Astride his horse, Yang Jing’s brow furrowed slightly. The long journey had left him feeling as though his body was nearly at its limit — particularly from the prolonged riding, the ache of which had become genuinely difficult to endure.

From boyhood he had trained in martial arts under the guise of idle play, and had believed himself at least passably capable. But lived experience had taught him otherwise: in sheer endurance, he could not compare to an ordinary soldier.

Yet he had to hold on. When setting out on campaign, he had declared before the assembled troops: *I shall march alongside you.*

He had stood before the three armies and announced in a loud voice: on this journey, he would not ride a carriage, would not travel in an imperial palanquin — he would march with the soldiers.

If he failed to endure now, what would the men think of him? He was the Emperor, but he was short of everything — and most of all, he lacked the hearts of the people and the army.

Prince Wu, riding at the Emperor’s side, noticed the Emperor’s strain and quietly turned to give a few low-spoken instructions to a personal guard.

When the Emperor dismounted to relieve himself, Prince Wu added another layer of cushioning to the imperial saddle.

The Emperor returned and stretched his limbs. After riding so far in this manner, the discomfort was not merely pain — there was also stiffness, a numbness that had crept through his entire body.

After a few stretches, his back eased somewhat.

“Where are we now?”

the Emperor asked.

Prince Wu answered: “Your Majesty, this place is called Guxian — a small county. Eighteen years ago, when the flooding in the south was severe, the meritorious official who managed the relief works — Yu Chengyun, the Minister of Works — was born here.”

The Emperor startled slightly.

He murmured to himself: “The upright official Yu Chengyun…”

A flicker of guilt passed through his eyes. Eighteen years ago he had still been a boy — childish of heart, the age for play.

One day he and the grand eunuch Liu Chongxin had been chasing butterflies in the imperial gardens. They could not catch them, and so he made Liu Chongxin carry him on his back to give chase. Liu Chongxin had been dripping with sweat.

A young eunuch had come running up and murmured something to Liu Chongxin in a low voice. Yang Jing was not far away, and caught fragments of it.

The gist was this: Yu Chengyun had been dispatched by imperial order to manage flood relief — and in doing so, might uncover the fact that Liu Chongxin had embezzled the relief funds.

Liu Chongxin had probably assumed that Yang Jing, at six or seven years old, knew nothing of affairs of state, and so had not been very guarded.

Liu Chongxin had said at the time: let him manage the flood first, then deal with him once the flooding is more or less contained.

At the time, Yang Jing had indeed not thought deeply about it. But he had remembered. A little over a year later, the Minister of Works Yu Chengyun was found guilty of embezzling relief funds and filling his own pockets, and was executed by imperial decree outside the palace gates before a public audience.

“Does he still have family here?”

the Emperor asked.

“None.”

Prince Wu replied. “The sentence was the extermination of three generations.”

The Emperor started again.

Prince Wu continued: “Your servant was told that when the Surveillance Bureau and the Ministry of Justice came to Guxian on imperial orders to search Yu Chengyun’s family home, the combined total of silver found among all three generations of his kin amounted to less than a few dozen taels.”

“Minister Yu had served as the head of the Ministry of Works, yet not a single member of his extended family had benefited from his position with an official post at court. Most were farming households. Some, unable to make a living, had turned to trading — and even as merchants, they dared not let it be known they were Yu Chengyun’s relatives, lest they bring shame upon his name.”

By the time the Emperor heard all this, his expression had turned grim.

“Where were they… buried?”

Prince Wu shook his head. “Your servant does not know. I’ll send someone to inquire at once.”

The Emperor nodded. “I wish to pay my respects.”

Had it not been for Yu Chengyun, the flooding in the south would have grown catastrophic — the death toll incalculable. Yet the relief funds allocated to Yu Chengyun had been embezzled by Liu Chongxin to build a manor in his home county.

Before long, a personal guard returned with a report: he had asked among many of the county’s villagers, but no one could say precisely where the family members had been buried after their execution at the Surveillance Bureau’s hands.

After the killings, the bodies had been dragged to some spot and buried haphazardly. No one was permitted to hold memorial rites; there were no grave markers. Villagers who privately offered any form of tribute were to be treated as accomplices and punished accordingly.

After the burial, a cavalry unit had ridden back and forth over the ground, stamping it flat. Then sleds had been dragged over it repeatedly to press it even further. A decade and more later, no one could identify the location with any certainty.

When the Emperor finished listening, his hands were trembling faintly.

He was the Emperor. He was born of the dragon line. There were things he could not say. Yet he could not stop the thought from rising inside him: *with a court like this, is it truly fair to blame the common people for rebelling?*

When Liu Chongxin died, he had still felt a measure of guilt toward him. But since leaving the capital on this journey, every atrocity he had witnessed and heard of — which of them did not have Liu Chongxin’s hand smothering it from behind?

Half the common people’s hatred of the court could be laid at Liu Chongxin’s feet.

“Promulgate an edict.”

The Emperor suddenly called out.

An attendant quickly came forward and bowed, waiting. The Emperor considered for a moment, then spoke: “Dispatch an edict to the capital: level Liu Chongxin’s grave, dig up his remains, and let horses trample them, and sleds crush them.”

He paused briefly, then continued: “Have the Ministry of Personnel issue orders to all provincial and county yamen — cast kneeling effigies of Liu Chongxin in iron, and place them at the city gates of every prefecture and county throughout the realm, to be spat upon and reviled by all who pass.”

Prince Wu, hearing this, felt a stirring in his heart, and could not help but feel even greater admiration for this young Emperor.

On the surface, the Emperor was giving vent to anger over Yu Chengyun’s matter — yet his actions in response to it were directed entirely at the common people.

How to make the people throughout the realm know of the Emperor’s virtuous name? How to make them regain their faith in the court of Great Chu?

By having kneeling effigies of Liu Chongxin cast and placed at the gates of every prefecture and county for all to revile — this single act would swiftly earn the people’s praise for the Emperor throughout Great Chu.

The Emperor was winning over the hearts of the people. It was, in truth, a kind of deception.

A sophisticated deception practiced upon the common people of the realm.

The people would vent their fury at a kneeling effigy — spitting, cursing, releasing their grievances — and feel as though they had truly been avenged. Everyone would feel satisfied, feel relieved.

And His Majesty, quietly and imperceptibly, would have reclaimed the loyalty of the people’s hearts.

Great Chu has hope.

Great Chu truly has hope.

Prince Wu marveled inwardly for a long while.

An Emperor like this — so young, so astute, so utterly convincing — give him ten years, and he would set Great Chu back on its feet again, steady it, straighten it.

In this moment, Prince Wu felt a devotion rise within him — a deep, fierce conviction that he would serve this man even unto death.

—

Jizhou. The Yanshan Camp’s main encampment.

Zhuang Wudi came once again to the entrance of the central command tent. The personal guards posted outside saw him coming and none dared meet his eyes.

“My elder brother is away again?”

Zhuang Wudi caught the unusual look on the guard’s face and asked.

The guard bowed. “Second-in-Command, the Chief has gone out to inspect the camp and should be back shortly. If you’d like… if you’d like, Second-in-Command, you could head back first, and as soon as the Chief returns I’ll come find you immediately.”

“No need. I’ll wait here.”

Zhuang Wudi dropped down right outside the tent entrance. By now he no longer wanted to persuade anyone of anything — he simply wanted to confront Yu Chaozong directly and ask: Brother, why are you avoiding me?

From morning he waited until midday, and Yu Chaozong did not return. Only then did Zhuang Wudi believe it — Yu Chaozong was not actually that busy. He simply did not want to see him.

Yet he still refused to give up. Surely his brother could not stay away all night?

He was a stubborn man by nature. He decided he would not leave — he would wait right here at the gate. He waited from dawn to dusk, and from dusk to the dead of night.

Zhuang Wudi jolted awake with a start, and found a blanket draped over his shoulders — the guard had covered him while he slept.

“Has my elder brother still not come back?”

“He hasn’t…”

The guard looked at Zhuang Wudi’s forlorn state with a pang of sympathy, and said with some reluctance: “Second-in-Command, please go back and rest. It seems the Chief won’t return tonight — it’s likely that the situation at the front is pressing…”

Zhuang Wudi let out a slow sigh. “You don’t need to make excuses for him. As long as I’m here, my elder brother won’t come back.”

He rose, handed the blanket back to the guard, said a word of thanks, then turned and walked away — his steps heavy.

After a few paces he turned back, looking at the guard. “When my elder brother comes back — tell him for me… that I’m going.”

The guard grew anxious. “Second-in-Command, where are you heading? In case the Chief asks, I’d know what to say — and the Chief could send someone to find you.”

“There’s no need.”

Zhuang Wudi said: “My brother will know where I’ve gone.”

He drew a long, slow breath, turned away, and left. His footsteps were very heavy at first — then gradually quickened, until he was walking with great, purposeful strides.

—

Inside Jizhou City.

Li Chi and Tang Pidi had spent an entire day searching for a way out, and had found none. Their disappointment was hard to conceal.

They had discovered that the Jizhou forces were already blocking the city gates. Once the gates began to be sealed, it meant Zeng Ling had resolved to fight to the death.

Before this, the gates had not been shut because Zeng Ling still hoped to counterattack. He could see that the three outside factions were unified in name only, and had been counting on his estrangement tactics to succeed. If they worked — if Luo Geng and the others turned on each other — he could lead his forces out of Jizhou City, and if he won a major engagement, he would become the undisputed master of Jizhou.

But now, all of a sudden, Zeng Ling had seen through everything. What had appeared to be Luo Geng falling for his divisive scheme was in truth nothing but an act. Even without his scheming, Luo Geng would have clashed with Cui Yanla and Liu Li — whether that clash was perfunctory or genuine, it was coming regardless.

Once this truth dawned on him, Zeng Ling felt a pang of grief for his personal guard officer Shi Kuan, and a surge of fury at Luo Geng’s double-dealing. But he could do nothing about it — for now, all he could do was hold the walls and fight to the last, if there was to be any chance of survival at all.

“There’s no way out.”

Tang Pidi clapped Li Chi on the shoulder. “This is all fate. Zeng Ling suddenly ordered the gates sealed — he must have seen that something has changed.”

Li Chi said: “What change? Most likely Prince Wu Yang Jiju has nearly arrived. In this world, no one else could use the principle of striking late to such absolute perfection — in that art, Prince Wu stands alone.”

Tang Pidi nodded slowly. “Which is why you kept urging Yu Chaozong not to rush into the fray — because the greatest practitioner of striking last in this world was watching all along.”

Li Chi let out a slow breath. A sense of helplessness came over him, as though he were powerless against what heaven had arranged.

He had schemed and plotted for the Yanshan Camp for so long, and so elaborately. If only Yu Chaozong had been willing to keep still, willing to be the last to enter — it would have been a perfect situation, ripe for the picking.

Prince Wu was a master of striking last — but he could not wait indefinitely. Once the fighting among the four factions in Jizhou had reached a certain pitch, Prince Wu would inevitably enter the field. He could not wait to the very last moment — but the Yanshan Camp could.

Great Chu had only one Prince Wu. He would not stay in Jizhou forever. The whole of Great Chu had countless other places waiting for him to go and restore order. This old man, as long as he still drew breath, would have to keep riding from one crisis to the next — because the current Emperor had no one else to rely on. Only this one old minister.

Prince Wu was no longer young. The divine warrior was aging. How many more years could he hold on?

If Yu Chaozong could only wait for Prince Wu to clean up the mess and leave Jizhou — Jizhou would then belong to the Yanshan Camp.

But now, it appeared that all the factions had thrown themselves into the fray in a rush. And now — who would Jizhou belong to?

Tang Pidi pulled Li Chi by the arm. “Let’s go. Head back.”

Li Chi gave a murmur of assent, then cast a glance toward the city gates. “What worries me most right now is Brother Zhuang. I have no idea what will become of him. We can’t get out, and he can’t get in — and knowing how straightforward he is, if he tries to reason with Yu Chaozong too hard and they fall out badly…”

Li Chi shook his head, not daring to follow the thought further.

He feared that with Zhuang Wudi’s nature, the man would insist on arguing until he and Yu Chaozong had a proper falling out. And if that happened, Zhuang Wudi might be in real danger.

—

Late at night.

Outside Jizhou City, Zhuang Wudi stood alone in the moonlight, staring up at the tall city walls.

After a long, long silence, he turned and walked off into the distance.

—