Chapter 150

Chao Xiaochen didn't speak. Nan Wuxie swayed for a while, then suddenly remembered something. He turned around, looked up at his uncle bathed in sunlight, and asked in a clear, childish voice, "Uncle, tell me, how do you and Father fight battles? What's it like on the battlefield?"

Chao Xiaochen was taken aback. Before he could answer, Nan Wuxie had already scrambled over, his small hands clutching his uncle's knees, trying to climb up. Chao Xiaochen quickly bent down and scooped him up. Nan Wuxie latched onto his thigh, hugging his waist, tilting his head back with his eyes bright and sparkling.

"Uncle Chao, when I grow up, I want to be a great general like Father and you, riding a real warhorse to defend the land!"

Chao Xiaochen looked at him with fondness. "Yongci wants to go to war when he grows up too?"

"Mm!" Nan Wuxie nodded firmly. "I want to gallop like Uncle and Father, charge with the troops, win one battle after another, and drive the enemies away!"

To a child, the battlefield was all victory and glory and heroic songs—nothing else.

Chao Xiaochen smiled at him, his smile full of tenderness. He raised his head to gaze at the sun slowly sinking in the distance. The mountain wind blew, making their cloaks—one large, one small—flap loudly.

After a few moments, Chao Xiaochen spoke. "Actually, Uncle doesn't want Yongci to go to war when he grows up."

Nan Wuxie, still clinging to his belly, looked up and blinked. "Why?"

Chao Xiaochen stared at the setting sun, at the gray city beneath it. "Because war is cruel."

Nan Wuxie didn't quite understand and pressed further, "What does 'cruel' mean?"

Chao Xiaochen lowered his head again and smiled, patting the back of Nan Wuxie's head.

"Cruel means," he paused, as if searching for how to explain it to a six-year-old, "that a lot of people die."

Nan Wuxie blinked, puzzled. "But war is about people dying. Father told me that in battle, enemies die, and we die too. But we are heroes, and even if we die, we die as heroes."

Chao Xiaochen looked at him and sighed. "Yongci, do you know who dies the most in war?"

Nan Wuxie thought for a moment. "Soldiers! Like Uncle and Father!"

Chao Xiaochen shook his head. "Not just soldiers."

Nan Wuxie tilted his head as his uncle raised a hand and pointed toward the distant city.

"See that city?"

Nan Wuxie nodded.

"There are ordinary people in the city," Uncle Chao said. "Vegetable vendors, blacksmiths, weavers, shopkeepers, old people, children, newborn babies. They don't fight wars; they just go about their lives." He paused. "But when war comes, they're the ones who die."

Nan Wuxie frowned. "But they're not on the battlefield. How can they die?"

Chao Xiaochen looked at him, his eyes deep. "Horses' hooves will trample their fields, swords will break into their homes, fire will burn down their houses. They can't run, they can't hide. They can only die."

Nan Wuxie was silent. He furrowed his little brows in thought, then spoke again. "It's the enemy soldiers who kill them. We kill those enemy soldiers. Bad people kill good people—bad people deserve to die."

"Not necessarily, Yongci. It's not always the enemy soldiers that kill them." Chao Xiaochen looked at him. "Besides, the enemy soldiers are also human. In war, the ones who deserve to die are never just the soldiers charging the front lines."

The mountain wind howled, sweeping clouds and mist over the peak. Little Nan Wuxie clutched his wooden horse, his small body stiff as he clung to Uncle Chao, listening intently.

Those who deserve to die are never just the charging soldiers, nor should they ever be the countless innocent civilians. But a soldier grips his blade, and that blade guards the land, and under that land are thousands upon thousands of people.

A battle won is just a few lines in the history books. A battle lost brings suffering to countless lives.

Nan Wuxie was still young, half-understanding.

"They have families too," Uncle Chao said. "Wives, children, and elderly parents. They don't want to fight either, but they're forced to. When they die, their families grieve too." He paused. "War doesn't just kill our people—it kills theirs too."

Nan Wuxie said nothing. He hugged his uncle's waist, as if he understood, and as if he didn't.

"But..." After a long pause, he said, "But they came to attack us. If we don't kill them, they'll kill us. So what do we do?"

Uncle Chao looked at him and suddenly smiled. "That's the cruelest thing about war. You know they're people too. You know they have families. You know they don't want to die. But you still have to kill them. If you don't, your own people will die. If you do, their families are destroyed."

He looked down at Nan Wuxie with a pang of regret. "Yongci, you're too young. I shouldn't be telling you this."

Nan Wuxie shook his head. "I want to hear it. I want to know what war is really like."

Uncle Chao lowered his gaze, then after a moment, raised his hand and ruffled his hair. "Alright, I'll tell you."

He lifted Nan Wuxie off his lap and sat him down on a large rock nearby, making him sit properly. He then sat down beside him, gazing at the increasingly red sunset in the distance.

"In battle, you'll see a lot of people die."

Nan Wuxie listened intently.

"Enemies, comrades, people you don't know, people you know. Older ones, younger ones. Those who were drinking and eating with you yesterday, those who were joking with you this morning." He paused, then continued, "When they die, some call out their families' names. Some can't say anything at all—they just stare at the sky with wide eyes."

Nan Wuxie's brows furrowed tighter.

"But you can't stop," Uncle Chao went on. "You have to keep charging, keep killing, keep striking. Because stopping means death. Because there are more people behind you counting on you to protect them."

He turned to look at Nan Wuxie. "Do you understand?"

Nan Wuxie thought for a moment, then nodded, then shook his head.

Chao Xiaochen gave a helpless, affectionate smile. "It's okay if you don't understand; you're still young. You'll get it when you're older."

Nan Wuxie looked at him. "Have you been in many battles?"

Chao Xiaochen nodded. "Many times."

"Then..." Nan Wuxie hesitated. "Are you afraid?"

He saw a complex expression cross his uncle's face. For a long time, he didn't speak, just stared at the city full of people under the setting sun.

After a long while, he finally said, "I am."

Nan Wuxie got his answer and fell silent.

Uncle Chao is afraid?

The man who stood like a mountain in the hall, who struck fear into enemies, who fought alongside his father—he's afraid?

"Uncle..." He didn't know what to say.

Uncle Chao lowered his head and smiled. "Being afraid isn't something to be ashamed of. Those who aren't afraid of death are already dead themselves. Being afraid helps you stay alive." He paused. "But even afraid, you have to charge forward. That's war."

He reached out and took Nan Wuxie's small hand, which was still clutching the wooden horse. "Yongci, Uncle is selfish. I don't want you to go down this path." He looked down at the little child in his arms, his eyes full of pity. "I hope you live a peaceful life, free from disaster, without ever wielding a blade on the battlefield, without ever having to face blood firsthand, without living in the shadow of swords and daggers, without constantly worrying about losing your head. If this world were without war, if this land were at eternal peace, then there would be no need for generals, no need for soldiers. Everyone would live peacefully, year after year of safety—that would be the best world of all."

Nan Wuxie said nothing. He looked at his uncle's eyes, which shone in the sunset.

"But Uncle still goes to war. Father does too. You know people die, but you still go."

Chao Xiaochen was stunned for a moment by these words. After a brief pause, he smiled, looking at the young boy before him, and said earnestly, "So, Yongci, if one day you really do take to the battlefield, I hope you'll remember these words."

Nan Wuxie remained silent.

"A general who cannot see death," said Chao Xiaochen, "is not a good general."

Nan Wuxie frowned, confused. "With so many soldiers dying before his eyes, how could he not see that?"

Uncle Chao shook his head. "It's not that they can't see it—it's that some people, as they fight, forget." He paused, then continued: "They forget that the dead are people, that those people also had families, that they could have lived. They only remember winning, only remember victory, only remember their own merits. I've seen many such generals."

He stopped for a moment, then finally said, "They all died later."

Nan Wuxie remained silent. He remembered his father saying: as the Commander-in-Chief, you must remember the names of all his soldiers under your command. He hadn't understood then, but now he felt he was beginning to understand.

"Uncle, could Father also forget?"

Chao Xiaochen shook his head. "The Marquis will not. Your father is the best general in this world."

Nan Wuxie smiled, a very bright smile, like sunlight falling on his face.

Chao Xiaochen hesitated. "Yongci, there's one more thing I must tell you."

Nan Wuxie watched his uncle's gaze turn deep, listening intently.

"A general's head is fated to fall," said Chao Xiaochen. "If not by an enemy's hand, then by the hand of his own sovereign."

This was too deep. Nan Wuxie understood even less. The child couldn't understand such reasoning and asked, "Why? We defend our homes and country—why would the sovereign cut off our heads?"

Chao Xiaochen did not answer immediately. He gazed at the distant city, at the golden tiles.

After a long while, he said softly, "Because a ruler is a ruler, and a subject is a subject." He lowered his head to look at Nan Wuxie. "The Marquis knows, I know, yet we still have to go to war. That is the reason."

Nan Wuxie looked at him, his small brows furrowed tightly. He didn't fully understand, but he remembered those words.

A general's head is fated to fall.

He watched his uncle's face, bathed in the setting sun.

The wind on the mountaintop still blew, whistling, tousling his loose hair.

Nan Wuxie suddenly felt a chill. His consciousness sank abruptly. The gentle, hazy light vanished instantly. What followed was a bone-chilling cold, excruciating pain as if his body was being torn apart, and the cloying smell of blood.

His eyelashes fluttered slightly. He was still lost in unconsciousness, his brows tightly knit, fine cold sweat beading on his forehead, his jaw clenched. A faint murmur slipped out of his lips.

His arms were empty. The warm peachwood horse was gone, and beside him was no longer the gentle uncle who protected him—only boundless darkness and intense pain enveloped him.

The mountain in the dream, the wind in the dream, the conversation in the dream—those words etched into his very bones spun around in his unconscious mind.

A general's head is fated to fall.

A great general either dies at the hands of his enemy or at the hands of his ruler.

This was the nightmare of his life, the fate he had struggled with all his might to escape but could never break free from.

The child in the dream had long grown up, clad in battle armor, galloping across the battlefield, becoming invincible so that no enemy blade could harm him in the slightest. Yet he still remained on guard by day and restless by night, because he knew that the sharpest blade was never on the battlefield, but in the court, in the hands of the ruler he was protecting with his own life.

The fading dream shattered, the lingering pain would not cease.

He suddenly opened his eyes. Candlelight flickered in the dim corner. Nan Wuxie lay on the bed, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving violently. He stared at the tent ceiling, its yellowish fabric lit by the candle flame, for a long time without moving.

The scene from the dream was still vivid before his eyes.

His uncle's face, the wind on the mountaintop, the wooden horse that ran toward the sun.

And those words.

For so many years, those words had never left him.

***

On the second day of the eleventh month of the tenth year of Jinyuan, the emperor's illness suddenly worsened.

The lingering weakness took a sharp downturn. The herbal remedies from the Imperial Hospital grew stronger by the day, but Li Sheng's waking hours grew shorter by the day. In the end, the time he was awake in a single day was no more than an hour or two.

When awake, he didn't speak. He just stared at the tent ceiling, not knowing what he was thinking. Sometimes when Situ Kong or Wang Dequan got close to ask a question, he would only wave his hand, too weary to bother replying.

In the latter part of the eleventh month, an imperial decree was issued from the emperor himself and sent south.

When the last account was checked, the sky was nearly light. Wen Buchi put down his brush, leaned back, and couldn't help yawning. On the desk, the stack of lists from the confiscation of wealthy gentry's properties and the canal transport orders intercepted by Luo Qian were stacked half a foot high. After several days of sorting, they were finally finished.

Meng Zhentang refilled his cup of hot tea and placed it at the corner of the desk. "Sir, rest a while. The shortfall in Nanchang has been covered. Tomorrow, the silver will go to canal repairs. The shops will be sealed first, waiting for someone to take over. The rest has been sent under escort to the southern border."

Wen Buchi hummed in acknowledgment. "How long ago did the grain escort depart?"

"Four hours ago. By now, they should be out of Jiangxi territory."

Wen Buchi nodded, picked up the tea cup, and drained it in a single gulp.

Meng Zhentang stood by watching. The man who hadn