BEGW C90

Chapter 90

Upon the great grasslands, the evening wind momentarily stilled.

Silence draped itself across the open plains.

At some point, Jiang Yuxun’s hand had risen to rest lightly upon the Emperor’s shoulder.

After a few breaths of hesitation, he finally—guided by Ying Changchuan—responded with careful, tentative motion.

But in the next instant, Ying Changchuan abandoned all earlier gentleness, claiming him deeply and without restraint.

In that moment, he no longer cared in the slightest about the guards stationed nearby.

The sound of water mingled with soft, uneven breaths.

The air in Jiang Yuxun’s lungs—along with all his strength—was thoroughly stolen away.

From far across the plains, a war horn resounded.

A hawk circled above the wilderness.

Just as Jiang Yuxun staggered from lack of air, the man on horseback finally released him, reluctantly ending that long, consuming kiss.

Half-dazed, Jiang Yuxun opened his eyes.

He leaned in and brushed a fleeting kiss upon Ying Changchuan’s lips, then let out a quiet laugh, his voice hoarse:

“…I’ll be waiting for your return.”

The restless warhorse beneath the Emperor shifted its hooves.

The Fulin Army was already disappearing into the distant horizon.

With one last brush of his fingers along Yuxun’s cheek, Ying Changchuan murmured against his ear:

“Very well.”

A lifetime spent on horseback—

never before had he held a yearning like this.

Several hours later.

At the boundary between the Quxia Desert and Wuchang County—

The moon illuminated the deep wrinkles on Chuchi Khan’s weathered face.

Mounted on his horse, he stared toward Wuchang County from afar.

Around him, Zherou cavalrymen quietly pulled oil-soaked torches from their sacks.

Zefang County held nine towns; Wuchang lay some distance from its central settlement.

This land had once been barren—only after recent migration did life begin to stir here again.

Tonight, all of Wuchang County slept.

Influenced by the quiet, even Chuchi Khan’s men were cautious.

“…My lord,” murmured a middle-aged soldier in leather armor as he stopped beside the Khan. “Great Zhou inherits the previous dynasty’s system. Only the main cities and border passes have walls. Smaller counties like Wuchang have none.”

His complexion was paler than most, and his speech carried traces of a Zhou accent.

Wuchang lay on the border—where farming and herding met.

Under the former dynasty, the region had been poor and stagnant, often harassed by Zherou.

Some locals grew to hate the nomads—

but some longed to join them.

The man speaking had once been a Zefang County native.

He defected during the previous dynasty and eventually became Chuchi Khan’s “advisor.”

Now still within Zherou borders, the group gazed at the small county town glowing faintly on the horizon.

Chuchi Khan raised his hand slowly, lowering his voice for the thousand riders beside him:

“Do you crave cattle and sheep, fine wine, silk, and beautiful women?”

“We do—!”

A century of misrule had left the former dynasty rotten—its borders crumbling.

The beacon walls built long ago had already collapsed, leaving Zherou free to ride south unchallenged.

Great Zhou had only recently risen from years of war, with no time yet to repair old defenses.

This was a blessing for the raiders.

“Good.”

Chuchi Khan narrowed his eyes toward Wuchang.

“We ride east to bypass the garrison, then seize Wuchang directly!”

“Yes, my lord!”

The cavalry drew out hidden weapons from their sacks.

In an instant, a thousand elite riders split into two groups—

one circling along routes leaked by Lingtiantai’s followers to avoid Zhou garrisons;

the other staying back with the Khan.

The desert wind rose again.

No longer carrying the sandstorms of early spring, yet noisy all the same.

The entire Zherou population, under the Three Khans combined, was smaller than the population of a single Zhou prefecture—

but every Zherou child learned to ride as soon as they could walk.

The cavalry riding with Chuchi Khan were the finest among them.

Dressed in leather armor, they tightened their reins—

man and horse merging into one.

Their hoofbeats grew faint.

The wind roared.

Then—silence.

Chuchi Khan took another long drink from his wineskin.

Excitement burned in his cloudy brown-red eyes.

His “advisor” also drank deeply, muttering under his breath:

“…It’s been nearly ten years.”

The rich scent of liquor lingered as he spoke—eyes full of bitterness and urgency.

“Yes. Ten years soon.”

Chuchi Khan let out a cold laugh.

The Zherou had raided the Central Plains for centuries—

swooping in, stealing livestock or grain, then vanishing without a scratch.

After the invention of the stirrup, they launched even larger invasions.

Dynasties of the Central Plains could only defend, never retaliate.

—Until Ying Changchuan.

For nearly half his life, Chuchi Khan had lived under the shadow of that single defeat.

He sneered and lowered his gaze to the stirrups beneath his boots:

“Gabor and Da’e are both cowards!

We Zherou won dozens, hundreds of battles against the Central Plains, and lost only once—

yet those two still tremble!

Zefang’s pastures are rich, perfect for our herds!

Let them rot in the desert—

I will claim that land for myself!”

“My lord is wise!”

The cavalry echoed loudly.

This raid was necessity—

but also the Khan’s long-held desire.

Though midnight neared, he showed no weariness.

The Zherou warriors around him were like wolves hiding in the sand—

eyes glittering with hunger and cruelty.

—This raid was only the beginning.

If they succeeded, Zherou would treat Great Zhou as their backyard—

just as they did under the previous dynasty.

They would launch true war.

Swinging around the garrison, they approached Wuchang County.

Nearly a thousand riders did not slow—

they pushed their horses faster.

“Hurry! Take the granary first—fill your sacks, then burn it!”

“We’re still ten li from the garrison—be silent!

Chase off the cattle in the dark, then ride north before dawn—”

The others lifted their hands in silent acknowledgment.

Before dawn, Zherou light cavalry encircled Wuchang like phantoms.

Just as they were about to enter—

an unexpected explosion split the night.

“—Boom!”

A deafening roar shook the air.

The riders clutched their ears in pain.

The horses, obedient moments before, reared in panic.

Some tried to throw their riders;

others bolted blindly into one another.

Confidence shattered.

It took several breaths for the cavalry to regain control.

The leading rider gripped his reins tightly and shouted:

“What was that?!”

“Ghosts!” another cried, face pale.

“Was that… thunder?”

But when they looked up, the sky was clear and cloudless beneath the bright moon.

At once, the rumor of “firearms” surged back into their minds.

Zhou people loved speaking of mystical things, always calling upon the “Heavens.”

They said their “fire weapons” could split mountains and seas—tales the Zherou dismissed as superstition.

The blast had faded, but the earth still quaked.

Horses screamed, trampling wildly.

One rider was thrown, shouting “Help—help—” before a frantic horse crushed his chest.

Silence swallowed him.

“I—is that the firearm?” someone whispered.

The leader gritted his teeth:

“Impossible! You saw the Zhou man who brought us the gunpowder recipe—it was worthless!

That formula couldn’t—”

He froze mid-sentence.

A dark shape appeared ahead.

A rider in black armor emerged from Wuchang.

They recognized that armor instantly—

the Fulin Army.

If the Fulin Army was here, then Ying Changchuan—

Ying Changchuan was here as well.

“Retreat!” the leader shouted.

How had Zhou known their route?

Fear swarmed their minds like a hail of arrows.

Hands slick with cold sweat, they fumbled with their reins.

Before they could even turn their horses—

A second explosion rang out.

The horses shrieked, thrashing uncontrollably.

On the far side of Wuchang—

Ying Changchuan raised his hand slowly.

The Fulin Army behind him rode forward.

The ground trembled beneath their hooves—

but their horses, trained to withstand blasts, only snorted.

Within moments, the cavalry encircled the raiders.

Ten li away, still in the Quxia Desert—

Chuchi Khan lifted his wineskin again—

but froze as a muffled roar traveled through the night.

He looked sharply toward Wuchang.

“…Did you hear that?”

His advisor blinked. “Thunder? Spring thunder?”

Then, seeing the cloudless sky, he faltered.

Silence settled.

“Something is wrong…”

Chuchi Khan tightened his reins.

His horse stepped backward nervously.

“This place is unsafe. We must leave.”

He sliced his hand through the air.

“To the far dunes—quickly!”

“Yes, my lord!”

The riders fell silent and followed, retreating toward the dunes—

glancing back at Wuchang with rising dread.

Zherou were masters of riding and ranged combat.

But without their horses—

they were helpless.

Trapped, thrown, pleading, panicking.

Some even knelt on the ground, begging for mercy.

The Fulin Army tightened their encirclement.

One soldier shouted deliberately:

“Leave none alive!”

Hearing this, the leading Zherou rider bit down hard on his lip.

He tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve, rolled it tightly, and stuffed it into his horse’s ears.

“Retreat!”

A few others followed suit—

Fabric jammed into their horses’ ears, they urged the beasts forward, attempting to break through.

The Fulin Army immediately gave chase.

“After them!”

“They’ll lead us to Chuchi Khan!”

“Ride!”

Horses streaked across the night like lightning.

In addition to water and rations, each rider carried improved firearms.

Hidden war chariots emerged from Wuchang.

After a time, Ying Changchuan left Wuchang as well.

Why use cannons on mere raiders?

There was no need.

A few bamboo tubes filled with gunpowder—ignited for noise—were enough.

Moonlight lit the desert as Ying Changchuan smiled faintly.

A thousand raiders were nothing.

His true goal—

Was Chuchi Khan.

And the tens of thousands under his command.

…And beyond that, all of Zherou.

Since the Khan had lit the fuse—

Great Zhou had no reason to stop at a mere skirmish.

At the hour of the hare, sky still dim—

Jiang Yuxun emerged from his tent, fully dressed.

Though the northern garrison had nothing urgent for him to handle, worry for the war kept him restless.

“…Lord Jiang, this is the beacon wall built in the previous dynasty,” said Qi Pingsha, who accompanied him.

“With it, the border could be guarded, and word of invasion sent quickly across counties.”

Despite still reeling internally from the revelation of Jiang Yuxun and the Emperor’s relationship, he maintained his usual steady expression.

Yuxun nodded and ran his fingers along the weathered wall.

Years of sandstorms had worn the beacon wall into ruins—little more than farmyard dirt walls.

Most beacon towers were buried.

Seeing him examine the structure closely, Qi Pingsha said:

“To restore it to its former strength would require great effort.”

Fortunately, Great Zhou was thriving; once the Yi River project finished, focus could be turned here.

Jiang Yuxun smiled faintly and shook his head.

“No need for such effort.”

Rough stone scraped his fingertips lightly.

“Why?” Qi Pingsha paused.

Yuxun raised his head, gazing toward the distant remains of a beacon tower.

“A beacon wall is built to resist invaders.

If there are no invaders, then why rebuild it?”

Qi Pingsha stiffened.

Did Lord Jiang mean—

to eliminate Zherou entirely, in the near future?

His blood surged at the thought.

Yet history taught him that such a thing was nearly impossible.

Wind whipped sand across the plains.

Yuxun closed his eyes.

“I believe His Majesty has never intended to rebuild it—

because he plans the same thing.”

—In the original timeline, Ying Changchuan did achieve it.

He only died too early.

His successors failed to hold the land.

Qi Pingsha stared deeply at Jiang Yuxun.

Their relationship… was even deeper than he imagined.

Their ambitions matched.

As commander of the Imperial Seal Bureau, he was used to silence—

yet today, beneath the ruined beacon wall, he could not help but ask:

“Lord Jiang believes… we will no longer need beacon towers in the north?”

Yuxun turned his gaze northward.

As though seeing through endless grassland and desert—

to the towering mountains at the edge of the world.

“Xiaobei Cliff,” he said softly.

“Soon, Xiaobei Cliff will be Great Zhou’s northernmost barrier.”

The wind tousled Qi Pingsha’s hair.

He held his breath.

Xiaobei Cliff marked the farthest northern range—

a place none had ever crossed.

The end of the known world.

Sensing danger, Chuchi Khan fled with his remaining riders.

Exactly as Ying Changchuan intended.

Though Xing Zhi had mapped the interior of Zherou, the land held no cities except the royal court.

Nomads moved with water and grass—their camps shifting often.

Tonight, Zhou soldiers intended to use these remnants to track the Khan’s main forces.

Ying Changchuan never wasted strength.

He struck only where necessary.

Near sunset, deep within the grasslands, the Fulin Army and Northern Garrison elites halted to rest.

Campfires blazed; soldiers gathered in small groups, chatting and relaxing after a tense day.

Cooks boiled water in large pots and roasted mutton until rich fragrance drifted across the night.

Normally, they drank cold stream water—

but Jiang Yuxun insisted water should always be boiled when possible.

After witnessing the power of firearms, the soldiers trusted him fully.

Though thirsty, they waited patiently.

At one fire, a young officer licked his lips and pulled out a small embroidered pouch.

“Hey, Qian Xinlu—what’s that?”

His companion snatched it from his hands.

“Give it back!” Qian Xinlu jumped up.

“That’s from Miss Jian—”

“Miss Jian?” someone else asked.

“Who is she?”

Qian Xinlu flushed crimson.

“She’s… she’s my—”

Before he could finish, the companion who stole the pouch burst into laughter.

“His fiancée!”

The group erupted into laughter.

Qian Xinlu grabbed back the pouch, still red-faced but more confident now.

“So what? Looking at this pouch every day is like seeing her face. Jealous I have one and you don’t?”

“Joke!”

“Jealous of that?”

Laughter rose with the smell of roasting meat.

Some pulled out their own keepsakes:

“This padded shirt under my armor—my wife made it!”

“I’ve got a sachet too!”

“Who doesn’t carry a token from home?”

“Exactly!”

The open ground outside the command tent filled with cheerful noise.

None of them noticed the Emperor and the Northern General behind them—

having just finished inspecting the war chariots and firearms.

The general cleared his throat, embarrassed.

“These men are young, Your Majesty. Please forgive their rowdiness.”

Ying Changchuan halted beside him, not angered at all.

He listened, smiling faintly.

No one could read the Emperor’s true emotions.

The general tried again:

“It grows late, Your Majesty. You have had a tiring day. Perhaps you should—”

He stopped abruptly.

Ying Changchuan had withdrawn something from his sleeve—

handling it with unusual care.

A dark-colored silk pouch.

Inside was a small shell.

Under the fading sunset, the shell shimmered faintly with pink-violet hues.

Pretty enough—

but far from the dignified ornaments suited for a sovereign.

The general stiffened.

Was the Emperor about to use the shell as some kind of political metaphor?

How would one even do that?

Unable to understand, the general finally whispered:

“Your Majesty… this object is…?”

His expression was earnest and nervous.

But the Emperor’s answer was wholly unexpected.

Ying Changchuan rolled the shell lightly between his fingers, raising it against the light to examine the patterns.

Then, pretending to speak casually, he said:

“I merely remembered… I, too, carry a love token.”

After speaking, he tucked the shell away again—

gently stroking it in his palm, smoky-gray eyes softening.

Completely ignoring the general, who now stood frozen like a struck tree.

“…Ah?”

A love token?

The general’s mind trembled.

The Emperor… in love?

He sucked in a sharp breath.

Unable to imagine Ying Changchuan ever moved by affection, he nonetheless couldn’t stop wondering—

With whom?!