ITIEQ C98

Chapter 98 (Extra) — IF Route

 

Qinglan Terrace

Qinglan Terrace—

It occupied the loftiest height of Yanlin. The whole city, raising its eyes, could just glimpse a wavering silhouette, forever lingering beneath a lone moon. Beside it stood groves of green bamboo, stones stacked to frame its view.

Before the terrace stood two shadows, small against the vastness. They had ridden day and night, beneath stars and moon, to come here. For two princes of the imperial clan to come privately, all to meet a man with not even an official appointment—such would seem fantastical. Yet if it involved the Yanlin Yue clan, then all was entirely believable.

For them—even a prince, a king, even an emperor—was not worth regard.

But courtesy on the surface was still rendered flawlessly.

“Two honored guests, forgive me for not welcoming you from afar.”

Shen Qinghe was startled. So young! Not yet past his twenties. He exchanged a look with Xiao Yuanzheng—if this was the envoy they sent, was the Yue clan’s intent perhaps not to cooperate?

Yue Ji let a quiet laugh fall.

“I am Yue Ji. Where there is the Yue family, I speak for it.”

!

He glanced aside; Xiao Yuanzheng gave him a subtle nod.

Shen Qinghe exhaled, easing slightly.

“I thought the family master would be some grey‑haired elder.”

Lighter, easier to negotiate with a young man than with some fox‑old patriarch.

Yue Ji only smiled again, saying nothing. He bore all elegance of great‑clan scion. Faced with that face, that bearing—if all great clan heirs were like this… Shen Qinghe almost felt his view of “nobility” softening. Impressive, if nothing else.

Thus they came directly to the point. They spoke of alliance against Prince Ying. He need do nothing, only declare stance.

“Why should I do such?” Yue Ji’s gaze skimmed Shen Qinghe like a dragonfly upon water, never resting.

Shen Qinghe replied simply:

“Prince Ying, raised high, must only become a tyrant. For us, such is all harm, no good.”

Yue Ji shook his head, raised a finger.

“Not us, only you.”

Shen Qinghe gaped. Xiao Yuanzheng stepped before him. This was why he had withheld earlier, though he knew Qinghe’s enthusiasm. Prince Ying, Yue clan—what difference wolf and tiger? Whoever ascended the throne, the clan’s strength was vast enough to stand apart. Why would they risk hand for chestnuts in the fire?

To move him required more than a few words.

“Prince Ying summons all eligible scions to the capital—you know?” Xiao Yuanzheng’s brow set firm.

Yue Ji did not answer. Yet his clan’s retainers flooded the world with information. He knew.

“Once done, he shall move on the other grown princes. The future sovereign may be prince Ying, another scion, or else some upstart.”

Yue Ji sipped tea calmly, said nothing.

“Your Yue clan may refuse the game—but the game will end with winners and losers. Always, some clan rides the tide, rising head and shoulders. You guard yourself well, for a time still first among clans. But forever?”

“…Intriguing.” Yue Ji finally lifted his eyes, tone touched with faint interest.

Xiao Yuanzheng removed the dagger at his belt. Plain leather sheath, no show. He slid it an inch—cold light leaping. Upon the desk he laid it.

“I place my words here. If today the Yue do not stand by me, all thirteen provinces of Yong will have no better choice.”

His voice was quiet, lashes lowering, yet the tone—arrogant, reckless, seeing all as beneath.

Shen Qinghe’s blood swelled. He believed Xiao Yuanzheng indeed might.

Yue Ji’s gaze lingered on that narrow flash of blade. Smile edged his lips—yet before he could speak, laughter rolled from behind the hanging blinds. Deep‑chested, resonant.

An elder stepped forth. Though aged, his spirit crackled—eyes bright as lightning, pinning both guests.

Clapping hands, he smiled, wrinkles breaking deep as ravines.

“Indeed—heroes are ever young.”

Yue Ji bowed slightly.

“Grandfather.”

What remained Xiao Yuanzheng was taken aside to discuss in secret. Shen Qinghe, left in outer hall, could not know what bargain sealed. Exhausted from nights sleepless, himself but still in ages of growth, yawned again and again. The scion of the Yue—always beside, idle, so he tried conversation.

“So young and already clan head. Must be formidable?”

Yue Ji gave no reply.

“Do you manage affairs—or still your grandfather? Oh, and your parents?”

Yue Ji’s eyes glanced, crystal‑cold like polished beads. Shen Qinghe fell immediately mute.

The youth’s fingers brushed his cheek, as if to scratch. Seems he does not even rate me in his eyes… best stop chatting, lest spoil matters.

When Xiao Yuanzheng emerged, sky already pale. Shen Qinghe rushed forward, eyes asking, Well? Well?

A hand ruffled his hair.

“It is set.”

Seeing the emperor’s eased posture, Shen Qinghe too brightened, trailing close.

Leaving Qinglan Terrace, returning to their Yanlin inn, they stretched and unwound.

Mission succeeded—Shen Qinghe hummed strange, cheerful tunes, hiding smile with hand. His task had advanced another step.

“…This time—”

The words were halting.

“…Thank you.”

Shen Qinghe blinked. First time those words from Xiao Yuanzheng’s lips. Yet when he looked, the emperor had turned away. Sunset smudged rose across window.

“All by your own winning.” Shen Qinghe waved. “If you truly must thank me—then someday, make me Grand General of All Forces. How’s that?”

Xiao Yuanzheng laughed low. Eyes roving deliberately up and down.

“You? A generalissimo?”

Shen Qinghe bristled.

“Me! A generalissimo!”

The emperor slung pack to shoulder, turned back, lips refusing to lose their smile.

“All right.”

“Hey!”

—

The imperial courier with edict had been stalled three days. Longer, suspicion roused. Since ancient times, speed decided war. By the time Kyoto sensed, one hundred twenty thousand troops of the Northwest had already marched.

Prince Ying, towering nine‑feet frame, still under thirty, eagle eyes beneath thick brows. One sweep of arm, swept letters from desk, roared:

“Am I feeding you for nothing?! News this grave, and only now told?!”

Cowering subordinate stammered:

“For some reason the Huai generals did not report. When we pressed beyond Huai waters, only our spies uncovered it…”

“Good! Good!” His chest heaved. “So beneath heaven’s very center I’ve been struck blind, deaf! Northwest King—Xiao Yuanzheng. So many years none dared affront outright. Today he dares lay blade at my throat—he will know the cost!”

Pressing temples, his gaze sharpened cruel.

“Let the Secretariat issue edict: the Northwest King has rebelled. His head is prize, with great reward! Mobilize central army—since he dare stretch hand, I’ll grind it to dust.

“And his outside allies—once he’s cut down, I’ll reckon all!”

—

Shen Qinghe’s sixteenth birthday came in camp. At that time they had just seized Shanyin, the throat of the region. To the east: Nan‑zhi mountain. Last great bulwark before Kyoto.

The fight was no simple thing. Here, the road cut by flesh and blood. Northwest troops, renowned brave, left half or less. Yet the host was greater, joined by peasants from Fenglong’s villages—farmers, smiths, hunters, merchants, wandering doctors.

The emperor basked upon the people’s sustenance yet deemed them grass dogs. Now Heaven’s appointed general lifted arm—and sea itself overturned the boat.

In camp, all gathered to mark his birthday. Shen Qinghe studied each face, mostly young, gathered by one dream, fearing not death.

Xiao Yuanzheng sat by. Since deciding, he had not wavered. Though rebuked, though blades wielded by countrymen—his stance honed calm, gaze fixed forever forward. In him Shen Qinghe saw the shape of sovereign.

Closing eyes, he thought: perhaps this was the most unforgettable day of both lives.

“Why that face, ready to cry?”

“A birthday, good omen, no tears allowed!”

“No grand gifts for little Shen brother—you angry?”

“When settled, we’ll make it up!”

They laughed and circled. Shen Qinghe hid face.

“Who’s crying, nonsense.”

Xiao Yuanzheng stood.

“Late now. Tomorrow, a hard battle. Rest early.”

All showed respect. At twenty, already called “young lord.” They obeyed and left in twos and threes.

Night wind cool, fed Shen Qinghe’s strange melancholy. Xiao Yuanzheng tugged sleeve. He looked blank.

“Come with me.”

So he followed into his tent. Hesitated—then emperor lifted curtain, looked back.

“Still dawdling?”

“I’m here!”

This command tent had long hosted war councils. Lamps burned late. Shen Qinghe had sometimes overheard.

“Sit.”

He did. The emperor placed a cloth bundle before him.

“Open.”

Inside: delicate pastries. Impossible preserved from camp—clearly bought with effort from town.

Shen Qinghe raised eyes. Yuanzheng waved it off.

“Not army fare. Bought nearby.”

In a world on fire, where find pastry shops? Surely not so glib. Shen ignored the fib.

“I’m not a child anymore, not greedy.” He mouthed, placing jujube cake between teeth.

“Did you not once say, birthdays must eat sweetest cakes?”

“…When—” Shen froze, recalling some past idle talk. He laughed.

“…Fine, fine.” He tilted chin, smiling at him. “My lord keeps me in heart. Touched.”

Yuanzheng’s knuckles brushed, gripping to turn his head proper. Calloused—blade‑calloused. Shen Qinghe dazed as hair was loosened behind.

The red‑string braid unraveling, he flinched—jerked himself, hissed.

“Don’t move.” Gently, firmly, Yuanzheng turned him back. “…Your kin aren’t here. Allow me to bind hair in their place.”

Waves of black hair slid through fingers, quiet. He knocked the boy’s head lightly.

“Always odd thoughts. Some day I’ll cut open your mind to see.”

His grip still fixed—Shen Qinghe meek as kitten, hands raised in surrender.

Pastries sweet, unlike his usual taste. Yet war‑days made even such things comforting. Biting one after another, peeking through bronze mirror, seeing strong hands tie his hair. This general famed for daring in battle—unexpectedly deft. Shen thought, spoke aloud.

“Practiced often? So hard?”

From sleeve, Yuanzheng slipped a small coronet. Black silk, decorated but plain, only a round red gem at crown. Under lamp, it glowed.

Shen Qinghe’s eyes locked.

“Made long ago. Was white jade, but I disliked. Took this from my sword, replaced it.”

His fingers touched the gemstone. The emperor’s hand stilled, nervous—“Northwest has no precious jewels. If you dislike—”

“No… I like it.” He turned head, admired reflection. “I like. Beautiful.” A prince’s sword gem, now crown stone—worth a thousand gold, a tale itself. If victory comes, heirloom. All the more he loved it.

The emperor too looked at mirror—hair bound with crown, one could glimpse the man for the future. He had to admit—face and spirit alike. Already suitors sniffing from all sides.

Seeing those bright eyes, Yuanzheng smiled despite fatigue, heart at ease.

“…Now remove it.” Shen Qinghe, reluctant, reminded—couldn’t wear into tomorrow’s chaos. “Too valuable.”

So piece by piece he untied. Red gem twisting crimson under flame like blood.

—

Xiao Yuanzheng’s spear thrust through brocade. Prince Ying’s eyes dulled as blood flowed from his chest. Familiar sight, only the actors changed—Yuanzheng himself half‑dizzy at the moment.

“You dare—” Words sputtered, blood bubbling, splashing shaft.

Yuanzheng’s brow wrinkled with disgust.

Prince Ying—once a general of ten thousand, merit blazing, granted alien surname and single‑word kingship. For years unrivaled. Yet self‑styled king beyond kings. Feet never touched ground. Remove bricks beneath—and crash into hell.

Still he clawed the spear, gasping. But times had changed.

Yuanzheng’s eyes colder than frost.

“Die.”

He drew back the point, stepped aside. Troops swarmed, beat the failing man. Old hatreds piled. None spared kick or blow.

Yuanzheng turned away. Attendant took spear, wiped it. The sudden heaviness nearly toppled Shen Qinghe—steadied instantly by emperor’s hand.

They pressed outside. Crowds converged. All eyes fixed. Long battle closed, the hidden manipulator dead, the throne’s puppet foaming, unfit. Now—one new master remained.

Yuanzheng walked forward, unhurried, body honed by one hundred twenty‑eight days of steady poise and strike. His chest surged now, blood calling time, steps quickening.

Prince Ying fallen. This victory—news to share. With Yuanhe. And with his little strategist.

At dawn’s crow, the sky first broke into light.

Footnotes for Context

1. Qinglan Terrace (清兰台) – A lofty scenic platform above Yanlin, symbolic high ground where noble clans receive guests. 
2. Prince Ying (英王) – A powerful imperial kinsman opposing Emperor Xiao Yuanzheng, symbolic of aristocratic might. 
3. Thirteen Provinces (一十三州) – Echoing historical maps of China, “all under heaven” divided into thirteen regions. 
4. Grand General of All Forces (天下兵马大元帅) – Supreme military commander. Shen Qinghe jokingly aspires to it. 
5. Birthday Sweet Cakes – Traditional belief: one must eat sweet food on birthdays to ensure sweetness in coming year. 
6. Hair‑binding Ceremony – Adults or close kin binding hair conveys kinship, intimacy, even betrothal overtones in classical society. 
7. Alien-surname One‑word Kings (异姓一字王) – Rare noble title for meritorious, non‑imperial clans: sign of immense merit.