Chapter 192

Lin’an. Grand Master’s Mansion.

Han Tuozhou had not attended court for three days.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go—he was afraid to. Three days ago, as usual, he rode in his sedan chair toward the palace; barely had it left his mansion when a group of imperial students blocked the road. They dared not curse him, only stood silently beside the path, staring at the sedan, holding banners with eight characters: “Where are the Royal Armies? The Huai River is red.” No stones were thrown, no slogans shouted—only silent, unblinking stares. That silence was colder than any scream.

The sedan turned back. When Han Tuozhou stepped out, his foot slipped off the step and he stumbled, nearly falling. His attendants rushed to help, but he shoved them away. He walked straight into his study, shut the door, and never came out again.

Now he sat in his study, a pile of military reports spread before him. He had read them over and over, each time uncovering new wounds: Guo Zhuo’s catastrophic defeat at Suzhou, nearly half of eighty thousand elite troops lost; Li Shuang’s retreat from Lingbi; Tian Junmai’s retreat from Hongxian; Zhao Duan opening Sizhoucheng to the enemy. Xue Shusi withdrew from Dengzhou to Xiangyang, pursued by Jin cavalry for six days and six nights, losing over ten thousand men and the entire Tangzhou. And Wu Xi—Wu Xi sat motionless at Shukou. Eight summoning orders had been sent; each was refused with the excuse: “North to guard against the Xia barbarians, west to defend the steppe.”

“Eight.” Han Tuozhou murmured, his finger tracing the reports. “Eight summoning orders—and he won’t even send two thousand men.”

A soft knock came at the study door. In came Su Shidan; his face was no better than Han Tuozhou’s. This trusted confidant, raised by Han Tuozhou himself, was now the most visible target in court. Impeachment memorials piled high on the desks of the State Council—accusations of “embezzling military pay,” “framing loyal ministers,” and more, countless and varied.

“Grand Master,” Su Shidan whispered, voice low, “Shi Miyuan’s men submitted three more impeachment memorials today. One accuses Deng Youlong of ‘falsifying battle achievements and delaying military operations’; one accuses me of ‘embezzling grain rations’; and one—”

He paused.

“And one accuses whom?” Han Tuozhou asked.

“You, Grand Master,” Su Shidan nearly spat the words through clenched teeth. “‘Lightly provoking border conflicts, trusting traitors, losing armies and disgracing the nation.’ Twenty-three signatories.”

Han Tuozhou did not rage. Rage had been his earlier response. When the first impeachment came, he smashed his inkstone. The third, he shattered his teacup. The fifteenth, he publicly rebuked the accuser in court: “Framing ministers, shaking the state’s foundation.” But now it was the twenty-third—he found he had no strength left even for anger.

“Shi Miyuan.” He spoke the name, and even his lips curled into a smile. “At the start of the year, he knelt here, calling the northern campaign a ‘great enterprise for a thousand generations,’ vowing to ‘spill his blood and brains to aid the Grand Master.’ You warned me to watch him—I didn’t listen.”

Su Shidan said nothing. His silence was answer enough.

Han Tuozhou rose and walked to the window. Lin’an in July was a steaming cauldron, yet he felt cold seeping from every bone. Outside lay his meticulously tended garden—rockeries, flowing streams, winding paths, every stone placed with care. When he built this garden, he imagined spending his remaining years here, raising grandchildren, enjoying peace. Now he looked at it, and every stone seemed to stare back at him.

“News from the north,” he suddenly asked, “the steppe—confirmed?”

Su Shidan hesitated. “Latest scout reports: Western Xia has become a complete vassal. Jin forces have entered its northern border—fifty thousand strong. The Jin’s northern front is pinned down.”

“So,” Han Tuozhou’s voice dropped to a whisper, “we attack Jin, Jin is crushed, yet they’d rather pull weak, old troops from the southern front to plug the northern hole than move a single soldier from the north. What are they afraid of?”

“The steppe.”

“Yes. The steppe.” Han Tuozhou turned, eyes bloodshot but piercingly clear. “My original judgment was that Jin was hollow—perfect for a killing blow. Now I see: Jin is hollow, yes—but the emptiness isn’t for us to fill. They’d rather give up territory to us than risk losing the northern front. That means whatever lies north is far more terrifying than we are.”

He paused, weighing his next words.

“But why did I only realize this now?”

Su Shidan had no reply.

At that moment, hurried footsteps sounded outside the study. A staff officer burst in, clutching a secret report, face pale with terror. Han Tuozhou took it, opened it, glanced once—and his face drained of all color.

The report read: General Cheng Song urgently reported that Wu Xi had secretly moved his loyal troops to seize Jianmen Pass, Jiameng Pass, and other critical entrances to Shu. Cheng Song’s messengers sent to mobilize troops were barred at the passes; Wu Xi replied: “Border situation critical—troops cannot be dispatched.” At the end of the report, Cheng Song wrote four characters: “I have lost control.”

Han Tuozhou crushed the report into a ball, gripping it in his fist. Veins on his hand bulged like worms writhing beneath his skin. He stood with eyes closed for a long time, then opened them and spoke a sentence that chilled Su Shidan to the bone.

“Cheng Song is the Pacification Commissioner. He can’t control Wu Xi—I knew that. But I didn’t replace him, because replacing him wouldn’t help—Western Army only recognizes the Wu name. Three generations: the Wu family’s roots in Shukou run deeper than my Grand Master’s mansion.” He tossed the crumpled report onto the desk. “Now Wu Xi wants to secede—and I have not a single troop capable of entering Shukou. The eastern army is shattered, the central army is shattered, the court’s forces are all pinned along the Huai River facing the Jin. Who will pacify Shu?”

Su Shidan opened his mouth but no sound came out. They both knew the answer: no one.

Han Tuozhou slowly sat back in his chair. It was his favorite zitan chair, its armrests polished smooth by years of touch. He leaned back—and for the first time, he felt old.

“What does Shi Miyuan know,” he suddenly asked, “about Wu Xi?”

The staff officer bowed. “Grand Master, Shi’s men have been frequently entering the Military Commission to review western front reports. Our observers believe they’ve already obtained evidence of Wu Xi’s secret communications with Jin envoys.”

“Yet they haven’t impeached Wu Xi,” Han Tuozhou said, voice unnervingly calm. “Shi Miyuan impeaches me for ‘lightly provoking border conflicts,’ impeaches you for ‘embezzling grain rations,’ impeaches Deng Youlong for ‘falsifying battle achievements’—but Wu Xi has sat motionless on the western front for two months, and he hasn’t submitted a single impeachment. Why?”

Su Shidan finally spoke the answer: “He’s saving his cards. Wu Xi—he’s saving him for the end.”

“Yes.” Han Tuozhou’s lips curled again into that smile. “What good would impeaching Wu Xi do? Wu Xi was placed on the western front against all advice. Many urged me: ‘The Wu family has ruled Shu for generations—too powerful, too entrenched, never grant more authority.’ I said: ‘If you use a man, trust him; if you doubt him, don’t use him.’ I personally signed his appointment. I personally wrote: ‘Full authority over the western front entrusted to Wu Xi.’ Now Wu Xi turns traitor—this responsibility? Wu Xi’s treason is my Han Tuozhou raising a tiger to devour myself. This isn’t ‘lightly provoking border conflicts’ or ‘poor personnel choices.’ This is ‘state traitor.’”

When he spoke those final two words, the study fell into a suffocating silence. The cicadas outside suddenly shrieked, as if desperately warning him of something.

The staff officer bowed and withdrew. Su Shidan stood, staring at Han Tuozhou, wanting to say something comforting—but found he could not. They were both clever men. Between clever men, comfort was unnecessary—only facts mattered. And the facts were: the northern campaign had failed, the eastern front had collapsed, the western front was about to rebel, twenty-three impeachment memorials had been signed, and Shi Miyuan still held a card deadly enough to kill him.

Han Tuozhou suddenly rose, walked to the bookshelf, and took from a hidden compartment a letter. The envelope was frayed at the edges, clearly handled many times. He unfolded it and laid it on the desk. Su Shidan recognized the handwriting—Xin Qiji’s.

The letter contained only four lines: “The Jin retreat but do not collapse. The western army hesitates and does not advance. The steppe’s wolves have grown strong. The Royal Armies’ northern campaign should be delayed.”

“This was written before the war,” Han Tuozhou pointed to the date on the paper. “I read it then and thought him a scholar’s fool—timid, hesitant. Now I see—” He fell silent for a long time. “Old Xin was right. All of it. The Jin retreat but do not collapse—they’re withdrawing deliberately. The western army hesitates and does not advance—Wu Xi is waiting for his price. The steppe’s wolves have grown strong—my greatest enemy in this northern campaign isn’t in Bianjing at all.”

He refolded the letter and returned it to the hidden compartment. Then he turned to Su Shidan, his gaze suddenly sharp as a blade.

“Shi Miyuan wants my life—I know that. But I cannot fall now. Wu Xi hasn’t openly rebelled. The Jin army hasn’t crossed the Huai. The steppe still licks its paws to the north. If I fall, the court will be in chaos for at least three months—three months enough for Wu Xi to declare himself king, enough for the Jin to cross the Huai, enough for that man in the steppe to decide his next move.”

He clenched his fist, knuckles white.

“Go arrange two things. First: find a way to stabilize Wu Xi. Even if you grant him the highest title, as long as he doesn’t raise the banner of independence, any condition is negotiable. Second—” He paused. “Send someone to Jiangxi. Bring Xin Qiji to Lin’an. Now.”

Su Shidan blinked. “Grand Master intends to recall Xin Qiji?”

Han Tuozhou did not answer directly. He walked to the window, gazing north, voice barely above a whisper: “Of all the officials in court, only he understood this chess game. I didn’t listen to him—I lost the first half. Now the second half begins. I hope he still comes.”

Outside, the night in Lin’an deepened. From afar, the drum tower tolled four times—midnight.

Han Tuozhou remained at the window, motionless. He knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight—and neither would Shi Miyuan, across the city. In Shi Miyuan’s study, lights still burned—the man who had endured six months of silence, now carefully crafting every word of an impeachment. At its end, four characters were surely already written.

He knew exactly which four.