Chapter 321: Professional Emperor

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Zhao Yu had an excellent habit: he was never late, whether in his own imperial palace in Dongjing Bianliang or on a personal campaign, for over a decade without fail.

That is to say, Zhao Yu had never let personal matters interfere with state affairs.

Zhao Yu also decreed that any frontline battle report, no matter the hour or what he was doing—even if it were the third watch of the night or he was in the midst of lovemaking—must be brought to him immediately.

Just as this time, when the frontline report arrived, it was delivered at once to the inner palace, finally reaching the hands of Zhao Yu’s female bodyguard commander, Liang Hongyu.

Knowing Zhao Yu’s habits, Liang Hongyu woke him at once.

Upon learning that the Liao army had been ambushed by the Jin army and suffered catastrophic losses, Zhao Yu rose immediately and went to the front hall to consult with Cai Bian and others on a response.

Cai Bian believed they must issue an imperial edict to Liu Fa, Tong Guan, Song Jiang, Zong Ze, and others on the frontline, ordering them to advance cautiously and not repeat the Liao army’s mistake, or their earlier great victory would be in vain.

But Zhao Yu said: “Generals on the frontier may disregard imperial orders when necessary; trust your frontline commanders.”

Zhao Yu was not a perfect emperor; his lust for women alone could place him among the Hunjun , for his indulgence in pleasure rivaled that of most emperors in history.

Moreover, Zhao Yu craved luxury and was suspected of extravagance and waste, at least lacking in frugality.

He could even be accused of being boastful, arrogant, and dismissive of all others.

Yet Zhao Yu also possessed every virtue of a great emperor: literary and military prowess, diligence in governance, love for the people, clear rewards and punishments, wise selection of talent, courage to appoint, and willingness to delegate.

Just this last quality alone made Zhao Yu exceedingly rare.

After all, emperors have always distrusted everyone, especially generals commanding troops—and Song emperors more than most.

Since Zhao Kuangyin, the Song had established the principle of elevating civil officials and suppressing military officers: using wealth to buy military loyalty, suspicion to bind generals, and civil officials to control the military.

During the Yongxi Northern Expedition, Zhao Guangyi bestowed “battle arrays” upon frontline commanders, prescribing exact routes and formations—even if battlefield conditions changed, they were bound to follow the diagrams. The famed general Cao Bin, for disobeying the array, was defeated and demoted to commoner; Pan Mei, constrained by the army supervisor Wang Shen, caused Yang Ye’s death at Chenjiagu, completely crushing the flexibility of military commanders.

During the Battle of Chanyuan, Kou Zhun strongly advocated for the emperor’s personal campaign; the Song army held the advantage, forcing the Liao to seek peace. But Emperor Zhenzong was hypersensitive to military power: he signed the humiliating “Treaty of Chanyuan,” stripped the main war advocates of their commands, promoted civil officials to control military affairs, and even inscribed into ancestral edicts: “Military officers must never interfere in court politics.”

On the day Di Qing was appointed Chief of the Privy Council, the entire civil bureaucracy erupted in outrage. Chancellor Ouyang Xiu submitted three memorials denouncing him, accusing him of “winning the soldiers’ hearts” and “holding military power too long,” implying treasonous intent; another senior minister, Wen Yanbo, bluntly told Emperor Renzong: “Taizu was also a minister of Zhou Shizong.”

One sentence struck the most sensitive nerve of Emperor Renzong—even though Di Qing had repeatedly achieved miraculous victories against the Western Xia and Nong Zhigao, even though he was always cautious and humble, and even though Emperor Renzong personally defended him, saying, “Di Qing is loyal,” Wen Yanbo coldly replied: “Wasn’t Taizu a loyal minister of Zhou Shizong too?”

In the end, Di Qing was dismissed from the Privy Council and exiled to Chenzhou.

Even far from the capital, the court “sent imperial envoys twice monthly to inquire after him”—ostensibly to comfort him, actually to spy.

Less than half a year later, this once-brave general, who had worn bronze armor and charged through enemy lines as if they were empty, died of illness, consumed by endless suspicion and resentment, at only forty-nine years old.

Di Qing’s fate perfectly confirmed the destiny of Song military officers: the greater the merit, the deeper the suspicion; the higher the power, the more horrific the end.

By the time of Emperor Shenzong and Emperor Zhezong, expansion still bore the same “elevating civil, suppressing military” hue. Their foreign campaigns were fundamentally civil-official-led operations; generals were mere tools executing orders, with credit going to the court and civil officials, while blame fell solely on the military. Even in victory, soldiers could never attain equal status with civil officials.

The logic of Song emperors before Zhao Yu remained consistent: generals could be used for war, but never trusted. They used civil supervisors, array diagrams to bind generals’ hands, frequent reassignments to prevent military autonomy, and even destroyed their own defenses. This deep-rooted suspicion rendered the Song perpetually reactive in foreign wars, ultimately making it synonymous with “chronic poverty and weakness.”

Now, Zhao Yu’s words, “Generals on the frontier may disregard imperial orders when necessary,” were a complete overturning of the entire Song imperial mindset.

Those present, including Cai Bian, all thought: Liu Fa and the others had received such trust from Zhao Yu—they could die without regret. They were the luckiest military officers since the founding of the Song.

Moreover, Zhao Yu did not merely speak—he issued an imperial edict, ordering ample grain and supplies to be prepared for the frontline, paying transport laborers thirty percent above market rates, and granting Liu Fa full authority to act independently, without needing to submit reports for every decision.

Of course, Zhao Yu dared this because he had the confidence to do so.

First, Zhao Yu controlled three special intelligence agencies; no one could hide anything from him.

Second, in other dynasties, only the founding emperors—Taizu and Taizong—were typically both civil and military talents; later emperors grew up in the inner palace under the care of women, each worse than the last. The Song was slightly better: even if not Zhao Yu, his predecessor Zhao Xu had some ability, but earlier Song emperors were truly lacking in martial prowess. Zhao Yu, however, had already proven himself to possess exceptional martial skill. Moreover, since ascending the throne, Zhao Yu had drastically reformed the policy of elevating civil over military, implementing civil-military separation and greatly raising the social status of soldiers, earning him unparalleled prestige among the military. Thus, he had no fear of rebellion and dared to trust his frontline generals.

Once decided, Cai Bian drafted the edict; Zhao Yu personally revised it, then Cai Bian copied the final version into the official imperial decree.

This edict was very long, and writing it took considerable time.

Yet Zhao Yu sat patiently beside Cai Bian, offering no rush, allowing Cai Bian to finish carefully so Zhao Yu could affix the seal.

Seeing this, the civil officials understood: Zhao Yu did not blindly trust military officers, nor did he neglect them.

Once the edict was complete, Zhao Yu dispatched a fast rider to deliver it to the frontline, to Liu Fa.

Liu Fa saw that Zhao Yu’s edict merely stated: “Minister Liu Fa, judge the situation and act as circumstances demand. Grain and supplies are fully prepared and will arrive shortly. I grant you full independent authority. Do not disappoint me.” It showed no interference in tactical command, and clearly affirmed Liu Fa’s supreme command on the frontline.

Liu Fa knew that for a Song military officer, this was an immense trust.

Without hesitation, Liu Fa bowed deeply toward the direction of Yanjing: “Your servant Liu Fa receives the edict and thanks Your Majesty!”

With the deaths of Wang Hou, Guo Cheng, Zhe Keshi, Zhong Pu, Wang Shan, Wang Min, and others, the prevailing opinion among Song officers was: “When naming great generals, one must begin with Liu Fa.”

Great reputation carries no falsehood.

Since joining the army, Liu Fa had repeatedly earned merit against the Western Xia, serving as Third Commander of Fuyan Road, Deputy Commander of Fuyan Road, and Chief of the Imperial Cavalry Command. Especially at the Battle of Jixi, he played a crucial role in the Song’s advance into Hehuang, rising to Grand Coordinator of Xihé Road.

Historically, Tong Guan, eager for victory, forced Liu Fa to attack the Western Xia’s Tong’an City. Liu Fa fought to the death; after the battle, Tong Guan blamed Liu Fa for disobeying his orders, making him bear the guilt of defeat and loss of troops—a notorious injustice in Chinese military history. Li Gang specially wrote “Elegy for the National Martyrs” to mourn Liu Fa and clear his name.

At this time, Liu Fa’s reputation far surpassed that of the historically famous brothers Shi Shidao and Shi Shizhong.

Historically, Liu Fa’s fame faded because his son Liu Zhengyan, then commander of the Crown Prince’s guard, conspired with Miao Fu, commander of Zhao Gou’s guard, to launch the “Miao-Liu Rebellion,” killing Zhao Gou’s favored ministers and eunuchs under the pretense of purging corrupt officials, and forcing Zhao Gou to abdicate in favor of his son Zhao Fu. After the rebellion failed, they were executed. As a result, even the deceased Liu Fa was tainted; his achievements and deeds became obscure.

After Zhao Yu’s reincarnation, although he still employed Tong Guan, he simultaneously promoted a host of military officers—Wang Hou, Guo Cheng, Zhe Keshi, Zhong Pu, Wang Shan, Wang Min, Liu Fa—and allowed them all to demonstrate their abilities.