speaking those words, his tone was wary—a hunter’s wariness upon spotting unfamiliar wild animal tracks.

“Fangweng, do you know why Wanyan Honglie came personally to Lin’an?”

Lu You frowned. “The Jin fear our northern expedition—they’re stalling for time.”

“Correct. But they’re not afraid of us.” Xin Qiji’s finger traced a circle over the northern Jin frontier. “They’re afraid of what’s up north. Wanyan Honglie met secretly with Grand Tutor Han in Lin’an. I don’t know what they discussed, but my spies overheard a remark from a servant at Doutingyi—Wanyan Honglie said, ‘If Jin falls, Song will be next.’”

Lu You’s expression changed—not from fear, but from sudden realization: what Xin Qiji was about to say might be more grave than all his previous warnings combined.

“The Xinming Party isn’t an ordinary grassland tribe.” Xin Qiji’s finger tapped the northern border. “They swallowed the grasslands in two years, the Western Xia in six months. Wanyan Honglie has fought them on the northern frontier for five years—and in all that time, he has gained not an inch of land—not one inch. Wanyan Honglie is the most formidable prince of Jin; his northern border troops are Jin’s finest. Five years. Not one inch. What does that mean?”

Lu You fell silent.

“Worse still, their goal isn’t territory.” Xin Qiji turned, candlelight dancing in his eyes. “After swallowing the Western Xia, they didn’t press forward—not because they couldn’t, but because they were digesting. They’re integrating the Western Xia’s iron mines, granaries, and population—reorganizing their armies into vassal forces. Once they’ve digested it, their next target will be Jin. And if—”

He paused. The pause was slight, but Lu You heard the weight it carried.

“If we cripple Jin in a bloody war before they strike—”