3. Faint Traces, Subtle Hints

On the carriage heading toward the main military encampment, Pei Xiunian asked Xiaoqin about many matters.

After all, she was once the daughter of the Right Deputy Censor of the Imperial Censorate, and had spent many years in the palace. Her understanding of the Great Zhou court far surpassed Pei Xiunian, whose career had spanned barely two and a half years.

At present, the Great Zhou court was divided among factions, split openly into three: the Crown Prince’s faction, the Emperor’s faction, and the Empress Dowager’s faction.

The root cause of this factionalism lay with the Empress Dowager herself.

She was not the birth mother of the current Emperor—indeed, she may hardly have met the late emperor at all. She entered the palace and was immediately made empress, and that same year, the late emperor succumbed to a lingering illness contracted during a campaign against monsters.

The emperor was still young, so the Empress Dowager ruled from behind the curtains, aiding him in governance. She held power for many years and became a regent whose influence swept across the realm.

But now... the emperor was grown, with many sons. The Empress Dowager’s faction was no longer as powerful as it once had been.

As for Li Xiunian—the former Third Prince—he was a prince about to leave the palace, an edge figure favored by none of the factions.

He had spent years studying military texts at the Imperial Academy, reading classics so thoroughly that he came of age much later than his brothers.

For this reason, the Third Prince was far removed from the struggle for succession and thus of no interest to the Crown Prince’s faction.

His mother, once favored, had unfortunately died years ago; the Emperor’s faction paid him no mind.

The only tenuous connection was that the Empress Dowager and the Third Prince’s mother were close friends—so close that, disregarding the generational gap, they had once declared themselves sworn sisters.

Of course, nothing ever came of that.

Time had passed, and in Xiaoqin’s memory, the Third Prince had not mentioned the Empress Dowager even once in all these years; the Empress Dowager’s faction likely regarded him as nonexistent.

In short, the Third Prince had few followers in the court; his status could be described as unloved by both parents and neglected by all elders.

After more than ten years of burning the midnight oil, the Third Prince was not content with this. On the eve of leaving the palace, he requested a military command from the emperor, heading south to Xiangyang to lead the Western Liang army and test his mettle.

Alas, the ink sword drawn from the pages of his studies never uttered even the words “Theory is shallow without practice,” before being crushed under hundreds of impeachment memorials, like snowflakes, and buried in the ice coffin he had prepared for himself.

After hearing the not-very-long biography of the Third Prince, Pei Xiunian merely commented blandly, “All good things.”

It was not affectation—these truly were good things for him.

Since the Third Prince had no faction, no confidants, Pei Xiunian’s task of impersonating him in the capital would be much easier.

Because the Third Prince spent his time reading military texts and enjoyed music and painting in his leisure, he had no time to accrue emotional debts or fall in love with noble daughters.

This too was fortunate; otherwise, all affection would be directed toward the original Third Prince, and Pei Xiunian, inhabiting his body, would become nothing but a substitute.

I am unlike Cao Cao.

Regarding the current war, Xiaoqin’s knowledge was more limited, providing only the most basic information.

Though this was a world where cultivators abounded, the conflicts of dynasties were still fought with the lives of soldiers.

There were surely many cultivators capable of moving mountains and overturning seas, but they were like nuclear weapons—every dynasty had them, and none would use them lightly except in moments of crisis.

Whether attached to imperial power or founding their own sects, all fell into this category.

Only those of the martial world were unconstrained, but compared to tens of thousands of troops, these scattered cultivators were too few and too scattered, with no leader capable of rallying the masses—they could not change the tide.

The Qingqiu army was comprised of the demon clan; their advantage lay in numbers, resilience, and needing little armor or weaponry, with vigorous vitality. Their disadvantage was their enormous demand for supplies.

That was why the Qingqiu army had watched Xiangyang for over a year without making any move—their supply lines could not be sustained.

Yet the emperor, allowing the Third Prince to take command in Xiangyang, clearly had unprecedented confidence in this difficult-to-defend region.

From this small glimpse, perhaps the upper echelons of the Great Zhou court were already corrupt beyond recognition.

If he could, Pei Xiunian would rather not be embroiled in this struggle for power.

Forced into the role of prince, self-preservation was possible.

But as a solitary figure drawn into the feudal warfare of the dynasty, the mere thought made Pei Xiunian’s head spin.

Yet now, he was forced to take over this mess left by the Third Prince—or rather, by the Great Zhou itself.

Otherwise, when the Qingqiu army broke through Hangzhou and Yangzhou next year, he would be the first prince to be impeached and executed at the heart of imperial power.

Pei Xiunian felt a sudden unease, uncertain how he should face the Western Liang general still at the front.

His understanding of large-scale warfare was shallow, especially in a world enhanced by cultivation—the game board was even more intricate.

Wars he had personally experienced... did interstellar or Warcraft count?

The carriage slowed, and Pei Xiunian gathered his scattered thoughts amid the jostling.

Xiaoqin rose and drew aside the curtain. The mist of late autumn hung thick, the sky dim and unclear. Besides the scent of rain and wild grasses, there was a faint trace of blood—perhaps, more accurately, the aura of violence.

She whispered, “Your Highness, we’re nearly at the front.”

Just then, a pure white carrier pigeon flew in through the ornate carriage window, landing steadily on the bonsai to Pei Xiunian’s right.

Xiaoqin unfastened the letter, checked the seal at the corner, then opened it and reported to Pei Xiunian:

“Your Highness, those involved in the kidnapping have been eliminated, bodies destroyed, all traces erased. It was done cleanly.”

Pei Xiunian tapped the armrest absentmindedly, thinking something over. After a moment’s silence, he asked, “Were even those who merely knew of my plan to find a substitute killed as well?”

Xiaoqin’s expression changed. She hurried to take up brush and ink. “I’ll give the orders at once.”

“No...” Pei Xiunian stopped her, gazing out the window as dawn just began to break through the clouds. “No rush. If they weren’t killed, it’s a good thing. One day, these people may prove useful—they’re all witnesses.”

Only then did Xiaoqin pause, about to put away the brush and ink, when Pei Xiunian suddenly added:

“But the letter must still be written—just with different content. I want you to write of the dire situation in the western borders of Great Zhou, the court’s inaction, the cruelty of Qingqiu’s army, their flesh-eating and blood-drinking ways…”

“At the end, add that in the face of the court’s inaction, we heroes must rely on ourselves. In three days, those with courage may join me at Xuanwu Terrace in Jiangdu City, to strike Qingqiu by surprise. The red banner will be our signal.”

“Give this letter to someone trustworthy. Have them copy it furiously, post it in every street and alley, have storytellers spread it far and wide—the further, the better.”

“Then, write a directive, imitating my father’s handwriting, seal it with my stamp, addressed to the armies of Yun River’s northern and southern provinces, ordering the troops to immediately march out and encircle Qingqiu’s forces, trapping them like fish in a barrel. Make two copies.”

“Finally, paint a portrait of me as I am now, make me look thin, and sign it as a palace artist would.”

“Your… Your Highness…” Xiaoqin’s hand trembled as she held the brush. “This is forging official documents, mobilizing troops, organizing a private army beyond the court’s jurisdiction… It’s trea… trea…”

Pei Xiunian motioned for silence, taking her shaky hand. “This is the way to break the impasse. If you write, we may survive.”

——————

Chu Jiangye stood in the central command tent yet another night. On the sand table, built from yellow sand, the red banners retreated step by step; after Xiangyang was taken, the Western Liang army had fallen back to Hangzhou, stationed only fifty li from Jiangdu City.

Of those who escaped from Xiangyang’s defenders, barely one in ten survived. The only good news was that the granaries in Xiangyang had been burned, leaving Qingqiu’s supply lines short. Their banners would not reach Hangzhou so soon.

But Chu Jiangye knew this was only a matter of time.

Great Zhou had four main armies, stationed in the east, south, west, and north. The Northern forces were the largest, Western Liang second, but even at its peak, the Northern army numbered just over a hundred thousand.

Now, Qingqiu’s invasion came in force—every scout returned with higher numbers, possibly more than two hundred thousand.

Urgent petitions for aid had been sent to the emperor, but reinforcements would not arrive in time. Only by calling upon the garrisons of Hangzhou and Yangzhou might they have a chance to stand against these savage demons.

But without an imperial decree, the governor would never dispatch the garrison troops.

Days of hurried retreat had left the Western Liang soldiers exhausted…

Fatigue could be remedied, but fear lingered. This was not a war against the northern Jin-Xia barbarians. Their iron cavalry and armored hawks were terrifying, but at least they did not eat people.

The Third Prince, as commander-in-chief, fleeing at this moment would surely damage morale—but it was expected. Even if he did not leave, Chu Jiangye would send someone to escort him to the provincial seat.

Chu Jiangye sighed softly, recalling his father’s tales of the Western Liang cavalry when they rode with the late emperor to expand the empire, their name striking fear even beyond the Central Plains.

But times had changed. Qingqiu’s army crossed the Wei River and smashed Xiangyang in just five days. If such a fortified city fell so quickly, would the capital soon be trampled as well?

He looked at the overturned red banners on the sand table, as the soldiers longed for a long-awaited victory.

The curtain was lifted, and a scout hurried into the tent, bowing to Chu Jiangye: “General, the Third Prince has returned.”