Chapter 558: Yet a Time of Heroes Contending, Dragons and Snakes Rising

Jiang Cai did not know how to comfort the younger brother before her.

She was indeed Jiang Gao’s strategist, yet she also truly felt a bitter disappointment toward Jiang Gao—that refined, luminous gentleman, worthy to inherit Jiang Wanxiang’s legacy, yet unfit to be the pillar of a chaotic age.

Everyone in the world may do as they wish.

But Jiang Gao cannot.

He is Jiang Wanxiang’s son, the eldest and crown prince, the nation’s heir; a sovereign knows no blood, no tears—he must bear the grand aspirations of generations of monarchs, the final storm of centuries of chaos.

Even so, to manipulate and push Jiang Gao toward transformation through such means still stirred complex emotions within Jiang Cai; though complex, it was a task she could not avoid.

The fate of Daying, of all under heaven, rests upon this single thought.

The Grand Preceptor’s eyes held neither Jiang Gao nor Jiang Yuan.

He needed only a ruler with sufficient capacity; he chose Jiang Yuan as the whetstone to forge Jiang Gao’s transformation and awakening—should this succeed, there would still be a war of nations, a Daying realm, and a final battle.

After hearing Jiang Su’s plan,

Jiang Cai could not bear it and asked: “If Gao’er fails to break through this critical state of mind? If he resists and is killed by Jiang Yuan—Grand Preceptor, is this strategy not too cruel?”

The Grand Preceptor, though immensely aged, stood like an unyielding mountain, and replied: “To achieve extraordinary deeds, one must pay an extraordinary price.”

“To crave effortless success, to seek smooth sailing without enduring hardship or exhausting one’s spirit—such thoughts are but the delusions of a child.”

“Abandon the illusions you learned in the Xuegong, Jiang Cai.”

Jiang Cai looked at the solemn, towering elder and asked: “Do you not care for Jiang Gao’s life?”

Jiang Su remained coldly silent.

Jiang Cai left. As she departed, she saw Jiang Su standing alone in the courtyard—it was a rare clear day, and the Grand Preceptor was about to march to intercept the mighty Qin Emperor.

The Grand Preceptor Jiang Su stood there, tall, his black cloak hanging down.

Like a solitary peak.

At this moment, Jiang Su’s authority and military prestige had reached their zenith; across all under heaven, few could match him, fewer still could restrain him—he could easily treat the two princes as pawns in a deadly game.

The limit of a powerful minister, the supreme status of a military commander.

In later histories, one might say: none wielded power over court and realm as he did—he was not merely Grand Preceptor, but regent.

Yet beneath this slightly cold sunlight, Jiang Su’s silhouette was profoundly lonely; Jiang Cai suddenly felt dazed, recalling that her teacher had not smiled in a very, very long time.

When the late emperor still lived.

Even after walking through endless battlefields, betrayals, killings, and abandonments, his face, like his heart, had once been cold—but he still smiled, still joked with His Majesty.

But now, he would not.

Jiang Cai walked out of the cold palace, out of the halls and imperial city, through the streets, to the city’s outer roads—Jiang Gao’s order had been issued: the people were released, and compensation given.

The gate guard who had reported Jiang Gao’s actions sat on a stone beside the moat, clutching his spear, lost in thought.

Jiang Cai called to him several times.

He did not respond.

Jiang Cai kicked him—he snapped back to awareness, saw the woman, delicate of feature yet ethereal in bearing, and grinned: “So it’s Miss Cai?”

Jiang Cai said: “Mm.”

She paused, then asked: “Are all the people released?”

The gate guard grinned: “All released. As you instructed, we prepared grain and a hundred copper coins each—meager, but enough as compensation…”

He was a loyalist backed by Jiang Yuan.

Yet his demeanor now clearly marked him as Jiang Cai’s man.

Jiang Cai studied the School of Vertical and Horizontal Alliances; though she still obeyed Grand Preceptor Jiang Su’s orders, she could not bear to watch Jiang Yuan slaughter the people, and sought to act in her own way—but now, the former foremost scholar of the Xuegong was dazed.

She merely sighed: “The School of Vertical and Horizontal Alliances is ultimately a doctrine of leveraging momentum.”

Even with all her strength, in this surging tide of fate, she was like a mantis trying to stop a cart—perhaps she could protect some people, but only some; what of those who died in forced labor? Those buried alive? What could she do?

She suddenly recalled her youth.

Back then, she had devoured every technique of the Vertical and Horizontal School, boasted herself a peerless genius, outshone every scholar in the Xuegong—even her own master could not best her in the classics.

Then that arrogant fool arrived.

Jiang Cai, ever clever, defeated the so-called future supreme strategist, as usual, waiting for the loser to yield—yet he picked up a long staff.

She thought she had won, convinced he was a sore loser.

But now, she realized: was not his action itself a form of discourse? No matter how brilliantly the Vertical and Horizontal School spoke, it could not match the power of actual weapons; all talk of diplomacy pales before a hegemon’s wrath.

It was always about leveraging momentum.

In this world today, such a doctrine had little place left.

The gate guard said: “Still, at least the Prince has finally made his choice.”

Jiang Cai nodded, but her eyes were hollow.

Is this what you hoped for?

Grand Preceptor.

She fell quiet, gazing into the distance; the gate guard, who had finally avoided ordering the burying alive of civilians, also stared afar. After the plan’s success, they should have felt relief.

Yet perhaps from years of suppression, or perhaps because success had momentarily loosened their spirits, both were sluggish, their reactions dulled.

Or perhaps—they had finally felt helplessness.

Even the capital’s gate commander, the foremost scholar of the Vertical and Horizontal School, was but a leaf in a torrent, a pawn on a board—adrift, at the mercy of the tide.

Fate was not theirs to command; neither was their body.

Though one battle had been won,

Only desolation remained.

She could only wonder: is this what you desired, Grand Preceptor?

Jiang Cai did not know that, after her question went unanswered and she left, the mountain-like war god stood gazing into the distance, as emotionless as a mechanical device.

Only after a long while did he murmur:

“If it fails…”

Jiang Su looked at the world before him: “Then Daying has no hope of victory. If we cannot triumph, Yuwen Lie will act—he will take the Crown Prince, hide him, erase his name. And I…”

Jiang Su reached out, grasped the divine spear Jiemie—the legendary weapon, among the greatest in the world, let out a low, mournful hum. Jiang Su’s gaze was calm: “I will lead Daying’s final army into the heart of Qin, emulating the Divine Martial King.”

“If we cannot achieve great victory, then we should not cling to life—before departure, let us drink this world into oblivion!”

“How could men like us die like flies, crawling in filth?”

“Must only Chen Chengbi possess such a spirit?”

He drew the divine spear Jiemie, shook it lightly—the blade trembled, humming with fierce slaughter, its edge cold and deadly. He walked calmly forward, awaiting the day the gentleman would transform.

If possible, Daying still had a chance for a mighty final battle.

If not, Grand Preceptor Jiang Su would be utterly “liberated.”

No longer bound by anything, the Grand Preceptor without regrets would die—and from his corpse, the War God would rise anew, leading Daying’s last elite, turning all under heaven upside down, heedless of unification.

He was the last remnant of the previous age.

Our age—its boldness, its grand ambitions—once soared, once towered above all, rivaling the Qin Emperor. Even if this dream is about to fade, it should not end this way.

It should not vanish, after burning all strength, in silent despair.

Our deaths must shake the world!

“Let me ride this final battlefield of the chaotic age.”

“Let me shatter every hero’s dream.”

“Jiang Wanxiang, I will fight until my blood boils, until my life burns like wild grass to ash, scattering as white dust across this chaotic world.”

The Grand Preceptor of Daying advanced slowly, spear in hand, his cloak billowing, his gaze serene yet vast: “Perhaps nothing suits the dawn of a peaceful age better than the unreserved battle and slaughter of a great war god.”

“If we cannot become heroes remembered by later ages,

We shall surely become the most brutal of enemies.”

Whether fortunate or not,

The gentleman transformed: Jiang Gao slew Jiang Yuan, sealing his imperial coronation with the blood of kin, while Jiang Su, coldly overseeing the world, returned to his position as Grand Preceptor—never becoming the desperate, irreversible War God.

Jiang Gao ascended the throne and immediately reversed Jiang Yuan’s policies—he issued a self-blame edict, declared to all under heaven that he still sent troops to suppress the “rebels,” but ordered only that the people be returned to their fields.

………………

Empress He Ruo sat alone in the palace.

Her palms were cold; she sat quietly. Years as Empress had left her unsteady, as if floating in a dream. The Emperor treated her well—better than any ordinary concubine.

At first, she had been clear-eyed.

He Ruo Qinhu loved his youngest daughter deeply—he hired the finest teachers for her martial arts and literature, taught her archery, horsemanship, and spearcraft himself. Empress He Ruo knew from the start that the Emperor’s kindness was rooted in interest.

The Emperor did not care for her.

He cared for He Ruo Qinhu behind her.

Yet all men harbor hope; all men deceive themselves.

In these years, the daughter of a military family had slowly fallen—she deceived herself, repeating to herself:

“I am different.”

Especially during the southern tour—her imperial barge was only slightly smaller than the Emperor’s; all other rites and protocols were identical. Jiang Yuan had held her hand then, saying: “We, as husband and wife, should be like the late Emperor and Empress—deeply devoted.”

“You are different, Empress.”

The Emperor smiled gently: “What I have, you share half.”

And so she drowned in her dream.

And that dream was pierced by Jiang Gao’s sword.

She had never seen the Emperor so frantic, nor had she ever seen gentle, jade-like Jiang Gao become so commanding—even his glance sent shivers through her body.

What a king’s spirit this is.

Her dream ended the moment she awoke—she was already seated here, days passing without a single soul visiting her. Gradually, she grew calm, knowing her father still lived, knowing the tide of the world still needed a godlike general like He Ruo Qinhu.

As long as her father still held such immense value,

she would not die.

Suddenly, He Ruo Empress’s body trembled; she heard footsteps. When she lifted her head, the composure and grace she once had while watching laborers haul the giant vessel alongside Emperor Jiang Yuan were gone—only panic remained.

The gate of the Cold Palace opened, and a female official stood outside.

Her features were delicate, her aura otherworldly.

Jiang Cai.

He Ruo Empress’s face changed. She instinctively stepped back, saying, “Jiang Cai… what are you doing here?”

Jiang Cai’s gaze swept over the food on the table— untouched, not a single chopstick moved. She folded her hands before her abdomen, her voice cool and clear: “I heard Your Majesty has been in low spirits, eating sparingly. So I’ve come to bring a cup of tea.”

He Ruo Empress’s expression quivered.

Her hair hung disheveled; her large, beautiful eyes now trembled like a startled fawn. She watched the maid behind the female official, carrying a tray with a bowl of broth, walking slowly forward.

How could He Ruo Empress not know the cruelty of the inner palace?

How could she not know the brutality of imperial succession?

Instantly, her face shook. She stepped back two paces, tripped over a stool, and fell to the ground. She pushed herself backward with her hands, her lips trembling like autumn leaves in the wind: “W-what are you going to do?!”

“I am the Empress!”

“The Empress who embodies the grace of heaven!”

Jiang Cai stepped forward calmly. The once radiant Empress now crawled backward, her voice shifting—trying to sound steady, yet trembling with unspoken panic. She gritted her teeth: “My father is He Ruo Qinhu, the godlike general of the realm!”

“He served the Great Emperor for sixty years, winning glorious victories in every campaign.”

“You cannot kill me!”

Suddenly, a thought struck her: “It’s you—you’re the ones who want to strike hard! You’re the ones forcing Jiang Gao, who is kind-hearted, to turn against his own brother!”

“Even if you’ve killed the Emperor, he must feel guilt.”

“He would never want to kill his own sister-in-law—I carry his flesh and blood within me! Are you plotting to destroy the imperial lineage?! You—”

Jiang Cai said: “It was Emperor Jiang Gao’s own order.”

A calm sentence.

Yet it struck like a blade.

It severed He Ruo Empress’s last hope. She fell silent for a long while, then whispered as if in a dream: “What… did you say?” Her gaze drifted blankly to the bowl of broth.

Jiang Cai stared at He Ruo Empress and said: “Empress, please.”

Servants and strongmen stepped forward on either side.

He Ruo Empress’s final hope—the last flicker of Jiang Gao’s mercy—was gone. She tried to flee, but two sturdy maids seized her arms and forced the broth down her throat.

She felt searing pain in her abdomen, then drifted into darkness, lying on a bed—her robes now stained with blood.

The child she had carried for months had been miscarried.

He Ruo Empress turned deathly pale, screaming in denial. Jiang Cai stepped back, turned, and walked away. Once the foremost disciple of Yu Xuegong, she now felt only that she was but a pawn in this chaotic age.

The noble transforms like a leopard.

Jiang Gao understood something.

Sometimes, cruelty and directness are the best solutions. If He Ruo had given birth to the child, it would have spawned endless troubles. Party politics and statecraft have always been ruthless.

She was only made to lose the child—her life was spared.

In such a brutal moment of imperial succession, this was the limit of Jiang Gao’s mercy. He could not, and would not, allow his weakness to cause greater disaster.

Within the Imperial Prison—

He Ruo Qinhu was bound in chains of black iron, metal fit for forging divine weapons, yet now used to cage this godlike general. But such chains could restrain martial masters—they could never hold a supreme general of the realm.

Yet He Ruo Qinhu sat still, his hair and beard wild, as motionless as a statue.

It was not the chains that bound him—it was himself.

Clanking chains echoed as footsteps approached. A Dali Temple official, his hand trembling, pulled out a set of keys and opened the cell door: "General He Ruo, His Majesty has come to see you."

He Ruo Qinhu sat upright, like a tiger crouched in place.

At these words, he opened his eyes—still blazing with divine radiance. He watched the man approaching: Jiang Gao entered the prison, his bearing upright, calm and serene.

He came alone.

Yu Wenlie had not followed.

Jiang Gao seemed to know what He Ruo Qinhu was thinking. “Yu Wenlie has gone to find General Qin Yulong. I came here on my own initiative.”

He Ruo Qinhu finally spoke, voice hoarse: “Your Highness, aren’t you afraid I might seize this chance to capture you?” He raised his arm—the terrifying black iron chains bound his wrists and body, their other ends fused to the prison’s foundation.

He Ruo Qinhu shook his arm—the chains rang sharply.

He Ruo Qinhu said: “These chains may look fearsome, but they cannot stop me.”

“If I wished to kill you, it would be no harder than killing a chicken.”

Jiang Gao looked at him and said: “General He Ruo will not.”

He Ruo Qinhu remained silent. Jiang Gao sat calmly before him, gestured, and servants brought wine and meat. He Ruo Qinhu said nothing, only reached out, tore off chunks of meat, and drank with unrestrained boldness.

Jiang Gao said: “When you and my father vied for the realm, you were once trapped by a stratagem. General Gao Xiang starved for days, finally returning with game—but dared not light a fire, fearing enemy scouts.”

“General Gao Xiang thought it too risky. My father insisted on lighting the fire to cook.”

“General He Ruo, already gravely wounded, awoke to their argument. He said nothing—only cut raw meat with his knife and ate it, wild and unrestrained.”

He Ruo Qinhu said: “Say what you mean, Your Highness. Don’t beat around the bush.”

Jiang Gao waved his hand. Heavy breathing echoed outside. Twenty strongmen staggered in, carrying a single horse spear. They propped it upright with poles—ten men on each side. Their faces showed no pretense.

Their bodies trembled, veins bulging.

One could see how monstrously heavy the weapon was—no ordinary man could lift it, let alone wield it on the battlefield against peers of equal might.

Only the supreme generals of this age could possibly wield this spear in battle.

It was He Ruo Qinhu’s divine weapon.

He Ruo Qinhu’s eyes flared like fire—then instantly dimmed.

The twenty men placed the weapon down. Even here, it radiated a lethal sharpness, making men tremble, as if thrust back onto the battlefield of chaos, hearts pounding.

He Ruo Qinhu looked at Jiang Gao. Jiang Gao spoke softly: “When you served Emperor Jiang Yuan, you failed to dissuade him from tyranny. That is not your fault. But aiding his cruelty… you cannot escape complicity.”

He Ruo Qinhu, with a heart dead and self-mocking, said:

“Your Highness wants to recruit me again?”

Jiang Gao stared at him, silent. Then softly:

“I made He Ruo Empress—your daughter-in-law—drink the abortive decoction. Jiang Yuan’s bloodline is ended. Your descendants will no longer use it to bring chaos to the realm, nor be tied to Jiang Yuan. No great calamity will follow.”

He Ruo Qinhu’s expression flickered slightly.

Jiang Gao stood. “I will not ask you to die for me. Mistakes cannot be undone. The dead civilians, the spilled blood—these will be etched into history. It is your fault. And mine.”

“Let future generations curse and spit upon us.”

“Whether you or I—we cannot escape history’s judgment. And General He Ruo, you owe me no apology. You failed not me—but my father.”

Jiang Gao whispered: “How could the final battle be fought without death?”

“If we do not unleash the realm’s grand courage, how can we honor eight hundred years of elegance? If we do not show the ambition in our hearts, how can we honor three hundred years of chaos—when heroes rose and warriors surged?”

“If we do not do this, how can we shatter the weapons and extinguish the embers of chaos? Peace will come only when the battlefield decides—now, victory is still fifty-fifty. And when that day comes, there will be death.”

“My Grand Secretary and I will assign you the most perilous battlefield, General He Ruo.”

Jiang Gao looked at He Ruo Qinhu, seated cross-legged, bound in chains.

He Ruo Qinhu lifted his head. Because of his position, because Jiang Gao stood against the light, he could not see Jiang Gao’s face—only the man’s straight, unyielding back. Not the gentle grace of a noble, but quiet, unshakable resolve.

The gesture of his outstretched hand was too familiar—so familiar it made He Ruo Qinhu dizzy. The name, the voice, the fierce spirit—all of it overwhelmed him. Tears streamed down his face.

The King’s calm, resolute voice echoed through the prison.

“I give you.”

“The right to die on the battlefield.”

He Ruo Qinhu wept.

The chains, bound by the world’s top-five supreme general, shattered. He did not know whether he bowed to Jiang Gao—or to the distant shadow long lost in memory. Choking, he knelt and bowed:

“How could I refuse?”

“…Your Majesty!”

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