The Khan of the Iron Crane tribe, Multan, gave Yang Jijü a token representing his identity, then had men escort Yang Jijü and Yang Jishen to the border between Iron Crane and Huole territory.

Yang Jishen was, truth be told, scared half to death — genuinely, sincerely unwilling to go.

He reminded Yang Jijü of what had happened the last time they’d tried to meet with the Huole people: those men had been utterly domineering and hostile.

Going again now, and going with an Iron Crane token no less — the two tribes were sworn enemies to the death. Wouldn’t they be torn limb from limb the moment they arrived?

Yang Jijü, however, was perfectly composed. He smiled and said, “Relax. I say it’ll be fine, so it’ll be fine. If there’s any danger, it won’t come from the Huole side — it’ll come when we’re heading back.”

Yang Jishen was still frightened. He’d never had much of a bold streak since childhood; it had always been Yang Jijü looking after him, Yang Jijü charging ahead while he followed close behind.

This trip into Huole territory — he didn’t want to go, not from the bottom of his heart. But Yang Jijü had to go, so he had no choice but to go along.

Unsurprisingly, they were stopped the moment they set foot on Huole land. The Huole riders were even less courteous than before.

Whatever Yang Jishen had been afraid of, Yang Jijü went ahead and did it.

Yang Jijü immediately produced the token of Iron Crane Chief Multan, declaring that he came as a representative of both Great Chu and the Iron Crane Khan.

Yang Jishen thought: that’s it, we’re finished. The Huole people despised the Iron Crane to the bone — pulling out that token would surely get them seized and beaten before anything else was said.

“I told you, relax,” said Yang Jijü, utterly at ease. “The Huole Khan will see us.”

They were temporarily confined in a tent, given only one meal a day — just barely enough to keep them from starving to death.

After some time, the Huole Khan Wudu actually sent men to receive them.

And not just anyone — he sent a senior tribal elder, a man of considerable standing, who treated Yang Jijü and his brother with full courtesy, a complete reversal from the attitude of those earlier riders.

They were welcomed into the Huole royal court, where Wudu himself was waiting at the camp to receive them.

After a few pleasantries, Wudu said with an apologetic expression, “The last time Your Highness visited, I happened to be away. When I returned and learned of Your Highness’s visit, I was deeply regretful to have missed you.”

Yang Jishen thought: what nonsense — you deliberately left town.

Such pleasantries were worth no more than a laugh.

On the way here, Yang Jishen had asked Yang Jijü: how could you be sure Wudu would agree to see us this time?

Yang Jijü had laughed. “Didn’t you say yourself that the Iron Crane and the Huole are blood enemies? It’s precisely because of that enmity that Wudu would need to see us — once he knows Multan met with us, he has to meet with us too.”

Yang Jishen didn’t quite understand, but he didn’t particularly mind. For him, standing behind Yang Jijü and cheering him on was all he ever needed to do.

Yang Jijü explained further: “Wudu is worried about what Multan might have agreed to with us. He has to find out. That’s exactly why I made a point of asking Multan for a token.”

Watching Yang Jijü now, laughing and chatting easily with Wudu, Yang Jishen felt a genuine, profound admiration welling up inside him.

After a bit of small talk, Wudu steered the conversation toward the Iron Crane.

Yang Jijü recognized the moment had come, and began to make his case.

It was the same argument he’d made to Multan — simply repeated for Wudu’s ears.

The difference was this: he told Wudu, “The Iron Crane Khan has already agreed, and he too hopes for your cooperation, but feels awkward approaching you directly — given the unpleasantness between you in the past.”

“However, the Iron Crane Khan says that if this cooperation succeeds, he wishes to put old grievances aside and become brothers you can trust. If the Iron Crane and Huole act together, there is no enemy on this steppe who can stand against you.”

Wudu asked, “You’re certain nothing will go wrong?”

Yang Jijü said, “Under the agreement I’ve made with the Iron Crane Khan, he’ll drive a herd of livestock toward the Black Wu army. Your men intercept it. Your story is that the Huole, lacking the manpower to escort their own tribute livestock, asked the Iron Crane to transport it on your behalf — but the Iron Crane misunderstood, assumed you were raiding them, and attacked without asking questions. Though you find it difficult, you have no choice but to fight back.”

Wudu said, “And the Black Wu won’t hold us accountable?”

Yang Jijü said, “The Iron Crane will call on their allies, you’ll call on yours, and half the steppe will be at war — utter chaos. Who would still be capable of delivering livestock and supplies to the Black Wu?”

Wudu asked, “And if the Black Wu Emperor sends someone to demand an explanation?”

Yang Jijü said, “Khan, you were the one trying to arrange for the Iron Crane to transport your goods. It was the Iron Crane who misunderstood and attacked first. You’re the wronged party. What are you afraid of?”

Wudu thought it over. It did seem workable.

The Black Wu squeezed them relentlessly. One battle, and the steppe peoples would take losses — but those losses would be modest. Every time the Black Wu clashed with the Chu forces, it was the steppe peoples who paid the price: vast herds of cattle, sheep, and horses shipped away in endless streams, enough to break anyone’s heart.

Once the matter was settled, Yang Jijü asked Wudu for a token as well — and had Wudu write a personal letter in his own hand, which he would carry back to Multan.

When the two brothers left the Huole camp, Yang Jijü told Yang Jishen to go ahead alone — because the dangerous part was only just beginning.

Yang Jishen refused to leave.

Yang Jijü appeared to agree, then launched a surprise attack, knocking Yang Jishen unconscious. He then had his men escort Yang Jishen away, telling them to wait at Mao’er Mountain.

Mao’er Mountain was roughly three hundred li away. It wasn’t a large mountain, and at its foot sat a small, crumbling earthen fortress — long since fallen to ruin.

That fortress had once been a Chu army outpost. In the days of Chu’s glory, military garrisons had been stationed at such outposts throughout the outer steppe; there had been many such small fortress-towns.

In those days, the Nalan tribe had represented Chu’s dominion over the outer steppe, and many Nalan warriors had worn the uniform of Chu’s garrison soldiers.

Later, the Nalan tribe was defeated by the Iron Crane — and fighting alongside the Iron Crane that day had been the Huole.

It was the unequal division of spoils afterward that had caused the falling-out between Iron Crane and Huole, and their enmity had only deepened with time.

Yang Jijü arranged for his escort to bring Yang Jishen to the earthen fortress at Mao’er Mountain and wait. Then he turned and rode alone back into Iron Crane territory.

A gust of wind swept through.

On the walls of Ting’an County, the Prince of Wu felt his thoughts interrupted by that wind.

He turned instinctively to look at Mangdang Mountain — far larger than Mao’er Mountain, yet this stretch of it bore a striking resemblance to the shape of Mao’er.

The small city beneath his feet was not unlike that crumbling earthen fortress either.

A wave of pain moved through his chest — and for a moment, it hurt so badly he could barely breathe.

He reached out and gripped the battlement. The color drained from his face. He didn’t dare turn around, afraid his men might see what he looked like in that moment.

It had taken three years for the Black Wu forces to finally retreat, and all because of his stratagem — severing the Black Wu supply lines.

But after that campaign, it was as though all seven brothers had been struck by a curse. And what had happened that day at the earthen fortress of Mao’er Mountain — even now, when Yang Jijü recalled it, he felt as though someone were cutting into his heart with a blade, one slow stroke at a time.

He had been seventeen or eighteen then. Now he was sixty-seven or sixty-eight. Half a century had passed in the blink of an eye — yet some things could never, ever be forgotten.

“Your Highness.”

A scout came up from below the wall and called out, pulling the Prince of Wu’s thoughts back to the present.

The Prince of Wu took a few quiet deep breaths, steadied himself, and turned to face the scout. “What is it?”

“Your Highness,” the scout reported, “Tang Pidi’s Ning Army has begun crossing the river.”

“Crossing the river?”

The Prince of Wu’s brow furrowed involuntarily. What was Tang Pidi planning?

The Panxing River wasn’t large enough to be called an impregnable barrier, but with that river between them, the Ning Army could hold the southern bank and make it extremely difficult for the Chu forces to cross. Now the Ning Army was crossing of its own accord — weren’t they afraid of being pushed into a corner where the Chu army, fighting with its back to the wall, would throw everything at them?

“All of them crossing?”

The Prince of Wu asked again.

The scout answered: “The Ning Army is crossing in succession. By the scale of it, they appear to be bringing everyone over.”

Nie Qitai said, “Your Highness — could this be a deliberate lure?”

Yang Jingyuan said, “Your Highness, even if the Ning reinforcements number only a few tens of thousands, combined with Tang Pidi’s own forces that would be one hundred thousand men. Crossing the river with one hundred thousand soldiers is no small thing — it can’t be done overnight. If they’re deliberately showing us this vulnerability, it’s very likely they have more reinforcements arriving.”

One hundred thousand troops crossing a river — that would take considerable time. If the Chu forces were to strike back now, cutting through the Ning Army mid-crossing, the Ning forces would be thrown into chaos.

This was one of the most fundamental prohibitions in the art of war. Yet Tang Pidi had done it so openly and brazenly. Could it truly be a trap to lure them in?

The Prince of Wu carefully weighed the question in his mind. Should he attack, or not?

The same thought as always: if he were twenty years younger — in the prime of his middle age — he wouldn’t have bothered wondering whether it was a trap. He would have simply struck.

And the Left Martial Guard back then had been nothing like it was now. The garrison soldiers of those days — their equipment, their training, their coordination and combined arms — far surpassed what he commanded today.

Even if Tang Pidi’s move was a trap, the Prince of Wu’s old Left Martial Guard would have driven straight at them, trap or no trap, and swallowed up that portion of the Ning Army that had already crossed.

But the Prince of Wu did not dare do that now. He knew, honestly, that he no longer had the cutting edge he’d had at his peak.

The Prince of Wu in his twenties and thirties had commanded with two qualities: spirit and sharpness.

After he was stripped of military command and spent several years in idle retirement, the Prince of Wu who took the field again had shifted to two entirely different qualities.

Dominance.

The Prince of Wu past forty wielded dominance to its absolute limit.

“Pass the order,” the Prince of Wu said, brow creased. “Every unit is to begin constructing defensive works immediately — dig trenches, raise earthen walls. Let the Ning Army believe we intend to hold here.”

Then he added: “Deploy more scouts to probe southeast. By sunset tomorrow, I want full intelligence on whether there are any Ning forces within one hundred li to the southeast. This is not optional.”

Nie Qitai immediately responded: “Understood. I’ll assign men at once.”

The Prince of Wu turned to Yang Jingyuan: “Take half the cavalry toward the Panxing River. Create the appearance that we’re preparing to attack. Draw out whether they have troops in ambush.”

Yang Jingyuan bowed low: “I’ll go immediately.”

The Prince of Wu let out a slow breath and turned once more to look at Mangdang Mountain.

If it hadn’t been for Mao’er Mountain back then, both he and Yang Jishen would have died on that steppe.

But if he hadn’t insisted on going to the steppe in the first place, things between the brothers would never have become what they later became.

Fifty years. It felt as though one full turn of the wheel had brought him back here.

And yet it wasn’t quite the same. Back then, he had stood alone with no support, no one beside him. Now he still had more than one hundred thousand troops.

Besides — back then, it was Mao’er Mountain that had helped him survive. Now there was Mangdang Mountain. Perhaps that wasn’t entirely a bad thing.

His hand rested on the wall. The Prince of Wu gazed into the distance.

The new generation replaces the old…

But the old — are not yet ready to leave the stage.

—