From the moment he first recognized the severity of this grain price crisis, to the moment he finally resolved to adopt Ning Yi’s proposal, Qin Siyuan, as the one leading this effort, had needed no less mental preparation than anyone else involved. But once the decision to act had been made, everything proceeded with no turning back. In the eighth month, when the first wave of officials began voicing doubts about Qin Siyuan’s decision, the chancellor’s residence responded immediately, with clear and decisive action.

Since the officials assigned to these various trade routes this time all had some connection to the chancellor’s residence, Qin Siyuan first issued a relatively simple letter, laying out the number of disaster victims involved, the projected grain prices, and the expected scale of the affected population, without elaborating further. Anyone who failed to carry out the order within three days would immediately have a dismissal notice issued from the Ministry of Personnel, delivered directly to their post by the replacement official, who would then dismiss and investigate them on the spot.

This was nothing particularly unusual — nearly every major court official, when handling affairs of this kind, followed some version of this procedure to establish authority. Even if the methods were somewhat heavy-handed, stripping a few minor local officials of their posts wouldn’t typically escalate into a full-blown court controversy. But an atmosphere of tension was already brewing; the few who’d noticed the underlying currents were waiting for someone to step forward first and formally impeach Qin Siyuan and the others for overstepping. But the spark that ultimately ignited the chaos came, instead, from a memorial submitted at the end of the eighth month.

It came from a sixth-grade supernumerary official in the Ministry of Revenue named Xue Deyi, who submitted a petition titled “On the National Benefits of Commerce.”

In the more than two hundred years since the founding of the Wu dynasty, commerce had developed rapidly, and in recent decades, a number of great merchant families, having accumulated wealth, had already begun involving themselves in political affairs. As the saying went, once one’s food and clothing are secure, one begins to understand honor and shame — and having gained a foothold in this arena, they naturally wanted a path toward advancement as well. The proper route, of course, was to strengthen one’s own family’s cultural standing by cultivating scholars within it. But over these years, there had also gradually emerged voices within the court advocating for the importance of commerce; a handful of memorials, neither especially large nor small, had been submitted on the subject before, some rejected outright on the spot, others stirring up a minor storm or two.

In the end, the dynasty’s stance had appeared fairly clear: commerce was, of course, important — but as for merchants gaining social status, that was simply out of the question.

Of course, a shift in the standing of an entire social class was always a gradual, drawn-out process. Anyone with sharp enough eyes could recognize that this seemingly ironclad state of affairs had, in fact, already begun to loosen somewhat over recent years.

But the time to bring the matter fully into the open had not yet arrived.

This time, however, the Ministry of Revenue official named Xue Deyi was already quite elderly, nearing retirement. Compared to Li Pin, who had leapt to a fifth-grade junior post at just thirty-something, this old man had spent his entire career grinding away cautiously in official circles, and even now held only a sixth-grade regular post. Whether someone had put him up to submitting this memorial, or whether he simply felt he had nothing left to accomplish in his career and decided to throw caution to the wind, hoping to leave something behind — whatever the reason, this memorial undeniably handed Qin Siyuan’s side the perfect buffer point.

Once the memorial reached the court, it wasn’t immediately rejected for its audacity. Instead, the two chancellors passed it along to the emperor, then used their influence to have it withheld from formal action, forwarded instead to the assembled ministers for casual review and discussion.

And from there, everything erupted at once. Ministers denounced the memorial as outrageous and treasonous; Xue Deyi was summoned before the golden hall, where someone publicly berated him: “How much silver have you taken from those parasites!” Xue Deyi, though initially trembling with fear, was, after all, an old man, and couldn’t bear to be scolded like this — he stiffened his neck and argued back at length. Then others began to say, “Well, some of what’s written here does have a point to it, doesn’t it.”

Though the people of the Wu dynasty, constrained by the limits of their era, weren’t necessarily especially attuned to economic theory, Xue Deyi had genuinely spent his entire career within the Ministry of Revenue, and this treatise, distilling a lifetime’s worth of dedication, was rich in concrete detail and sound in logic — nearly any passage pulled from it was enough to spark real debate. Before long, the entire court had descended into an uproar, arguing back and forth over whether the memorial was “outrageous and treasonous” or “partially quite reasonable,” the dispute showing no sign of settling.

By the next day, the censors and remonstrance officials moved to impeach Xue Deyi, accusing him of colluding with wealthy merchants, attempting to overturn the teachings of the sages, leading people astray into the pursuit of profit, and undermining the very foundations of the state — outrageous and treasonous. Immediately, others stepped forward to counter-impeach these very censors, accusing them of constantly stirring up alarmist rhetoric, appearing upright and selfless on the surface while, in truth, obstructing the free flow of honest speech. Then came further memorials of impeachment, backed with concrete evidence, accusing several of these censors themselves of corruption, of secretly accepting bribes and being manipulated by outside interests.

The situation grew increasingly chaotic; the court became like a field doused in oil and set ablaze. In the days that followed, it was either bitter verbal warfare and mutual accusations, or officials being exposed for their own misdeeds — corruption, embezzlement, bribery. Before long, all manner of other issues began surfacing as well: merchants hoarding grain amid the disaster, the chancellor’s residence misusing state resources for private gain, Wu Min’s vast hidden fortune behind the scenes, Grand Preceptor Cai’s factional cronyism — everything imaginable was dragged onto the stage, seemingly the prelude to yet another round of factional strife.

Amid such chaotic political turmoil, everyone found themselves on edge. The chancellor’s residence, too, worked desperately to protect itself — but in a certain sense, the great merchants had long sought a voice of their own in politics, and now, quite suddenly, an opportunity like this had presented itself — though whether they themselves had truly been behind it from the start remained unclear. The chancellor’s residence found itself drawing somewhat closer to certain officials with merchant backing behind them. Though the court remained a scene of utter chaos, with the Censorate firing off accusations and stirring trouble in every direction, the entire situation nonetheless maintained a curious, precarious balance amid all the disorder.

In the midst of this turmoil, only one person truly maintained the composure of an angler calmly waiting by the water — watching it all unfold with genuine delight. That was Zhou Zhe, who by all rights should have been thoroughly irritated by now.

Though officials had indeed begun impeaching one another, and the occasional corrupt figure on the periphery kept being exposed, prompting him to hurl memorials to the floor and curse furiously — “Kill him! These people are gnawing at the very roots of my rule!” — his overall reaction to the whole affair was, surprisingly, one of genuine pleasure. On one occasion, reading through the memorials, he found himself laughing so hard he couldn’t contain it, and impulsively turned to the eunuch beside him. “Du Chengxi, look at this, just look — hahaha… these old fossils, at their age, pulling stunts like this in front of me — hahaha, honestly… what an exhausting performance!”

Du Chengxi, for a moment, couldn’t tell whether the emperor’s amusement was genuine or feigned. “Is Your Majesty referring to the recent affairs at court?”

“Of course. Things have been quite lively at court lately — I haven’t seen this much excitement in ages. Haha, it’s rather entertaining…”

“This servant has heard that things have grown rather alarming at court lately, Your Majesty… could this be… what they call… factional strife?”

Du Chengxi spoke somewhat hesitantly, and Zhou Zhe’s smile faded slightly at this. “Factional strife.” He turned the phrase over in his mind, then laughed again. “What factional strife — this is nothing of the sort. Du Chengxi, you’re still too green, haven’t you noticed? These days the Censorate has been busier than ever, impeaching whoever crosses their path — if this were truly factional strife, it wouldn’t look anything like this. I’ve always said, this old Qin fellow suits my intentions best of all.”

“Your Majesty means… Censor Qin?”

“Mm, Qin Huizhi. When the Jin captured him years ago, he escaped and made his way back all on his own — I knew from that moment that he fears no one.” He laughed, shaking his head with quiet satisfaction. “You say factional strife — let me tell you, only a foolish ruler fears factional strife. I have no fear of it. So long as the realm’s hearts remain loyal, factional strife can be used to prune away the old and cultivate the new. It’s only that, right now, we’re still handling greater affairs — before dealing with foreign threats, one must first secure the domestic front — and there are certain people I still need to protect. With the Censorate this unyielding, it actually spares me a great deal of trouble.”

Understanding that Zhou Zhe was, by now, essentially thinking aloud to himself, Du Chengxi didn’t respond further. After a moment, he heard Zhou Zhe chuckle again, quite pleased with himself.

“Tsk, I really ought to grant him a greater reward… though not just yet…”

…

By the ninth month, the storm that had erupted at court over commercial affairs had already implicated several dozen officials, landing them in prison. This fell within Qin Siyuan’s own domain — Ning Yi took no part in it. But looking back from a later vantage point, this seemingly dramatic political turmoil was, in truth, merely the spark for an even greater clash of interests still to come. And viewed on an even broader scale, whether it was this factional strife within the Wu dynasty’s borders, or the ongoing famine, neither counted as particularly momentous events in the grand scope of the realm as a whole. In the ninth month, a handful of events unfolded that were, in truth, of far greater consequence.

In the northern territories, Zhang Jue led fifty thousand troops in surrendering to the Wu dynasty, stationing his forces near Runzhou while coercing the four nearby prefectures of Qian, Lai, Run, and Xi into submission alongside him. Though Zhang Jue had originally surrendered to the Jin when they first came south, his Pingzhou army remained strong and formidable, its strength largely intact. This single event brought about a sudden reversal in the balance of power between Wu and Jin within the region of the Sixteen Prefectures of Yanyun. It was said that Guo Yaoshi, upon hearing the news in camp, clapped his hands and laughed heartily, declaring that he had finally found a brother he could truly rely on. And among officials in other parts of the Sixteen Prefectures, some had already begun signaling their willingness to defect as well.

Compared to the Right Chancellor’s residence’s urgent preparations for famine relief at this time, in the eyes of most people, the successful defection of Zhang Jue counted as an even more impressive achievement, credited to the Secret Investigation Bureau. Emperor Zhou Zhe had long been thoroughly displeased by the Jin’s stubborn refusal to return the Sixteen Prefectures, and this development finally gave them a taste of their own medicine. It was just that, with the political infighting at court raging so fiercely at present, the matter of rewarding Zhang Jue remained undecided for the time being — the court, in truth, was holding its breath, waiting to see how the Jin would react.

The Jin flew into a rage! They dispatched envoys to lodge a stern protest with the Wu dynasty — which, in truth, was rather satisfying in itself. In the past, when Wu had sent envoys to discuss the matter of the Sixteen Prefectures, the other side hadn’t even bothered to pay them much attention. Now, at last: you’re finally willing to acknowledge us, are you?

And so Wang Anzhong and the others on the Wu side seized the opportunity to raise the matter of the Sixteen Prefectures with them once again.

Meanwhile, at this very moment, out on the vast grasslands of the northwest, something was unfolding entirely beyond most people’s notice…

…

If one were to select a handful of Khitan “heroes” from the final years of the Liao dynasty, Xiao Gan would certainly be counted among them — and Yelu Dashi would just as certainly be numbered there too.

A couple of years earlier, when the Jin had swept south and captured the Middle Capital, Emperor Tianzuo had fled without offering resistance. To steady the hearts of the people, Yelu Dashi and others had rallied behind Yelu Chun, proclaiming him Emperor Tianxi, in an effort to resist the Jurchen invaders.

At that time, Yelu Dashi had been the principal force within Liao advocating for an alliance with Wu against the Jin. Unfortunately, Liao’s earnest overtures had met with cold indifference from Wu. Afterward, when Wu launched two attacks against Yanjing, it was Yelu Dashi who led troops to defeat Military Commissioner Tong Guan’s first assault of two hundred thousand men at the Baigou River. During the second campaign, when Guo Yaoshi led a surprise raid on Yanjing itself, it was Yelu Dashi, together with Consort Xiao De, who organized the city’s defense; Xiao Gan later led troops that crushed Wu’s second offensive entirely.

Unfortunately, such resistance couldn’t be sustained for long. Afterward, when Tong Guan and the others paid the Jurchens to send troops and capture Yanjing, Yelu Dashi was taken captive by the Jin. But following his capture, he seized an opportunity to escape, joining Consort Xiao De in seeking refuge with Emperor Tianzuo. Regrettably, Emperor Tianzuo could never forgive him for having installed a new emperor in his stead, and no longer trusted him. So, on the eve of Emperor Tianzuo’s planned decisive battle against the Jin, Yelu Dashi killed the army supervisor and, leading over two hundred of his most trusted elite cavalry, set out on a journey westward into the northwest.

In another telling of history, this journey of Yelu Dashi’s would come to be known as the Great Western Expedition. Leading these two hundred-some men, he traveled all the way into Central Asia, and over the following decades, campaigned east and west, establishing the Western Liao Empire, its territory stretching east to Gaochang and west to the Caspian Sea, becoming the dominant power of Central Asia. Over a decade later, he would lead an army eastward once more, attempting to restore his former nation. The Jin, employing scorched-earth tactics, would ultimately defeat him — and when the Jin later attempted their own expedition westward, they too would be defeated by Yelu Dashi in the deserts of Central Asia, a battle that would mark the final clash between Jin and Liao.

At this moment, leading this band of his most elite followers, he entered the vast grasslands of Mongolia — once the Liao’s northern frontier, a territory vast beyond measure. Since the Liao had never held the steppe peoples in particularly high regard, and after the Jin had crushed the Liao, rebellions had broken out repeatedly across these lands as well — though compared to the might of the Jurchens, such disturbances amounted to little more than a passing drizzle.

Yelu Dashi had already carried considerable prestige within Liao, and after leaving Emperor Tianzuo, his party had brought along a substantial store of provisions and supplies. For him, once the decision to leave had been made, the road ahead, however uncertain, opened wide before him — though in his heart, there still lingered a certain sense of loss and desolation. On this particular day, after traveling for some time, a band of Mongol horsemen appeared on the horizon ahead. Upon spotting his group, they came to a halt, forming what appeared to be… a defensive formation.

A hawk circled in the sky above.

“Who are they?” Yelu Dashi asked, brow furrowed, turning to his deputy.

“They don’t look friendly. Ever since the homeland fell into chaos, these barbarians of the steppe have taken the opportunity to grow bold as well. Some of the tribes, I hear, have grown quite considerable in size.”

The Khitan had always looked down on the Mongols — though their horsemanship was skilled and their archery formidable enough, they had always lived amid scarcity, and in certain respects, their temperament was even more savage than the Jurchens’. His own party of two hundred-some elite riders were all men who had followed him for years; the group ahead looked no larger than his own. He frowned, studying the tall black steed at their head in the distance.

“Truly, a tiger fallen on hard ground, mocked even by dogs…” he muttered. “Form ranks. Have them move aside.”

The riders formed up and advanced toward them. That the mighty Liao Empire, bullied by the Jurchens, bullied by the Wu, should now find even these creatures coming to gawk at them as well — a quiet fury simmered in the hearts of every man present.

Clouds drifted across the high grassland sky, and before long, the thunder of hooves rang out, trampling across the blood-soaked steppe. The last hero of Liao burned through the remainder of his own glow in that final struggle, and somewhere, a thread of history quietly snapped.

A terrifying name — Börjigin Temüjin — was, amid the surging tide of history, gradually coming into focus…

…

History surges ever forward, and those caught within its current can, more often than not, see and grasp only what lies immediately around them. In the middle of the ninth month, within a courtyard of the Right Chancellor’s residence, sunlight, weakened by the gathering fallen leaves, was gradually losing its strength. Ning Yi walked into a room and rubbed his palms together at his desk.

“Now, it’s my turn to perform…”

On this day, the first batch of prepared grain began entering the various disaster regions. For a long stretch of time to come, this would be the place where he held the center — after all, when it came to the underlying patterns of pricing, no one understood them better than he did. And in another courtyard, the elderly Qin Siyuan was contending with the surging tide of public opinion and political intrigue sweeping through court and officialdom, clearing the way for all of this on the political front.

And it could well be imagined — once the interests at stake finally came out into the open, the true prelude would be over, and the truly enormous dangers and malice still to come would begin bearing down on them in full force.

Every landowner, every wealthy gentry family, every merchant whose interests had been harmed — from this moment on, they would all become enemies.

Ning Yi sat down.