Chapter 194

The news of Wu Xi's betrayal reached Lin'an on the night of the seventeenth day of the eighth month.

It was not a fast report, not a military dispatch, but a secret memorial smuggled back on horseback from Lizhou Road. The handwriting of Cheng Song, the Pacification Commissioner of Sichuan, was so sloppy it was nearly illegible, filling four pages, each stained with blurred ink blots from water. The courier, Cheng Song's trusted aide, had ridden seven days and seven nights, changing horses eleven times; one collapsed from exhaustion near Hanzhong, and when he reached the gates of Lin'an, he tumbled off his horse, knees slamming into the ground and leaving two bloody marks, his throat so hoarse he could no longer form a complete sentence. He raised the secret memorial above his head, lips trembling for a long moment, then managed only three words: "Wu Xi... has rebelled."

When the secret memorial reached the Privy Council, Su Shidan was on night duty. He opened it, read only three lines, and his hand began to shake. After finishing the entire document, he sat motionless in his chair for a long time, then slowly rose. His expression made the junior clerk beside him dare not utter a single word. He told the clerk, "Prepare the sedan," then hesitated, and added—"Go to the Shi residence."

Shi Miyuan's mansion stood within Qingbo Gate in Lin'an, an unassuming residence on the outside. The gate was small, the eaves low, and no stone lions guarded the entrance—only two neatly trimmed ancient locust trees. The nobles of Lin'an knew the owner was Vice Minister of Rites and Assistant Tutor to the Imperial Prince Zhao Yun, the Empress Yang's most trusted man in court. But they also knew Shi Miyuan rarely spoke openly in court, never directly clashed with Han Tuozhou. When Han Tuozhou held supreme power, Shi Miyuan quietly annotated documents in the Ministry of Rites. When Han Tuozhou was granted the title Grand Master and Chancellor of Military and State Affairs, Shi Miyuan submitted a congratulatory memorial, its wording flawless. When Han Tuozhou convened ministers in the Political Affairs Hall to discuss northern expedition plans, Shi Miyuan always sat in the corner, occasionally speaking only hollow phrases like "Grand Master is wise" or "Your Majesty is sagacious." He was like a fish sunk in deep water—no matter how fierce the surface waves, his position remained invisible.

But some in Lin'an noticed another thing. Since the northern expedition stalled and Han Tuozhou's prestige began its slow decline from its peak, visitors arriving at Shi Miyuan's mansion at night suddenly increased. None were prominent figures—low-ranking censors from the Censorate, minor clerks in the Privy Council who handled military reports, relatives of palace maids serving Empress Yang. Individually, they were insignificant; together, they formed a net spanning the court, the Privy Council, the Censorate, and the inner palace. This net tightened daily, while Han Tuozhou remained oblivious.

When Su Shidan arrived late at night, Shi Miyuan was still awake. The study was lit, a copy of the Zizhi Tongjian open to the Tang Annals section on the Ganlu Incident. Shi Miyuan welcomed Su Shidan in, dismissed all attendants, and poured him a cup of cold tea himself. Su Shidan did not touch the cup. He placed Cheng Song's secret memorial on the table and pushed it over with his finger. Shi Miyuan took it, read page by page. When finished, he gently laid it back on the table, his face showing no surprise or anger—only silence.

"Confirmed?" Shi Miyuan asked. His voice was soft, as if verifying something long anticipated.

"Confirmed," Su Shidan's voice was dry. "Wu Xi declared himself King of Shu, changed the era name, appointed officials. All territory west of Dasanguan now bears the Wu surname."

Shi Miyuan walked to the window, back turned to Su Shidan. Outside, the locust trees rustled in the night wind, moonlight filtering through leaves to scatter silver patches on the windowsill. He stood so long Su Shidan thought he would not speak, then slowly turned. His expression was calm, but Su Shidan saw his eyes—deep, long-suppressed light gleamed within. Not anger. Not fear. The gleam of a hunter who, after a long wait, finally sees his prey expose a flaw.

"Has the Grand Master Han been informed?"

"The memorial first reached the Privy Council. I suppressed it." Su Shidan's voice dropped lower. "I came to see you first."

Shi Miyuan nodded.

For the next three days, Lin'an appeared tranquil on the surface. Han Tuozhou attended court as usual, reviewed documents in the Political Affairs Hall as usual, received messengers from the front as usual. He knew nothing of the secret memorial. Su Shidan did not inform him; all clerks who had handled it were reassigned. Meanwhile, in Shi Miyuan's study, a coup was being organized with astonishing speed. Participants were few—Shi Miyuan himself, Empress Yang's eunuch confidant, the Vice Censor-in-Chief, a deputy commander of the Palace Guard, and several mid-level censors dissatisfied with Han Tuozhou. None were high-ranking ministers. Shi Miyuan did not need grand figures. He needed men in key positions—those controlling palace guards, those with direct access to the Emperor and Empress, those who could launch impeachment in the Censorate, those who could mobilize a unit of imperial troops.

Empress Yang's stance was the most critical link in the coup. Her resentment toward Han Tuozhou ran deep. He had once opposed her elevation to Empress, and she had never forgotten it. Later, her maternal relatives repeatedly petitioned for appointments, all rejected by Han Tuozhou, deepening the rift. But these were old grievances, insufficient to make her resolve to eliminate a minister who dominated the court. What truly pushed her was the fear brought by Wu Xi's rebellion—if Han Tuozhou remained in power, responsibility for Wu Xi's treason would fall on the entire pro-war faction, and if the Jin pursued them, her position as Empress and her adopted son Zhao Yun's status as Imperial Prince might both be lost. She must sacrifice Han Tuozhou as a scapegoat to sever ties with this failed northern expedition.

On the twentieth of August, Empress Yang summoned Shi Miyuan to Cining Palace. The conversation left no record, but when Shi Miyuan left the palace, a secret edict lay hidden in his sleeve. Its content was simple—authorizing Shi Miyuan to "act at his discretion to secure the state." This edict bypassed the Secretariat, the Privy Council, all legal procedures; it bore not the state seal, but the Empress's personal stamp. Legally, it was invalid. But Shi Miyuan did not need legality. He needed only a post-facto justification—"acting on the Empress's imperial decree." Whether the decree was lawful was a problem to be solved only after the coup succeeded.

On the twenty-third of August, at dawn. Lin'an still slept; mist blanketed Xihu, willows along the Su Causeway half-hidden in fog. In Han Tuozhou's mansion, servants were already busy—today was a grand court assembly; the Grand Master must rise early to change robes, review urgent documents delivered overnight, and meet several generals returning from the front. Han Tuozhou donned his court robes, fitted his distinctive marten-and-cicada crown, and fastened the jade-hilted sword bestowed by the late Emperor. He glanced in the bronze mirror, adjusted his collar, then stepped out as usual.

When the sedan reached the outer gates of Yongjin Gate, it suddenly stopped.

Han Tuozhou lifted the curtain and saw a line of imperial guards standing ahead in the morning mist. Not the usual patrol—fully armed, swords drawn, armor glistening with dew, clearly waiting long. At their head stood a mid-ranking general of the Palace Guard, Xia Zhen, a former retainer of Empress Yang's family. Xia Zhen stepped forward, knelt on one knee, voice loud and mechanical, as if reciting a rehearsed script.

"Grand Master, someone has impeached you for 'nurturing a tiger to your own peril, provoking chaos and inviting barbarians.' We act on imperial orders—please accompany us to the Political Affairs Hall for questioning."

"Imperial orders?" Han Tuozhou's voice rose sharply, his hand gripping the jade-hilted sword. "What order? The Emperor has never issued such an order! You are forging the imperial decree—"

He did not finish. A blade thrust in from the side of the sedan. Thin, razor-sharp, it pierced upward between the ribs, piercing lung and pericardium. Han Tuozhou looked down at the blade tip protruding from his chest, blood dripping along its groove onto the crimson silk of his court robe. Crimson robe soaked in blood—its hue deepened, became even more splendid—this was what a sedan-bearer later told others: Han Grand Master's blood on the robe looked like an original pattern woven into the fabric.

A short, muffled groan came from inside the sedan. Then the sound of the blade being withdrawn, then the heavy thud of a body collapsing onto the sedan floor. The entire process lasted no more than ten breaths. When Han Tuozhou's corpse was dragged out, his eyes remained open, his expression not fear, but disbelief—he died unable to believe anyone would dare kill him in Lin'an. He was Grand Master, Chancellor of Military and State Affairs, Commander-in-Chief of All Forces, a maternal relative of the late Emperor, a blood relative of the current Son of Heaven's great-grandfather, the first minister in Song history to hold all three titles simultaneously. Yesterday he had commanded the court with authority; this morning, in the mist outside Yongjin Gate, he became a still-warm corpse. His killers wrapped his body in coarse cloth, carried it into a cart already waiting nearby, covered it with straw, and vanished without a sound.

All this happened in an instant. Not a single witness stood on the street outside Yongjin Gate—Shi Miyuan's men had sealed off three surrounding streets the night before under the pretense of "imperial guard drills."

The morning court assembly proceeded as usual. Zhao Kuo sat on the dragon throne, pale-faced, eyes slightly red. He knew what had happened—Empress Yang had already informed him before court. But what could he say? He was naturally taciturn, accustomed to living in the shadow of powerful ministers. When Han Tuozhou ruled, he obeyed Han Tuozhou; now Han Tuozhou was dead, he had not learned to rule himself.

Shi Miyuan stepped forward, holding a memorial with both hands, voice loud and steady: "Your Majesty, I, Shi Miyuan, impeach the former Grand Master Han Tuozhou. His crimes are three: First, he recklessly provoked border conflicts, wagering the state's fate on a hasty northern expedition, resulting in the defeat and disgrace of three major armies; second, he nurtured a tiger to his own peril, entrusting Wu Xi with military authority over Shukou, yet Wu Xi, with wolfish ambition, long conspired with the Jin barbarians, ultimately rebelling and declaring himself king; third, he deceived the sovereign, repeatedly exaggerating victories and concealing battlefield realities, building his own power on the bones of fallen soldiers."

With each accusation, the hall erupted in agreement. Those who had sung Han Tuozhou's praises the day before now shouted indignantly, as if they had long despised him as loyal, upright ministers.

When Shi Miyuan finished, Xia Zhen of the Palace Guard stepped forward and knelt, armor clanking: "Your Majesty, the criminal Han Tuozhou has been executed this morning. His head has been sealed in accordance with protocol; please issue your imperial judgment."

Zhao Kuo's lips moved. He looked at the court kneeling before him, at Shi Miyuan's calm, respectful face, at the gray, overcast sky beyond the hall. He remained silent for a long time. Then he whispered one sentence. Too soft for the court scribe at the door to hear; he recorded only four characters by convention: "The Emperor was silent, for a long while."

The matter of sending the head to the Jin was handled entirely by Shi Miyuan.

That same afternoon, he convened the remaining officials of the Ministry of Rites and Ministry of War in the Political Affairs Hall, speaking bluntly: "The Jin have delayed peace talks because Han Tuozhou favored war. Now Han Tuozhou is dead—Great Song's sincerity is demonstrated. The day the head arrives in Zhongdu is the day our peace negotiations resume." No one dared oppose. Han Tuozhou's head was sealed in a sandalwood box, stamped with the Privy Council's seal, and dispatched by six-hundred-li express courier to the Jin.

Shi Miyuan stood by the window of the Political Affairs Hall, watching the fast horse carrying the sandalwood box vanish down the northern road out of Lin'an. He did not smile. No trace of triumph crossed his face. He turned, faced the trembling officials in the room, and spoke in a tone of utter plainness.

"The northern expedition is over. From today, Great Song will negotiate peace with the Jin." He paused. "Rest assured. I am not Han Tuozhou. I will not gamble Great Song's fate on a war we cannot win."

News reached the front three days after the express courier carrying the head. Song armies along all fronts halted combat upon receiving word of the coup. Guo Ni, upon receiving the order beneath Suzhou's walls, fell silent for a long time, then ordered a retreat. As his troops withdrew from their positions, the Jin soldiers on the city walls did not shoot arrows—they merely stood silently, watching the army that had besieged them for two months pack up and march north. Someone saw Heshilie Zhizhong standing atop the southern gate, his single eye fixed on the retreating Song forces, expressionless, the tea in his hand cooling from hot to cold, never set down.

Xue Shusi withdrew from Dengzhou. As he lifted the siege, he ordered his troops to burn every camp—leaving not a single plank or nail for the Jin. Flames lit up the Tang River's surface; Wanyan Kuang stood atop Dengzhou's walls, watching the distant fire, slowly placed his teapot on the battlement, then turned and descended.

Cheng Song, upon receiving news of the coup at Dasanguan, fled the western army's main camp that very night. He knew Wu Xi had rebelled; his title of "Pacification Commissioner of Sichuan" had been an empty shell from the start. He left without any guards, riding only one horse, carrying two changes of clothing. The garrison at Dasanguan watched their nominal commander disappear into the Qin Ling mountain trails—no one stopped him, no one saw him off.

Wu Xi, upon hearing of Han Tuozhou's death in Xingzhou, was hosting a grand banquet for his subordinates in his "Kingdom of Shu Palace." Amid wine and revelry, a bodyguard whispered something in his ear. He set down his cup, paused a moment, then burst into loud laughter. He told his assembled confidants: "Han Tuozhou is dead. Lin'an can no longer send anyone. Shu is secure." He raised his cup and drained it. He did not know that several of his own generals had received secret letters from Shi Miyuan—brief, to the point: "Kill Wu Xi, and you shall be enfeoffed as a marquis."

In Shanyin, by Jinghu Lake, Lu You heard of Han Tuozhou's death while watering an old plum tree in his courtyard. He stood leaning on his cane for a long time, then slowly returned to his study, closed the door, took out the stack of poems he had written praising the northern expedition, and read them one by one. He saw the verse that read "Han Gong rose to fulfill Heaven's will," his fingers tracing the characters "Han Gong" for a long while, then neatly folded the poems and placed them beneath the inkstone. He did not burn them. He simply spread a new sheet of paper, picked up his brush, and wrote one line: "The general died before victory was won, his death brings heroes' tears." These were lines he had written decades ago on the Nanzheng front. Fifty years later, they still fit best. After writing, he set down his brush, gazed out at the autumn hues of Jinghu Lake, and silent tears streamed down his aged face. The northern expedition was over.

In Qianyan, Paoquan, Xin Qiji stood by the window, holding the official report of Han Tuozhou's murder for a long time. Then he set it down, walked to the map, and slowly traced his finger along the red line marking the Jin's northern border. The red expanse of the grasslands lay silent on the map, still as a beast digesting its prey. He suddenly recalled Wanyan Honglie's words in Lin'an: "If the Jin fall, the Song will be next." He had once thought it a threat. Now he believed it might be a truth overlooked by all. And Great Song had just killed the only man bold enough to launch a northern expedition.

Outside, autumn rain in Jiangxi fell all night, soaking the moss in the courtyard until it gleamed. Xin Qiji stood by the window, from dusk until midnight. His silhouette, cast by candlelight on the wall, remained utterly still. The torches of the northern expedition were extinguished. The red banners of the north still flew.