The first year of the Jianyuan Era, the twenty-fifth day of the sixth month.
The Sui River Frontline.
The day he departed from Chang'an, Liu Che did not look back. Not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't dare. He knew that if he took one look at that figure on the city wall, he might stop. So he kept moving forward, until the wind blew away the scent of Chang'an, until the drumming behind him faded into silence, until he could only see the road ahead.
Hooves struck the official highway, kicking up a trail of dust; fine sand grains seeped into the crevices of his armor, grinding against his skin. The air smelled of raw earth, mixed with the stench of sweat and rust. His Tiger Tally hung at his waist, cast in bronze, shaped like a tiger—half in his hand, half left in Chang'an. In her hand. The patterns on the tally pressed traces into his palm, cold, like the temperature of her hand when she last held his.
The Sui River was in sight. The King of Liang's three thousand men were camped on the opposite bank, a vast expanse of black flags, each embroidered with the character "Liang" (梁). The river was wide, the water turbid and yellow-brown, the current swift, battering against the riverside rocks with a dull, heavy sound.
Liu Che stood on a high slope, his armor reflecting cold light under the sun. The wind blew from the river, carrying water vapor and the smell of mud, filling his armor, cold. His face was mostly covered by his helmet, revealing only a pair of eyes. Those eyes were very bright, bright as a blade's edge. Morning light struck the river surface, shattering into pieces of gold, stinging the eyes.
"Your Majesty," Li Guang's voice came from behind, hooves crunching on gravel, crunch, crunch. "The King of Liang has sent a letter."
Liu Che did not turn around. "Read."
Li Guang unfurled the silk scroll, his voice lowered, as if afraid the wind would carry it away.
"'Your servant Liu Wu respectfully bows to the Son of Heaven. Since Your Majesty ascended the throne, you have grown close to sorcerers, confused by women, abandoned the systems of the late Emperor, and discarded the laws of our ancestors. Your servant dares not fail to advise, dares not fail to contend. Now I lead troops into the capital solely to clear the sovereign's side and restore ancestral laws. If Your Majesty executes the Demon Empress, I will immediately withdraw—'"
"Enough." Liu Che's voice was flat.
He turned, took the silk scroll from Li Guang, and glanced at it. The silk was fine Lu Gao, the handwriting neat, every stroke carved as if by a knife. Then he tore it. The sound of tearing silk was crisp, exceptionally loud on the quiet high slope. The fragments scattered from his hand, blown away by the wind, floating for a moment on the river surface before sinking, like a flock of white birds falling into the water.
"Transmit the edict," he said. "Tomorrow, at the hour of the Rabbit (Mao), we cross the river."
"Your Majesty," Li Guang hesitated, his hand pressing on his sword hilt, knuckles white. "The King of Liang has elite troops and holds the geographical advantage. The riverbank is steep, the ferry crossing narrow. A frontal assault will result in heavy casualties. It would be better to first—"
"I said, tomorrow at the hour of the Rabbit, we cross the river." Liu Che looked at him, his gaze calm. Beneath that calmness, something was burning. "The King of Liang fights under the banner of 'clearing the sovereign's side'. He is waiting, waiting for the court to be afraid, waiting for someone to open the city gates to welcome him. If I hesitate here, I am telling him—I am afraid."
He turned, looking at the Liang army camp in the distance. Flags flapped in the wind, like black banners. Tents stretched on, cooking smoke rising, gray-white, dispersing in the morning light. He could hear the sounds from the opposite bank—hooves, shouts, the clanging of swords. Separated by a river, those sounds were muffled, as if coming from underwater.
"I am not afraid," he said. His voice was light, but every word was heavy.
The pre-battle council was held in the military tent. Candlelight flickered, casting shadows of the people inside onto the tent walls, each one huge, distorted. The air was thick with the smell of leather and sweat, mixed with the smoke of burning candles, suffocating.
Li Guang stood before the map, pointing at the location of the Sui River, the calluses on his fingers tracing back and forth on the map.
"Your Majesty, the King of Liang's main force is here, the ferry crossing is here. If our army crosses head-on, casualties will be heavy."
"Then we will not cross head-on." Liu Che stood before the map, his finger pressing on the upper reaches of the Sui River. The ink on the map was slightly blurred from repeated rubbing. "Here, the water is shallow. Send three thousand men to cross from here, flanking behind the King of Liang."
The tent fell silent for a moment. A young general raised his head, eyes lighting up. An old general frowned, the corners of his mouth turning down.
"Your Majesty, three thousand men are too few. If discovered by the King of Liang—"
"I am not sending them to fight. I am sending them to scare." Liu Che raised his head, looking at the generals in the tent. Candlelight danced on his face, illuminating it in light and shadow. He saw the expressions on those faces—some excited, some hesitant, some fearful. He memorized every face. "The King of Liang has only three thousand men. He is more afraid than I am. Afraid of cut supplies, afraid of his rear being flanked, afraid his own men will run. Three thousand men appearing from behind will make him panic. Once he panics, I will have my chance."
"Your Majesty," an old general stepped forward, his voice deep, laced with hesitation. His beard was graying, the copper studs on his armor polished bright from fighting alongside Emperor Jing. "The King of Liang has elite troops and holds the advantage. This humble servant believes we must not underestimate the enemy. It would be better to hold our ground first, wait for the court—"
"Wait for what in the court?" Liu Che looked at him. His voice was not loud, but everyone in the tent heard it. "Wait for the Empress Dowager to send someone to negotiate peace? Wait for the King of Liang to reinforce? Wait—" He paused. He thought of Chang'an. Thought of the empty Dragon Throne. Thought of her figure standing on the city wall. Thought of her saying, "You are not an emperor in the Empress Dowager's hands." "Wait for me to become an obedient emperor?"
The tent fell silent. No one spoke. The candle flame jumped, snap. The old general lowered his head and retreated into the ranks. His hand gripped his sword hilt, knuckles white, but he did not say another word.
Liu Che turned and walked out of the tent. The moment he lifted the flap, the night wind rushed in, cold, carrying the fishy scent of the river. Outside, the moonlight was bright, shining on the tents, ghastly white. The paths between the tents were narrow, flanked by dark fabric walls, with a narrow strip of sky overhead. The moon hung there, like a broken bronze mirror. He stood in the moonlight, looking at the distant Sui River. The water reflected the light, shattering into pieces of silver-white, swaying with the waves, unable to form a complete circle.
"Xingye." He called her name. His voice was very light, light as the wind. No one heard. But he felt that she heard.
The Hour of the Rabbit (Mao).
The drums sounded. At the first drum, the horizon was still gray. At the second, morning light leaked through the clouds. At the third, the sun revealed half its face, turning the river surface gold.
Liu Che sat on his horse, standing at the front of the formation. The copper studs on his armor flashed in the morning light, like stars. The wind blew from the river, carrying water vapor, hitting his face, cold. His face was mostly covered by his helmet, but everyone saw his eyes—very bright, bright as a blade's edge. His horse paced in place, hooves scraping the earth, making a dull sound.
"Cross the river," he said. His voice was not loud, but everyone heard it.
The drums sounded again. Soldiers charged into the water. Water splashed up, like shattered silver in the sunlight, soaking armor. The riverbed mud trapped feet; some fell, were pulled up by others, and continued charging. The Liang army on the opposite bank began to shoot arrows. Arrows fell like rain, nailing into the water,激起ing splashes; nailing into shields, making dull thud sounds; nailing into people. Some fell, the river water turned red, the red spreading in the water like wilting flowers. Others continued to charge forward.
Liu Che stood on the bank, watching it all. His hand gripped the reins, knuckles white. His lips were pressed tight, corners of his mouth turned down. An arrow landed at his feet, sticking into the earth, tail feathers still trembling. He did not move.
"Your Majesty, it's too close—" Li Guang shouted from behind.
He did not retreat. The first arrow landed at his feet, sticking into the earth, tail feathers trembling, buzzing. He did not move. The second arrow grazed his helmet, ding, like a bell striking, exploding in his ear, the echo buzzing. He did not move. He stood there, watching his soldiers cross the river, watching them fall, watching them get up, watching them charge onto the opposite bank. His eyes were bright, but beneath the brightness, something was burning.
Shouts came from the opposite bank. The Liang army's formation broke. Three thousand men flanked from the upper reaches, appearing behind the Liang army. Flags fluttered in the wind, numbers unclear, but looking like many. The King of Liang's command flag wavered, retreating. The center army began to withdraw, the front formation collapsing like a pushed-over wall.
Liu Che drew his sword. The blade reflected sunlight, bright as a bronze mirror. There were small notches on the edge, chipped from testing the sword on horseback a few days prior; he didn't remember.
"All troops cross the river!" he shouted.
Hooves trampled into the water. Splashes flew up, hitting his face, cold, carrying the smell of mud. He charged at the very front, sword raised above his head, like a lightning bolt in the sunlight. Water covered the horse's legs, then its belly; icy river water poured into the armor's crevices, making him shiver. But he did not stop. Soldiers followed him, shouts shaking the heavens, surging across the Sui River like a tide. Shouts, water sounds, drum sounds mixed together, vibrating eardrums until they ached.
The Liang army collapsed.
The King of Liang fled. His center command flag fell, smashing onto the ground, raising a cloud of dust. The flag landed in the muddy water, the black character "Liang" smeared by mud, indistinguishable. Liu Che reined in his horse, standing before the King of Liang's camp. The tents were still new, the King of Liang's command flag still planted there, flapping in the wind. He dismounted, boots crunching on the muddy ground. He looked at that flag for a long time.
"Transmit the edict," he said, his voice flat, flat as a frozen river. "Pursue. Alive, I want to see the person; dead, I want to see the corpse."
The third day, supplies did not arrive.
Liu Che stood before the map, his finger pressing on the location of Suiyang. The map had been flipped many times, edges curled, creases worn white. Li Guang stood behind him, voice lowered.
"Your Majesty, supplies should have arrived yesterday. The supply officer says the road was cut off."
"By whom?"
"Fleeing soldiers of the King of Liang. They fled into the mountains and blocked the official road."
Liu Che did not speak. His hand rested on the map, fingers tightening slightly. Outside the tent, there were sounds of soldiers walking, footsteps heavy, like stepping on cotton, strengthless.
"How much grain is left in the army?"
"Three days. Three days at most."
The tent fell silent. Candlelight flickered, casting huge, distorted shadows on the walls. The candle had burned for a long time, smoke swirling at the tent top, stifling when inhaled. Generals looked at each other, no one speaking. Some lowered their heads, looking at their toes. Some clenched fists, knuckles white. Some bit their lips until blood seeped out.
"Your Majesty," the old general stepped forward, voice deep. His beard looked whiter under the candlelight, wrinkles on his face like knife cuts. "It would be better to retreat first. Wait until supplies—"
"Retreat?" Liu Che looked at him. His voice was flat, but everyone heard what lay beneath. "If we retreat, the King of Liang will regroup. If we retreat, these three days of fighting were for nothing. If we retreat—" He paused. He thought of Xingye. Thought of her saying "You are not an Empress Dowager's emperor." Thought of her saying "You will win." Thought of her saying "Because you are Liu Che." "If we retreat, the Empress Dowager will say I am indeed incompetent."
He stood straight. The copper studs on his armor flashed in the candlelight.
"No retreat," he said. His voice was not loud, but everyone in the tent heard it. "I will not retreat."
"But the supplies—"
"Requisition grain locally." Liu Che said. He turned, looking at the map, his finger pressing on the location of the Liang State. "The people of Liang are also my people. Tell them, I am not here to wage war. I am here to quell a rebellion. The King of Liang has fled, leave the supplies. I will not take a single grain from the people."
"Your Majesty, requisitioning locally, I fear—"
"I said, requisition locally." He raised his head, looking at the generals in the tent. Candlelight danced on his face. "The King of Liang raised taxes twice; the people hate him. If I reduce it once, the people will help me. If I reduce it twice, the people will move the King of Liang's granaries to me."
He turned, looking at the map.
"Transmit the edict. Liang State is exempt from taxes for one year."
The fourth day, supplies arrived. Not from Chang'an, but sent by the people of the Liang State.
Liu Che stood before the camp tent, watching those ox carts, donkey carts, wheelbarrows, one after another, surging from all directions, blocking the road in front of the camp. Wheels crushed the mud, leaving deep ruts. Piled on the carts were grain, dried meat, pickled vegetables, and wine. Wine jars were sealed with mud, dew still clinging to the jar walls. An old man knelt before Liu Che, head kowtowing to the ground, voice trembling. There was a patch on his knee, stitches crooked, like earthworms crawling.
"Your Majesty, the King of Liang stole our grain. These were hidden in caves; he didn't find them. Your Majesty is fighting the King of Liang; we will help Your Majesty."
Liu Che looked at that old man. His hair was completely white, face full of wrinkles, hands thick with calluses, dirt embedded under fingernails. His eyes were cloudy, but brightened for a moment, like a beam of light suddenly shining into murky water.
"Old man, get up." Liu Che reached out, helping him up. The old man's hand was rough, like tree bark, palm bearing a burn scar. His hand was trembling.
"Your Majesty, you are different from the King of Liang," the old man said. Voice trembling, but eyes bright.
Liu Che did not speak. He turned, looking at those ox carts, donkey carts, wheelbarrows. Those carts were old, wheels crooked, planks cracked, some bound with iron wire, some tied with hemp rope. But the carts were piled full. He thought of what Xingye had said. She said "You are not an Empress Dowager's emperor." She said "You will win." When she said these words, her eyes were very bright.
"Transmit the edict," he said, voice flat, but everyone heard what lay beneath. "Liang State is exempt from taxes for three years."
The first year of Jianyuan, the twenty-ninth day of the sixth month. The King of Liang was captured.
He hid in the mountains, changed into civilian clothes, but was recognized. Recognized by an old man. The same old man with the patch on his knee and calloused hands. He brought his son, cornering the King of Liang in a cave, waiting for the soldiers.
When the King of Liang was escorted before Liu Che, he was covered in mud, hair loose, face bloody. His clothes were torn by branches, revealing streaks of blood. He raised his head, looking at Liu Che. In his eyes were hatred, fear, and something indescribable. His lips were chapped, blood seeping from the cracks.
"Your Majesty." His voice was hoarse, like stone grinding on stone. "Your servant—has lost."
Liu Che looked at him. His uncle, his father's younger brother, the son Dou Dowager loved most. He had once been very close to that position, close enough to be just one step away. Now he knelt on the ground, covered in mud, like a fish pulled from the water.
"You have lost," Liu Che said.
"Your servant only wanted—" The King of Liang raised his head, lips trembling, blood from the cracks seeping out, trickling down the corners of his mouth. "Your servant only wanted—"
"Wanted what? To be Emperor? To sit on my seat? To pull me down from that position?" Liu Che's voice was flat, flat as a frozen river.
The King of Liang did not speak. He lowered his head, looking at the mud on the ground. His shoulders were trembling.
"Do you know where you went wrong?" Liu Che squatted down, looking him in the eye. He saw tears in the King of Liang's eyes, turbid, trickling down the mud tracks on his face. "You went wrong in—you never believed I was worthy of sitting on this position. You went wrong in—you thought the Empress Dowager would always protect you. You went wrong in—"
He stood up. Mud stuck to his knees; he did not brush it off.
"You went wrong in underestimating me."
He turned and walked away. Behind him came the King of Liang's voice, hoarse, like crying, like laughing. "Your Majesty— Your Majesty—"
He did not look back. He walked to the camp tent, stopping. The moonlight was bright, shining on the tents, ghastly white. In the distance, soldiers were cooking over fires, flames jumping in the night, like stars fallen to earth. He raised his head, looking at the sky. The moon was full, like a bronze mirror.
"Xingye." He called her name. Voice light, light as wind.
The first year of Jianyuan, the first day of the seventh month. Returning in triumph.
Liu Che rode his horse, walking at the very front. There was still uncleaned blood on his armor, black under the sunlight, dried, crusted. His face was mostly covered by his helmet, but everyone saw his eyes—very bright, bright as a blade's edge. But beneath those eyes, something was different. It was no longer youthful vigor, but something heavier, harder, like iron. He walked at the head of the formation, behind him the escorted King of Liang, behind that the triumphant soldiers. The formation was long, so long the tail could not be seen. Flags fluttered in the wind. Drum sounds traveled from the front to the back, then back to the front, echoing in the wilderness.
He raised his head, looking at the distant sky. Chang'an was still far away; he could not see it. But he knew she was there.
"Xingye." He called her name. Voice light, light as wind. No one heard. But he felt that she heard.
He nudged his horse's flanks; the horse broke into a run. Wind poured into his armor, cold, carrying the scent of earth and crops. He was not afraid of the cold anymore. The Tiger Tally was still at his waist, bronze tiger shape, reflecting light under the sun. Half in his hand, half in her hand. Together, they are the world.
He is the Son of Heaven. He is Liu Che. He has won.
[End of Chapter 32]