BEGW C100

Chapter 100

A sudden gust of wind swept across the grassland, flattening the pasture in rolling waves.

At the same moment, the sound of the stream by his ear seemed to swell abruptly.

Jiang Yuxun, who had asked that question in complete earnestness, still did not feel that anything he said was wrong—

not until…

The hand that had been holding his waist suddenly lifted, gently tucking a loose strand of his black hair behind his ear.

Ying Changchuan’s movement was light—so light it was almost imperceptible—but as the long hair brushed unintentionally across Jiang Yuxun’s neck and cheek, a faint itch spread, making his breath hitch.

The air, which had previously carried only the scent of grass, suddenly took on a dangerous undertone.

“Your Majesty…?”

Just as Jiang Yuxun was wondering why Ying Changchuan had not answered his question—

The emperor, dressed in a crimson gauze robe, suddenly bent down and lifted him straight up.

Jiang Yuxun: !!!

Wait—wasn’t Ying Changchuan being far too bold?!

Did he not care about his lifelong reputation anymore?!

The instant his body left the ground, Jiang Yuxun instinctively clenched the fabric at Ying Changchuan’s chest.

There were people everywhere outside the military tents, and starlight made the ground unusually bright.

Afraid of being discovered by the soldiers standing guard, Jiang Yuxun forced himself to keep his mouth shut—he even held his breath—allowing himself to be carried forward without resistance.

What exactly was Ying Changchuan trying to do?

Jiang Yuxun’s heart began to pound violently, as if it were about to burst out of his chest.

By the time he remembered to breathe again, Ying Changchuan had already carried him back into the military tent.

……

The candles inside the tent had burned out at some point, leaving the interior pitch-dark.

Before Jiang Yuxun’s eyes was only a vague outline, and the unease and nervousness in his heart were amplified by the darkness.

Ying Changchuan showed no intention of putting him down.

An ambiguous atmosphere quietly took root in the dark.

At this moment, Jiang Yuxun finally realized—

The question he had just asked… might have been somewhat inappropriate.

In the darkness, his earlobes flushed red.

This was bad.

Ying Changchuan wouldn’t be planning to prove his physical condition through practical action, would he?

Rationally, Jiang Yuxun knew Ying Changchuan was not that frivolous a person.

Yet he still tried to push him gently, attempting to make him set him down, while speaking with righteous firmness:

“King Da’e is not dead, Zherou still draws breath. The war is not yet over—this is absolutely not the time to indulge in pleasure!”

Before his words had even fully fallen—

Ying Changchuan suddenly sat down on the couch with Jiang Yuxun still in his arms.

Now more accustomed to the darkness, Jiang Yuxun saw Ying Changchuan carefully arranging his hair, then looking at him seriously and asking in confusion:

“When did I agree to that?”

“…You didn’t agree before.”

After a brief pause, Jiang Yuxun suddenly lifted his head to look straight into Ying Changchuan’s eyes and said righteously,

“Then agree to it now.”

His tone was crisp and decisive, leaving no room for negotiation.

In the entire world, there was probably no second person who dared speak to the emperor like this.

Yet after hearing it, Ying Changchuan did not grow angry at all. Instead, he couldn’t help but laugh.

“All right,” he said. His slightly hoarse voice brushed against Jiang Yuxun’s ear, and in the next instant, he leaned down and kissed him in the darkness.

“Then shouldn’t I collect a little interest first?”

The felt curtain by the couch swayed abruptly.

Within the once-quiet military tent, a few soft gasps followed—

enough to make one’s face burn.

Lambs on the grasslands are generally divided into two types based on birth season: winter lambs and spring lambs.

This winter, a white disaster had struck, making temperatures colder than usual and delaying the warming of the land.

As a result, even ewes that normally gave birth in late spring or early summer had their lambing dates pushed back considerably.

Only now had the pregnant ewes in the Zhenbei Army’s encampment begun to give birth.

Great Zhou lacked neither grass nor grain. Though these ewes had lost much of their weight during winter due to poor nutrition, they had recently been restored with feed made from pasture grass mixed with bran.

Once labor began, the women who had followed the army here earlier worked together with nearby herders to assist in delivering the lambs.

The joy of new life arrived alongside the battlefield’s reports of victory.

Ordinary herders—people who normally lived far from war—seemed, during this time, to draw closer to Great Zhou itself.

At the same time, King Da’e, trapped at the very center of the desert, had reached his limit.

He finally left the sands and was forced to engage the enemy.

But the well-prepared Zhou forces not only prevented him from escaping to Qiaoluo—

they swiftly killed his left and right hands, leaving him with no ability to counterattack. In the end, just as Gu Yejin’s report had said, he fled under cover of night with only a handful of men toward the Zherou Royal Court.

……

The addition of firearms made the Zhou army as fearsome as a tiger with wings.

Not only did the war end far more quickly than anticipated, even the number of casualties was greatly reduced.

Yet on the battlefield, blades and arrows knew no mercy. Death and sacrifice could never be fully avoided.

Anyone who stepped onto the battlefield had already prepared themselves for burial in horsehide.

After every battle, soldiers assigned to aftermath duties would gather the remains of their fallen comrades.

By now, the Zhou army had pushed deep into the northern lands. Even riding at full speed, returning to Zhaodu would take six or seven days.

Moreover, with summer arriving and temperatures rising, bodies could not be preserved for long.

Thus, the soldiers who died on the battlefield were buried on the spot, according to custom, in the vast grasslands.

Summer on the Dingwumugao Great Grassland was usually either clear skies or torrential rain—rarely anything in between.

Yet today was an unusually overcast day.

To the northwest, the grassland that had recently been burned to black had already regained its greenery.

At a glance, it looked no different from anywhere else.

Logistics soldiers worked day and night for several days, finally digging graves at this site.

Coffins that had been laid out for some time were lowered into the earth to the sound of a xun.

The heavy clouds above thickened further.

The xun was the most common instrument among the common people of Great Zhou—made of clay and extremely cheap.

Court musicians disdained playing it and never composed music for it.

Yet the tunes played on the xun today were the most familiar folk melodies of Great Zhou—

the very songs those soldiers often hummed in their daily lives.

The cloud-laden sky felt so heavy it seemed ready to fall.

When the music ended, the simple coffins were buried.

The soldiers stopped playing, but the grassland wind passed through the clay xun in their hands, howling softly as if singing a song of its own…

Standing at the front with the officials, Jiang Yuxun slowly lowered his head and solemnly bowed toward the newly raised graves.

His gaze then fell upon the massive stone that had been buried along with the coffins.

In his previous life, during a school break, he had once interned at a museum with classmates.

The museum had been built atop an ancient battlefield. It was small and unremarkable, its largest collection consisting of swords and horse gear unearthed from old battlefields.

Its most prized exhibit was a soldier’s family letter, buried beneath sand for a thousand years.

Behind the museum lay land where countless soldiers were buried—long since swallowed by yellow sand.

By modern times, no one remembered their names, nor even knew that they had once lived in this world.

Back then, Jiang Yuxun had not thought much of it.

But now, standing on an actual battlefield, he finally understood with painful clarity that beneath the sand lay one vivid life after another.

Because of this, before these graves were dug, Jiang Yuxun had entrusted colleagues who knew the fallen soldiers to write brief accounts of their lives on parchment.

In the end, their names and places of origin were carved one by one onto this massive stone.

—For thousands upon thousands of years to come, they would remain the pride of their hometowns.

The body was destined to decay, to be buried by wind and sand.

But the names carved into stone—and the unique stories they left behind in this world—were gifts from them, and from this era of Great Zhou, to the future.

Waiting only to be discovered one day.

Though it was already midsummer, a sudden sand-laden wind rose across the grassland.

Dust from distant sandy land drifted over, lightly covering the green pasture.

The scene before Jiang Yuxun’s eyes overlapped with that ancient battlefield he had once seen, buried beneath yellow sand.

The massive stone slowly sank underground, eventually disappearing beneath thick earth.

Jiang Yuxun narrowed his eyes unconsciously.

…Who knew whether it would see the light of day again in a hundred years—or a thousand?

“Woo—”

The military horn sounded once more. Behind Jiang Yuxun, the soldiers saluted in perfect unison toward their comrades resting beneath the earth.

Then, as one, they looked eastward.

King Da’e was fleeing toward the Royal Court, and the Zhou main forces would soon leave this long-held encampment and march after him—

to draw a final, absolute full stop to this war.

“Boom—”

A tremendous explosion rang out beyond the walls of the Zherou Royal Court.

Even the rammed-earth walls shook, dust cascading down.

The ground trembled with it.

Inside the Royal Court, the Zherou King—still just a child—had long gone pale with terror.

None of the arrogance he once displayed when toying with Jiang Yuxun and the others remained.

“It’s been ten days… The Zhou have surrounded us for ten days now…”

A Zherou noble spoke cautiously, trying to break the silence in the royal tent.

“Your Majesty, if we continue waiting like this, it’s meaningless…”

As he spoke, his body shook uncontrollably, his voice growing weaker and weaker—already showing signs of surrender.

For ten days, the Zhou army had surrounded the Royal Court without launching a direct attack.

Instead, they had “demonstrated” their firearms on the sands outside.

Though the nobles hiding within the city had neither been wounded nor bled, their psychological defenses had long since been shattered by ten days of unceasing explosions and firelight.

The man paused for a few breaths, finally unable to hold back as he inhaled deeply and said:

“Perhaps we should—”

 

Before he could finish the sentence, another noble seated opposite him suddenly stood up and cut him off sharply:

“Do you lack even this much courage? You’re disgracing Zherou! Hah… it’s because there are so many people like you that we’ve ended up in such a passive position today.”

Someone else chimed in at once, sneering, “Exactly. Back then, whenever we Zherou wanted to head south, we did. If the Zhou dared resist, we killed them on the spot! When did we ever become this cowardly?”

The first speaker was instantly fired up. He stood as well, pointing straight at the other man’s nose and shouting,

“Back then? Back then did the Zhou have cavalry this powerful? Did they have weapons that could shake heaven and earth like these ‘firearms’? If you want to die, don’t drag the rest of us with you!”

A single stone stirred a thousand waves.

The remaining Zherou nobles—who had stayed silent until now—suddenly dropped to their knees in unison. They kowtowed toward the Zherou king seated on the throne, whose hands were clenched tightly into the animal-skin rug beneath him.

“Your Majesty, let us surrender—”

“Yes, Your Majesty, we should surrender while we still can!”

“If we surrender of our own accord, the Zhou will surely not make things difficult for us…”

The Zherou royal court lay far too close to Great Zhou.

Private exchanges between the two lands had never been few.

Having witnessed the prosperity of Zefang Commandery, and having unconsciously absorbed Zhou culture over time, these nobles had long formed an impression of the Zhou as ritual-minded, righteous, and ruling over a rich, flourishing land.

For a moment, the word “surrender” echoed throughout the entire royal tent.

The young Zherou king seated at the highest place clenched his teeth hard.

Before today, no one had dared utter the word “surrender” outright—but in truth, the thought had already taken root in everyone’s heart.

When Qiuqi King went to war with Great Zhou, the royal court had immediately imprisoned the hostages left here by Qiaoluo and other states, along with the Zhou princess sent in marriage, Lianyi, throwing them all into the dungeons.

Yet only a few days later, after receiving news that the war situation had shifted, they had released those people at once and treated them with the utmost courtesy within the royal court.

Princess Lianyi in particular—no one dared show her the slightest disrespect anymore, this so-called “Queen Dowager.”

Seated atop the tiger-skin rug, the young Zherou king slowly closed his eyes.

The flickering firelight within the tent still pierced through his thin eyelids, shining into his eyes and making him frown deeply.

At that moment, everyone fell silent, stopping both movement and speech, and looked up at him in unison.

…After a few breaths, the young Zherou king finally opened his eyes again.

His gaze had never been so hollow. All his former defiance and unruliness had vanished without a trace, leaving only fear and unease behind.

Lowering his voice, the Zherou king slowly loosened his grip and spoke with difficulty:

“Sur… surrender. We surrender…”

Chased across deserts and grasslands throughout Zherou territory by Gu Yejin and his men, King Da’e had no idea what was unfolding inside the royal court.

When he fled in panic, he still had several thousand elite cavalry at his side.

But by the time he reached the outskirts of the Zherou royal court, only a pitiful few hundred remained.

It was deep night, and the royal court lay in utter silence.

Having reached a dead end, King Da’e turned back and exchanged a look with his remaining subordinates.

By now, they had no choices left—and no way back.

King Da’e gave them a slight nod. The group then exhausted every last bit of strength they had, urging their horses forward once more and charging toward the Zherou royal court.

Then something utterly unexpected happened.

The bright moon illuminated the city, built from packed clay, sand, lime, and straw.

At the very moment the warhorses surged forward toward the royal court, the heavy wooden gates set into the pale earthen walls slowly swung open.

“—Hiiih!”

The warhorses reared and skidded to a halt, kicking up clouds of dust.

On horseback, King Da’e’s eyes flew wide open as he stared blankly ahead.

His heart sank, and a sinister premonition rose within him.

Warm firelight from inside the gates blended with moonlight, illuminating King Da’e’s dark, deeply lined face.

He instinctively wanted to flee—but both men and their utterly exhausted horses had long since lost the strength to run.

Footsteps echoed from within the gates. A group of soldiers emerged before King Da’e.

But they were not the Zherou cavalry he had been hoping to see all along—

They were the Fulín Army, clad in black armor.

In the blink of an eye, countless arrows were leveled from the city walls, aimed directly at the warhorses.

The next moment, ten thousand arrows were loosed at once, streaking like meteors through the night sky and shattering the stillness of the night.

As he was thrown from his horse, King Da’e’s eyes widened as he stared up at the heavens.

Born to nobility, he had ridden freely across the grasslands with his elders since childhood.

In years of abundance, he drank and reveled without restraint, living in unbridled indulgence.

When disaster struck, he simply rode south to plunder—killing, burning, and savoring the thrill of standing above other lives.

What he loved most was the sound of screams and curses from the people of Zefang Commandery as they died beneath his arrows or in raging flames.

What he loved most to see were the looks of despair on their faces after their livestock and grain had been taken.

…Until the final years of the previous dynasty, when he finally tasted defeat.

In his final moment, he gathered the last of his strength and turned to look at the endless grasslands.

His brown eyes were filled with unwillingness and despair.

It was over.

This century-long war and plunder had finally come to an end.

…But where, exactly, had it all gone wrong?

This great war had lasted several months from beginning to end.

Coupled with the snow disaster at the start of the year, the emperor of Great Zhou—who had been away from Zhaodu for over half a year—was finally due to return to the capital.

Unlike the journey out, the returning procession now included a special figure.

At chen hour, outside the Zherou royal court.

There was still some time before departure, yet dozens of carriages were already lined up neatly.

Still nominally an official under the Minister of the Treasury, Jiang Yuxun had left the city early with Fei Jinyuan and the others to inspect the horses, carriages, and ceremonial arrangements.

Just as he finished his tasks and was about to rest briefly before departure, a familiar figure appeared before him.

“Your Highness?” Jiang Yuxun bowed to the newcomer and stepped forward, greeting her. “Why have you come so early?”

Princess Lianyi smiled and waved her hand. “It’s been too long since I last returned… I couldn’t sleep at all last night. Seeing that the carriages were already prepared, I came ahead of time.”

Compared to years past, a few fine lines now marked the corners of her eyes, yet her voice brimmed with unconcealed excitement.

She had been sent beyond the frontier in the prime of her youth. More than twenty years had passed since then. The girl of old now had streaks of gray at her temples, and her gaze carried a faint weariness and sorrow.

Twenty-plus years—everything had changed.

The people who once saw her off to a political marriage had long since been erased by the river of time.

For a moment, Princess Lianyi felt lost, unsure how she ought to live once she returned to her homeland…

The early-morning grassland still held a trace of chill.

The wind made Jiang Yuxun shiver. He quickly said to Princess Lianyi, who was likewise dressed for summer,

“Your Highness, please sit in the carriage to avoid the morning wind. We’ll be setting off in less than half an hour. The road ahead will be rough—it would be best for you to rest beforehand.”

“What Lord Jiang says is reasonable.” Having gone without sleep all night, Princess Lianyi was indeed tired.

She nodded to Jiang Yuxun and, supported by the palace maids at her side, turned and walked toward the carriage.

As she moved, Jiang Yuxun finally noticed something unusual about her attire.

—The red court robe she wore was slightly wrinkled, and the gold thread woven into it had dulled with age.

Though Jiang Yuxun knew little about current fashions in Zhaodu, he could tell at a glance: this robe was not of a modern style.

Judging by its fabric, it was not made from the silks sent to Zherou in recent years either.

Though deeply puzzled, Jiang Yuxun merely glanced once before quickly looking away.

Princess Lianyi, however, seemed eager to share the story behind this garment.

She lowered her gaze to the robe, then suddenly stopped, turned back, and smiled softly at Jiang Yuxun.

“This court robe was the wedding dress my mother sewed with her own hands,” she said quietly. “It’s just a pity… she didn’t live long enough to see me wear it.”

With that, Princess Lianyi let out a gentle sigh and turned her gaze southward.

The prairie breeze lifted her crimson robe and her long hair, no longer as glossy black as it once was.

Yet the smile in her eyes was unchanged from years past.

Over twenty years ago, the young Princess Lianyi had left Zhaodu—her birthplace and home—wearing this very robe.

—Today, she would wear it once more, returning to her homeland.

Jiang Yuxun had left the military tent before dawn to assist Fei Jinyuan outside the city.

After hours of exertion, weariness had finally crept in.

Once Princess Lianyi boarded her carriage, Jiang Yuxun also climbed into his own.

Unlike the ordinary carriage he had ridden on the way here, the emperor’s carriage was not only spacious but lined with thick rugs and prepared with cushions for support, crafted to be as comfortable as possible.

Having barely rested the night before, Jiang Yuxun fell asleep almost as soon as he lay down, casting everything else to the back of his mind.

When jolting forced him awake again, the carriage had already left the grasslands behind and was slowly heading toward Zefang Commandery.

Jiang Yuxun groggily opened his eyes.

The carriage wall—and Ying Changchuan seated by the window—came into view at the same time.

Seeing the familiar figure, still half-asleep and not yet realizing they had already departed, Jiang Yuxun blurted out,

“…Your Majesty? Why did you come so early?”

The Zhenbei Army would return later.

Jiang Yuxun remembered that Ying Changchuan was supposed to visit the camp this morning and only join the carriage at departure.

Perhaps to let him sleep soundly, all the carriage curtains had been drawn tightly.

Ying Changchuan, leaning by the window, was using the faint light filtering through the felt curtains to read a booklet in his hands.

Before Ying Changchuan could answer, Jiang Yuxun—still not fully awake—murmured again,

“The light in the carriage is too dim. If you want to read, you should open the curtains. Don’t strain your eyes.”

His voice carried a soft nasal tone, thick with drowsiness.

Only then did the emperor smile and set the booklet aside. “No hurry.”

He casually began to twine the long hair that had somehow slipped into his hand.

The carriage wheels suddenly rolled over a patch of gravel, causing the entire carriage to jolt.

Jiang Yuxun’s elbow knocked painfully against the wall.

That sharp twinge finally snapped him fully awake.

…The carriage had already left the former Zherou royal court behind. Ying Changchuan had not “arrived early” at all.

As the carriage continued to sway, Jiang Yuxun instinctively shifted away from the wall.

Just as he was about to brace himself and sit up, Ying Changchuan suddenly leaned down, trapping him in place.

Long black hair fell from the emperor’s back, landing squarely on Jiang Yuxun’s chest.

Ying Changchuan narrowed his eyes slightly and asked softly,

“Do you think I would be late?”

Huh? Why would Ying Changchuan think that?

Completely bewildered, Jiang Yuxun froze for a moment, then slowly shook his head.

“No, I just meant—”

Before he could finish, Ying Changchuan gently pressed a fingertip to Jiang Yuxun’s lips.

Jiang Yuxun’s breath caught.

Though it was still morning, the prairie sun was already blazing.

Filtered through layers of felt, the light turned soft and warm, lending the carriage an especially intimate atmosphere.

The emperor’s voice was tinged with hoarseness as he looked into Jiang Yuxun’s eyes.

“Do you know why I was late?”

Jiang Yuxun turned his head aside slightly and answered in a voice so soft it was barely audible:

“…I don’t know. But I can more or less guess.”

As the carriage entered sandy terrain, its speed slowed. The jolting seemed endless.

The wooden carriage swayed gently, creaking faintly. Lying against the thick rugs, Jiang Yuxun felt as though he were on a small boat, rocking with the waves.

The emperor leaned down, placing his lips close to Jiang Yuxun’s ear, and whispered:

“The war is over.”

He did not say anything more—but in that instant, Jiang Yuxun understood perfectly what he meant.

The war is over.

So… does that mean they can finally indulge?

 

• “火器” (firearms) → Highlighted term: In this story, 火器 refers not to handheld guns, but to early gunpowder-based weapons such as explosive devices, incendiaries, and siege tools. Their psychological impact—noise, fire, shock—was often more decisive than raw killing power.
• “三合土” (rammed earth / triple-mix earth) → Highlighted term: This is a traditional Chinese construction method using clay + sand + lime (sometimes straw). When compacted, it becomes extremely durable—many ancient city walls built this way survived for centuries.
• Chen hour (辰时) = roughly 7:00–9:00 AM in the traditional Chinese timekeeping system.