PFC Chapter 612
Chapter 612
The next morning at court, sunlight pierced through layers of clouds and shone upon the Golden Palace. Zhao Xuan stood once more beneath the steps, only to find the officials who had flattered him the day before now deathly pale. With a command from the emperor, dozens were dragged out of the palace, their wails startling the white doves scurrying from the eaves. "Minister Zhao," the emperor said, descending the jade steps and personally tying the black sash symbolizing supreme military power around his neck, "if I don't even trust you, who can I trust?"
In the years that followed, whenever the smoke of war rose at the border, Zhao Xuan's Xuanjia Army would charge forth like lightning. And within the palace walls of the capital, no one dared to easily frame a loyal subject. Late at night in the imperial study, the emperor, weary from reviewing memorials, would often gaze absently at the blood-stained black iron spear on his desk—a token left by Zhao Xuan to demonstrate his loyalty. In the flickering candlelight, the spear's tip gleamed coldly, as if still recounting the clash of swords and the thunder of horses on the battlefield.
In late spring, the Forbidden City was shrouded in leaden-gray clouds, and the bronze bells on the eaves jingled softly. The Emperor's fingers trembled slightly as he held the secret report; the words "Zhao Xuan is secretly recruiting soldiers at the border" on the plain white silk made his temples throb. The black iron spear on his desk gleamed with a cold, eerie light; it was a reward he had personally bestowed upon Zhao Xuan three years ago when Zhao Xuan single-handedly repelled the Xiongnu vanguard. Now, the spearhead reflected the gloomy sky outside the window, like a sharp blade hanging over his heart.
The sandalwood and ink scents of the West Warm Pavilion in the Qianqing Palace couldn't conceal the gloom between the emperor's brows. As he stroked the intricately carved dragon pattern on the spear shaft, undercurrents were already surging beneath the glazed tiles of the Kunning Palace. Consort Shu leaned against the Xiangfei bamboo couch, her nail-painted fingers resting on the gilded incense burner, chuckling softly as she listened to her maid's whispers: "My sisters, watch closely, this good show has only just begun." In the Jingren Palace, Consort De repeatedly folded and unfolded the secret report; the subtle patterns along the silk edge snaked like snakes in the candlelight. "Zhao Xuan's control of a large army is already a cause for suspicion, and now with this leverage..."
Three days later, a light rain shrouded the Imperial Garden in twilight. The Emperor summoned his secret agents to the winding corridor. Amidst the sound of rain pattering on banana leaves, he lowered his voice: "You must find out the truth. If there is any unusual activity..." Before he could finish speaking, a jade thumb ring rolled into the agent's palm. The guards obeyed and departed, their horses' hooves pounding the puddles and startling the white doves perched under the eaves.
A biting north wind swept across the border, carrying yellow sand that stung Zhao Xuan's face. He stood atop the newly built watchtower, his rough hands stroking the rammed earth walls. Three months ago, he received a military report that the northern barbarians were amassing troops deep in the grasslands, while the military supplies allocated by the court were nowhere to be seen. Looking at the soldiers' tattered armor, he gritted his teeth, sold his ancestral jade pendant, and persuaded local merchants to fund the recruitment of young men to train a new army. Now, the setting sun gilded the training ground, and the shouts of the new recruits, spears in hand, mingled with the steady drumbeats of the veterans, creating a powerful and resounding symphony.
When the secret guard, disguised as a horse trader, infiltrated the camp, he stumbled upon Zhao Xuan personally instructing the new recruits in shield formation practice. His voice, carried on the wind and sand, cried out: "Shields must be close together! The barbarian cavalry's scimitars are designed to cleave through gaps!" The guard's gaze swept over the piles of grain in the camp—all purchased with Zhao Xuan's private funds, the detailed accounts clearly nailed to the wooden pillars of the granary. Further away, refugees lined up to receive porridge. These people, displaced by the war, had been taken in by Zhao Xuan and incorporated into the labor force to assist in building fortifications.
As the urgent hoofbeats of messengers shattered the night in the Forbidden City, the Emperor sat alone by a solitary lamp. His spies presented him not only with detailed records but also a charcoal-drawn map of the border defenses, every watchtower and camp meticulously marked. The black iron spear on his desk gleamed warmly in the candlelight. The Emperor stroked the grooves on the shaft, worn smooth by sweat, and suddenly recalled the day Zhao Xuan set out on his campaign, holding the same spear and vowing before the city gate, "I will not return until the Xiongnu are defeated."
As dawn broke, the shrill voice of the imperial eunuch pierced the morning mist: "By the grace of Heaven, the Emperor decrees: General Zhao Xuan, the Great General Who Guards the North... is granted a thousand acres of fertile land and a three-courtyard mansion..." The day the news spread, Consort Shu accidentally shattered her treasured celadon teacup, while Consort De, gazing at her increasingly pale face in the mirror, silently tossed the secret report from her desk into the brazier. Outside the palace walls, the newly built General's Mansion, with its upturned eaves and the copper studs on its vermilion gates gleaming in the sunlight, stood in stark contrast to the gloomy chambers of the Forbidden City. The sighs that rose and fell within the deep palace were ultimately drowned out by the cicadas' chirping in early summer.
In late autumn, the sycamore leaves swirled and fell before the white marble steps of the Qianqing Palace. Palace servants swept them away, but the desolation of the courtyard remained. When a plain white letter, wrapped with a few withered leaves, was presented on the emperor's desk, the emperor was bringing a cup of warm tea to his lips, yet the tea rippled slightly in the porcelain bowl. The handwriting in the letter was deliberately crooked, the ink uneven in shades: "Zhao Xuan generously distributed money and grain at the border, and the people all called him 'Zhao the Upright Official.' His soldiers only knew the general's orders, not the emperor's edicts." These words pierced his heart like a silver needle. On the newly made gilded landscape map on the desk, the vermilion mark at the border appeared as red as blood in the candlelight.
Inside the Kunning Palace, wisps of smoke rose from the gilded beast-head incense burner. Consort Shu reclined on a peacock-blue satin couch, her fingers twirling a gold handkerchief, a tribute from the West, as she listened to her personal maid's secret report. She chuckled softly, "That vile Consort De is quite composed." Suddenly, she sat up straight, her crimson nail polish digging heavily into the sandalwood armrest. "Send someone to contact the Censorate again, and tell them about the resettlement of the refugees in the northern frontier..." Before she could finish, a dark shadow flashed past the window, startling the parrot under the eaves, which cried out, "Long live the Emperor!"
In Jingren Palace, Consort De was meticulously drawing her eyebrows in front of a bronze mirror. When her trusted maid whispered a message in her ear, her hand holding the hairpin paused slightly, and a cold smile curled at the corner of her lips in the mirror. The secret letter hidden in her dressing case was taken out and then put back; those letters exchanged with court officials now seemed to have transformed into sharp blades to bring down Zhao Xuan. "Go tell the master that it's time to 'concern for the country and its people'." She inserted the last filigree gold phoenix hairpin into her hair, and the bronze mirror reflected the flickering flame in her eyes.
The cold wind of the border, carrying snowflakes, pelted the watchtower. Zhao Xuan wrapped his cloak tighter, watching the soldiers drilling in the snow on the drill ground. The newly forged iron sword gleamed coldly in the twilight, and the smoke from the distant refugee settlement appeared and disappeared in the wind and snow. He had never imagined that his actions of selling his private property to build thatched huts for the people and teaching the hunter's son martial arts for self-defense would become a pretext for others to attack him. Suddenly, the sound of horses' hooves came from afar; the seventh imperial edict had arrived—this time, it strictly forbade the new army from expanding further and also required the dismissal of half of the laborers.
The eunuch's shrill voice pierced the wind and snow: "Order General Zhao Xuan, the General Who Guards the North, to immediately..." Before he could finish, Zhao Xuan had already gripped the imperial edict in his palm. His knuckles turned white from the force. He gazed at the newly painted plaque on the distant city wall that read "Protect the Territory and Secure the People," recalling the bowl of wine the emperor had bestowed upon him before the campaign, and the dry rations the people had stuffed into their bags. A bitter feeling suddenly welled up in his throat. The adjutant beside him tightened his grip on the sword at his waist: "General, this is clearly..." Zhao Xuan raised his hand to stop him, the wind and snow ruffling the newly added white hair at his temples.
The night in the Forbidden City grew increasingly chilly, and the emperor paced back and forth in his bedchamber. Memorials piled high on his desk like snowflakes, the Censorate's impeachments against Zhao Xuan for "abusing his power," creating an eerie standoff with urgent military reports from the border. Suddenly, he grabbed a long, black iron spear from his desk, its tip flicking up the candlelight. In a daze, he saw again the image of the young general from three years ago, fighting bloody battles. But soon, a secret report from his spies—"Zhao Xuan trains until late every night, and the soldiers shout 'We follow the general's lead!'—made him slam the spear heavily to the ground.
Outside the palace walls, the lanterns of the General's Mansion swayed in the wind and snow. Inside, however, the spies of Consort Shu and Consort De moved swiftly through the night, the impeachment clamor from the Censorate grew increasingly intense, and imperial edicts, like chains, were being sent toward the border. This struggle between trust and suspicion, in the snowy late autumn, was spreading in an unpredictable direction.
As the water clock dripped to the third quarter of the hour of Chou (1-3 AM), the night watchman staggered in, carrying a blood-soaked secret letter. The candlelight flickered violently in the cold wind, casting the words "Two hundred thousand barbarian cavalry have breached Qing Shi Pass" on an illuminating, albeit dim, light. The emperor abruptly rose, his black dragon robe sweeping away the memorials on the table, the yellow paper stained with vermilion annotations fluttering like snowflakes. The edges of the secret letter still bore the fingerprints of the border guards, dark red bloodstains spreading across the Xuan paper, strikingly similar to the bloodstains that had dripped onto the imperial steps three years prior when Zhao Xuan, covered in blood, knelt in gratitude.
Inside Kunning Palace, Consort Shu was trying on a newly made nine-phoenix hairpin with pearls in front of a bronze mirror. When a palace maid whispered a message in her ear, the hairpin fell with a "clatter" onto an ivory comb. Staring at her suddenly pale face in the mirror, she abruptly grabbed a jade bracelet from her vanity case and smashed it to the ground: "Send someone to the Censorate! Tell them that Zhao Xuan is deliberately harboring a bandit to enhance his own power!" Meanwhile, in Jingren Palace, Consort De repeatedly crumpled a secret report, a cold smile playing on her lips. The candlelight cast her shadow on the dragon pillar, twisting like a venomous snake: "Have my brother submit a memorial tonight, impeaching Zhao Xuan for delaying military affairs."
The border walls trembled in the blizzard. Zhao Xuan gripped the cold bricks, gazing at the barbarian camps stretching across the distant mountains. The seventh imperial edict rebuking him for "holding too much power," still tucked into his robes, now rustled in the cold wind. His adjutant's hand, veins bulging on his sword hilt, cried out, "General, they're withdrawing two-thirds of their forces!" Before he finished speaking, a scout galloped in: "Report! The barbarians have launched a general offensive!" Zhao Xuan plucked his black iron spear from the wall; the tassel fluttered in the snow. He turned to face his soldiers, his voice booming: "Defend our homeland! Fight this battle!"
The war drums thundered through the sky, and the black banners of the Xuanjia Army fluttered wildly amidst a hail of arrows. Zhao Xuan charged into the enemy ranks, his spear piercing the helmet of the barbarian chieftain, the splattered blood crystallizing into ice. But the barbarian offensive surged like a tidal wave, the defenders on the city walls falling one after another, the moat gradually turning crimson with blood. Zhao Xuan gazed at the crumbling defenses, recalling the bowl of wine the emperor had personally poured for him before the campaign, a bitter, metallic taste rising in his throat—his loyalty and bravery had only earned him suspicion and framing.
Inside the Qianqing Palace, the Emperor paced back and forth before his desk, his long, black iron spear burning hot in his grip. When his secret guard presented the battle report—"Zhao Xuan, wounded by three arrows, still fights to the death"—he suddenly staggered, grabbing his hand to steady himself on the dragon throne. Memories flooded back: the young general's heroic figure as he charged single-handedly into the enemy camp, the cheers of the people lining the streets to see him off, and the burning loyalty in the other's eyes when he personally bestowed the spear upon him. He abruptly ripped open his collar, tearing the impeachment memorial to shreds: "Issue my decree! Immediately allocate provisions and weapons, and order all reinforcements to be under General Zhao's command!"
As the imperial guards rushed into the smoke-filled battlefield with the emperor's personal letter, Zhao Xuan was leaning on his spear, swaying precariously. The blood-stained letter unfolded, and the six large vermilion characters, "I trust you as I trust the sun and moon," pierced his eyes. He suddenly remembered the oath he swore when he first entered the army camp, and tears mingled with blood as he raised his arm and shouted, "Your Majesty is wise! Kill!" The Xuanjia army's morale soared. Zhao Xuan brandished his spear and charged into the enemy ranks; wherever his spear pointed, the barbarians crumbled. The setting sun, like blood, cast long shadows of the retreating enemy soldiers and dyed the newly raised black battle flag crimson.
On the day the news of victory reached the capital, Consort Shu smashed all her treasures, and Consort De tore up her secret correspondence with her ministers. Outside the palace walls, the people celebrated with drums and gongs. The Emperor gently stroked the notch on his black iron spear, gazing at the fiery clouds on the horizon, murmuring to himself, "Fortunately...fortunately..." This crisis, born of suspicion, ultimately, through the tempering of blood and fire, allowed the trust between the emperor and his ministers to rise from the ashes like a phoenix.
The capital city in late winter was shrouded in a leaden smog, the moat was covered with thick ice, and even the usually bustling Zhuque Avenue was unusually quiet. The charcoal fire in the teahouse on the street corner crackled, and the storyteller slammed his gavel: "Ladies and gentlemen, let's talk about General Zhao Xuan of the North..." Before he could finish speaking, several Imperial Guards suddenly burst in, and the tea drinkers hurriedly stood up, knocking over teacups that left dark stains on the blue bricks.
Inside the warm pavilion of the Qianqing Palace, the Emperor stared at the pile of impeachment memorials on his desk, his fingers unconsciously tracing the repaired cracks on the black iron spear. The memorial was densely packed with phrases such as "Zhao Xuan is raising assassins and privately forging weapons on the border with treacherous intentions," and the topmost one was accompanied by several blurry portraits—in which Zhao Xuan was depicted clad in black armor, followed by rows of soldiers, and in the distance, a large banner bearing the character "Zhao" hung on the city gate, its origins unknown. As the Vice Minister of Rites, Lord Wang, knelt on the ground, tearfully arguing that "unrewarding high merit will inevitably breed disloyalty," the Emperor gazed at the bare branches of the locust tree outside the window, and vaguely recalled the scene of blood staining the city walls months earlier.
Deep within the Kunning Palace, Consort Shu's former subordinates embroidered the latest news onto handkerchiefs, which they then smuggled into the tribute silks sent to the palace. Meanwhile, Consort De's brother secretly met with officials from the Censorate in his study; the candlelight cast their shadows on the wall, like menacing ghosts. "Last time that Zhao fellow escaped by chance, this time..." someone slammed a teacup down on the table, "...once we let him leave the border, he'll be fish on a chopping board."
The beacon towers at the border appeared and disappeared in the twilight. Zhao Xuan wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and inspected the city walls. Although the main force of the barbarians had retreated, stragglers still frequently raided villages. He had just ordered additional lookout posts to be set up at the mountain pass when an urgent imperial edict arrived.