Chapter 46: Above the Grand Master: The Map of the Empire

You finally met this Eighth Prince, Prince Jing, who already bears the title “Wise Prince.”

In the great hall, the principal seat on the left had been reserved, symbolizing honor and status, specifically for Prince Jing.

Yet Prince Jing did not immediately take his seat, causing Liu Jinchan on the right to hesitate as well; both seats remained empty, and all others dared not dare to encroach in the slightest.

They all lined up in two rows.

Prince Jing Zhou Cheng brought only one servant, Chen Ji, and your long-lost uncle.

Your uncle arrived today; he had once been a disciple of Sanzhen Gate, but later left the monastic life, married, and had children.

You exchanged formal courtesies with Prince Jing, then you and Lu Yu took turns paying respects to your uncle.

Zhou Cheng returned your bow, addressing you as “Shaobao,” and made no haste for you and your uncle to reunite, silently waiting to the side.

Perhaps it had been many years; the once bold uncle, now with streaks of gray hair, the fiery man who once declared, “As long as the northern wind still blows, how can I have a home?”—he seemed changed, aged.

Your uncle looked at you brothers, smiling with joy, tears glinting in his eyes.

Only then did you learn your uncle had a child—a girl.

Your uncle laughed, “This girl hates embroidery and needlework; she adores wielding spears and swords, always clutching military treatises, saying she’ll become the greatest female general in Daqing!”

“Of course, she idolizes you two brothers, especially you, Shen Zhou.”

“Your stories from the north, she speaks of constantly; each time she tells them, even I am haunted by them.”

The man past fifty sighed softly: “Even I wish I could return to the Lu Family Army, lead troops into the northern wastes, divide roasted meat among fifty men, sing songs across eight hundred li of the frontier.”

“But I can’t help but worry about them—my wife and daughter—I want to see her married, settled, bearing children. Don’t blame me, nephew.”

You sighed faintly.

In this chaotic age, national grudges and family hatreds—who bears the weight of state and home? In this mortal world, who can afford the bravery of a common man?

Your uncle’s figure appeared solitary; he mentioned little of how he entered Prince Jing’s household, merely gently placing your mother’s letter into your brothers’ hands, then vanishing like a shadow behind Prince Jing Zhou Cheng—unobtrusive, never stealing the spotlight.

Liu Jinchan called out, and all took their seats; the atmosphere grew warm.

Lu Yu stood silently behind you, as he always had—a habit forged by years in the Lu Family Army.

Once seated,

you lowered your eyes, calm and composed, like the stillness of a deep abyss, the steadiness of an ancient pavilion—deep as the abyss, steady as the pavilion.

This was the bearing you cultivated through years of warfare; otherwise, how could you command the loyalty of three armies?

Zhou Cheng stared, slightly startled.

He had spent twenty-seven years in the capital cultivating imperial nobility, royal idleness—yet before you, it seemed laughable.

Zhou Cheng recalled the military records kept in court: “In the Lu Family Army’s command tent, Shaobao presides over battle, flanked always by Shaoshuai Lu You’an, with twenty-six generals standing behind in pavilion formation, their presence awe-inspiring, every officer in the army focused, never daring to slacken.”

Ten years of spear and iron, spirit swallowing ten thousand li like a tiger.

Who could say what grandeur Lu Chen displayed when he led one hundred thousand Lu Family troops northward, banners fluttering in the western wind?

Zhou Cheng slowly came back to himself.

Chen Ji, Prince Jing’s chief attendant, deeply favored, often looked down on court nobles; “Shaobao” was merely a title that changed with each emperor—a mere appendage of shifting power. Haven’t we seen six chancellors replaced in three years, one rising as another falls?

Chen Ji saw your flowing robes, your calm face, your composed demeanor, and thought inwardly: “He carries himself with considerable presence.”

Suddenly, an unprecedented aura struck like a mountain colliding—he staggered, nearly falling to the ground.

Zhou Cheng frowned slightly.

Chen Ji hurriedly knelt and begged pardon, voice trembling: “Your servant has been disrespectful; I beg Your Highness’s forgiveness.”

“Hmm. Rise.”

Chen Ji trembled with fear; his master was lenient in small matters, but tolerated no speck of sand in great ones.

You stirred inwardly, glancing at Lu Yu—you felt a strange aura just now, emanating from him, overpowering the eunuch behind Zhou Cheng, then vanishing instantly.

Could this be the realm beyond Grand Master? Colorless, formless—if you hadn’t been so close, you might never have noticed this disturbance in heaven and earth.

Lu Yu’s expression remained natural, as if nothing had happened.

You smiled faintly.

You began chatting with Zhou Cheng; today, he was the central figure of this gathering.

You spoke of Sanzhen’s doctrines, then battlefield tactics; of poetry and verse, then the grand trends of the world.

You realized this Eighth Prince lived up to his reputation—his mastery of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism was effortless, seamless.

When he spoke of your campaigns, his tone brimmed with excitement and pride—as if the glory were his own.

He took out a scroll, gently unrolling it—a map of the Daqing Empire’s provinces and prefectures.

Zhou Cheng smiled and said: “Shaobao, I know you’ve spent ten years in arms, achieving great military feats. I present this map to you.”

Hearing this, Chen Ji hurried forward, respectfully taking one end of the scroll in both hands, carefully unrolling the grand map alongside Zhou Cheng.

The map stretched one zhang long and two chi wide, as if compressing the entire Daqing realm onto a single sheet.

You studied it closely: it meticulously depicted the geography of Youzhou, Liangzhou, Bingzhou, Qingzhou, and Xinxing, as well as Yunzhou and Yanzhou reclaimed by General Lu Chen.

Every mountain, river, city, and fortress was clearly marked—as if the whole of Daqing lay laid bare before you.

The detail and value of this map were beyond price—truly priceless.

Yet to ordinary people, such a map of the empire would be treasonous; if privately made, it would bring annihilation upon the entire family.

Yet in the lower left corner, the official seal of the Ninth Prince was clearly stamped—making it a legitimate, transferable artifact.

Even Liu Jinchan coveted it deeply; this map was worthy of passing down through generations.

You did not understand Zhou Cheng’s intent, and gave no response.

Suddenly, Zhou Cheng tore the priceless map apart.

Even his trusted attendant Chen Ji was stunned—he remembered how his master treasured this map, never allowing anyone else to touch it.

Chen Ji immediately knelt, clutching the torn fragments, voice hoarse: “Master, why?”

Liu Jinchan also lamented bitterly.

Zhou Cheng, after tearing it, laughed: “But I feel this map still isn’t worthy of you, Shaobao!”

He eagerly took out another map, slowly unrolling it.

This map detailed the vast regions stretching north to Liaodong, south to the sandy seas, west to the Western Regions, east to Longmen—encompassing Daqing, Beifeng, Qianyuan, Han, and Chu.

Looking down upon the world.

Daqing lay at the heart of the Central Plains, surrounded by four nations; its territory was vast, yet Daqing held only the Central Plains.

Zhou Cheng explained: “Daqing, though situated in the south, prosperous and flourishing, is the richest of the five nations—but also their purse.”

“Daqing shares rule with southern scholar-gentry, valuing literature over military preparedness,” Zhou Cheng added.

“Had it not been for the war between Chu and Han, and Qianyuan’s internal chaos, the four tigers would have long since caged us, feasting on Daqing.”

“Then Beifeng would have marched south to pasture, Qianyuan north to capture the dragon, and Chu’s Flying Tiger Army would have already breached the capital.”

“Back then, you were only thirty li from Huanglong Mansion—just one step from smashing the dragon’s lair. What a pity, what a tragedy.”

At this, Zhou Cheng’s expression grew solemn.

“I knelt outside my father’s door for three days and nights, begging for an imperial decree to march.”

“If Beifeng can march south into Daqing, why can’t Daqing march north into Beifeng?”

“This heart is clear: the imperial cause will not settle for peace in the south.”

(End of Chapter)