Chapter 555

“Just a tiny, remote borderland of the Northern Region—how dare they defy me? What is their intent?! Two generals of the Sixth Heaven Realm, leading a ragtag army subsisting on rotten meat and vegetable scraps in the frozen wastes—who gave them the audacity?!”

“Who gave them the nerve to do this here?!”

“How dare they insult me before all under heaven?!”

Jiang Yuan’s rage roared like thunder; the palace maids and eunuchs serving around him trembled, heads bowed low, terrified that any misstep or mistake might draw the Emperor’s wrath upon them.

Though Jiang Yuan indulged in luxury, he treated those within the palace well, frequently bestowing generous gifts; he loved pleasure, and compared to the former Emperor, his court rules were less rigid, offering more opportunities for rewards and favors.

They had never seen the Emperor—so handsome, so skilled in both literature and martial arts—so furious.

It was just as someone had once said.

Just those few words.

They had precisely pierced Jiang Yuan’s composure, causing the fire of his rage to swell instantly, nearly uncontrollable, as if he longed to drag that speaker before the court and have him beaten to death on the spot!

Jiang Yuan gnashed his teeth: “What beast? What beast?!”

His fists clenched, his teeth gritted, veins bulging on his forehead—as if a furnace of wrath burned within his chest, threatening to consume him. The ministers urged him not to overreact over a single remark, but their pleas only deepened Jiang Yuan’s fury.

Wei Yiwen, He Ruohu, and others understood clearly.

Jiang Yuan’s throne came about only because, to Grand Master Jiang Su, Jiang Yuan was of no real significance; Jiang Gao’s popularity and influence might interfere with Grand Master Jiang Su’s full-scale war campaign.

A man with opposing political views is far more troublesome than a wastrel who seeks pleasure.

To Jiang Su.

Jiang Gao and Jiang Yuan were no different to him.

He cared only whether he could decisively defeat Emperor Li Guanyi.

If he could not win, what good would Jiang Gao’s reputation for virtue do? But if he won, Jiang Yuan’s profligate expenditures could easily be made up by the Qin treasury—with surplus left over.

Large-scale campaigns consume immense gold, silver, and logistical supplies.

But victory brings returns rich enough to justify it.

Wei Yiwen secretly suspected that Jiang Wanxiang had arranged this precisely because he had come to terms with it—if Grand Master Jiang Su won, he would likely depose Jiang Yuan and install Jiang Gao instead.

And if Grand Master Jiang Su unfortunately suffers defeat—

Then Jiang Gao, as a retired prince with good relations to Emperor Li Guanyi, and with Jiang Cai and Pojun once close, and with Li Guanyi’s general Ashi’s wife being Jiang Gao’s cousin, these layered ties, combined with Jiang Gao’s reputation for benevolence and his protection of Qin Yulong—

Given Li Guanyi’s nature—

Jiang Gao would surely die peacefully, perhaps even granted the title of Marquis of Peaceful Leisure, to live out his days in comfort.

Whether he won or lost, Jiang Wanxiang had secured a path to survival for Jiang Gao.

Even such a mighty hero, before death, had calculated so meticulously for his children; Wei Yiwen sighed inwardly, yet felt a complex mix—whether it was because he had once failed to resist temptation, or because the posthumous title “Wen Zheng” meant too much to a scholar like him—

He had already chosen Jiang Yuan’s side, and so he must now dismantle Jiang Wanxiang’s final plan.

Perhaps Jiang Yuan himself had seen the deeper meaning behind Jiang Wanxiang’s arrangements.

Knowing he was merely a puppet, he had erupted in fury over those unknown words, his murderous intent sharp; or perhaps, precisely because he suspected Grand Master Jiang Su would depose him after victory, he had indulged so recklessly.

Like a man drinking wine, drowning himself in self-deception and numbness to indulge in pleasure.

Knowing disaster loomed, powerless to stop it, he could only drown himself in excess, forgetting the blade swinging toward him, even subconsciously delaying Jiang Su’s victory.

That was why he sought to win over Wei Yiwen and He Ruohu.

All his actions stemmed from fear.

The fleeting pleasure of debauchery, the terror of impending collapse—these emotions had tormented Jiang Yuan for two years; the years of accumulated cunning, even since his days as the Second Prince, had crumbled into fragility, his murderous intent nearly insane from the weight of fear.

Yet this madness, this faint hysteria, was directed solely at the one who had spoken those words.

Or perhaps at—

Wei Yiwen understood Jiang Yuan’s mind.

But this understanding came from years of watching Jiang Yuan’s flawless pretense, and from observing his gradual behavior over the past three years—roughly eight or nine tenths accurate.

Yet in the Taiping Army, what kind of strategist could, from afar, perceive Jiang Yuan’s inner weakness and fear, and the false rage born of it?

Could one possibly observe from the outside and see Jiang Yuan’s inner weakness and fear, and the rage born of that pretense?

Dan Tai Xianming, have you met a rival equal to you?

What a venomous strategist!

Yet he still urged:

“Your Majesty, do not.”

Jiang Yuan’s anger flared higher: “Do not? Do not?!”

“Tell me—why not?!!”

Wei Yiwen looked at Jiang Yuan and said: “The Northern Frontier is extremely distant from the Central Plains, with no waterways like the Jiangnan region to aid logistics; moving troops and supplies will drain manpower.”

Jiang Yuan snapped: “And what of it?!”

Wei Yiwen replied: “Now that Qin Yulong has defected, we must station an Eighth Heaven Realm general at Zhenbei Pass, supported by three Sixth Heaven Realm commanders, and reinforce with an additional hundred thousand troops merely to counter Yue Pengwu.”

“The northwest is already unstable, while in the south, Grand Master Jiang Su stands in stalemate with Emperor Li Guanyi.”

“Will Your Majesty cut off the logistical support for Zhenbei Pass?”

“Or divert manpower from Grand Master Jiang Su’s front?”

These two questions struck Jiang Yuan’s core with precision; his rage visibly dimmed, yet he fell silent, then coldly said: “I understand. I will not touch Zhenbei Pass. Nor will I touch Grand Master.”

Two sentences struck right at Jiang Yuan’s core; his anger visibly diminished, yet he fell silent, then coldly said: “I understand. I will not move against Zhenbei Pass, nor against the Grand Tutor.”

He stood by Jiang Yuan’s side, yet still hoped Jiang Yuan would not descend into madness—until he heard Jiang Yuan’s chilling voice: “But are there not still many commoners under heaven?”

He stood by Jiang Yuan’s side, yet still hoped Jiang Yuan would not descend into such madness—then he heard Jiang Yuan’s voice, chillingly calm: “But there are still many people in the realm, are there not?”

Jiang Yuan said coldly: “An insult to the ruler is an insult to the state.”

“Let these commoners bear the brunt of my anger.”

A wave of disbelief exploded in Wei Yiwen’s chest; he could not help but cry: “The labor burdens on Zhenbei and even Grand Master Jiang Su’s front are already crushing! Your Majesty has built palaces, dug canals—years of relentless toil!”

He stepped forward, the aged Chancellor bowed deeply, and shouted:

“For years, labor has been excessive; the people are worn thin. I humbly beg Your Majesty to take heed, to ease their burden!”

Jiang Yuan stared at him, swept his sleeve, and said nothing more.

That day, after court, Wei Yiwen gasped for breath, his face pale with fury; as a veteran minister, he knew the nation’s strength, and feared that if this continued, rebellion would erupt soon.

That day, after court dismissed, Wei Yi’s chest heaved, his face pale with rage; as an elder minister, he knew the state’s strength, and knew that if things continued this way, popular unrest would soon erupt.

Was this precisely what that venomous strategist intended?!

He had precisely grasped Jiang Yuan’s psyche, used a single phrase to shatter the years of suppressed resentment and fear within the Emperor, manipulated him into actions that would destroy the state’s strength, and poisoned the already bitter relationship between Jiang Yuan and Jiang Gao.

Even if Wei Yiwen revealed all this, Jiang Yuan would only believe Wei Yiwen was exaggerating to further influence him.

Cruel, yet righteous, radiating an overwhelming momentum.

This was a strategist of grand strategy.

Wei Yiwen fell silent, sighed bitterly.

How many talents serve Emperor Li Guanyi!

He glanced instinctively toward the front ranks, seeing the ministers depart—where once stood Yuwen Lie, Jiang Gao, Qin Yulong—now, no one dared step forward to support him in pleading with the Emperor.

He instinctively glanced toward the front ranks, saw those eminent ministers depart, saw familiar places now empty—no Yuwen Lie, no Jiang Gao, no Qin Yulong; at this moment, no one dared step forward to counsel the Emperor.

Or was it true: all suffering arises from one’s own doing?

Wei Yiwen scoffed at himself, knowing Jiang Yuan would not listen, yet still wrote down his concerns and submitted a memorial.

The Emperor, deeply displeased, later sneered to his attendants:

“Wei Yiwen claims he alone holds the civil officials in check, allowing me to sit upon the throne.”

“And he uses Jiang Su to pressure me.”

“Arrogant, power-hungry, a minister who brings ruin to the state—what is his intent? What is his intent?!”

“Does he think he alone cares for the state? Do I, then, merely a sack of rice and straw? Do I not value heaven and earth, the nation?!”

In the fourth year of Daye, second month, Jiwei, the Emperor ascended the Fishing Terrace, arrived at Yangzi Ford, and held a grand banquet for the ministers; Jiang Yuan ignored Wei Yiwen’s objections—or rather, after three years, he had gradually seized full control of court power.

As spring warmed and flowers bloomed, he still toured the canals, his dragon boat gliding slowly.

The dragon boat had four decks, forty-five feet high, two hundred zhang long.

The top deck held the main hall, inner hall, and east and west court chambers—all complete; the two middle decks had one hundred and twenty rooms, all adorned with gold and jade; the lowest deck housed the palace maids.

The Empress rode the Xiangchi boat, slightly smaller in scale but equally ornate.

Nine additional floating pavilions, each with three water-deck levels, accompanied them.

Also present were thousands of vessels—Yangcai, Zhu Niao, Cang Chi, Bai Hu—carrying the imperial harem, ministers, monks, nuns, and Daoists, laden with provisions from all departments; these great ships required men along the riverbanks, bare-chested, hauling thick ropes to drag them slowly forward.

Thousands more ships—Yangcai, Zhu Niao, Cang Chi, Bai Hu—carried the imperial harem, ministers, monks, nuns, and Daoists, laden with offerings from all departments; these great vessels required men along both riverbanks, bare-skinned, hauling thick ropes to drag them slowly forward.

This journey employed over eighty thousand rope-pullers.

Among them, over nine thousand pulled vessels of the Yangcai class or higher; Jiang Yuan could not bear to see these poor laborers bare their shoulders and backs, so he ordered them to wear brocade robes.

Brocade was slippery and ill-suited for exertion; they often slipped, fell, and bled from bruises—but the Emperor loved the sight.

Watching the open sky ahead, the wind lifting the brocade robes, they seemed like palace halls walking across heaven and earth, fluttering as if ready to soar.

Jiang Yuan called them “Palace Feet.”

From afar, the sight was magnificent, lifting his spirits; he composed verses:

“The dragon leaps amid clouds, displaying majesty; banners wave in wind, proclaiming might.”

“Mountains and rivers painted, eternal grandeur; heaven and earth filled, all seas at peace.”

The fleet stretched over two hundred li, end to end; imperial guards marched along both banks, banners obscuring the land. All counties within five hundred li were ordered to supply food; yet so much was brought that none could finish it.

The leftover rice and meat, when served again, turned rancid—and were simply buried outside.

These good rice and meat leftovers grew stale by the second meal, so they were all thrown outside and buried.

It was the spring plowing season, and many of the rice seeds forcibly sent here were casually discarded by these beauties; meanwhile, taking advantage of Wei Yi’s absence, he summoned troops from all directions to launch a campaign against the Taiping Army beyond the Northern Frontier Pass.

They transported grain and armor on carts heading north.

Because the Northern Frontier Pass was so far from the Central Plains, vast numbers of conscripts had to be mobilized; during spring, farming was delayed, and fields lay fallow. Combined with famine, grain prices rose steadily—where prices peaked, a dou of rice cost hundreds of coins.

But Jiang Yuan continued transporting grain, as long as it did not affect Jiang Su.

The two men jointly pushed three shi of rice; the journey was perilous and distant, and along the way, people ate much of the grain. By the time they reached the Northern Frontier Pass, little remained, leaving many civilians in panic.

If we bring grain and then have none left, won’t we have to eat our own dried meat as food!

Their hearts were filled with terror.

Outside the Northern Frontier Pass, the gentle and serene Master Wen Qingyu rested his chin in his hand. Even in spring, the rivers here still held patches of ice; he fished with a green bamboo rod, his expression calm.

Xue Tianxing said: “Jiang Yuan has mobilized troops to reinforce the attack on us, but there’s been little commotion—several skirmishes occurred, yet nothing decisive.”

Wen Qingyu replied gently: “To launch an expedition across ten thousand li—that is the hand of a great general. But Jiang Yuan has only two options: either troops under Jiang Su, or forces stationed at Zhenbei City facing Marshal Yue.”

“He doesn’t understand large-scale long-range warfare, yet he insists on giving orders himself.”

“Even if Ying Guo has deep reserves, it cannot sustain such depletion. Don’t worry—when he comes, we’ll follow the battle tactics left behind by that old turtle Lu Youxian. We don’t seek victory; we only seek one word: delay!”

Yuan Shitong asked: “A battle we cannot win?”

Wen Qingyu said coolly: “Look further ahead. Don’t fixate on the local battlefield. This war is a war of all under heaven—the battlefield isn’t merely this tiny Northern Frontier Pass, but everywhere within and beyond our sight.”

It seemed a fish had bitten; Wen Qingyu’s fishing rod twitched.

The line touched the water’s surface, sending ripples across it. In Wen Qingyu’s eyes, the ripples reflected the clouds above, shattering them into patterns resembling the celestial maps of the realm.

Wen Qingyu fished on this distant, icy lake beyond the Northern Frontier Pass, and said softly:

“The battlefield is all under heaven!”

“Do you remember what I told you?”

Yuan Shitong replied: “...War is the fastest way to drain a nation’s strength.”

Wen Qingyu rested his chin, watching the ripples on the frozen lake: “Yes. National strength drained, luxury indulged—Jiang Su understands military strategy, but in this regard, he still falls short of us.”

“It’s not only corrupt ministers who influence the emperor—enemies can too.”

“Victory today lies beyond the battlefield.”

He gazed at the ripples: “The fish is about to bite.”

Yuan Shitong murmured: “Is it Jiang Yuan?”

Wen Qingyu smiled faintly: “General Yuan Shitong has grasped my implied meaning after all.”

Yuan Shitong straightened his chest and lifted his head.

Wen Qingyu said: “Too bad. You’re wrong.”

“Not him.”

Yuan Shitong’s spirits sank again.

Yet he still had many doubts—he felt Master Wen Qingyu always spoke in circles. Hadn’t they just been talking about Jiang Yuan? Why had the subject changed now?

If not Jiang Yuan, then who was biting?

Who could understand the Master’s words?

Could it be that my mind isn’t sharp enough?

He unconsciously glanced at his friend Xue Tianxing, hoping to see a flicker of confusion on his face.

But as expected, Xue Tianxing disappointed him.

Xue Tianxing’s expression was thoughtful: “Is the Master using Jiang Yuan’s northern campaign as bait?”

“Making Jiang Yuan launch a northern campaign isn’t the goal—but a means?”

A flicker of shock passed through Xue Tianxing’s eyes.

Wen Qingyu smiled calmly: “It was the strategy of my friend Yan Daqing of the Western Regions.”

“I am merely the messenger.”

Yuan Shitong muttered: “Again Yan Daqing of the Western Regions? And now Yan Daqing of the Southwest? How many Yan Daqings are there?”

Wen Qingyu seemed amused by this incoherent complaint, and laughed aloud: “Only one Yan Daqing.”

“Generals, broaden your vision. Don’t fixate only on Jiang Yuan.”

He flicked his wrist and reeled in a fish, saying softly:

“The world is vast, and heroes rise everywhere.”

“Don’t underestimate the people of this realm.”

The fish thrashed, dropping a single drop of water—like a go stone falling upon the board, sending countless ripples across the surface.

Jiang Yuan was admiring the scenery when an urgent report arrived—

“Your Majesty! Disaster! Disaster!”

“Rebels have risen, rallied refugees, and stormed our cities!”

Jiang Yuan froze, then leapt to his feet in fury: “What?!”

That day, uprisings erupted across several regions of Ying Guo. Each rebel leader opened granaries to feed starving peasants, rallied followers, and proclaimed themselves kings. By the next day, over a dozen regions had risen; by the seventh or eighth day, across Ying Guo’s vast expanse, seventy-two rebel factions had emerged, each declaring themselves emperor.

The firebrand left behind by Wolf King Chen Chengbi.

It ignited at the most critical moment.

Years ago, Dou De and Shan Xiong, who led the assault on the capital, did the same—breached city gates and distributed all the grain they carried to the people. Dou De cried out: “Transporting grain to the north, men arrive but find no food—by law, we are to be beheaded. Today, obeying the state’s policy means death; joining us means death too!”

“My fellow countrymen—”

Dou De gazed at the crowd before him, and remembered long ago.

Seven or eight years prior, Jiang Wanxiang’s spirit had been like a dragon; Emperor Chen had been calm and cold; the Great Khan had ridden the steppes; the Divine Martial King had looked down with arrogance; and the current Emperor of Qin was merely a boy of fifteen or sixteen.

Back then, he was young. Back then, the world had been vast and magnificent.

The Sword Mad Emperor and the Emperor of Ying had both departed.

This once-mighty world now felt lonely, as if its final act had ended.

But heroes of the realm cannot be only the old generation!

Dou De drew a deep breath, recalling the Wolf King’s words, and looked at these peasants burdened by corvée labor and deprived of their planting season. He shouted:

“The world is in chaos—death is certain!”

“Do you wish to starve to death?”

“Or die with a full belly?!”

That single sentence was enough.

Dou De rose.

But Dou De was merely one spark in this wildfire of chaos. The cause of this upheaval was not a single event—it was the accumulation of countless minor incidents over the years, each seemingly insignificant, yet together they shattered the realm.

In times of chaos, hearts tremble.

They were but a single pawn in the hands of that gentle scholar.

When the pawn fell, hearts stirred—and the realm cracked open again.

Jiang Yuan’s fury and helplessness burned fiercely.

History records that he raged to his close ministers: “When rebels cry out, ten thousand follow. This proves the people need not be numerous—too many, and they band together as bandits. Unless exterminated utterly, they will never be deterred.”

These rebels raised their arms, and tens of thousands rose in rebellion.

The people of the realm should not be numerous—too many, and they become bandits!

Commoners eat my grain, spend my silver, yet fail to repay the emperor’s grace—and now they rebel!

Kill, kill, kill!

Must be killed! Must be killed!

Even the harshest officials doubted their ears—they didn’t know whether to blame the emperor’s vile nature or whether they’d simply overestimated human morality.

Across the realm, storms gathered. Yue Pengwu, with one hundred thousand troops, pinned down Ying Guo’s northern army of three hundred thousand. The Emperor of Qin personally countered Jiang Su—or rather, the two supreme generals had traded blows, neutralizing each other.

Seventy or eighty thousand Taiping troops were like a nail.

Piercing the softest, most vulnerable part of Jiang Yuan’s heart.

They would emerge casually, yet vanish like turtles the moment battle loomed.

Across the vast Central Plains, rebel factions rose everywhere—some numbering over ten thousand, others merely a thousand—banding together as bandits, leaving imperial troops exhausted. He Ruo Qinhu stood beneath the palace, gazing at the boundless sky. Jiang Wanxiang’s Star-Climbing Tower had long been sealed.

He stood there, no longer seeing the mighty Emperor of Ying who once gazed from its heights, surveying the realm’s grandeur—only the tower now, worn with loneliness.

“Divine Martial King, Chen Chengbi...”

He Ruo Qinhu spoke the name, unsure what emotion to feel.

Hatred? Fear? Resentment? Or awe?

Now he understood.

The Wolf King Chen Chengbi’s final, suicidal charge had not merely slashed one sword—until today, they had believed the Divine Martial King’s last act was to sever Jiang Wanxiang’s heavenly fortune, causing the emperor, who should have lived another twenty years, to die prematurely.

Shattering Ying Guo’s dream of unifying all under heaven.

That single sword alone was enough to place Chen Chengbi among the realm’s supreme generals.

But in the game of a supreme ruler, that early move was merely a idle pawn.

Only when its meaning was revealed later did its impact become vast and magnificent.

He Ruo Qinhu whispered: “Is this... the second sword... Chen Chengbi?”

Transmitting martial arts, philosophy, and strategy across the land—like scattered sparks. While Jiang Wanxiang lived, these sparks dimmed. But when no one remained to suppress the tide, they converged into the most lethal sword.

One sword in the past, one sword in the future.

One sword severed Ying Guo’s heavenly mandate; the other would sever Ying Guo’s dynasty.

What a remarkable Chen Chengbi.

What a one.

Divine Martial King!

Before capturing the Tiger, He Ruo had still resented the Divine Martial King, believing the man merely possessed brutal martial skill and practiced forbidden arts; had he himself studied taboo techniques, the outcome might still have been uncertain.

But now he could no longer resist acknowledging him—indeed, in a moment of daze, He Ruo found himself thinking: if this situation continued, would the fall of the Great Ying Empire truly begin and end with the Wolf King?

How chaotic, how absurd, how...

Do not make him an enemy.

Chen Chengbi, Chen Chengbi.

After three hundred years of Chen Guo’s rule, there arose such a figure.

And after you departed, still others arose to stir the tide, to draw forth your one sword! There were Dou De, Shan Xiong, and others who rose in rebellion, pleading for the people’s cause, heedless of their own lives.

“After you left, the world grew silent.”

“Yet this grand, magnificent spirit has not yet been extinguished.”

He Ruo unexpectedly recalled the arrogant Yuwen Lie, and laughed bitterly at himself.

To reach such a height of brilliance in the world—how one longs for it, yet how one hates it.

An imperial edict arrived, summoning He Ruo.

This divine general had long remained silent, now fully entangled in the scheme, like his body sinking into a swamp, hands and feet bound, constrained, no longer free—he sighed, glanced once at the Star-Picking Tower, then turned and entered the palace.

The Star-Picking Tower soared into the heavens, yet now carried only loneliness; no familiar faces remained, faintly desolate. This once mighty, vast, and awe-inspiring Great Ying Empire had, within mere years, seemed to have exhausted its mandate.

Desolate and solitary.

He Ruo cast one final glance into the distance, then followed the eunuch into the palace.

Only in his heart did he whisper:

“Grand Preceptor, Divine General—what are you doing...”

Jiang Su lifted her gaze, staring at the blazing Qilin Army, her eyes hard as iron.

He was—waiting!

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