Chapter 36#
The layers of the tent flaps were thrown open, and the bronze basin lamp stand was hoisted high. The torchlight blazed like daylight, even brightening the surrounding mountain ridges.#
Within the military camp, footsteps beat in unison like drums, trampling the overgrown wild ground. The dull thuds penetrated deep into the earth.
Above the gate, the banner bearing the character “Jun” flapped wildly in the wind. Beneath the flagpole, a figure finally emerged.
Jun Dingyuan wore a white robe, his cap ribbons gleaming in the sunlight. Over it, he donned a suit of dragon-scale armor, the plates clinking crisply against each other as he moved.
At his waist hung a black long whip, the lash entwined with thorn patterns, swaying gently with the breeze. Even from several zhang away, one could smell the iron-and-blood chill of the battlefield that clung to him.
Yet his face was not the rough-hewn visage of a typical fierce general. His features bore a faint resemblance to Consort Liang, but his eyes held no sharpness. Instead, his complexion was like powdered jade, with a golden gleam reflecting upon his jade-like countenance—an incongruous match for the murderous aura he exuded.
Jun Dingyuan stepped forward, raising his left hand slightly. Eight elite soldiers immediately exerted themselves together, slowly pushing open the heavy wooden gate, revealing the flat dirt road behind.
Wen Zhuo concealed the color in his eyes, pretending to meet him for the first time, clasping his hands in salute: “General Jun.”
“Director Wen need not be so formal.” Jun Dingyuan raised his hand in a gesture of exemption. Shen Zhi caught a glimpse of his thick knuckles and the heavy calluses covering his palms.
Those hands, compared to his face, were anything but elegant, yet it was these rough hands that had guarded the southern border and upheld the backbone of Daqian.
“Uncle.” Shen Zhi’s tone was solemn as he greeted this young general, who had blazed across the annals of Daqian like a meteor.
His chest churned with lament and choked emotion, but he suppressed it with great effort, revealing not a trace.
According to Daqian history, Jun Dingyuan was aloof and self-reliant, his edge unstoppable. On the battlefield, he was valiant and skilled, capturing enemy banners and slaying generals as easily as taking something from his pocket. Yet in court, he was poor at concealing his talents and could not tolerate the circuitousness of political maneuvering.
During the reign of Emperor Shengde, when the court discussed cutting military pay, Jun Dingyuan pleaded for his soldiers, forcefully arguing against the harm it would cause. Later, when military reforms were controlled by outsiders and many policies did not align with battlefield realities, he repeatedly defied the emperor’s wishes, speaking out in direct opposition. Emperor Shengde’s accumulated anger could not be pacified, and he eventually struck harshly, ordering Jun Dingyuan to take his own life with a sword.
It seemed that throughout history, every great hero who had rendered outstanding service ultimately could not escape the fate of being overshadowed by their achievements and meeting a tragic end.
“Your Highness has grown up—taller than your uncle now.” Jun Dingyuan raised his hand to pat Shen Zhi’s shoulder and back, the calluses on his palm rubbing against the fabric, his eyes filled with relief.
He was only ten years older than Shen Zhi, but in his words and manner, he had already assumed the posture of an elder.
“I still remember when you were a child, I took you and the other children to play in the imperial city. You insisted on chasing after me, only to trip on the steps outside the Hanlin Academy, raising a big bump on your head. I taught you to fool your grandfather and mother into thinking it was a bee sting, and you obediently did as I said,” Jun Dingyuan recounted, a faint smile curving his lips, a rare warmth in his eyes. “I thought I could get away with it, but once we returned to the marquis estate, your grandfather still gave me a good beating. That’s when I realized that the bump from a bee sting and the bump from a fall were completely different.”
The ten years of separation and estrangement dissipated in this piece of childhood reminiscence. Shen Zhi also laughed, sighing: “I was too foolish back then. I should have said Shen Chen pushed me.”
Jun Dingyuan paused, then let out a mock scolding smile, his face turning stern as he pretended to admonish: “At such a young age, you can’t be that malicious either.”
Shen Zhi thought to himself, compared to that ungrateful wretch who had usurped the nest, was this considered malicious?
It seemed that to ensure the safety of his family, he had no choice but to seize the throne.
“Come, let’s talk in detail inside the tent.” Jun Dingyuan took Shen Zhi’s hand and, turning sideways, ushered him and Wen Zhuo into the general’s tent.
The interior of the tent was extremely simple. In the corner was a dark green cotton mattress, on top of which lay a plain-colored bedroll. In the center stood a wooden table, its edges covered with marks from knife cuts and armor scrapes—clearly used for many years without replacement.
Next to the table were a few benches placed side by side, accompanied by a low square table, prepared for the generals to discuss military matters.
Outside the tent stood a bronze basin lamp stand, the firelight casting flickering shadows through the gray cloth curtains. Inside the tent, four sesame oil lamps were lit, the smoke slightly choking, but they illuminated everyone’s faces clearly.
“Take a seat. There’s nothing good in my camp. Make do with some hot water and a sesame cake to fill your stomachs.” Jun Dingyuan glanced at the guard standing outside the tent, who immediately understood and turned to hurry toward the makeshift kitchen.
Those benches, having been used by people for years, had long turned pitch black. Instinctively, Shen Zhi took a cloth from his bosom, shook it open, and spread it over one of the benches. He reached out and guided Wen Zhuo over: “Teacher, sit.”
His movement was so natural that even Jun Dingyuan didn’t react much. Consequently, Wen Zhuo felt it would be too affected to dwell on etiquette, so he sat on the cloth, his bottom barely fitting on the bench.
“There are no outsiders here. I must thank Director Wen for planning on His Highness’s behalf, for considering the Jun family’s welfare, and for exhausting your efforts over the remains of the soldiers.” Jun Dingyuan struck his fist against his palm, performing a grand military salute.
He was already aware of Shen Zhi’s ambition to contend for the throne. As his uncle, he naturally had to support him wholeheartedly. Shen Zhi had been a hostage for ten years, with no foundation or support in the court. Jun Dingyuan knew that Wen Zhuo was a key minister of the court, deeply trusted by the emperor, and having Wen Zhuo’s assistance was Shen Zhi’s fortune.
Wen Zhuo quickly stood up again: “General, you don’t need to be so courteous. I should be the one thanking the general for restoring peace to Daqian’s borders and sparing the people from exploitation.”
After the formalities, Jun Dingyuan asked: “Director Wen, coming so late at night, do you have something important?”
Wen Zhuo: “Nothing much.”
Shen Zhi, sitting sideways with his cheek resting on his hand, raised an eyebrow imperceptibly.
“General, when you meet His Majesty tomorrow, simply report the victorious results of this campaign—how rampant Nanping was, how hard the soldiers worked—and mention how the people along the way were grateful for the emperor’s virtuous rule. Do not bring up Consort Liang’s suffering or His Highness’s difficulties. Even less should you reveal any hint of resentment,” Wen Zhuo said, stroking the low table as if giving a reminder.
Jun Dingyuan nodded: “That person high above—how ungrateful and cowardly he is—I know it better than anyone. I remember vividly how my father was hastily transferred back to the capital from the northern desert.”
“That’s good. It seems I was worrying too much out of concern.” Wen Zhuo relaxed, stealing a glance at the sky outside the tent. He covered his mouth with his sleeve and coughed lightly. “I am but a frail scholar, and this is my first time in a military camp. Everything feels so new. Why don’t the general and His Highness catch up first? I’ll take a casual stroll around the camp to broaden my horizons.”
“This… the sesame cakes should be arriving soon. Director Wen, wouldn’t you like to eat first before exploring?” Jun Dingyuan hesitated.
Wen Zhuo waved his hand: “I’ll go and come back shortly. Just a random walk.”
Jun Dingyuan: “Shall I have someone accompany you, Director?”
“No need, no need. I’ll be fine on my own.” With that, Wen Zhuo lifted his official robe, parted the tent flap, and stepped out with a leisurely gait.
Seeing this, Jun Dingyuan didn’t insist. Besides, he did want a private chat with Shen Zhi.
Throughout the exchange, Shen Zhi hadn’t interjected a single word, only watching with interest as Wen Zhuo’s figure receded. Even though Wen Zhuo had tried his best to appear spontaneous and composed, Shen Zhi still sensed a flaw.
Who, upon their first meeting with a border general, would just chat a few lines and then rush off to explore the camp?
At this hour, it was almost dark, and the Zhonglou Gate in Guang’an was about to ring its closing bell. What was the little cat in such a hurry to do?
Jun Dingyuan asked: “On my way back to the capital, I heard discussions in many prefectures and counties that you are the current chess master, the founder of the Ninth School of Daqian, the Meng Sect. How did this happen? I didn’t see that talent in you as a child.”
Shen Zhi had no choice but to withdraw his gaze, turning back with a wry smile: “Uncle, when I was a child, wasn’t I utterly untalented in every aspect?”
“…”
Jun Dingyuan’s face turned serious, and he sternly said: “Don’t belittle yourself. You are naturally kind-hearted and possess a benevolent spirit. My sister and I have always believed that you are just a late bloomer.”
This family sure was protective of their own.
Shen Zhi explained: “Actually, I seized a loophole. If we’re talking about chess skill, every official in the court is better than me.”
He recounted the whole story of the Spring Terrace Chess Tournament to Jun Dingyuan.
Jun Dingyuan slammed the table with a bang, shaking the writing brush and inkstone. His jade-like face turned frosty, and he roared in anger: “Our Daqian has fallen so deeply into decay! It’s one thing for the eight schools to harbor filth, but I never expected Shen Chen to harbor such malicious intentions. Back then, we should never have saved that woman!”
Shen Zhi quickly soothed him: “Uncle, even if the person is evil, helping them is not a mistake. There’s nothing wrong with aiding the weak and relieving the poor. As for what the person we helped eventually becomes, that is their own affair. Why blame ourselves?”
Jun Dingyuan was quite surprised upon hearing this: “You’re so young, yet you have such insights?”
Shen Zhi hastily humbled himself: “This is not my insight; it comes from an old gentleman named Adler. He calls it ‘subject separation.’”
Jun Dingyuan found the name strange, with a Western flavor, but he didn’t probe further. He only sighed: “It seems these ten years, you haven’t wasted your time. Truly a descendant of the Jun bloodline!”
Shen Zhi smiled, but his gaze involuntarily drifted outside the tent.
He deliberately hadn’t followed, not wanting to disrupt the little cat’s plan. Was being this considerate deserving of some reward?
Outside the tent, Wen Zhuo was indeed relieved by Shen Zhi’s cooperation. He knew his actions were somewhat rash, but time was pressing, so it couldn’t be helped.
After leaving the general’s tent, he pretended to wander around nearby, even exchanging a few words with some soldiers on duty. Seeing that everyone was gathered around the lamp stands drinking water and eating, he turned and made his way toward the rear of the camp.
The grass stalks scraped against his thin silk trousers, causing a slight itch and sting on his calves. Enduring the discomfort, he waded through the thick grass, heading straight for the solitary little tent.
Disturbed night insects chirped lowly and scattered in all directions, parting a quiet path through the grass.
Looking from afar, that familiar figure was indeed standing in front of the tent.
Mo Shu still kept a low profile, acting alone.
He sat on a short stool, holding a bowl of sesame cakes soaked in hot water, seemingly lost in thought.
The weak candlelight flickered over his silhouette, outlining a soft, warm edge.
He wore the simplest coarse linen clothing, faded and grayish-blue, with only coarse cloth bands tying his waist and hair. There were no luxurious ornaments.
But his back was ramrod straight, and his eating movements were brisk yet refined—an ingrained literary elegance cultivated through years of deep study.
Occasionally, his chopsticks scraped against the bowl’s edge, making faint sounds. The hand holding the bowl was covered with mottled knife scars accumulated over the years.
Wen Zhuo closed his eyes and thought to himself: Mo Shu, in my past life I couldn’t save you, but in this life, I will surely keep you safe!
With that, Wen Zhuo lightened his steps, using the wild grass to muffle his approach, quietly closing in on Mo Shu. When he was just a few steps away, he suddenly spoke: “The night is cold here, the lamp is dim, and there are many mosquitoes. Why don’t you go to the front camp and eat with the others?”
Mo Shu, startled by the voice so close to his ear, shuddered and abruptly leaped to his feet.
Seeing this, Wen Zhuo’s eyes sharpened. He immediately pretended to trip and stumble, letting out a cry of surprise as he lunged toward Mo Shu.
“Careful!” Without time to think, Mo Shu dropped his half-eaten bowl of sesame cakes and reached out to steady Wen Zhuo.
Wen Zhuo knew Mo Shu had martial arts skills, so he put all his strength into this lunge.
Behind Mo Shu’s heel happened to be a stool. Before he could plant his momentum, his foot stepped back and struck the stool heavily.
He knew this was bad!
But the whole of Wen Zhuo’s weight crashed into him, and they both hit the ground with a “thud.”
The soaked sesame cake was scattered everywhere; the white bowl lay upside down on the grass. Mo Shu’s ankle was painfully jammed by the stool, sending a dull ache through him. The coarse linen on his chest was torn open by Wen Zhuo’s grab, and out rolled an ink marker box and a small serrated bronze piece. Anyone knowledgeable would recognize it as the “tooth” of a city-defense crossbow mechanism.
Wen Zhuo himself wasn’t much better off—he wasn’t experienced in staging accidents. After hitting the ground, his palm was cut by a sharp blade of grass, leaving a gash. Fortunately, the turf was thick enough that he didn’t suffer any other injuries.
The commotion drew the attention of soldiers on duty, who came running. They exclaimed in surprise: “Director Wen, are you alright!”
“Your Excellency, are you hurt?”
Mo Shu’s eyes widened as he stared fixedly at Wen Zhuo’s face, as fair as the cool moon in the mountains. After a few choked breaths, he hastily scrambled to help Wen Zhuo up, then knelt on both knees, bowing his head low.
“Your humble servant Li Ping pays respects to Director Wen.”
Wen Zhuo got to his feet, brushed aside the loose strands of hair on his forehead, and dusted the grass clippings from his official robe. His gaze swept indifferently over his bleeding fingertips before shifting to the two items that had fallen from Mo Shu’s bosom.
At least this injury wasn’t in vain, he thought to himself.
Suddenly, a commotion arose outside the tent. The hot water and sesame cakes that had been ordered earlier still hadn’t arrived. Jun Dingyuan frowned deeply and demanded sternly of the guards: “What’s all that noise outside?”
The guard reported hesitantly through the tent flap: “General… Director Wen went to the rear camp and was accidentally knocked over by Li Ping.”
“Knocked over?” Shen Zhi’s heart tightened. He pressed his hands on the low table, ready to rise.
At that moment, the tent flap was gently lifted. Wen Zhuo, with his sleeve rolled up and his bleeding hand hanging down, stepped inside with a slight bow.
His face was ice-cold, his brow slightly furrowed. Fresh red blood dripped through his fingers, looking somewhat gruesome.
Both shocked and suspicious, Shen Zhi couldn’t figure out what Wen Zhuo was up to, but now he only cared about grasping Wen Zhuo’s wrist and looking down at the wound.
The cut wasn’t deep, but it was long, so it bled profusely. The edges of the wound were covered with some dirt and grass particles.
“Uncle, is there a military medic?” Shen Zhi turned to Jun Dingyuan.
It wasn’t a serious injury, but it needed immediate disinfection and bandaging.
Before the words faded, the military medic had already hurried over with his medicine box.
He skillfully took out clean linen cloth and opened a jar of water that had been boiled and cooled. Bowing, he said: “Your Highness, allow me to treat Director Wen’s wound.”
Shen Zhi had to let go, but his gaze remained fixed on Wen Zhuo’s injury. He asked softly: “Teacher, besides this, are you hurt anywhere else?”
Wen Zhuo quickly glanced at Shen Zhi and shook his head.
In truth, the wound was more frightening to look at than it was severe—nothing compared to the brutal tools in the Dali Temple jail. Nevertheless, to show his displeasure with the injury, Wen Zhuo said in a flat tone: “Your Highness, this teacher feels some pain.”
Shen Zhi’s heart ached in sympathy: “It’s my fault. I should have accompanied you just now.”
While the medic was bandaging Wen Zhuo’s wound, footsteps sounded again outside. Mo Shu limped in. He had already straightened his clothes and tucked the fallen items back into his bosom. Supporting his injured leg, he stood nervously in the tent.
Jun Dingyuan, seeing that Mo Shu’s pant leg and arm were covered with weeds and his front lapel was stained with a mess of watery paste, and that his ankle seemed injured, abruptly stood up from behind the table.
Before Jun Dingyuan could speak, Mo Shu knelt on both knees, his forehead lightly touching the ground. His voice, clear as jade chimes, carried a tone of deep humility: “This humble servant has committed a crime; I inadvertently bumped into Director Wen, causing injury and bleeding. I beg the general to punish me according to military law!”
Jun Dingyuan’s fingers clenched into fists, his brows deeply furrowed. Even his usually composed jade-like face was now stirred with emotion.
His gaze fell on Mo Shu’s slightly swollen ankle: “Your leg…”
Mo Shu hurriedly interrupted: “I am willing to accept military punishment without the slightest complaint!”
Jun Dingyuan’s throat moved, but in the end, he remained silent, unable to bring himself to order punishment.
At this point, Wen Zhuo’s wound had been properly bandaged. He placed his hand flat on his knee, his gaze shifting slowly from the kneeling Mo Shu to Jun Dingyuan, who seemed to want to speak but held back.
Wen Zhuo suddenly curled his lips into a knowing smile: “I am curious—just what is this man’s true identity? He has voluntarily requested punishment, yet the general is reluctant to give the order?”
Jun Dingyuan had already calmed his emotions. With his hands behind his back and eyes looking down, he gazed at Mo Shu’s bowed back and replied calmly: “This man is my close personal attendant, named Li Ping. He is always measured in his actions, so I doubt it was intentional. If I punish him, there would be no one to attend to the various matters in my tent.”
Wen Zhuo lowered his head, flexing his injured finger. His tone was careless but carried a hint of verbal jousting: “Isn’t the general returning to the capital tomorrow? The Yongning Marquis Estate has plenty of servants; why worry about having no one?”
Mo Shu bit his lip, his voice trembling but still clear: “According to the Daqian Code, injuring a superior official carries a penalty of seventy strokes with a stick. I know that military law is strict. General, do not hesitate—punish me!”
Jun Dingyuan’s temple vein throbbed faintly, his jade face flushing slightly, but he still refused to speak.
Shen Zhi finally shifted his attention away from Wen Zhuo, his gaze falling on “Li Ping,” who kept his face hidden in the shadows of his arms.
He knew that Wen Zhuo had schemed against Wukan and Liu Quan, had involved the emperor and Consort Liang, used Jun Dingyuan and Nanping to exchange spies for soldiers’ remains, had garnered fame along the way, won military loyalty—all these twists and turns, in the end, were for the sake of this one person before him.
He quietly looked at Wen Zhuo, seeing that cunning glint of determination in his eyes again.
Without a sound, Shen Zhi reached out, adjusted Wen Zhuo’s sleeve, and covered the stray drop of blood that had fallen on his official robe.
Teacher has deliberately hurt himself again for my sake, hasn’t he.
Unaware of Shen Zhi’s silent question, Wen Zhuo sat upright, an acute gleam in his eyes, and asked calmly: “General, how long do you intend to hide the truth?”