Chapter 176: Xin Qiji

Xin Qiji stood by the window; the white mist of his sigh had dispersed, but the words never 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, but something Lu You had never seen on his face before lingered in his expression—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 desk and sat, unbuckling his waist sword and placing it on the table; the scabbard struck the wood with a dull thud. "You're not on the front lines, so you don't know certain things. Han Tuozhou's official reports won't mention them, nor will the teahouses of Lin'an spread them. But in Zhenjiang, I see the courier reports, the military intelligence, the intelligence brought back by spies from every direction. 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 upset—he knew Xin Qiji well. This man had spent his life dreaming, but he had also spent his life dismantling those dreams to check whether every bone in them was sturdy. 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 far below the minimum standard that they don't even reach it." His voice suddenly hardened, like a commander barking orders on a drill field in Zhenjiang. "The court demands a three-pronged advance—Huaihe, Jinghu, and Shukou. It sounds grand, but have you calculated it? Where will the grain for these three armies come from? The granaries of Jianghuai suffered drought last year; their reserves are less than sixty percent of a normal year. Jinghu has grain, but transporting it to the front along the Han River means fighting upstream—there aren't enough haulers. Sichuan is worse: the Shu roads are treacherous—you've walked them yourself. To deliver one dan of grain from Chengdu to the front at Lizhou, three dan are consumed on the way. 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. Han Taishi claims he's rushing the production of arrowheads—do you know what quality they are? I inspected a batch in Zhenjiang; the tips were inadequately quenched, shattering on iron armor without even leaving a dent. The bowstrings are made of southern hemp; in the northern winter, 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, iron pots, 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 the blade.

"This is my own sword. I had it forged by a blacksmith I found myself on the northern border. I don't trust the swords made by Song's official arsenals."

Lu You stared at the exposed blade for a moment, then quickly raised his head: "You'an, I know all this. Insufficient arms, inadequate grain, poor equipment—these are problems, but has any northern expedition ever not faced them? When Zhang Jun launched his northern campaign, weren't conditions worse than today? When Yu Yunwen won at Caishi, it wasn't superior equipment that won the day—it was the soldiers' willingness to die! As long as the troops fight with all their might, these difficulties can be overcome—"

"Fangweng," Xin Qiji interrupted, his voice suddenly lowered, "that's the second thing I must tell you. Do the troops fight with all their might?"

Lu You froze.

Xin Qiji slid his sword back into its scabbard, pressed both hands on the desk, and leaned forward slightly: "Do you know what the Song army is like now? The Imperial Guards collect phantom pay—five payrolls under one name, while only one actual soldier serves. The regional armies have long become government laborers—building roads, hauling cargo, carrying palanquins—rarely touching their swords for a year. How many truly combat-capable units remain? The Huaihe front claims 150,000 troops—I personally counted them. 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 chillingly calm delivery.

"And the generals? The generals are worse. Since Wu Mu, how many capable commanders does the Song have left? Over the 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, hereditary lord of Shukou, pretends loyalty, but has long harbored treasonous intentions—this is no secret to the court, yet no one dares expose it. Fangweng, I'm not trying to douse your fire—you must open your eyes. You dream of the people offering food and wine, of the imperial army reclaiming the north—but this army before you may not even cross the Huaihe."

Lu You fell silent for a long time. A candle flame popped, sending sparks onto the desk; no one brushed them away. He stared at the stack of poems he had written, the paper glowing warm yellow in the candlelight, each character still burning. But Xin Qiji's words were like 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 border of the Jin, where Lu You had sketched faint circles labeled "Grassland Tribes."

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

"Fangweng, do you know why Wanyan Honglie came to Lin'an in person?"

Lu You frowned: "The Jin fear our northern expedition—they're stalling for time."

"Correct. But they're not afraid of us." Xin Qiji traced a circle over the northern Jin border. "They're afraid of what's up north. Wanyan Honglie met secretly with Han Tuozhou in Lin'an. I don't know what they discussed, but my spies overheard a remark from a servant at the Duting Posthouse—Wanyan Honglie said, 'If the Jin fall, the Song will be next.'"

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

"The Xinming Party is not an ordinary grassland tribe." Xin Qiji's finger tapped the northern border. "They swallowed the grasslands in two years, and the Western Xia in six months. Wanyan Honglie has fought them on the northern border for five years—and in five years, he has gained not an inch of land—not one inch. Wanyan Honglie is the Jin's most formidable prince; his northern border troops are the 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 back, 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; they're reorganizing the Western Xia army into vassal forces. Once they've digested it, their next target will be the Jin. And if—"

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

"If we cripple each other with the Jin before they strike—"