Chapter 84: The Conspiracy

“Retreat!”

The enemy's main forces were clearly arrayed before his own army, so how could their main force possibly appear in the rear?

Sun Ce thrust his mighty Overlord’s Spear upward, attempting to knock Ji Ling’s trident from his grasp with sheer force. Yet Ji Ling, a peerless general of renowned strength, suppressed the blow with a muffled grunt, holding the spear at bay. “Boy, taste my blade!” Ji Ling roared, swinging his trident downward in a dazzling arc.

Sun Ce withdrew his spear to parry, but Ji Ling instantly pulled back his weapon, called to his horse, and retreated without another blow. He had never truly intended to fight—it had all been a feint.

“Full retreat!” came the command.

Thirty li away, at the edge of a bamboo grove.

Ji Ling lay on the ground, caked in dust and utterly spent, his face twisted with sorrow. This battle was a complete defeat.

The remaining soldiers were exhausted and disheartened.

“What are our losses?” he asked.

A soldier replied, “The enemy raided our camp—over twenty thousand casualties, and the loss of countless supplies and horses.”

“I set out with a hundred thousand men to attack Sun Ce, and in so short a time, only twenty thousand remain!” Ji Ling stood, glancing around at the battered survivors, then burst out in a bitter, almost mad laughter. “A hundred thousand men, ha… ha ha…” Suddenly, blood spurted from his lips.

“General!”

Spring rain soaked the green trees; birds spread their wings to shelter their nests. Travelers’ shoes and socks were stained with mud. A small child, delighted, shed his shoes to play barefoot in the puddles, leaping and splashing in the rain—only to earn a scolding and a sound beating from his parents when caught.

Street vendors hurried to drag their wares under cover. Passersby gathered in small groups, exchanging a few words, mostly about business and the “tigresses” ruling their households.

Scholars, not content with simply admiring the rain, composed poetry to express their thoughts and ambitions, using the downpour as inspiration.

For most, though, the exam was too difficult: the rain was nothing special, and who could guess at any deeper meaning? In the end, they submitted awkward, clumsy verses, bracing themselves for the laughter of their peers and the scolding of their teacher—fearing the sting of the cane as much as their own failure.

Within Dong Cheng’s residence, a gathering of senior ministers—men of great influence in court—assembled.

Dong Cheng produced a letter and passed it among the elders. The message was brief: “Jiang Wen has arrived at the Xiangyang postal station.”

Sima Fang, though aged, appeared honest and sincere. “General, is this the only reason you summoned us today? For a single scholar?”

“You do not know, Sima Gong,” Dong Cheng replied. “This Jiang Wen, just past twenty, is already called a statesman of rare talent. Even my own son praises him unceasingly.”

Sima Fang was taken aback. “Is this the same Jiang Wen, the military strategist and master of the Inspectorate?”

“The very same,” Dong Cheng nodded, eyeing the portrait of Jiang Wen on the bamboo scroll with obvious dislike. “We old ministers tread carefully every day, largely because of his Inspectorate. He is Sun Ce’s indispensable right hand. As long as he lives, the scheme of the Edict-in-the-Belt will face grave obstacles!”

Wang Zifu asked, “General, do you mean to eliminate him?”

Dong Cheng nodded. “Now that Sun Jian is dead, the court is in turmoil. Before Sun Ce returns to Xiangyang, power in the city is in our hands. Sima Gong, I entrust you with command of the city’s garrison.”

“When he enters the city, we will send men to strike first and remove him. Thus, we rid ourselves of a dire threat!”

Sima Fang hesitated. “He is a man of extraordinary talent. If he could serve His Majesty, it would be a blessing for the Han. Rather than kill him, why not attempt to recruit him? What do you all think?”

Yang Biao sighed. “You would do well to abandon any thought of recruitment, Sima Gong. My son once said Jiang Wen’s ambitions are vast—he believes the Han’s mandate has run its course, and he will never serve the current Emperor.”

The other elders nodded in agreement. They had seen enough of the Inspectorate’s iron rule—many of its orders came directly from Jiang Wen. How could there be any hope of winning him over?

“It is settled, then,” said Dong Cheng. “We will station lookouts at the city gates to watch for his arrival. The moment he steps into the city, we make our move!”

In the Jiang residence, saplings had not escaped the storm’s ravages. The spring rain weighed down branches in the courtyard; the pond’s surface became a tapestry of ripples. The household servants had already retreated indoors for shelter.

The elders sighed at the passage of time, lost in memories of their youth.

In the west wing, Tao’er yawned. After tending to her second uncle, she returned to her chamber to weave a pair of mandarin ducks into her cloth.

A maid set down a tray of pastries and a few delicately crafted sweets.

Tao’er put aside her weaving, stretched, nibbled at the pastries, and gazed blankly out the window.

Sun Jian was dead. The news had swept through Xiangyang not long ago. No scion of any noble clan could remain unmoved by such a momentous event.

Many had gone to the Sun estate to offer condolences—though their true motives were known only to themselves.

Lu Meng had visited as well. One look at the white mourning banners draped throughout the Sun household confirmed the truth. For Ziming, the blow was heavy; after all, Lu Meng had long benefited from Sun Jian’s favor.

He, too, had admired that valiant Chancellor.

Her elder sister had been a piece Sun Jian set in the Jiang household, a bright pawn meant to keep watch on the young master’s every move.

With Sun Jian’s death, the mission to spy on the young master was over.

Thus, the estrangement between her sister and the Jiang family could be considered resolved.

But Tao’er found no joy in this. She could not say why, but a nameless frustration gnawed at her heart.

No matter how she tried to reassure herself—now that the family might get along better—she felt a strange unease whenever she thought of the young master spending time with Diao Chan.

It had been a month since the young master left home; who knew when he would return?

In the west wing’s separate quarters.

“Young mistress, young mistress, Sun Jian is truly dead!” the clever maid exclaimed joyfully.

The breathtaking beauty before her, however, showed not the slightest trace of happiness—her face was a mixture of emotions.

Diao Chan rested her fair, delicate hand against her cheek, clad in a gown of yellow and blue, her figure graceful as ever.

After the previous incident, she no longer knew if she held any place in Jiang Wen’s heart.

Remaining in this household had been due to Sun Jian’s arrangement; she had entered the Jiang residence as a concubine. But now Sun Jian was dead.

Without Sun Jian, she no longer needed to spy on Jiang Wen—but that also meant Jiang Wen could cast her out at any time.

If she had never touched his heart, if he regarded her only as a burden, she would certainly be expelled from the Jiang residence.

This was the fear that weighed on Diao Chan’s mind.

The passionate are always tormented by the indifferent.