Chapter 190

Shukou, Western Front Song Army Main 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 set a price," he said to the envoy, his tone as casual as discussing tonight's meal. "Territorial fiefdom, 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: "His Majesty, the Emperor of Great Jin, says the Wu family has guarded the western frontier for generations, meriting great service to the state. Now the Song court is incompetent, and Han Tuozhou, a mere imperial relative, wields power. Why should you die for him?"

Wu Xi said nothing. He stood, walked to the tent flap, and lifted it to look outside. Late July in Shukou was unbearably hot; the outline of the Qin Ling 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 ago under the pretense of "transporting grain."

"How is the eastern front?" he suddenly asked.

The Li 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 crushed. General Heshilie Zhizhong is pursuing. Most cities in Huaibei have likely already fallen."

Wu Xi's lips twitched—perhaps a smile, perhaps confirmation. He let the tent flap fall and returned to his desk, sitting again.

"Your offer has two problems," he said, holding up two fingers. "First, territorial fiefdom—what title? King of Shu? Or some hollow honor to fool me? Second, you speak of hereditary rule over Shu, but that northern beast that swallowed Western Xia—you Jin may not even hold it. When the steppe people come south, what guarantee will you offer that my 'King of Shu' will remain secure?"

The Li 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 he truly intended to secede, neither Jin nor Southern Song could dislodge him.

"Your Majesty," he suddenly changed his address, "Great Jin recognizes you as King of Shu, with Jianmen as the boundary, hereditary and unbroken. As for the steppe—Your Majesty, precisely because the steppe exists, our deal becomes necessary. Great Jin needs stability on the southern front to focus northward; Your Majesty needs to turn Shu into an impregnable fortress before the great change 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? Court suspicion, civil officials' accusations, Han Tuozhou, this upstart, riding atop 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 a puppet Han Tuozhou placed above him because he was obedient.

"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 Li envoy's eyes.

"Great 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 object 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—" he paused, "mutual reinforcement."

The Li envoy was overjoyed inside but showed no expression, bowing deeply: "Your Majesty's foresight is complete. I shall return immediately to Bianjing; the Emperor of Great Jin will surely 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 deferential, earnest, showing no flaw.

The other letter, to his trusted generals, was entirely different. It was short: only three lines. Eastern front has collapsed. 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 guards, and sent them out separately.

Outside, the night was thick as ink. The Qin Ling outline had vanished; only scattered fires glowed on distant beacon towers. Those towers had been built by his father, originally to warn north against Jin. Now, his own loyalists stationed on them watched southward—watching toward Chengdu.

Three days later, the official battle report of the eastern collapse reached the western front camp.

Accompanying it was another message: Han Tuozhou ordered troops from the western front to be transferred east to compensate for the eastern army's heavy losses. 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 before Cheng Song's face, showing obedient deference, even volunteering to lead the eastern expedition 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 south into the Shukou passes. Disobedience means execution.

Second: All key passes into Shu—Jianmen, Jiameng, Jiangyou—must be reassigned. Command must pass to Wu family veterans. The original commanders are "retained on site," but in truth, placed 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—from Dasanguan to Jianmen, then 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 waging a northern campaign," Wu Xi said to his personal advisor, his voice strangely calm. "He fights Jin. I fight time. When he has lost every last stitch of his eastern forces, Shu will bear the Wu surname. Whether Jin wins or the steppe wins—they will all have to negotiate with me."

The advisor bowed: "Your Majesty's planning is flawless."

Wu Xi ignored the flattery. He kept staring at the map, his gaze fixed on the vast land north of Shukou—Jin territory. Beyond that, the steppe—the monster that devoured Western Xia. He knew what he was doing: 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 advisor replied: "Latest intelligence: Western Xia has fully submitted. Its army is being reorganized. Steppe garrisons have entered the Western Xia Northern Border, roughly fifty thousand, all cavalry."

Wu Xi's finger tapped once on the land north of Qin Ling, 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 shield anyone."

The advisor 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 at 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—no, of "Shu Kingdom."

The candle flickered once more and went out. Wu Xi lay awake in darkness, listening to the wind of Qin Ling whistle through the passes, a low moan.

It was the wind of August. In three months, the steppe winter would come. And would that monster on the steppe strike Jin's gate before winter arrived?

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