Chapter 36

Chapter 36

The overlapping flaps of the grand tent were drawn aside, revealing tall bronze basin lamp stands held aloft. The lamplight blazed as brightly as daylight, even lending a faint luster to the distant mountains.

Within the camp, footsteps fell in a steady, drumlike rhythm, pounding the wild, overgrown earth with a dull thud that resonated through the ground.

Above the gate, a large banner bearing the character *Jun* flapped and snapped sharply in the wind. Then, from beneath the flagpole, a figure emerged.

Jun Dingyuan wore a white robe, its cap tassels glinting in the lamplight. Over it, he donned dragon-scale armor, its plates clinking together with a crisp, metallic sound.

A long black whip hung at his waist, its tip braided into a thorn-like pattern that swayed slightly in the breeze. Even from several *zhang* away, one could sense the cold, austere aura of the iron-blooded battlefield clinging to him.

Yet his face bore none of the rough-hewn features typical of a fierce general. His features resembled Consort Liang’s in three parts—but his brows and eyes lacked her sharpness. Instead, his complexion was fair, almost powdered, creating a striking contrast: a face of jade reflected by steel and armor—an incongruity stark against the slaughter-tinged aura surrounding him.

Jun Dingyuan stepped forward, raising his left hand slightly. Instantly, eight elite soldiers exerted their strength in unison, slowly pushing open the heavy wooden barricade gate to reveal a flat earthen path beyond.

Wen Zuo veiled the expression in his eyes, feigning this was their first meeting, and clasped his hands in salute. “General Jun.”

“Master Wen, no need for such formality.” Jun Dingyuan raised a hand, gesturing that formalities could be dispensed with. Shen Zheng instantly noticed his knuckles were large and his palms thickly callused.

Those hands were anything but beautiful—especially beside his face. Yet it was precisely these rough hands that had guarded the southern border, propping up the backbone of Da Qian.

“Uncle.” Shen Zheng’s voice was solemn as he addressed this young general who had streaked like a meteor across Da Qian’s annals.

A surge of regret and a choked sensation rose inevitably in his chest. He suppressed it with great effort, allowing not a trace to show.

The *Qian History* recorded that Jun Dingyuan was aloof and self-assured, sharp-edged and unstoppable. On the battlefield, he was valiant and masterful in warfare—capturing enemy generals and seizing banners as easily as reaching into a sack. Yet within the court, he lacked finesse in concealing his talents and struggled to endure the twists and manipulations of power politics.

During Emperor Shengde’s reign, when court discussions proposed cutting military funds, Jun Dingyuan pleaded on behalf of his soldiers, forcefully arguing against the measure’s drawbacks. Later, as military reforms fell under outsiders’ control—many policies ill-suited to actual battlefield conditions—he repeatedly defied the emperor’s will, speaking out directly and resisting outright. Emperor Shengde’s accumulated anger finally erupted: he struck ruthlessly, bestowing a sword and ordering Jun Dingyuan to take his own life.

It seemed history offered a grim pattern: peerless meritorious officials ultimately found it difficult to escape the fate of achievements so towering they overshadowed their sovereign—often meeting tragic ends.

“You’ve grown up—taller than your uncle now.” Jun Dingyuan reached out and patted Shen Zheng’s shoulder and back. The calluses on his palm rubbed against the fabric of Shen Zheng’s robes; his eyes brimmed with warmth.

He was only ten years older than Shen Zheng, yet his speech and demeanor already carried the unmistakable air of an elder.

“I still remember when you were little—I took you and the other children to play in the imperial city. You insisted on chasing after me and tripped on the steps outside the Hanlin Academy, landing a huge bump on your head. I told you to lie to your grandfather and mother—that you’d been stung by a bee—and you obediently did just that,” Jun Dingyuan said, a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth, rare warmth flickering in his eyes. “I thought I’d gotten away with it—but when I returned to the Marquis’s estate, your grandfather still gave me a sound thrashing. That’s when I learned: a bump from a bee sting and one from a fall are utterly different.”

Jun Dingyuan paused, then let out a chiding laugh, feigning sternness as if scolding. “Even at such a young age, you couldn’t possibly have been *that* mischievous.”

Shen Zheng thought to himself: Compared to that thankless wretch who stole the nest, was *this* truly mischievous?

It seemed ensuring his family’s safety left him no choice but to seize the throne.

“Come—let’s talk inside the tent.” Jun Dingyuan took Shen Zheng’s hand and stepped aside, ushering him and Wen Zuo into the general’s tent.

The furnishings inside were extremely simple. In one corner lay a dark green cotton bedroll, topped with a plain-colored quilt folded neatly. At the center stood a wooden table, its edges and corners scarred by knives and armor scrapes—clearly used for many years without replacement.

On either side sat several benches in a row, accompanied by low square tables—set for generals to discuss military affairs.

Outside the tent stood a bronze basin lamp stand. Its light filtered through the gray cloth tent flap, casting silhouettes within. Inside, four hemp-oil lamps burned. Their smoke carried a faint acrid tang—but illuminated everyone’s faces with clarity.

“Please sit. My camp has nothing fine—make do with some hot water and a sesame cake to stave off hunger.” Jun Dingyuan glanced at the guard outside the tent, who immediately understood and hurried toward the makeshift kitchen.

Those benches, worn by years of use, had long turned pitch black. Shen Zheng instinctively drew a handkerchief from his sleeve, shook it open, and spread it across one bench. Then he reached out to guide Wen Zuo over. “Teacher, please sit.”

His actions were so natural that Jun Dingyuan, watching, reacted with no excess. Consequently, Wen Zuo felt fussing over propriety now would seem overly affected—so he sat on the edge of the bench, precisely atop the handkerchief.

“There are no outsiders here in the tent. I must thank Master Wen for planning so diligently for His Highness, considering all aspects for the Jun family, and exhausting your efforts for the fallen soldiers’ remains.” Jun Dingyuan clasped his fists and performed a formal military salute.

He already knew of Shen Zheng’s ambition to contend for the throne. As his uncle, he would naturally offer full support. Shen Zheng had spent ten years as a hostage—without foundation or backing in court. Jun Dingyuan well understood that Wen Zuo was a pillar of the current court, deeply trusted and favored by the emperor. To secure Wen Zuo’s assistance was Shen Zheng’s great fortune.

Wen Zuo hurriedly rose again. “General, you’re too kind. It is *I* who should thank you—for restoring peace to Da Qian’s borders and sparing the common people the suffering of oppressive exactions.”

After exchanging pleasantries, Jun Dingyuan asked, “Master Wen—coming here so late at night, is there something urgent?”

Wen Zuo: “Nothing much.”

Shen Zheng, sitting to the side with his chin propped on his hand, imperceptibly raised an eyebrow.

“General, when you attend His Majesty tomorrow, speak only of the great victory and battlefield achievements, the rampant banditry in Nanping, the hardships endured by the soldiers—and mention the common people along the way, grateful for the Emperor’s virtuous governance. You *must not* mention Consort Liang’s suffering or His Highness’s difficulties—and above all, show *no hint* of resentment.” Wen Zuo stroked the low table, offering the advice as if merely a gentle reminder.

Jun Dingyuan nodded. “How stingy with grace and cowardly that one on high is—I understand better than anyone. I still vividly recall how my father was hastily recalled from the northern deserts to the capital back then.”

“Then good. It seems my concern was misplaced.” Wen Zuo breathed a sigh of relief. He glanced subtly at the sky outside the tent, then covered his mouth with a light cough. “I am but a weak scholar—this is my first time in a military camp, and everything feels novel and intriguing. Why don’t the General and His Highness catch up first? I’ll take a casual look around the camp to broaden my horizons.”

“This… but the sesame cake should arrive soon. Won’t Master Wen eat before your stroll?” Jun Dingyuan hesitated.

Wen Zuo waved his hand. “I’ll be right back—I simply wish to look around casually.”

Jun Dingyuan: “Shall I send someone to accompany you?”

“No need, no need—I’ll be fine on my own.” With that, Wen Zuo had already lifted his official robe, raised the tent flap, and stepped out—his pace unhurried.

Seeing this, Jun Dingyuan did not press the matter. Besides, he genuinely wished to speak privately with Shen Zheng.

Shen Zheng had not interjected a single word throughout—merely watching Wen Zuo’s retreating figure with keen interest. Though Wen Zuo had tried his best to appear as if the idea had just occurred to him—acting calm and composed—Shen Zheng still detected a flaw in the act.

Who, upon first meeting a border general, would chat for mere sentences—then urgently demand a stroll around the camp?

By now, the sky was nearly dark. The time for Guang’an Gate to sound the bell and close was firmly fixed. What, then, was this little cat in such a hurry to do?

Jun Dingyuan asked, “On my way back to the capital, I heard many prefectures and districts abuzz—saying you’re now the reigning Chess Sage and founded Da Qian’s ninth school, the Meng School. What’s that about? I never noticed talent in that area when you were little.”

Shen Zheng withdrew his gaze, turning his head with an amused smile. “Uncle—when I was little, wasn’t I lacking in talent *everywhere*?”

“…”

Jun Dingyuan’s expression turned serious. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You have a naturally kind heart and benevolent character. My sister and I have always believed you were simply a late bloomer.”

This family was certainly protective of its own.

Shen Zheng explained, “Actually, I exploited a loophole. In terms of actual chess skill, any court official surpasses me.”

He recounted the entire story of the Spring Terrace Chess Association to Jun Dingyuan.

Jun Dingyuan suddenly slammed his fist on the table—making the brush and inkstone tremble. His jade-like face turned frosty as he declared angrily, “Da Qian has sunk to such a state! That the Eight Schools have become cesspools is one thing—but I never expected Shen Chen to harbor such malicious intent! I truly shouldn’t have saved that woman back then!”

Shen Zheng quickly tried to soothe him. “Uncle—though the person is wicked, helping them was not a mistake. Aiding the weak and helping the poor is never wrong in itself. What the person you helped ultimately becomes—that is *their* affair. Why blame yourself?”

Jun Dingyuan looked astonished. “At such a young age—you actually hold such insights?”

Shen Zheng hurriedly demurred, “These aren’t my insights. They belong to an old gentleman named Adler. He called this ‘separation of tasks.’”

Though Jun Dingyuan found the name strange—somewhat Western-sounding—he didn’t probe further, merely remarking with feeling, “It seems these ten years, you haven’t wasted your time. Truly worthy of the Jun family bloodline!”

Shen Zheng smiled—but his gaze couldn’t help drifting once more toward the tent entrance.

He had deliberately refrained from following—not wanting to disrupt the kitten’s plans. Having been so considerate to this extent—what kind of reward should he get?

Outside the tent, Wen Zuo did indeed feel a wave of relief at Shen Zheng's cooperation. He knew his actions were a bit reckless, but with time so tight, it was his only option.

After leaving the general's tent, he made a show of loitering around the area, even exchanging a few words with some soldiers on watch. Seeing that everyone was huddled around their lamp stands, drinking and eating, with no one paying him any attention, he turned and headed toward the rear camp.

His silk trousers were thin, and the grass brushing against his calves brought tingling, prickly discomfort. Enduring the irritation, he pushed through the thick grass, making a beeline for that lone, small tent.

Disturbed night insects chirruped low, scattering in all directions, cleaving a silent path through the grass.

From a distance, that familiar silhouette was indeed standing in front of the tent.

True to form, Mo Shu kept a low profile, alone.

He sat on a low stool, holding a bowl of water-soaked flatbread, as if deep in thought.

The faint light of the candle flickered over his figure, edging him in a soft, blurred halo.

He wore the simplest of coarse linen, washed to a faded, grayish-blue. His waist and hair were bound with nothing but rough cloth strips, with no luxurious accessories.

Yet his back was straight, and his eating movements were efficient yet graceful—a scholarly poise cultivated through years of reading.

The chopsticks occasionally scraped the edge of the bowl, making faint sounds. The hand holding the bowl was covered with a patchwork of old cuts and scars.

Wen Zuo closed his eyes, thinking, *Mo Shu, in my past life I couldn't save you. In this life, I will definitely keep you safe!*

With that, Wen Zuo softened his footsteps, using the tall grass to cover any noise as he quietly approached Mo Shu. When he was just a few steps away, he suddenly spoke: "It's cold and dark out here, and full of mosquitoes. Why not join the others in the front camp to eat?"

Mo Shu, startled by the voice suddenly so near his ear, jerked and shot to his feet.

Seeing this, Wen Zuo's eyes sharpened. He immediately pretended to trip, let out a cry of surprise, and threw himself toward Mo Shu.

"Careful!" Acting on instinct, Mo Shu hastily dropped his half-eaten flatbread and reached out to steady Wen Zuo.

Knowing Mo Shu had martial arts training, Wen Zuo put all his strength into this lunge.

Mo Shu's heel was propped against a stool. His footing insecure, he stumbled backward and was struck hard by the stool.

*This is bad!* he thought inwardly.

But he was already being pulled down by Wen Zuo, and they both crashed to the ground with a *thud*.

The soaked flatbread scattered everywhere, the white bowl overturned on the grass. Mo Shu's ankle caught on the stool, a dull pain immediately shooting through it. The coarse linen on his chest was tugged open by Wen Zuo, and from inside rolled out a carpenter's ink pot and a small, serrated bronze component—anyone familiar would recognize it as the 'tooth' from a defensive crossbow.

Wen Zuo was a novice at staging accidents, so he hadn't come off much better either. After hitting the ground, his palm was cut by sharp grass, leaving a gash. Fortunately, the grass was thick enough, so he didn't injure himself elsewhere.

The commotion drew the attention of the soldiers on duty, who rushed over in alarm: "Minister Wen, are you all right?"

"Master, are you hurt?"

Mo Shu suddenly looked up, his gaze fixed on Wen Zuo's face, as cool and clear as the moon over the mountains. After a few strangled breaths, he hurriedly struggled to help Wen Zuo up, then knelt on both knees, bowing his head low.

"This humble one, Li Ping, pays his respects to Minister Wen."

Wen Zuo got to his feet, swept the disheveled hair from his forehead and dusted the grass off his official robe. He glanced indifferently at his bleeding finger before turning to the two objects that had fallen from Mo Shu's embrace.

*Fortunately, this injury wasn't in vain,* he thought to himself.

Suddenly, a commotion arose outside the tent. The hot water and flatbread ordered earlier had yet to arrive. Jun Dingyuan's brow furrowed slightly, his voice low as he questioned the guards outside: "What's all the noise outside?"

The guard stammered through the tent flap: "General... Master Wen went to the rear camp earlier and was accidentally knocked over by Li Ping."

"Knocked over?" Shen Zheng's heart tightened, and he pushed against the low table as if to stand.

Just then, the tent flap was gently lifted. Wen Zuo walked in, sleeves rolled up, his bleeding hand hanging down as he bowed slightly.

His face was icy, his brows slightly furrowed. Trickles of bright red blood dripped from between his fingers, a somewhat gruesome sight.

Shen Zheng was both startled and puzzled, unable to figure out what Wen Zuo was up to. But for now, all he could do was seize Wen Zuo's wrist and look down at the wound.

"Uncle, is there a medic?" Shen Zheng turned to Jun Dingyuan.

It wasn't a serious injury, but it needed immediate disinfection and bandaging.

Before he finished speaking, the medic had already hurried over with a medical kit.

He deftly took out clean linen and opened a jar of boiled, cooled water, bowing as he said: "Your Highness, allow this subordinate to tend to Master Wen's wound."

Shen Zheng reluctantly released his grip, though his gaze remained fixed on Wen Zuo's injury. He asked softly: "Teacher, are you hurt anywhere else?"

Wen Zuo glanced quickly at Shen Zheng and shook his head.

In truth, the injury looked worse than it was—far less severe than the torments in the Dali Prison. But to show his dissatisfaction with the injury, Wen Zuo spoke lightly: "Your Highness, your teacher feels a slight pain."

Shen Zheng's heart also ached slightly: "My fault. I should have accompanied you earlier."

As the medic bandaged Wen Zuo's wound, footsteps sounded outside the tent again. Mo Shu limped in. He had straightened his clothes, hidden the fallen objects back in his embrace, and was supporting his injured leg, standing anxiously in the tent.

Jun Dingyuan saw grass clinging to his trouser legs and arms, a smear of paste-like stain on his front, and his ankle seeming unsteady. He abruptly stood up from behind the desk.

Before Jun Dingyuan could speak, Mo Shu knelt on both knees, his forehead lightly touching the ground. His voice was clear as jade striking jade, yet filled with humility: "This humble one is guilty. I accidentally bumped into Master Wen, causing him to bleed. I beg the general to punish me according to military law!"

Jun Dingyuan clenched his fist tightly, his brows deeply furrowed. His usually calm, jade-like face now showed ripples of emotion.

His gaze fell on Mo Shu's slightly swollen ankle: "Your leg—"

Mo Shu hurriedly interrupted: "This humble one is willing to accept military punishment, without the slightest resentment!"

Jun Dingyuan's throat moved, but he ultimately remained silent, unable to give the order for punishment.

By now, Wen Zuo's wound had been bandaged. He rested his hand flat on his knee, his gaze slowly shifting from the kneeling Mo Shu to Jun Dingyuan's hesitant face.

Wen Zuo suddenly curled his lips into a knowing smile: "I'm curious, what is this person's status? Since he has voluntarily requested punishment, why is the general reluctant to order it?"

Jun Dingyuan had already composed himself. With his hands behind his back, he looked down at Mo Shu's bowed back and replied calmly: "This person is my personal attendant, named Li Ping. He has always been careful in his actions. I believe it wasn't intentional. If he is punished, I fear no one will attend to my daily needs in the tent."

Wen Zuo lowered his head, flexing his injured finger. His tone was casual yet carried a hint of confrontation: "Isn't the general returning to the capital tomorrow? The Marquis of Yongning's residence has plenty of servants. Why worry about having no one to attend to you?"

Huff—

Gasp—

Mo Shu bit his lip tightly, his voice trembling yet still clear: "According to the *Da Qian Code*, those who injure a superior by collision shall receive seventy strokes. This humble one knows military law is strict. General, do not hesitate—punish me!"

Jun Dingyuan's temple throbbed faintly, his jade-like face slightly flushed, yet he still refused to speak.

Shen Zheng finally shifted his attention from Wen Zuo, his gaze falling on "Li Ping," whose face remained hidden in the shadow of his arms.

He knew that Wen Zuo's schemes against Wu Kan, Liu Quan, even involving the emperor, Consort Liang, Jun Dingyuan, and Nanping—exchanging spies for soldiers' remains, building a reputation along the way, winning over the army's loyalty—after all these twists and turns, ultimately, it was all for the sake of this person before him.

He quietly looked at Wen Zuo, seeing that shrewd gleam in his eyes once again, shining with determination.

Shen Zheng unobtrusively reached out, adjusting Wen Zuo's sleeve to cover a drop of blood that had accidentally stained his official robe.

*Teacher, you deliberately injured yourself for me again, didn't you.*

Unaware of Shen Zheng's silent question, Wen Zuo sat upright, his eyes gleaming with sharp light as he calmly asked: "How long does the general intend to keep this hidden?"