Chapter Thirteen: Undercurrents Unleashed (Part Two)

At this moment, the rear hall of the Governor’s Mansion was shrouded in darkness. With a wave of his long sleeve, Su Ming instantly illuminated dozens of lanterns within the hall.

A ripple of applause followed, and Cheng Yuyan stepped forward to face him.

“You truly are a man of extraordinary talent, sir. In just eight short years, your progress has been remarkable. If you were only given the chance, you would surely soar to the heavens.”

Su Ming responded with a cold laugh. “Cheng Yuyan, neither of us are children. Why bother with such empty pleasantries?”

Cheng Yuyan, knowing Su Ming was not one to be trifled with, immediately got to the point. “My words are sincere, sir. Your dismissal wounds me. But since you don’t care for flattery, let us speak plainly.”

Su Ming crossed his arms, his gaze icy as he regarded Cheng Yuyan.

“To speak plainly, the situation at court is no longer what it once was. The Duke of Su no longer holds the emperor’s favor as he used to. At a time like this, I believe you must choose your allies wisely. Even back when you served under the Duke, he never truly valued you. The only promotion you ever received was granted reluctantly by the emperor out of respect for the Duke’s late wife.”

“If you wish to remain obscure and ordinary, as I have, so be it. But it is a terrible waste of your talent!” He slapped his thigh in frustration, genuinely lamenting Su Ming’s situation.

Yet when he looked up, he found Su Ming unmoved. If anything, the surrounding flames flickered and roared under the influence of Su Ming’s inner strength.

He didn’t need Su Ming to reply to know his words had made no impression. If anything, continuing in this vein would only provoke Su Ming to violence. Though Cheng Yuyan had reached the level of Focused Spirit, he knew he wouldn’t last more than a few moves against Su Ming. Even if the men outside rushed in, it would take time.

Cheng Yuyan had no intention of dying a meaningless death. So he dropped his feigned sighs and spoke with resignation. “Since you don’t care for my analysis, I have no choice but to give you this letter.”

He drew from his breast a timeworn envelope, bearing the seal of the Su household—a mark Su Ming could never mistake.

Su Ming eyed the letter with suspicion, not understanding its significance. Meanwhile, Cheng Yuyan revealed his trump card. He had meant to use this only at the most critical moment, but Su Ming’s attitude had forced his hand.

“You don’t know what’s in this letter, do you?” With a half-smile, he handed the letter to Su Ming.

Su Ming took it, a sense of unease gnawing at him. Though he had yet to see its contents, dread welled up inside. Instinct urged him not to open it, but the current circumstances left him no choice.

As he unfolded the letter and read its words, the blood vessels in his eyes slowly filled with red. When he finally lowered the letter, he seemed transformed into a furious beast.

Cheng Yuyan, standing nearby, felt the brunt of Su Ming’s wrath but showed not a trace of fear; instead, a broad smile spread across his face.

Far away, in the distant province of Qizhou—

A caravan was making its way unhurriedly toward Chenghao. At the head of the group, a carriage was drawn by two tall auburn horses, their elegant steps steady and unhurried.

Inside the carriage sat a young scholar, long-haired and sharp-browed, a faint smile on his lips, radiating ease. The book in his hands fluttered gently in the autumn breeze.

The carriages behind did not carry people, but hundreds of jars of fine wine and tens of thousands of bushels of grain. This long column of men and supplies snaked along the narrow road like a centipede.

The silence was broken by a messenger halting before the carriage. “Commander, according to our scouts, we’ll likely encounter Su Qing’s forces at dawn tomorrow.”

Within the carriage, Hua Wenkai set his book aside. “Accelerate the march. We must rendezvous with Su Qing’s main force tonight. If we’re delayed, you all know the consequences. And the county magistrate, Ping, should have received my message. Have him detain Su Qing as long as possible. Should anything go amiss and we arrive late, that will buy us precious time.”

“Yes, sir.” The messenger was none other than Lin Lang, one of the thirteen guardians of the Northern Inspection Bureau.

Once the orders were given, Hua Wenkai resumed his reading, while the caravan hastened its pace.

Meanwhile, in Su Qing’s army, the mood was grim. No one felt the thrill of victory; instead, fatigue and weariness hung over the troops.

The moment the battle ended, Su Qing ordered his forces to march to the provincial command in Qizhou. Chenghao’s supplies were depleted, and loitering in the city would be a waste. Suspecting sabotage behind the lack of rations, he knew waiting would do no good. He’d also learned that appeals for supplies had been deliberately suppressed.

So with the remaining two hundred thousand men, he split his army into five columns and marched directly to the gates of the Qizhou command. He refused to believe they could deny rations to such a force.

The forced marches, however, led to inevitable desertions. The losses, though, were within Su Qing’s expectations.

Luckily, Qizhou was not far from Chenghao. At the current pace, they’d arrive in just over a month. Along the way, though, they’d have to beg for rations from cities en route—hence the division into five groups. After all, how could a mere county supply enough food for two hundred thousand soldiers?

The original forty thousand prisoners in Chenghao had long since been disbanded by Su Qing. He could hardly feed his own men, let alone so many mouths. Most of those prisoners would scatter toward the state of Wei, likely causing considerable unrest along the border—a prospect Su Qing did not mind.

By dusk, the army reached a nearby county seat. At a glance, the so-called “county” was little more than a name. If compared to modern GDP, the whole county’s wealth would not match a single spendthrift youth in the capital.

Years of war had ravaged the land, leaving the people no time to cultivate rice or wheat. Misery and desolation were everywhere.

Peasants fought in the open for a small pouch of rice bran, beating each other bloody. Emaciated bodies spent their last strength for a single mouthful of food.

But Su Qing was no sentimentalist. He understood that these people acted out of desperation for survival.

The sound of hooves faded, leaving only corpses after the brawl. No one would collect them, nor pity those who so easily lost their lives. Some would even, under cover of night, drag the bodies home for a meal…

This was not an era of peace. The capital’s citizens knew nothing of the border’s flames—two utterly different worlds. They had never known hunger so fierce it drove men mad.

After entering the county, Su Qing inspected the place. Conditions were even worse than in previous years. Under Yang Qingyun’s governance, the people fared no better.

Yet court reports claimed that Yang Qingyun had managed the border with order and skill, the people living in peace. Clearly, those officials had profited from his rule.

“Marshal, do you think the world will ever know peace?” Yang Tingyu, who had seen the northern nomads’ raids, asked as he followed Su Qing.

He had watched entire villages consumed by fire, men slaughtered, women violated. Yesterday’s neighbors were today’s corpses.

Soldiers had seen too much bloodshed; their hearts were forged like steel, leaving only the resolve to conquer or die.

Su Qing did not know how to answer. For a century, his life had been one of war. Each day, he thought only of how to conquer, how to seize land from the enemy. Victory and conquest were his sole obsessions.

He had never considered what to do when the war finally ended.

So he did not answer Yang Tingyu directly. “Perhaps. I do not know. In my lifetime, I hope at least to glimpse a peaceful world—one more golden age, like the Great Xia dynasty of old.”

“Yes, but how difficult that would be. Not in a hundred years, perhaps not in several hundred. The current state of fragmented warlords might never end,” Yang Tingyu sighed.

The balance of power between empires was too even; none could destroy the others. Even the mighty Ming, strongest of the seven kingdoms, could not withstand the coalition and pressure of its neighbors.

To the north, invasions from the steppe; to the west, the suppression of a three-kingdom alliance; and in the south, Danhuan’s fleets ravaging the coast.

“It’s no small feat for the Ming to hold onto its vast territory, let alone expand further,” said Yuwen Qi, frowning.

“If the Prince were ever to lead troops, there would be no defeat, no city unbroken. Pity the court holds him back. Those blind fools should see for themselves the wolves at the frontier.”

Su Qing’s expression soured. His men spoke too freely for their own good, and he feared they might give others cause to use their words against him.

“Enough. Don’t say what shouldn’t be said. If we keep fighting like this, we’ll bring the Ming to ruin. Some things are beyond our control; let us follow the emperor’s commands.”

“Yes, Marshal.” Yuwen Qi, realizing his error, immediately bowed. “My tongue runs away with me. Forgive me for causing trouble.”

“Enough. No need for apologies. The magistrate is waiting for us—we shouldn’t keep him. Let’s not disappoint his hospitality,” Su Qing said with a touch of resignation.

Yuwen Qi and Guo Bao were his greatest concerns and his strongest supporters. He had devoted much energy to training them, but their tempers remained untempered.

He would eventually retire, and finding a successor was essential. The best candidate, in his mind, was Su Ming. Yet Su Ming, like his uncles, was proud and quick to anger—that was why Su Qing had never promoted him to a higher post.

He had hoped Su Ming would spend another decade or so at his side, learning, before earning promotion and real experience.

He never expected the emperor to act first, transferring Su Ming to distant Mingzhou with a single decree.

Still, it didn’t matter; there was time enough. The move would give Su Ming a chance to build connections at court, strengthening his position for the future.

Yet Su Ming never sensed this good intention. Instead, it became a barrier between them—one Su Ming never revealed, and Su Qing never noticed.

Back to the present—

The county official, upon hearing that Su Qing was coming, had prepared a banquet. But life on the border was harsh, and even the magistrate lived frugally. The people had nothing left to be squeezed, and the county was remote, far from the capital—there was no opportunity for corruption.

The so-called banquet was, at best, a simple family meal.

But Su Qing and his men were not pampered nobles. They tore into the flatbread on the table with gusto. In less than the time it took an incense stick to burn, they had devoured everything.

“Ah…” Magistrate Ping Yanliang, who had barely exchanged a few words with Su Qing, was stunned by the soldiers’ appetites.

Su Qing clasped his fists in apology. “My men are rough fellows, used to the pace of military life. Please forgive their manners.”

What could Ping Yanliang say? The commander had already shown him every courtesy; it would be rude to press further.

He could only laugh it off. “All you generals have shed blood for Ming. A hearty meal is the least you deserve; no need for ceremony.”

He raised his cup in a toast. “Marshal Su, your exploits are renowned. To have driven off the coalition of three kingdoms—this humble official has long wished to meet you, but my lowly status made it impossible. Since you grace my modest home today, allow me to offer this cup in your honor.”

“There’s no need. I am not strong with drink and must decline your kind offer,” Su Qing replied politely. Though he spoke as an equal, the disparity in their status made such toasts inappropriate.

Sensing the shift in Su Qing’s tone and expression, Ping Yanliang realized his mistake. He quickly set down his cup, bowed, and apologized. “I was too forward. Please forgive me, Marshal.”

“It’s nothing, you—” Su Qing had barely begun when a voice like a needle pierced his ear.

“So, everyone is here! How could you not save a seat for me? Magistrate Ping, that’s hardly fair.”

The voice was one Su Qing had longed to hear day and night—longed, too, to tear its owner apart, limb from limb.