How elevated Elder Yè’s standing was within the Court of Justice — there was probably not a soul in the entire Court who did not know, and likely very few in the whole Níng army who had not heard of him.
Though in the vast majority of cases Elder Yè worked from the shadows, those shadows were of the utmost importance.
The Chief Agents later promoted within the Court of Justice, the hundreds of officers beneath them — most had been trained by Elder Yè’s hand.
Outside the Court of Justice’s regular departments, there was a dedicated training ground for rising talent. It was Elder Yè who presided over it.
This time, Elder Yè brought twelve Chief Agents. The four from the Military Intelligence Bureau needed no particular introduction.
Of the remaining eight, five were talents Elder Yè had personally cultivated. The other three could also call him teacher — for even if they weren’t his direct students, they had received his guidance many times over the years.
Yú Hóngyī led a vanguard of several dozen Black Cavalry riders about twenty li ahead of the main column to clear the way.
At Yú Hóngyī’s side was a young officer — no older than twenty — named Xiè Wǎnzhōu, full brother of Yè Xiǎoqiān’s subordinate Chief Agent Xiè Wǎngē.
Times like these made one reflect: in such an extraordinary era, the opportunities available to young people were far greater and more plentiful.
By way of comparison — in the old Chu court, the equivalent of the Court of Justice had been the Chájì Bureau under Liú Chóngxìn’s command. In a court as rotten as Chu’s, if you wanted to reach a rank equivalent to that of a Senior Agent without greasing the right palms, you could work your whole life and never get there.
Even if you were genuinely exceptional — but born without connections, and unwilling to grovel and flatter — reaching that rank was essentially impossible.
But in the Court of Justice it was different. And in times like these, if you had real ability, the chances for young people to rise were everywhere.
Xiè Wǎnzhōu and Xiè Wǎngē were both Senior Agents — and there was yet another brother, Xiè Wǎnyú, also a Senior Agent. All three had come through Elder Yè’s program at the same time.
After entering the Court of Justice, the three brothers were split up and put to work separately. Years of accumulated experience later, all three reached the rank of Senior Agent at almost exactly the same time.
The names of the three brothers, taken together, formed a phrase: *Yú Gē Wǎn Zhōu* — a fisherman’s song on an evening boat. Though they were all born of the Xiè clan, the grand Jiāngnán Xiè family they were little connected to.
The Xiè family of the north had already fallen. After Li Chi had taken Jì Province, most of the great families of Jì Province had been torn up by the roots — and the Xiè family had not been spared.
Yet a family as large as theirs could not be wholly destroyed. The main branch in Jì City was gone, but branches of the Xiè family survived in the surrounding counties.
In truth, it was precisely because the family was so vast that many of these distant branches and lesser relatives had led difficult lives. The main Xiè family was gone; the lesser branches that remained were not living well.
That Li Chi could employ people from the northern Xiè family came down to two reasons: first, their talent was genuinely exceptional; second, it was a matter of balance.
The Jīngzhōu Xiè family had recovered its footing and still commanded an elevated standing in Jīngzhōu. But for that very reason, the Jīngzhōu Xiè family was extremely careful in all things — they were not unacquainted with the King of Níng.
And the King of Níng understood these great families just as well. The rivalries within them were in many ways more brutal than their struggles with the outside world.
Elevating the northern Xiè family men was a form of pressure on the southern branch — a way of keeping them in check.
It was also a signal to all the northern families who had been suppressed for years: be compliant, and there is a way forward.
So the three Xiè brothers had become a symbol.
The eldest of the three was Xiè Wǎngē, Xiè Wǎnzhōu was second, and Xiè Wǎnyú was the youngest.
Xiè Wǎnzhōu worked under Yú Hóngyī; Xiè Wǎnyú served at Elder Yè’s side — both young men were, without question, one in ten thousand.
For these brothers, this journey to the Northern Desert was likewise a chance.
The realm was nearly unified. The King of Níng’s enthronement was waiting only for the Grand Ceremony’s preparations to be complete.
So for them, the opportunities to prove themselves were growing fewer. This expedition to the Northern Desert was dangerous — but the possibilities were no less great.
—
“Sir,” Xiè Wǎnzhōu said, glancing at Yú Hóngyī, “have you ever been to the Northern Desert?”
Yú Hóngyī shook his head. “No. Probably no one in our group has.”
Xiè Wǎnzhōu said, “I have heard that the bandit gangs in the Northern Desert are ferocious beyond imagination. They kill not even for profit — they kill for sport.”
Yú Hóngyī said, “I’ve heard the same. That region has gone without law or governance for so long that…”
He paused briefly, then smiled. “The Court of Justice is going to give them a lesson in what law and governance means.”
Xiè Wǎnzhōu pulled a small notebook from his coat and opened it across his saddle.
“According to intelligence dispatches from the northern frontier, the largest bandit outfit currently operating in the Northern Desert goes by the name *Hàn Sān Zhōu*.”
*Hàn Sān Zhōu* — “Ravage Three Prefectures” — was a nickname. No one knew the man’s real name; perhaps he had nearly forgotten it himself.
The savagery of these bandits was beyond what most people could imagine.
Murder and plunder were everyday business. Wiping out entire families, exterminating whole clans, were equally commonplace.
By rumor, the Hàn Sān Zhōu bandit force had grown to a massive scale — at least three to four thousand men.
It was said that even Black Martial cavalry preferred not to tangle with them — not out of any real fear, just that it wasn’t worth the trouble.
The Black Martial people, if they chose to commit enough forces, could certainly wipe out Hàn Sān Zhōu without excessive difficulty. But what would they gain? Eliminating the bandits would bring no reward, and it would cost them men.
The Northern Desert, if it truly had any value, would have had settlers by now. The place wasn’t quite barren, but it was bleak.
A hundred or two hundred years ago, at least half of the Northern Desert had been not unlike the Outer Steppe — broad green grassland.
But the Northern Desert was prone to sandstorms. A hundred and some years back, after a great battle between Chu’s frontier armies and the Black Martial people, the Báishān and Hēishān lines were lost entirely.
After that, no one governed the land. The Black Martial people, fresh from seizing it, knew only to take, not to tend.
Within just a hundred years of neglect, the sands had swallowed what had once been pasture. The Northern Desert had become a wasteland — and in becoming one, it was even less desirable to the Black Martial people, who left it to become a lawless vacuum, a haven for the wicked.
Yet in the Northern Desert, there were still nomadic peoples struggling to survive, following the shrinking patches of water and grass as they drifted from place to place.
Among them were also a particular group — refugees from within the Black Martial Empire itself, who had fled to the Northern Desert.
They had been ground down by oppression within Black Martial borders, unable to go on, so they had migrated to this dangerous land to survive. Better to live in this perilous wasteland than to remain under Black Martial rule — which said a great deal about what the so-called lesser races within the Black Martial Empire endured.
The Black Martial Empire did not prevent these nomads from fleeing to the Northern Desert, because it suited them well enough. Inside Black Martial borders, powerful nobles needed no reason to oppress these peoples — they could seize land on a whim, drive people away on a whim, and massacre entire clans on a whim.
The Black Martial court? It would never intervene. Because the Black Martial court was made up of those very nobles.
—
In the Northern Desert.
The camp of Hàn Sān Zhōu sat within an oasis — one of the few treasured spots the Northern Desert had to offer.
There was a water source: a lake of considerable size. There was grass. There were trees. And rising behind it all was a low hill to serve as a natural backstop.
The actual size of Hàn Sān Zhōu’s bandit force had long since outgrown the rumored three to four thousand. More than a year ago, it had surpassed eight thousand.
Of those eight thousand, however, four thousand were what could be called allied troops.
Hàn Sān Zhōu was a man of ambition — he had no intention of spending his life as merely the Northern Desert’s biggest bandit.
The allied troops were a product of his coercion. The many nomadic tribes of the Northern Desert had a simple choice: submit to Hàn Sān Zhōu, or be wiped out. Those who chose to submit sent their able-bodied men to serve whenever Hàn Sān Zhōu called.
In two years, Hàn Sān Zhōu had established absolute dominion over the Northern Desert — and with it came thoughts of proclaiming himself emperor, even if only over this unremarkable stretch of land.
Of course, if there were a richer land available for the taking, he would not linger in this godforsaken place.
In his permanent camp, Hàn Sān Zhōu maintained a standing cavalry force of around four thousand riders — fighters of exceptional ferocity.
At this moment, inside a luxuriously appointed wooden hall, a Black Martial envoy was regarding Hàn Sān Zhōu with barely-concealed contempt.
The envoy’s name was Yēfú Zhī — one of Kuòkě Dí Yèlán’s trusted subordinates. He had come for one purpose: to make Hàn Sān Zhōu serve as the vanguard.
Yēfú Zhī smiled coldly. “Have you not grasped your own position?”
Hàn Sān Zhōu’s expression darkened. He waved a hand, dismissing his men from the room — this was not a scene he wanted them to witness.
When they were gone, Hàn Sān Zhōu rose and stepped toward Yēfú Zhī. “This is not about setting conditions. It is about the foundation of any cooperation. Without a foundation, what cooperation can there be?”
“Ha ha ha ha…”
Yēfú Zhī laughed aloud. “You actually think this is a cooperation?”
He held Hàn Sān Zhōu’s gaze directly. “Then let me be even clearer — and this is the last time I’ll say it. This is not a request for your cooperation. It is an order.”
He raised a finger and jabbed it toward Hàn Sān Zhōu’s chest. “Obey, or die.”
Hàn Sān Zhōu’s expression turned even darker. The aura of a long-hardened outlaw began to radiate off him.
“Then fight,” Hàn Sān Zhōu said. “I can’t stop your Black Martial million-man army — but my men will take a hide off of you.”
Yēfú Zhī nodded. “Very well. Wait for the Empire’s army, then.”
And with that, he turned to leave.
“Wait!”
Hàn Sān Zhōu’s most capable subordinate — the strategist of the Blood Floating Tower, Xiāo Tíng — hurried forward, smiling apologetically at Yēfú Zhī. “Please don’t take offense, honored envoy. Our general only wants a title — nothing more. Please reconsider.”
“A title?”
Yēfú Zhī smiled. “What title do you want? If you want a general’s title, that can be arranged at the drop of a hat.”
“A *King*!” Hàn Sān Zhōu said loudly. “I want the Black Martial Khagan to enfeoff me as a King!”
—