Chapter 183

Dasan Pass.

In April of Kaixi Year Two, the wind swept over the northern slopes of the Qinling Mountains, carrying dust from the Loess Plateau, making the banners on the pass walls snap loudly. Wu Xi stood behind the battlements, his hand resting on the cold blue bricks, gazing northward across the mountains. His troops lined up below the ramparts, swords and spears gleaming, morale high. The news of the northern expedition had reached Shukou two months ago, and one victory report after another came in from the allied armies—Sizhoucheng retaken, Hongxian retaken, Tangzhou retaken. The eastern army was fighting at Lingbi, the central army besieging Dengzhou, both campaigns raging fiercely. Yet the western army’s fifty thousand elite troops had been squatting behind Dasan Pass for two months, not advancing an inch.

“Deputy Commander.” A voice came from behind. Wu Xi did not turn; he knew who it was—Cheng Song. The Commissioner of Pacification for the western army, the nominal commander-in-chief. Cheng Song wore a brand-new official robe, his belt cinched tight, his steps quick and fluttering, like a brocade pheasant trapped too long in a cage. He stepped beside Wu Xi and lowered his voice. “Lin’an has sent another demand. This is the third memorial this month. Grand Tutor Han himself asked—when will the western army advance north?”

Wu Xi slowly turned. He was nearly a head taller than Cheng Song; looking down at him, his expression was casually gentle. “Commander Cheng, I too wish to march soon. But as you see, the situation now—the Xixia forces to the west remain unpredictable. According to our spies, tens of thousands of Xinming Party troops are stationed within Xixia territory. If our main force moves north and Xixia strikes from the flank, cutting off our supply lines—who will bear the responsibility?”

Cheng Song opened his mouth.

“And,” Wu Xi continued calmly, “the plank roads north of Dasan Pass haven’t been substantially repaired since the end of the Shaoxing era. Grain carts jolt and collapse every three steps, fall apart every five. Without repairing these roads, how will we transport provisions for fifty thousand men? If supplies can’t reach them, will our soldiers fight on air and wind?”

“Then… how long would it take to repair them?”

“Hard to say.” Wu Xi shook his head, his tone almost pitying, as if lamenting Cheng Song’s plight. “It depends on the weather. April brings heavy rains in the mountains; newly laid planks rot in a single downpour. It also depends on the laborers—you know, Commander Cheng, conscripting laborers in Shu is difficult. Spring plowing has just ended, and the fields still lack hands. I’ve been pushing the work hard, but such matters cannot be rushed.” His tone remained unhurried, as if genuinely exhausted by the weight of strategic concerns, his expression earnest, flawless.

Cheng Song stood frozen, his lips trembling for a long while, yet he said nothing. He was no fool—he saw clearly that Wu Xi was stalling. But what could he do? He was Commissioner of Pacification, nominally in command of the eastern and western armies of Lizhou. Yet the Wu family had ruled Shukou for generations—from Wu Jie and Wu Lin to Wu Xi—seventy years of entrenched power. Every pass, every garrison, every commander with real authority here was a Wu family veteran. This outsider Commissioner, appointed from Lin’an, could not issue a single order beyond the camp gates—once outside, not a single battalion commander would obey him.

Wu Xi watched Cheng Song’s figure vanish down the steps beneath the rampart, then slowly let his smile fade. He was not afraid of Xixia—Xixia had long been a pawn of the Xinming Party, who were now busy absorbing it, reorganizing armies, overhauling ironworks, with no attention to the south. He did not care about Lin’an’s urgent memorials. Han Tuozhou could rage all he wanted—his hand could not reach into Shukou. Shukou belonged to the Wu family.

He glanced once more at the northern mountains, then turned and descended the rampart. Back in his tent, he dismissed all attendants, leaving only one man inside. The man wore a common soldier’s uniform, short in stature, head bowed, face covered by a gray cloth mask. Wu Xi withdrew a sealed letter with red wax from his sleeve, placed it on the table, and pushed it forward.

“Same procedure. Go through Fengxiang. Find Wanyan Anguo.”

The man took the letter, tucked it into his robe, bowed, and slipped out silently. Wu Xi sat alone, brightened the oil lamp, spread a blank military report, picked up his brush, and began drafting the routine letter to Lin’an: “The western army has spent recent days repairing plank roads, transporting provisions, and probing enemy movements in Xixia—all proceeding smoothly. We shall soon advance beyond Dasan Pass to fight the Jin invaders to the death. The court is urged to remain calm and await good tidings.”

The secret envoy crossed the border along a mountain path known only to Wu family loyalists. No official checkpoints lay along the route; local hunters and woodcutters provided support. The round trip between Dasan Pass and Fengxiang took only four days. When the envoy arrived in Fengxiang at midnight, Wanyan Anguo received him in his temporary headquarters in Shaanxi. After reading the letter, Wanyan Anguo fell silent for a moment, then held the paper to the candle flame and burned it. He gave no immediate reply, arranged lodging for the envoy in the side courtyard, and summoned his closest advisors that very night.

“Wu Xi is willing to negotiate.” Wanyan Anguo sat down and poured himself a cup of cold tea. His advisor’s eyes lit up, ready to speak, but Wanyan raised a hand to stop him. He drank the tea slowly, then spoke: “He wants Sichuan. Do we give it to him?”

The advisor froze: “Sichuan? He—”

“He didn’t say it outright. But after several rounds of talks, I know exactly what he wants. He intends to become an independent King of Shu between Jin and Song. His condition: he won’t attack Shaanxi, and we need give him nothing—only recognize his status. His fifty thousand elite troops from Shukou will remain on the sidelines.” Wanyan Anguo set down his cup, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. “This man has great ambition but little courage. He waits for us and Han Tuozhou to exhaust each other before stepping in to claim the spoils.”

“Then what shall we—”

“Delay.” Wanyan Anguo cut him off, voice steady. “He wants to delay—we want it more. Every day he delays, we lose fifty thousand enemies on the western front. Every day I delay, we build another defensive line in Shaanxi. He waits for us and Han Tuozhou to weaken—we wait too—for the northern situation to clarify, for Heshilie Zhizhong to hold the southern front, for Wanyan Honglie to return from Lin’an. Wu Xi wants Sichuan? Fine. Sichuan isn’t mine—it belongs to the Great Jin Emperor. Let him wait. The longer he waits, the better for us. Reply warmly: Great Jin highly values his sincerity; specific terms are under imperial review. Urge him to maintain the standoff, take no rash action.”

The advisor hesitated: “What if he actually moves?”

“He won’t.” Wanyan Anguo said. “If he had the guts, he would have marched out of Dasan Pass two months ago. He’s been squatting behind the walls, repairing roads, probing enemy movements—clearly, he wants neither to be our vanguard nor Han Tuozhou’s pawn. Such men are easiest to handle: just make him feel safe, and he’ll stay put forever.” Wanyan gathered the ash from the burned letter, ground it into powder, and blew it gently. The gray dust settled on the table; he wiped it with his palm, leaving a smudge. “Our greatest enemy right now isn’t Wu Xi, nor Han Tuozhou.” He raised his eyes. “It’s that red banner to the north. Wu Xi wants Sichuan? Give him a painted cake. Cakes cost nothing.”

Four days later, the envoy returned to Dasan Pass with Wanyan Anguo’s reply. The letter was exceedingly courteous, beginning: “Wanyan Anguo, Commander of Shaanxi, Great Jin, bows deeply before Deputy Protector Wu.” It addressed Wu Xi by his Song title, “Deputy Protector,” yet spoke as a high Jin minister, calling him “a wise man who understands the times,” implying the court “strongly approves” of his terms, though bureaucratic procedures required time. It urged Wu Xi to maintain the standoff and avoid provoking suspicion from Lin’an. At the end, it even added considerately: “Dasan Pass is windy and cold. Deputy Protector, please take care of your health for the sake of the state.”

Wu Xi read the letter, nodded in satisfaction, and burned it. He did not need Jin’s immediate agreement—he needed a promise. With this promise, he could rest easy, continuing to squat behind Dasan Pass, writing Lin’an: “Victory imminent,” and writing Jin: “Maintain standoff, take no action.”

Cheng Song’s third memorial urging advance arrived at Wu Xi’s desk in early May. By then, the eastern army had captured Lingbi, the central army was besieging Dengzhou, both fighting fiercely. Only the western army remained motionless. Cheng Song’s letter was filled with anxiety: “The court presses urgently. Grand Tutor Han is furious. If we do not march soon, we cannot answer for it.”

Wu Xi read the memorial, tossed it aside, and ordered a brief reply. The letter contained only four sentences: “Provisions not yet gathered. Plank roads not yet repaired. Xixia threat still unclear. No rash action.” Signed: “Wu Xi, bowing.”

When Cheng Song received the letter, he finally snapped. He rode horseback from his headquarters straight to Wu Xi’s tent. Bursting inside, he shouted: “Deputy Commander! The eastern and central armies are breaking through, capturing city after city, the Jin forces fleeing in terror! This is a once-in-a-millennium opportunity—lost in an instant!”

“Lost in an instant?” Wu Xi suddenly smiled—a flash, swift as a blade’s glint. “Commander Cheng, it’s not that I won’t march—it’s that we’re not ready. An unprepared battle cannot be fought.”

“Then when will we be ready?”

“When we’re ready, we’ll march.”

“You—” Cheng Song trembled with rage. “I’ll report this to the court!”

Wu Xi made no move to stop him. Cheng Song stormed out of the tent, returned to his headquarters, unrolled paper, and began writing his report to Lin’an. He wrote: “Western front progressing smoothly.” He wrote: “Deputy Commander Wu works day and night repairing plank roads.” He wrote: “Victory imminent.” His hand shook; he pierced the paper twice. He knew Wu Xi was stalling—but he dared not speak the truth. As Commissioner of Pacification, any failure on the western front fell first on him. His only options were to press, to delay, to conceal—hoping Wu Xi would one day find his conscience, or that Grand Tutor Han would one day fly into a rage and remove Wu Xi.

But Wu Xi was not afraid of being removed. He knew Han Tuozhou dared not—Shukou’s natural defenses could be held only by the Wu family.

Spring wind poured through the valleys of the Qinling, making the tent flaps snap. Dasan Pass remained as it always was—swords and spears gleaming, banners flying, fifty thousand elite troops standing ready. From the outside, it looked like an army poised to march north. But as spring neared its end, the army still squatted behind the ramparts, not moving an inch. Cheng Song’s reports continued to be sent to Lin’an—flowery in wording, empty in substance.