Chapter 40: The Eighth Prince, Who Spent His Life Bowing to Shenzhou

Mount Zhongnan loomed towering, like a natural barrier separating the immortal realm from the mortal world.

The narrow path at its foot, once serene and quiet, was now choked with a throng of people.

The ancient mountain trail was narrow, packed with a ceaseless flow of bodies.

Chen Ji stared at the endless line ahead, frowning with helpless frustration.

“Young Master, with this crush, when will we ever reach the summit? Can you endure it?”

He turned to ask the young scholar-gentleman behind him with concern.

Chen Ji himself harbored complaints.

As a young master, he had no need to climb with these common peasants.

He hoped the young master would change his mind.

Yet he dared not show even a trace of it.

A servant could never second-guess his master’s decisions.

The young master smiled faintly at this.

“No matter. This journey is merely a countryside outing—to appreciate the beauty of mountains and rivers.”

“After all, when climbing to worship, sincerity is what moves the divine.”

Upon hearing this, Chen Ji dared say no more.

He shoved the burly man ahead of him, irritated, and warned: “Stop pushing. You’re pressed right against them.”

Chen Ji pinched his nose—being packed among these lowborns was unbearable.

How could his noble master possibly tolerate this stench?

The air reeked of sour sweat and occasional musky odor—truly nauseating.

Though the weather was cold, the crush generated relentless sweat; his back was drenched, making Chen Ji frown.

These common folk, having traveled long distances from all directions, had no time for personal hygiene—their stench was intolerable.

Each greasy head carried a smell that made his stomach churn.

Why don’t they even bathe?

The bearded man shoved by Chen Ji turned and glared, snapping:

“You brat, why you act like a woman? Everyone’s packed tight—it’s not like you’re dying.”

Chen Ji’s face flushed crimson. He planted one hand on his hip, raised the other in a delicate lotus-finger gesture, ready to explode.

In the Wang Fu, when had he ever endured such insolence?

At that moment,

The young scholar-gentleman beside him coughed softly, halting the quarrel.

The robed young master stepped forward, bowed respectfully to the bearded man, smiling warmly:

“Brother, my younger brother is new to the world and unaware of propriety—if he offended you, please forgive him.”

The bearded man sized up the robed youth—his attire refined, his bearing noble—and, unwilling to cause trouble, merely snorted: “Watch yourself next time.”

Seeing his master speak, Chen Ji immediately stifled his anger and fell silent.

He knew his master’s leisure must not be disturbed.

Moreover, how could he dare act willfully after his master personally apologized for him?

Chen Ji bowed his head even lower, momentarily forgetting his discomfort.

The white-robed youth, unconcerned, murmured:

“Xiao Ji, when traveling, harmony brings prosperity.”

Chen Ji nodded quickly: “Yes, Young Master.”

His demeanor turned humble and obedient.

This young master’s status was beyond measure—he was the Eighth Prince of the Qing Emperor.

To call him a true dragon of the mortal realm was not an exaggeration.

Prince Jing—Zhou Cheng.

His mother was an imperial consort, and her family a great aristocratic clan.

At thirteen, he was granted a princedom; His Majesty himself praised him before the court as virtuous and capable.

At fifteen, he attended court deliberations.

At sixteen, he established his own mansion in the capital, wielding great power.

Truly, his authority and favor were immense!

Yet this Eighth Prince possessed a peculiar character.

Though brilliant, he had once been obsessed with seeking immortality and Daoist teachings in his youth.

Later, as Daqing’s fortune declined and defeats mounted in the north, Zhou Cheng suddenly awakened: “The Dao cannot save the realm.”

He therefore abandoned the Dao and devoted himself entirely to military strategy.

Within just a few years, he rose to prominence in scholarly debates at the Imperial Academy, defeating several of Daqing’s foremost military masters in argument, earning fame throughout the capital.

Four years ago, the Northern Wind sent three hundred thousand troops southward.

That same year, the Lu family army marched northward with thirty thousand men toward the Yellow River.

The two armies faced off.

The entire realm trembled.

At that time, the one who submitted the most objections and voiced the strongest opposition was Prince Jing, Zhou Cheng.

He deeply understood military strategy and knew that Tuoba Shuyi’s tactics had reached the very essence—his formations were peerless in the age.

Moreover, the enemy was overwhelming, pressing forward; only by holding the high ground could victory be possible.

Yet the Lu army advanced directly to the Yellow River, deploying openly—a move Zhou Cheng saw as futile, like an egg striking a stone, pure suicide.

Worse, Zhou Cheng learned a shocking truth—the real commander of the Lu army was a boy barely twenty.

He had no military experience; for the past twenty years, he had merely been a Daoist monk reading scriptures in a temple.

This news enraged Zhou Cheng. He cursed in the capital: “A child destabilizing the state? Absurd beyond words!”

He repeatedly petitioned to replace Lu Chen, but was overruled when General Wang Yang, commander of Hulao Pass, swore his own head as guarantee to shield Lu Chen from court censure.

Zhou Cheng was deeply puzzled: what merit could this youth possess to earn the loyalty of a senior minister like Wang Yang—so much so that the man would stake his life for him?

Yet within three months,

News arrived from the northern front: Lu Chen won three battles in a row.

Zhou Cheng studied the battle reports closely, marveling at Lu Chen’s tactics, finding them as masterful as Tuoba Shuyi’s.

He truly had the talent to command.

Yet Zhou Cheng also knew the Lu army was outnumbered; they could only win through surprise—this could not last.

Three months later, the Lu army was surrounded. Zhou Cheng grew frantic, summoning strategists to study terrain maps day and night, seeking a way to break the siege.

After pooling all their insights, they reached one conclusion:

Enemy forces pressed from front and rear, with the raging Yellow River behind; Tuoba Shuyi’s tactics were steady, his defenses fortified and his land scorched—the Lu army was utterly trapped, with no path to survival.

Zhou Cheng knew even he could not reverse the tide—he could only wait for defeat.

He sighed deeply, awaiting word of disaster.

Yet half a month later, victory arrived.

Lu Chen led his troops across the Yellow River three times, then turned south to encircle and annihilate the enemy—winning a decisive victory.

The realm was stunned.

Messengers from the north raced day and night to the capital, riding ten prized horses to exhaustion.

Bearing the victory report, they pounded on the imperial palace gates, shouting:

“Great victory in the north!”

“Great victory in the north! The Lu army has slain sixty thousand enemies!”

The capital erupted.

The greatest triumph in twenty years.

For one night, the imperial city danced with fish and dragons.

Zhou Cheng stared at the few hundred characters on the battle report.

Each line seemed like iron horses and icy rivers, charging forth with ten thousand troops.

His heart could not settle.

Especially the final line: “Why should a man not take up his Wu hook, to reclaim fifty states of the passes and mountains?”

He felt exhilarated. The Jing Wangfu held a banquet stretching ten li along the street.

That day, he gathered many guests, seated around a brazier, jointly analyzing the battle’s turning points.

They debated fiercely, each offering opinions—yet when all analyses converged, they all sighed as one.

“This man’s tactics are like those of a spirit or god.”

In the year that followed, the Lu army won repeatedly, winning hundreds of battles, always defeating larger forces—capturing Yunzhou in half a month, seizing Yanzhou in a month.

Every attack succeeded; every battle was won; the Northern Wind army trembled.

When the Lu army crossed a ford with only two thousand men, thirty thousand northern troops fled in panic.

Later, the Northern Wind army issued an order: if a soldier fled upon seeing the Lu banner, he would not be executed.

Thus, the Eighth Prince, once the fiercest opponent of Lu Chen, became his greatest admirer.

“In four hundred years, no general has surpassed him.”

It came from the mouth of the Eighth Imperial Prince.

He actually had another remark, but no one dared to spread it, given his status.

“A lifetime bowing in reverence to Shenzhou.”

Lu Chen, whose courtesy name is Shenzhou.

Thank you all for your support.

Shocked the old iron, kneeling gently before the reader lords.

Father figures, please check in daily—reading consistently during the new book phase is crucial!

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(End of Chapter)