ITIEQ C87

Chapter 87 – Mercy Has No Place in Command

In the short span of three days, two prefectures had already fallen. The Dragon-Cavalry Battalion truly deserved its title as the “Black-Armored Iron Division”; wherever its troops surged, like a dark tide rolling forward, all the gentry knights’ private armies or local officials’ guards were little more than paper before them. By the fourth day, Shen Qinghe rode with the shifting army toward their final target.

Following the Su River downstream, they stepped onto the soil of Huizhou.

He gazed into the distance where the sun rose slowly upon the horizon, its light setting a gleam within his eyes.

The Dragon-Cavalry guards beside him, noting his unsmiling face, assumed he feared danger. “The vanguard has already cleared the road ahead, my Lord. You may rest at ease; the way is safe.”

“Thank you, brother,” Shen Qinghe returned politely. He knew the kindness.

Yet fate cares nothing for good timing. When their ranks wound past a thick forest, a sudden howl burst forth, and from the trees leapt a band of men. In a flash the guards closed round him in a tight ring, and the steel chorus of drawn blades erupted all around.

Protected within and unable to see precisely, Shen heard only several clashes of steel—and soon thereafter, groans and cries for mercy.

Of course, those begging for life could not be his Dragon-Cavalry. When the guards opened their circle again, weapons littered the ground—though “weapons” was a generous word. Most were woodcutter’s blades, blunted axes, a rare few genuine arms (and even those broken in half mid-clash). Already, Shen might have mistaken these men for bandits, were it not for the thin government-issued armor upon them.

Even as mere reserves, the Dragon-Cavalry were overwhelming. This “ambush” had not lasted a heartbeat.

Yet to capture so many alive seemed impossible. A few junior officers consulted briefly on executions, when Shen Qinghe interjected: “Might I ask them some questions first?”

They exchanged looks. This official, so prized by the Emperor, striking in appearance and provider of their ingenious weaponry, could not be refused in such a trifle.

“Do not approach too close, my Lord. They may still lash out.”

Shen Qinghe nodded. Soldiers respectfully opened space.

“You men—from which prefectural office were you conscripted?”

One captive, lifting eyes, grew dumbstruck at his countenance and quailed mute, lips trembling, incapable of violence.

Beside him, one bolder fellow blustered: “You know we are government soldiers—so release us! Else see how the magistrate punishes you!”

“Magistrate?” Shen Qinghe was taken aback. His escorts roared in anger, “Your ‘magistrate’ himself can hardly keep his seat! Answer true!”

The man shrank at their fury. He too knew full well: such armed and armored troops were far beyond men he mustn’t provoke. His false bravado drained away.

“Do you know whom you dared to assail?” Shen Qinghe’s voice turned severe. “These are the Dragon-Cavalry, His Majesty’s own guard. You struck against the Emperor’s army. Do you fathom the crime?”

The words struck like thunder.

“The Emperor…?!” They paled. Everyone in the realm knew it: the Son of Heaven was the True Dragon. To raise a hand against him meant doom not only for oneself but for household and village, annihilation beyond reprieve.

The bold one stammered, voice breaking into weakness: “Y-you say so, but where is the Emperor? He—I have not seen!”

The youth raised finger skyward—pointing at the standards, upon whose black flags the coiling dragon twined in golden threads.

“It is the dragon! The dragon!”

At once men collapsed, kowtowing, wild-eyed. Their defeat was explained: none could overcome the Heavenly Army. “Emperor”… the single word restored them to clarity. They hammered foreheads to earth, begging mercy of Heaven’s highest lord.

Sweat poured from the leading rebel’s brow.

“You charge without even knowing whose life you sacrifice?” Shen Qinghe’s voice cut in disgust.

At that, his legs failed—he sobbed: “They conscript every village—drag even children of thirteen leagues! Refuse them and your house is leveled, your kin taken away!”

The pleas rose in flood, wailing together.

Shen Qinghe bowed his lashes. “Brother, what normally is done with such men?”

The guards fell silent, deferring: “My Lord—what say you?”

He turned, surveying the cowed and ragged conscripts. “His Majesty himself marches, seeking only traitors and usurpers. Carry word: all conscripted by force must disperse. Pay no regard to your so-called magistrates, and see tomorrow whether they dare still sit their thrones.

“As for you—what you have done is heavy crime. But fulfill this duty, and your acts may repay your sins.”

So he ordered: their armor and weapons removed, then men released.

The rebel leader stared dumbly, first time ever hearing someone defend commonfolk. He looked up, imprinting the youth’s face upon memory. Shen Qinghe waved him off.

The man prostrated hard, then hauled his fellows upright and fled.

“…How many in these lands,” Shen Qinghe asked quietly, “are such militia?”

The guard answered truthfully, with a number heavy enough to stun: “At least… nine in ten.”

The youth’s aura pressed low, but he said no more. Greater matters pressed. The main host awaited union.

…

His gloom was plain enough for the guards. Among the Dragon-Cavalry, all divisions mustered—but their own unit lingered behind to shield a “frail gentleman.” Some followed orders, yet others muttered, discontent not far behind.

“Marching ever risks ambush. If Lord Shen is afraid, perhaps we might—” one guard began, but their commander barked: “Silence!”

Shen Qinghe ignored them. Across Huizhou all was fear. Wherever their column passed, homes lay barred, windows shuttered, streets bereft of life. The savvy had already fled; the slow-witted at last realized calamity, and hid with all force.

Through wastelands, past empty huts, until the world seemed to vanish; at last they reached the river’s tail.

He had imagined grim scenes—but reality’s cruelty was magnitudes beyond.

Red river, crimson waves. Broken limbs floating. The mountains swayed into ruin; the heavens overturned. His vision spun—he gagged, staggered, vomited hard upon the bank.

Guards hastened to hold him as he retched. Blood-stained water swirled before his eyes, drifting corpses beneath—he convulsed till gut nothing remained, gasping, choking.

“Host! Are you all right?” the System itself faltered in alarm.

One hand braced upon sodden grass, Shen Qinghe panted ragged… a battlefield.

Too real. Far, far too real.

A swirl of black robe fell beside him; he lifted dazed eyes. Xiao Yuanzheng’s hand pressed to his shoulder, holding him close. Seeing his tear-red eyes, the Emperor’s heart trembled.

“Uncleaned yet—better you rest.”

The moment Shen Qinghe saw him, he seized his sleeve, words spilling frantic: “No! This is wrong.

“These great clans hide like turtles, their hairs untouched! It is peasants who are dragged forward to die, not even knowing for whom they fight! They die without meaning—defeat or victory, all the same!”

Not game. Not trial. Not a bloody episode of transmigration.

These were living souls. For whom? For what? They fell, nameless, unknowing. Bitterness welled sharp inside him.

Perhaps Yue Ji was right—he bore too many attachments. Because he could not discard either side, all he reaped was torment and loss.

But how to discard? They were alive!

His eyes burned blood-red. Xiao Yuanzheng clasped his icy hand, stripped off his cloak, wrapped him firm. Holding till Shen Qinghe’s breathing slowed, he murmured: “If a poison festers, one must cut to bone. If a cancer grows, one must excise entire. In command, there is no room for soft mercy.*

“Trust me.” Arms tightening, his voice repeated into the trembling frame: “Trust me, Qinghe.”

Heartbeats hammered together, strong and resolute.

“I once studied in the scripture hall of Baohua Temple,” Xiao Yuanzheng said slowly. “There I saw words—that Heaven descends a Buddha-child, to ferry souls to bliss.”

Shen Qinghe’s eyes flicked cold. “What Buddha-child? Baohua’s monks are liars.”

“I know not if such child truly ferries souls,” said Xiao. His tone was firm as mountains. “But I know upon the field—compassion is useless.”

…

Shen Qinghe went silent. The Emperor’s regret deepened: of course, this youth had never seen battle. That he quailed was inevitable. It was his fault, reckless, to expose him so; how long nightmares might now plague him…

“Let us return. I will send you back.”

But Shen Qinghe pushed off the cloak, turned away: “I am not so fragile.” His face still pale, but words steady. “I remain here.” He pushed at the Emperor’s chest, urging him back.

“So many wait. See to them.”

Xiao Yuanzheng stepped back, eyes again catching carnage—he flinched, forced his gaze to turn aside.

…

In the last several prefectures, imperial banners had cowed resistance; rebellion branded as treason. Clans hurled forth private armies, emptying shells. Never had they imagined—the monarch would strike now. Humbled clan elders came weeping to camps, pleading deception, offering rich gifts. The Emperor feigned grief, accepted tribute, pardoned with warning. They left extolling his mercy. But behind his mask, he merely delayed—an autumn reckoning awaited.

Thus the Dragon-Cavalry advanced unstoppably, but death alone paved their way. Too many peasants, maddened by some foul elixirs, charged to suicide. Relenting not an inch, the iron troops could not but slaughter in kind. The field became butchery.

Bodies carted off—soldiers’ faces dark as ash.

“Yunzhong Wei clan! Such arrogance, would they rise against Heaven?” spat the commander. For Huizhou’s greatest noble house, one of the Five Grand Clans. Back when Xiao’s army stormed their gates, he nearly split their threshold. Now, perhaps, old Wei sought mutual ruin.

But Shen Qinghe knew—the hatred between them ran far deeper: stolen heirship, usurped power. How bitterly old Wei must seethe.

The next target: their very seat.

His eyes darkened.

…

At the junction of three hills, the army halted. No desperate mobs, but only huddled women and children armed with farm blades, barring the pass.

Fathers gone, sons conscripted; now came their turn. If they could block the soldiers, perhaps kin within might live. It was folly—but when life is cheap, even to gamble all weighs less than dust.

Horses snorted, restless. Soldiers cursed bitter:

“Shameless cowards! Wei clan—sending your women and babes!”

“The Son of Heaven stands here! Out of the way, lest we strike!”

Still, the women stood rigid, though arms trembled, forming human wall. Children wailed.

They knew no master but Wei—never seen the sovereign of realm.

To kill them would blacken imperial repute. But to turn aside meant delays, perhaps too late. A dilemma of steel.

As generals turned to beg orders, Shen Qinghe raised his hand, whispering to the marshal. At his words they blinked in wonder, but obeyed.

Xiao Yuanzheng watched closely—saw all.

Shen Qinghe mouthed silently: “I will resolve this.”

Then, atop his horse, he rode forward alone.

Thunder cracked heaven—sky and earth shuddered.

Where under bright blue could such a bolt resound? The peasants’ eyes flew upward, mouths dry—only bare sky above.

The youth in tied hair rode forward.

“You block the Emperor’s path. Now Heaven’s wrath calls—depart at once!”

Another blast shook earth. Ears rung.

This simple trick had served him before, breaking the White Lotus cult. The people of this land clung to faith more fierce than flesh—three generations sunk in poverty, believing bitter life was penance before afterlife reward. A voice of Heaven sufficed to bend them low.

“Else lightning will strike you down! Consort with traitors again, and in this life and the next, never shall you reincarnate, never seize good fate!”

A cruel curse—but effective. Nerves taut snapped in a keening wail. Mothers with babes collapsed to knees, sobbing.

Hidden in the brush, Li Dazhuang flung aside spent flints. At his feet lay smoking canisters—the improved signal firework. Designed as battlefield signals, their blast echoed for leagues. By such force, indeed alarmed the world. His chest ached at the crying below.

“Endure, mothers, children. Lord Shen will win you brighter days. Cry now—never again.”

With the passage cleared, the Dragon-Cavalry stretched wide, forming walls that led the army through.

At the vanguard, Shen Qinghe’s horse reared at the sound. He near fell—but a hand seized, steady and strong. Catching reins and mane, he grasped also that hand.

“These steeds are cunning,” muttered Xiao Yuanzheng, eye on the beast. “They know you unease—and test you.” For trained warhorses do not normally shy. Shen’s had done so, purposely.

Nearly thrown, Shen gasped and cursed: “Faithless! In these days you’ve eaten finest among your brethren!”

The stallion huffed disdain, as though innocent.

He slapped its side. “Good creature… man kind is mocked even by his own horse!”

The jest scattered much of his fury. He sighed: “I hear their cries—I cannot watch them die.”

The Emperor’s reins held steady; the two sat close. In that closeness he drank fully of the youth’s sorrow.

For a heartbeat he lifted hand, to brush dust from that resolute cheek—yet curled fingers, withdrawing.

Sensing, Shen turned, saw the hand—saw its master.

“What?”

“For your heart,” Xiao Yuanzheng spoke low, eyes deep, “is set upon saving the world. You bear the mark of Prime Minister’s fate.”

Footnotes:

 

• “Mercy has no place in command” (慈不掌兵) – Old adage, meaning that sentiment or softness is fatal in generalship. Command requires ruthless resolve. 
• Baohua Temple 褒华寺 – Fictionalized temple here; historically many temples claimed scriptures prophesied “Bodhisattva-children” who descended to save all, linking Buddhist messianic faiths.