The hall was heavy with tension.
After hearing the statement made by the Right Prime Minister Zhao Wenhan, the Left Prime Minister Lin Gaoyuan let out a cold laugh. "It is indeed the duty of the frontier vassal kings to resist foreign invasions," he said, his voice laced with irony, "but the Northern Army stationed in Beijun comprises only thirty thousand soldiers and cavalry. Does Prime Minister Zhao truly believe that the Northern King can drive back the barbarian invasion with just these thirty thousand men?"
Zhao Wenhan promptly replied, "I never claimed that he could."
He paused for a moment, raising his head to look solemnly at Emperor Xia seated high above on the dragon throne. Then, turning his gaze back to the court, he continued, "Your Majesty, Beijun is the foremost defensive stronghold of our empire, a vital barrier against the barbarian incursion. The current standing force of thirty thousand troops is utterly insufficient to confront the advancing barbarians. I humbly submit that the court must issue an edict to expand Beijun's military forces."
As soon as Zhao Wenhan voiced this proposal, the court instantly broke into murmurs. Ministers looked at one another, whispering in concern. Debate rippled like waves through the grand hall.
Since Emperor Xia's ascension to the throne, he had made it a priority to curtail the power of the vassal kings, and to that end, he had issued a decree limiting the number of troops any vassal kingdom could maintain. The number of soldiers allowed was determined by the size and resources of their respective territories.
For Beijun, the imposed upper limit had been set at fifty thousand troops. This was precisely why, when Lu Chen requested reinforcements, he had only dared to recruit ten thousand new soldiers—bringing his total to the upper limit.
Zhao Wenhan's suggestion, at first glance, seemed reasonable. Beijun, after all, was the frontline in the battle against the barbarian tribes. Granting the Northern King more troops to defend the realm seemed like a justifiable measure.
However, the implications were far more complex.
If Beijun were granted this privilege, it would set a dangerous precedent. Other border vassal kings would no doubt demand the same rights under the same justification—that they too were on the front lines, facing potential foreign threats. What then? If dynasties from the other directions—east, west, or south—decided to test Great Xia's strength, how would the imperial court respond?
There had been peace among the major dynasties for many years, but history had taught them that peace was merely a thin veil stretched over uncertainty. A single spark could ignite a war. If one frontier kingdom was permitted to expand its army, others would soon follow. And with that, the fragile balance would collapse.
Moreover, such movements would not go unnoticed by foreign powers. If Beijun increased its military strength, it could trigger preemptive strikes from neighboring dynasties. And who could say for sure that every vassal king was loyal? There had been cases in history where vassal kings conspired with foreign enemies, using such situations as leverage to expand their military power.
Emperor Xia, naturally, was no fool. He fully understood the ramifications of approving this expansion. The weight of such a decision pressed heavily upon him. Yet, after a long silence, he finally spoke.
"Draft the edict," the emperor commanded.
His tone was firm, yet there was a trace of bitterness buried beneath. "Beijun stands as the first wall protecting Great Xia from the northern barbarians. Its current garrison of thirty thousand troops is woefully inadequate. From this day forth, the military limit for Beijun shall be raised to one hundred and fifty thousand troops."
Gasps echoed throughout the hall, but Emperor Xia wasn't finished.
"In addition," he continued, his gaze sharp as a blade, "the Northern King is the rightful vassal ruler of Beijun. Regardless of what transpires on the battlefield, he shall not retreat. He must remain and defend Beijun to the last man."
Zhao Wenhan was the first to react. He stepped forward and bowed deeply. "Your Majesty's wisdom shines like the heavens!"
But Emperor Xia only glanced coldly in Zhao's direction, as if seeing through the man's schemes. His expression was unreadable.
Then he said flatly, "Minister Wang, Minister Chu, Prime Minister Lin, Prime Minister Zhao—you four remain. The rest of you may leave."
With those words, Emperor Xia rose from the dragon throne. He swept his long imperial sleeves behind him and turned to leave the main hall.
His back was straight, but the weight of the empire bent his heart. It was clear: this decision displeased him deeply. Yet, he had no choice.
Great Xia was in turmoil beneath its calm surface. Under such conditions, the empire could not afford to send hundreds of thousands of central troops northward. Doing so would drain the heartland of its strength and invite internal instability—or worse, rebellion.
If the emperor dared to mobilize such a vast army from the capital, the very foundation of his rule could crumble.
Emperor Xia had already begun reorganizing the imperial military. But before the reforms could bear fruit, the barbarians struck. Their assault came too suddenly, robbing him of any breathing room.
He also suspected that this invasion was not a mere coincidence—it might very well have been orchestrated with the aid of the aristocratic families. Whether the vassal princes were involved, however, remained a mystery. Now was not the time to dig for traitors. The empire could not afford internal strife on the eve of foreign invasion.
Politics lurked beneath every war. If the barbarians truly sought to establish a new nation on Beijun's soil, as the Northern King had written in his urgent missive, it could not be permitted. Beijun was the northern gate of Great Xia. If it fell, the barbarians would march straight for the capital itself.
Thus, to preserve the empire, Emperor Xia would have to compromise—not just with the enemy across the border, but with the noble clans within his own court. It was the most humiliating moment since he had ascended the throne.
Had he just been granted another year—just one—he would have completed the military reforms. Then, the elite armies of Great Xia would have swept the barbarian cavalry aside like chaff in the wind.
But alas, history had no room for "ifs."
Now, the crisis in Beijun demanded an immediate solution.
Emperor Xia gathered the four ministers in his private study to hold a confidential discussion on the southward movement of the barbarian tribes. After hours of debate, they finally reached a temporary resolution.
They would proceed with a two-pronged strategy—initiating peace talks while also preparing for war. But they would not dispatch hundreds of thousands of troops. That would cost too much.
As for ceding the entirety of Beijun? That was out of the question.
However, offering a portion of Beijun's land as a bargaining chip was not entirely off the table. After all, Beijun was the fiefdom of the Northern King—a nominal prince of little influence, incapable of managing such vast territory. Strategically sacrificing some borderlands to stall the enemy might prove a necessary evil.
After the meeting ended, Lin Gaoyuan exited the imperial study with a stormy expression. His face was dark, and displeasure radiated from him like heat off sunbaked stone.
He was clearly furious.
Four men had been summoned to that discussion: one Minister of Revenue, whose allegiance lay with the aristocrats; one Minister of War, another puppet of the noble clans; and then the Right Prime Minister Zhao Wenhan, who was more concerned with political maneuvering than the welfare of the realm.
With such a trio, what good could possibly come of their deliberation?
To Lin Gaoyuan, it was nothing more than ceding land for false glory.
Upon returning to his residence, Lin Gaoyuan sat in brooding silence. The servants dared not speak. No one disturbed him.
Just then, a man clad in armor strode into the hall.
He moved with the bearing of a soldier and the confidence of a commander. It was his son, Lin Xiuming.
"Father," Lin Xiuming said, removing his helm. "I've heard that the barbarian horde—three hundred thousand strong—is advancing southward. Is it true?"
The court had barely adjourned, but word of the barbarian incursion had already begun to circulate. Lin Xiuming, now the commander of the Qilin Army, was always alert to military developments.
Lin Gaoyuan returned from his thoughts with a long sigh. "Whether it's true or not is still uncertain," he replied heavily. "But the Northern King used the Red Silk Messenger to deliver the news—so the situation is likely real."
Lin Xiuming's expression turned grim. "Then… what is His Majesty's plan?"
Hearing that, Lin Gaoyuan chuckled bitterly. "Plan? His so-called plan is to have you lead seventy thousand elite troops northward—to assist the Northern King in repelling the three hundred thousand-strong barbarian cavalry."
"What?!" Lin Xiuming stiffened, stunned into disbelief.
Seventy thousand elite troops against three hundred thousand barbarian riders?
Was this some kind of twisted joke?
Even with the thirty thousand troops already stationed in Beijun, their combined force would only total one hundred thousand. Could one hundred thousand soldiers hold back three times their number?
His brows furrowed. "Father, hasn't His Majesty already reorganized the military? Doesn't Great Xia now have five hundred thousand troops available for deployment? Why not mobilize more?"
Lin Gaoyuan snorted at his son's question. "Five hundred thousand?" he repeated with a sarcastic smile. "His Majesty wouldn't dare mobilize that many. If he tried, Great Xia would erupt into chaos overnight."
He didn't elaborate further. Instead, he looked his son in the eyes and gave a direct order.
"I won't say more. Once His Majesty's edict arrives, you will lead your troops to Beijun and coordinate with the Northern King."
"When the fighting starts," he added with emphasis, "focus on stalling the barbarians. Do not throw your men away in a pointless slaughter. The real battlefield is not in Beijun—it's here, within the court."
Lin Xiuming stared at his father, then slowly nodded. "Understood. I know what to do."
…
Meanwhile, in Beijun—Yancheng, to be exact.
A woman clad in a flowing black dress walked quietly along the bustling street. A long sword was slung across her back. Her face was breathtakingly beautiful, yet as cold as frost—like a celestial goddess untouched by worldly dust.
Suddenly, a horse-drawn carriage raced past her.
As it sped by, the wind lifted the carriage's curtains for a brief moment, revealing a woman in white seated within—another peerless beauty.
In that fleeting instant, the eyes of the woman in black met those of the woman in white.
Only for a second.
Then, the carriage rumbled on, fading into the distance.
Left behind, the woman in black stood still, her gaze following the departing carriage with an unreadable expression.
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