Chapter 177: The Internal Causes of the Northern Expedition's Failure

He did not finish that sentence. Because there was no need to finish it.

Lu You sat in the chair, his hands resting on his knees. His hands were thin, with veins bulging and nails trimmed neatly—these were hands that had written poems for decades. He looked at his own hands and remained silent for a long time.

Xin Qiji thought he was digesting this information, thought he was reweighing the pros and cons of the Northern Expedition, thought he was painfully revising a belief he had held for eighty years. But when Lu You raised his head, what Xin Qiji saw was not wavering, not hesitation, not pain. He saw a pair of burning eyes.

"You'an," Lu You spoke, his voice hoarse, but every word seemed tempered by fire, "you said the Jin Kingdom fears not us, but that power to the north. You said the Jin Kingdom and that power to the north must fight. If we wait until they have finished fighting, until the Jin Kingdom is destroyed, that power will become an enemy ten times more terrifying than the Jin Kingdom, correct?"

"Correct."

"That is to say, now is our only window of opportunity."

Xin Qiji was stunned. He had not expected this eighty-something old man to approach from this angle. He had spent half a shichen analyzing all the problems of the Northern Expedition; Lu You listened, digested, and then turned around to seize the core of the problem—because there is a tiger to the north, one must act before the tiger devours the Jin Kingdom. This was precisely Han Tuozhou's logic as well.

"Fangweng brother, the window of opportunity does exist, but have you thought—what if the Northern Expedition fails? If we exhaust the entire nation's strength for the Northern Expedition, only to be unable to win, and instead deplete the national power, then when the tiger to the north finishes swallowing the Jin Kingdom and comes south, what will we use to block it?"

Lu You slowly stood up, walked to Xin Qiji's front, raised his head, and looked at him. Lu You was nearly a head shorter than Xin Qiji and nearly twenty years older, but his momentum at this moment was like that of a veteran questioning a new recruit.

"The Northern Expedition can certainly fail! But if the Northern Expedition fails, the Great Song is still the Great Song; we still have the Huaihe, we still have the Yangtze, we still have the southern half of the land. But what if we do not launch the Northern Expedition? You'an, if we do not launch the Northern Expedition, after the Jin Kingdom is swallowed by the north, that colossal entity will monopolize all the resources of the Central Plains—population, granaries, iron mines, city defense systems. Then their cavalry, combined with the Central Plains' grain, the iron smelting of Guanzhong, and the population of Hebei, how long do you think the southern half of the land can be defended? If the Northern Expedition fails, we can still retreat and defend. If we do not launch the Northern Expedition, we won't even have the chance to defend."

Xin Qiji fell silent.

Rooster crowing came from outside the window. Unknowingly, a line of gray-white had appeared on the horizon. The candles in the study had long since burned out; neither of the two had risen to change them, but sat facing each other in the increasingly bright morning light. The poetry drafts on the table were stirred by the morning breeze leaking through the window crack, making a soft rustling sound, as if those verses were breathing on their own.

"You'an," Lu You spoke in the gray morning light, his voice suddenly devoid of the earlier passion, becoming very soft, very soft, "I am over eighty years old. In this life of mine, I have seen everything. During the Jingkang Humiliation, I was still in my mother's arms, but that humiliation followed me for a lifetime. I fought in Nanzheng, bled at Dasaiguan, got drunk, cried, and wrote poems cursing those who sought complacent peace in countless rainy nights. I have waited eighty years for the Northern Expedition. What concept is eighty years? How old are you this year? You and I both know, this may be the last time in our lives we see the banner of the Northern Expedition."

He lowered his head, looking at the back of his hands covered in age spots.

"The problems you mentioned, I have heard them all. Not enough grain, inadequate equipment, incapable generals—I believe all of these. But I do not care. Even if this army has only a thirty percent chance, I must write poems for them. Not because I am blind, not because I do not understand military affairs, but because this life of mine has only this one thing left. I can no longer go on campaign, I can no longer ride a horse, I can no longer lift a blade. The only thing I can do is write. My poems may not change the battlefield situation, but at least they can let those fighting desperately on the front lines know that behind them is an eighty-something old man, by the Jing Lake in Shanyin, drumming for them day and night. That is enough."

Xin Qiji stood up, his back to Lu You, looking out the window. The morning mist over Jing Lake had not yet fully dissipated; a small boat slowly rowed across the lake surface, the fisherman holding a bamboo pole, his movements slow like someone from another era. He clasped his hands behind his back, stood for a long time, spoke not a word, and made no move. The morning light shone on his broad back, illuminating the wrinkles of that old war robe with perfect clarity.

Then he waved his hand. The exact same gesture as last night—not a statement, not a denial, but a helplessness seeping out from the cracks in his bones. That gesture contained respect for an old friend, a pessimism too painful to speak aloud, and a complex emotion a veteran holds for all beautiful wishes—wishes that he himself also held, but he knew too well how wide the gap was between those wishes and reality.

"Fangweng brother." His voice was hoarse, as if ground by sand and gravel, "Your poems, continue to write them. Write them well. But there is one thing, you must help me with."

"Speak."

"You just said, if the Northern Expedition fails, we can still retreat to defend the Yangtze; if the Jin Kingdom is swallowed by the north, and the northern iron cavalry comes south, we won't even have the chance to defend." He turned around, looking at Lu You, "These two sentences, you spoke correctly. But have you thought of a third possibility—"

He paused for a moment.

"Han Taishi's Northern Expedition may not be defeated by the Jin Kingdom, but by ourselves. Internal warlord separatism, court infighting, generals with divided hearts, interruption of grain supplies—every time the Great Song launched a Northern Expedition, what was truly defeated was being stabbed to death by our own people. This time, I am not afraid of the Jin Kingdom, nor am I afraid of that new Ming Party to the north; what I fear is that someone, for their own career, will sell out the two hundred thousand strong army."

Lu You was stunned: "You mean—"

Xin Qiji did not answer directly. He picked up the sword on the table and hung it on his waist again, straightened his clothes, and performed a military salute to Lu You. That salute was performed with extreme formality, extreme solemnity; it did not look like a farewell between old friends, but rather like a general about to depart for the front bidding farewell to a highly respected senior.

"Fangweng brother, I am returning to Zhenjiang. Your poetry drafts, I will take to the front lines and read them to the soldiers. Every word you write in the rear is the war drum of me, Xin Qiji, on the front lines. But," he straightened his body, looking into Lu You's eyes, "from now on, when you write poems, you must hold another thing in your heart."

"What thing?"

"If." Xin Qiji spat out these two words, his voice very soft, very slow, "If the Northern Expedition fails, your poems must still be written. Not for the front-line soldiers, but for future generations. Tell them how this Northern Expedition failed. Tell them exactly where the Great Song lost. Tell them—when the next red flag from the north blows over, how to prepare."

Lu You's hand holding the brush paused.

Xin Qiji walked to the door, pushed it open, and the cold morning wind rushed in. He stood at the door for an instant, as if remembering something. He turned his head to look at the old military flag hanging on the wall of Lu You's study—a relic from the Nanzheng front line, faded, with torn edges, but still there. Then he looked up at the gloomy winter sky of Shanyin, the lead-gray cloud layers pressing very low, the water of Jing Lake shimmering with cold light.

He swung himself onto the horse. The old horse let out a loud snort and trotted along the frozen, hard earth road. The attendants followed behind, and the figures of the two people quickly disappeared into the morning mist.

The sound of horse hooves gradually faded away. Lu You stood at the door, looking in the direction where Xin Qiji had disappeared for a long time. The morning wind messed up his graying hair, the hem of that old cotton robe was lifted by the wind and then fell back down. Then he slowly walked back to the study, sat at the desk, picked up the brush, and wrote the sentence Xin Qiji said when he left onto the paper—"If the Northern Expedition fails, your poems must still be written. They are for future generations. Tell them how this Northern Expedition failed. Tell them exactly where the Great Song lost."

He looked at this line of characters for a long time, suddenly feeling that the ten thousand-plus poems he had written in his life might not be as heavy as these few sentences. But he also knew that if that day truly came, he would definitely write. Not because he was brave, but because this life of his could only do this one thing.

He folded that piece of paper, pressed it under the inkstone, and then spread out a new sheet of paper. The ink was already ground, the brush tip soaked full of ink. He lifted the brush, suspended it above the paper surface, and suspended it for a long time.