Chapter 190

Shukou, Western Front Song Army Camp.

Wu Xi read the Jin envoy’s letter three times, then held it to the candle flame. The silk curled and turned to ash, falling onto the desk like a dead black butterfly.

“You Jin people really know how to bid high,” he said to the envoy, his tone as casual as discussing tonight’s dinner, “ceding territory and granting a princely title, hereditary rule over Shu, Jin recognizing your neutrality—this offer has risen again since two months ago.”

The envoy was a Han Chinese man in his forties, surnamed Li, holding the Jin court post of Hanlin Attendant, specializing in persuasion and defection. He bowed and said, “The Great Jin Emperor declares that the Wu family has guarded the western frontier for generations, meriting great service to the state. Now the Song court is blind and corrupt; Han Tuozhou, an imperial relative, wields power. Why should you die for him?”

Wu Xi said nothing. He rose, walked to the tent flap, and lifted it to look outside. Late July in Shukou was unbearably hot; the outline of the Qinling Mountains loomed in the dusk like a black barrier. His camp was solidly fortified—ditches, palisades, arrow towers—all present—but every defense faced north, toward Jin. The southern passes into Shu, he had already replaced with his own loyalists two months prior under the pretense of transporting grain.

“How is the eastern front?” he suddenly asked.

The Jin envoy paused, then understood he meant the eastern theater. He did not conceal it, for Jin needed facts to speak: “Outside Suzhou, your general Guo Zhuo’s force has been shattered. General Heshilie Zhizhong is pursuing; most cities north of the Huai River are likely already lost.”

Wu Xi’s lips twitched—perhaps a smile, perhaps confirmation. He lowered the flap and returned to his desk, sitting again.

“Your offer has two problems,” he said, holding up two fingers. “First, ceding territory and granting a princely title—what princely title? Prince of Shu? Or some hollow honor to fool me? Second, you speak of hereditary rule over Shu, but that northern beast that devoured Xi Xia—you Jin may not even hold it. When the steppe nomads come south, what guarantee will you offer that my ‘Prince of Shu’ will remain secure?”

The Jin envoy fell silent. He knew Wu Xi was not a man to be fooled by empty words. The Wu family had guarded Shu for three generations, commanding the Song’s most elite western army. If Wu Xi truly intended to secede, neither Jin nor Southern Song could dislodge him.

“Your Highness,” he suddenly changed his address, “the Great Jin recognizes you as Prince of Shu, with Jianmen as the border, hereditary and unbroken. As for the steppe—Your Highness, precisely because the steppe exists, our agreement becomes all the more necessary. Jin needs stability on the southern front to focus fully northward; Your Highness needs to turn Shu into an impregnable fortress before the great upheaval arrives. We each gain what we need. This is not a transaction—it is fate.”

Wu Xi fell silent again. The candle flickered, casting his shadow on the tent wall like a swelling giant.

He remembered many things. His grandfather Wu Lin. His father Wu Ting. Three generations of the Wu family had guarded Shukou their entire lives—what had they earned? Distrust from the court, accusations from civil officials, Han Tuozhou, this upstart, riding over them, giving orders. This northern campaign: Cheng Song was the Pacification Commissioner; he was deputy. What did Cheng Song know of warfare? He was merely Han Tuozhou’s puppet, placed above him.

“As for Cheng Song,” Wu Xi finally spoke, his voice calm as if deploying a drill, “I will handle him. I have already arranged all the passes into Shu. But there is one condition—”

He fixed his gaze on the Jin envoy’s eyes.

“Jin must continue pressing the retreating Song forces on the eastern front, creating sufficient pressure. The more desperate Han Tuozhou becomes, the less anyone will dare oppose me when I declare ‘defending our borders and securing the people.’ If the court dares send troops into Shu, you must launch a major crossing of the Huai River. This is called—” he paused, “mutual reinforcement.”

The Jin envoy was overjoyed inside, but his face showed nothing. He bowed deeply: “Your Highness has considered every detail. I shall return immediately to Bianjing; the Great Jin Emperor will respond.”

Wu Xi waved him off. The tent fell silent again, save the faint crackle of the candle.

He sat alone at his desk for a long time. Then he spread out a sheet of paper and began writing a letter. One to Han Tuozhou, stating that the western front was locked in stalemate with Jin forces, supplies were running low, and the court must urgently dispatch thirty thousand taels in military pay. The tone was respectful, earnest, revealing no flaw.

The other letter, to his trusted generals, was entirely different. It was short: only three lines. Eastern front has collapsed; the situation will change. All passes must be on high alert. No one may pass without my personal order. Anyone who violates this shall be executed.

He sealed both letters, summoned his personal guard, and dispatched them separately.

Outside, the night was thick as ink. The Qinling Mountains had vanished; only scattered beacon fires glowed in the distance. Those beacons had been built by his father, originally to warn northward against Jin. Now, his loyalists stationed at those beacons watched southward—watching toward Chengdu.

Three days later, the official battle report of the eastern defeat arrived at the western camp.

Accompanying it was another message: Han Tuozhou ordered the western forces to be redeployed eastward to compensate for the catastrophic losses on the eastern front. The order, co-signed by Cheng Song, demanded Wu Xi immediately dispatch twenty thousand elite troops down the Yangtze to reinforce Huaijiang.

Wu Xi accepted the order in front of Cheng Song, showing deference, even volunteering to lead the troops east himself. Cheng Song was greatly pleased and immediately sent a report to Lin’an: “Deputy Commander Wu demonstrates profound loyalty.”

Then Wu Xi returned to his central command tent, shut the door, and threw the order into the brazier.

“Twenty thousand elite troops?” he sneered at the flames. “If those men leave Shukou, what will I have left to defend Jianmen?”

He immediately summoned his trusted generals and issued three secret orders.

First: The thirty thousand elite troops stationed at Dasanguan must immediately withdraw fifty li into the Shukou passes. Disobedience means execution.

Second: All key passes into Shu—Jianmen, Jiameng, Jiangyou—must be fully re-garrisoned by Wu family veterans. The original commanders are “retained in place,” but are in fact under house arrest.

Third: The garrison in Chengdu must begin covert martial law, monitoring every move of the Sichuan Pacification Commission. Any envoy from Lin’an entering Shu must first report to me; no direct contact with Chengdu officials is permitted.

After issuing the three orders, Wu Xi stood before the map and traced a line with his finger along the Qinling Mountains—from Dasanguan to Jianmen, to the entrance of the Yangtze Gorges—a line encircling all of Shu. From today, this line was his border.

“Han Tuozhou thinks he is launching a northern campaign,” Wu Xi said to his close aide, his voice strangely calm. “He fights Jin. I fight time. When he has lost everything on the eastern front, Shu will already bear the Wu name. Whether Jin wins or the steppe wins—they will all have to negotiate with me.”

The aide bowed: “Your Highness’s planning leaves no gap.”

Wu Xi ignored the flattery. He still stared at the map, his gaze fixed on the vast land north of Shukou—Jin territory. Beyond that, the steppe—the beast that devoured Xi Xia. He knew his actions were treason, secession, opportunism. But chaos was coming; the plaques of loyal ministers and martyrs were mere decorations on temple walls. Three generations of the Wu family had guarded the Zhao emperors’ gates—only to be rewarded with “merit so great it threatens the throne.”

“Any new news from the steppe?” he asked.

The aide replied: “Latest intelligence: Xi Xia has fully submitted; its army is being reorganized. Steppe garrisons have entered northern Xi Xia—approximately fifty thousand, all cavalry.”

Wu Xi’s finger tapped once north of the Qinling, then stopped.

“Fifty thousand,” he repeated. “The vanguard. How many more follow?”

“Unknown.”

“It will become known soon enough.” Wu Xi withdrew his hand and turned from the map. “Go press Jin again. I accept their terms—but add one more: if the steppe moves south, Jin must notify me thirty days in advance. I will not stand as anyone’s shield.”

The aide bowed and withdrew.

The tent was alone with Wu Xi again. He sat on the chair draped in Shu silk, slowly closing his eyes. Outside, soldiers changed guard; their commands echoed faintly—the old Wu family code, used since his grandfather’s time.

He suddenly remembered something. At seven, his grandfather Wu Lin had held him atop Dasanguan, pointing north toward the mountains: “Xi, our ancestral legacy lies here. So does the Song’s land. When you grow up, you must guard this place.”

He had nodded then. Now he sat fifty li south of Dasanguan, turning that very pass into the northern gate of Shu—not of Song, but of “Shu State.”

The candle flickered once more and died. Wu Xi lay in darkness, eyes open, listening to the August wind whistle through the passes, a low, mournful sigh.

That was the wind of August. Three months from now, the steppe’s winter would come. And would that beast strike Jin’s gate before winter arrived?

He did not know. But he knew: once that gate was breached, the tremor would not be felt only in Bianjing.