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 rapid report or a military dispatch, but a secret memorial smuggled back on a galloping horse from Lizhou Road. The handwriting of Cheng Song, the Military Commissioner of Sichuan, was so sloppy it was nearly illegible, filling four pages, each stained with ink blots soaked through by water. The courier, Cheng Song’s trusted aide, had ridden for seven days and seven nights, changing horses eleven times; one horse collapsed from exhaustion in Hanzhong, and when he reached the gates of Lin’an, he tumbled off his horse, knees slamming to the ground and leaving two bloody imprints, his voice already too hoarse to utter a complete sentence. He raised the secret memorial above his head, lips trembling for a long while, finally squeezing out only three words: “Wu Xi… has rebelled.”

When the secret memorial reached the Privy Council, Su Shidan was on night duty. He opened the letter, read only three lines, and his hand began to shake. After finishing it all, he sat motionless in his chair for a long time, then slowly rose. His expression made the junior clerks around him dare not ask a single question. He told one clerk, “Prepare my sedan,” then hesitated, and added—“Go to Shi’s residence.”

Shi Miyuan’s residence stood inside Qingbo Gate in Lin’an, an ordinary-looking courtyard with a modest facade, low eaves, and no stone lions—only two neatly trimmed ancient locust trees in front. The nobles of Lin’an knew the owner was Vice Minister of Rites and Assistant Tutor to the Crown Prince, the teacher of the current imperial prince Zhao Yun, and the most trusted man of Empress Yang in court. But they also knew Shi Miyuan rarely spoke publicly 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 residence 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 maidservants close to Empress Yang. Individually, they were insignificant; together, they formed a net covering 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; on the desk lay an open copy of the Zizhi Tongjian, turned 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 desk and pushed it over with his finger. Shi Miyuan took it, read page by page. When finished, he gently set it back on the desk, 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 to Su Shidan. Outside, the locust trees rustled in the night wind; moonlight filtered through the leaves, scattering 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. It was not anger. Not fear. It was the gleam of a hunter who, after a long wait, finally sees his prey expose a flaw.

“Has 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 calm. 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 tell him; all clerks who had handled it were reassigned. Meanwhile, in Shi Miyuan’s study, a coup was being organized at breakneck speed. Participants were few—Shi Miyuan himself, Empress Yang’s eunuch confidant, the Vice Censor-in-Chief, a deputy commander of the Imperial Guard, and several mid-level censors dissatisfied with Han Tuozhou. None were high-ranking ministers. Shi Miyuan did not need big men. He needed men in key positions—those controlling palace guards, those with direct access to the emperor and empress, those who could launch impeachments 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 conflict with Han Tuozhou ran deep. When Han Tuozhou opposed her becoming empress, she had never forgotten it. Later, when her relatives repeatedly petitioned for offices and were rejected by Han Tuozhou, the grudge deepened. 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; if the Jin pursued them, her position as empress and her adopted son Zhao Yun’s status as imperial prince might both vanish. She had to sacrifice Han Tuozhou as a scapegoat to draw a clear line between herself and this failed northern expedition.

On August 20, Empress Yang summoned Shi Miyuan to Cining Palace. No record of their conversation exists, 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 private stamp. Legally, it held no validity. But Shi Miyuan did not need legality. He needed only a post-coup justification—“acting on the Empress’s imperial decree.” Whether the decree was lawful was a problem to solve only after the coup succeeded.

On August 23, at dawn. Lin’an still slept; mist blanketed West Lake, the willows of Su Causeway faintly visible through it. In Han Tuozhou’s residence, servants were already busy—the grand court session was today; the Grand Master must rise early, change robes, review urgent documents delivered overnight, and meet several returning generals before court. Han Tuozhou donned his court robes, placed on his distinctive marten-and-cicada crown, 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 gate of Yongjin, 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—these men were fully armed, swords drawn, armor glistening with dew, clearly waiting a long time. At their head stood a mid-ranking general of the Imperial 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 through 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 stained with 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 withdrawing. Then the heavy thud of a body collapsing onto the sedan floor. The entire process took less than ten breaths. When Han Tuozhou’s corpse was dragged out, his eyes remained open, his expression not fear, but disbelief—he died without believing anyone would dare kill him in Lin’an. He was Grand Master, Chancellor of Military and State Affairs, Commander-in-Chief of All Military Forces, the late emperor’s maternal relative, the great-grandfather-in-law of the current emperor, 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 was 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 streets around the Grand Master’s residence the night before under the pretext of “imperial guard drills.”

The morning court session 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 always quiet, accustomed to living in the shadow of powerful ministers. When Han Tuozhou lived, he obeyed Han Tuozhou; now that Han Tuozhou was dead, he had not learned to rule himself.

Shi Miyuan stepped forward, holding a memorial in 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 reckless northern expedition, resulting in the defeat and disgrace of three 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 voiced righteous indignation, as if they had long despised him as loyal ministers.

When Shi Miyuan finished, Xia Zhen of the Imperial Guard stepped forward and knelt, armor clanking: “Your Majesty, the traitor Han Tuozhou has been executed this morning. His head has been sealed in a box per protocol—awaiting Your Majesty’s decree.”

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, and remained silent for a long time. Then he whispered one sentence. Too quiet 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 summoned the remaining officials of the Ministry of Rites and Ministry of War to the Political Affairs Hall and spoke bluntly: “The Jin have delayed peace talks because Han Tuozhou advocated war. Now Han Tuozhou is dead—Song’s sincerity is clear. 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 at 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 expression of triumph. He turned, faced the trembling officials, and spoke in a tone so flat it was almost indifferent.

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

The news reached the front three days after the courier carrying the head. Song armies across the front halted. Guo Ni, upon receiving the coup news at the gates of Suzhou, remained 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 simply stood, watching the army that had besieged them for two months march northward. Someone saw Heshilie Zhi standing on the southern city tower, his single eye fixed on the retreating Song forces, expressionless, his bowl of tea cooling untouched in his hand.

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

Cheng Song, upon receiving the coup news at Dasanguan, fled the western army camp that night. He knew Wu Xi had rebelled; his title of Military Commissioner of Sichuan had been an empty shell from the start. He left without any guards, riding only one horse, carrying two changes of clothes. The soldiers at Dasanguan watched their nominal commander disappear into the Qinling 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 the wine and revelry, a bodyguard whispered in his ear. Wu Xi set down his cup, paused a moment, then burst into 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 secretly delivered by Shi Miyuan. The message was brief: “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 campaign ended before victory, his death leaves heroes’ tears in endless streams.” It was a line he had written decades ago on the frontlines of Nanzheng. Fifty years later, these two lines 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.

At Piaoyuan by Qianshan, 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 on the map lay silent, still, like 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 thought it might be a truth everyone had ignored. And the Song had just personally killed the only man bold enough to launch a northern expedition.

Outside, autumn rain in Jiangxi fell all night, soaking the courtyard moss to a glossy sheen. 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 had been extinguished. The red banners of the north still flew.