ITIEQ C86

Chapter 86 – Ending War With War

Marching within the realm was unlike the frontiers. In the Northwest, fighting outsiders meant battling through seas of yellow sand, or sometimes in forests thick with snakes and insects; when supplies were scant, belts had to be tightened. Here, it was different: water and grass were abundant, cooking smoke often visible. Yet the soldiers felt no joy.

On the wasteland, one could act freely—whatever was trampled in passing hardly mattered. Here, each flower and tree was the fair landscape of Great Yong; advancing felt like moving with hands tied.

At Tongguan the army pitched camp. Commanders gathered in the central tent, a huge map spread in the middle. After a brief council, orders were drawn. Three columns would advance. One would push up from within the Pass—the Northwest Army’s familiar route—placed under Commander Zhao. Another would push down, crossing the Pan River into Chang, Hui, and Qing—strongholds of the clans, a hard bone to gnaw; unexpectedly, the Zhaohuan Emperor entrusted the young General Yao and the Long‑Rampart Corps to spearhead it—a mark of full confidence.

As for the central host under the Emperor himself, it would remain at the rear, encamping at Mount Nanzhi—not too near, not too far—able to support the upper and lower armies and command the whole.

With the palace guard withdrawn, even the capital wasn’t overly secure. Shen Qinghe donned soft armor and rode with the army. Xiao Yuanzheng looked up and asked which force he would join; Shen thought a moment and chose Yao’s southern column.

Yao Guang’s silver armor shone bright; hearing it, he looked up, delighted. “Good. I’ll show you what I can do.”

Catching the Emperor’s glance, as if to speak, Shen smiled lightly and answered frankly, “A contingent of physicians and craftsmen will arrive from Cangzhou—skilled hands. By the route, they should come from this side. I was once Qingbei’s governor—I should see them safe.”

Yao Guang thumped his chest. “If Your Majesty worries for Lord Shen’s safety—rest easy. With me, not a hair will be harmed!”

Across the circle, Xiao Yuanzheng glanced to the last rank where Shen stood. Shen patted Yao Guang’s arm, as if in jest; he did not look back.

The sovereign’s fingertip traced the map. He too wore armor today. Surrounded by burly commanders at the center, his bearing seemed yet more heroically formidable.

Standing aside without silks to veil his view, Shen saw more clearly the difference between Xiao Yuanzheng and the Zhaohuan Emperor. Sensing that subtle difference only left him more ill at ease.

“Receiving physicians and craftsmen” was only half the truth.

They needed to separate.

While humoring Yao with words, Shen weighed matters. From above, a cool voice fell: “Down the Pan River—besides the three‑province clans, there is another man.”

All eyes turned to him.

Xiao Yuanzheng tapped the border between Qing and Chang—an area called Pushuo. Everyone caught up. “Your Majesty means Prince Lu?” Pushuo was his fief.

Prince of Lu, Xiao Tianxin, the Emperor’s youngest uncle—Xiao offspring had thinned; after Prince Ying’s disasters, few remained as true imperial kin. Prince Lu was only two years older than the Emperor—low‑key, mostly in his fief, so low in presence one nearly forgot he existed.

These were not dull oafs. Whatever they missed in intrigues, when it came to war, they had their sayings. To move troops—you must have righteous cause; if none, you dig until you find one. As ministers, to gather forces toward the capital was rebellion—unless a prince led, making it “family dispute,” altering the stakes.

A timid, conservative vassal lord—a pillow arriving when sleepiness came.

“This river route—I will take.”

Northwest generals balked.

“If you thought to seat me at central command—why wouldn’t others think the same?” Xiao Yuanzheng cut them off, brooking no dissent. “Meeting my royal uncle in arms—only I can make them disperse without loss.”

No one could object. Yao Guang alone muttered a regretful “shame,” then agreed to remain with the central host at Nanzhi.

Only one man broke into a sweat.

Shen thought silently: Would Xiao Yuanzheng, like him, be… speaking half‑truths?

No, no—matters of war and state—no place for jokes.

Only—it was almost too neat.

The words slipped out; he wished he could bite his tongue.

The assembled troops split to three roads. Horses and wagons spun and rolled till at last they reached a way station north of Qing.

North lay a lonely road. South—low, sparse hamlets.

Wind tugged the long plumes on helmets. Horses snorted, hot vapor from their nostrils. The Long‑Rampart set camp swiftly. Though Shen had never seen war, his mind was clear: this was the point to slip in—to cut into the belly.

Before marching, one thinks on how to take the fight—not just to win, but win gloriously; make a name ring the world.

Blades slid from sheaths. The Long‑Rampart was full of ten‑against‑one fighters. No need to blow horns or beat drums—the ranks assembled in silence, austere and tight. Nearly ten thousand stood—no sound—like rows of black figures bearing blades and spears. Only their eyes burned, fixed on the man atop the ridge—who had led them countless times to charge and drink from the Yellow Dragon—their supreme sovereign, their undefeated general.

“Rapid march. Take the main manor. Do not harm the people.”

The plan was set on the way. Now the Emperor spoke only two plain lines. No one answered—but sparks lit in their eyes.

No need for speeches. If General Xiao stood there, their blood ran hot.

Shen’s sole duty in this battle was to guard himself. Watching from the height as the Long‑Rampart thundered below, he felt strangely calm.

Only the logistics remained with him—and a detail to protect him.

“System.”

At the edge, he could only speak to it.

A long beat passed before the voice in his mind returned. “…Host…”

He sensed something. “System…?”

The voice stuttered, like a jammed frequency—then snapped back. When Shen listened again, a flat neutral voice had taken over.

“Greetings, Host.”

He blinked.

“Greetings, Host. Primary System 00001 at your service.” The mechanical tone glitched once.

“Congratulations, Host—hidden side quest completed: Founding Patriarch.”

“Hidden… side quest?”

“Yes. You have forty students who have completed the imperial exam track and attained office—triggering a hidden side quest.” The primary explained. “Reward: ten Luck points.”

Only ten.

It sounded rare.

“What is ‘Luck’?”

“In every world, certain ‘Children of Fortune’ are born—bearing special luck, extraordinary talent, uncommon lives—and an inescapable fate.

“When a world’s source is shaken, hidden quests may open to gain Luck. By inverting cause and effect, the Host may, by gaining Luck, become this world’s true ‘Child of Fortune.’”

“So there really is such a setting. Then Xiao Yuanzheng—the Emperor of Yong—would he count as a Child of Fortune?”

Not something a Host was meant to know—yet the primary answered. “Yes.”

Shen smiled, stretching out a hand, as if to catch the passes of wind among the hills.

“Can Luck only be given to oneself?”

Silence. Perhaps no one had asked; no one would hand over Luck. Or—was he thinking of that Emperor? The system didn’t care.

“…To whom would you give it?”

“A high monk need not wear a robe; a true Buddha need not be gilded. I crossed worlds with a system and shook the world’s source—and I’m not a Child of Fortune?” Shen’s pride was easy, as if the reward were trivial.

“Disperse the Luck evenly across this land.”

“…As you wish.”

The primary withdrew; as it left, Shen thought he heard a laugh—meaning unclear.

The System popped back in—squealing. One moment whining that the boss had stared at it; next boasting that its metrics were over target and it could rest a whole cycle after this job.

“You’re the best Host I’ve ever had!” it crowed.

Shen smiled and said nothing.

Good news came from afar in waves. Xiao Yuanzheng’s edge had been sheathed too long; many had begun to forget. From today, his name would thunder again.

…

Sparse stars and moon; birds on cold branches.

A high campfire blazed before the tent. Generals sat in a ring with hot wine; a great pot simmered meat to be ladled to the ranks.

“Six counties in a row—brothers, your valor is as in years past!”

“That’s right—who do you think we are?”

They drank and bantered. The Emperor had set off his armor; in simple clothing belted close, the muscle under the cotton showed. He sat at center, speaking less than the talkative officers—only now and then a line.

When Shen arrived, they said they’d reach Pushuo tomorrow—Prince Lu’s manor lay there.

As expected—houses marched under Prince Lu’s name, bannered “purging the evil ministers,” grouping men to boat toward the capital. They wished to force the Emperor to bend; if not soft, then hard. They hadn’t expected the Forbidden Palace to be empty—nor that the sovereign, avoiding contention, would cut straight at their roots.

Looking back, they’d find themselves taken in one pot—and not know when they’d realized it.

Speed is the soul of war. At the level of force—a contest of whose blade reached the throat first.

Caught by their high spirit, Shen drank a little more. It was only common rice wine—not the concentrated spirits refined by academy purifying methods; a sip warmed rather than swayed.

“Enough. Rest early.” The Emperor’s voice was cool. The bowls of hot wine seemed not to lift his warmth; his eyes were clear. “Break camp at the hour of Mao.”

“Hahaha—no wine holds him! Once, I roared through battle; many quailed at the name Bawang—no vain boast.” The speaker’s hair was half green, half frost; his face red as a monkey’s rump.

“Hey—the Emperor’s right. You think you’re still young? Drink less!”

Laughter swayed like grass.

Their mouths quipped, but each knew the weight. After the round, all turned back to their tents. Shen’s sat beside the main; they had to walk together.

Winter wind bit more than usual; banners whipped without knowing north.

Shen lacked the soldiers’ iron constitutions. Near the Nines of cold, they drank and wore only one or two layers. He dressed from inner to outer, slinging a cloak on top.

“Is campaign life dull? Are you wearied?” asked Xiao Yuanzheng.

“In camp, I neither fight nor command—what weariness could there be?” Shen felt almost ashamed. A great idler—when had he ever known “weariness”?

The Emperor smiled. “Then—troubled in heart.”

“My lord—while you fight in blood at the front, how can I grin?” Shen sighed. “On paper, war is one win, one loss—easy to say. Before, I thought the clans were autumn grasshoppers; by the arc of history, great houses must wane. But these days, seeing the wounded carried in—I can’t find it light.”

“If I were stronger—could we win without blood?”

Such thoughts he only voiced in private. The world’s rot ran deep—how hard to do this. Let it be heard and pass; he didn’t think the Emperor would mark it.

He caught a stray lock blown loose; in camp, conditions were rougher, and this wasn’t a place for society—he wore no crown or pin, just a band to tie his hair. Poorly done; sometimes it loosened and had to be redone.

Seeing the crooked knot, Xiao Yuanzheng tugged the band free; all the hair fell.

Shen froze. With his hair in the other’s hand, he could only stand still.

“Your ambition is grand. A day will come,” said the Emperor, voice gentled for the first time in a day spent giving orders and punishing traitors. Even with wine among troops, he had been windless and heavy. A stern commander holds the line.

In this rare moment alone, he was water‑calm again.

Shen tugged the slipping cloak; the hand on his shoulder slid off with it.

He bowed lightly. “My tent is just ahead. Your Majesty—rest well.”

The Emperor’s hand fell in the air; he drew it back without fuss. “Very well.”

He turned.

Shen lifted a hand to touch the now‑neat knot.

Heh.

After a few steps, Xiao Yuanzheng heard a faint voice behind him.

“Qinghe will await Your Majesty’s triumphant return.”

The Emperor’s lip lifted slightly. He answered:

“Very well.”