Chapter 155 — Blood, Valor, and a Man’s Calling

The military spy, having presented the hastily compiled dossier with both hands, already lowered his head and dared not lift it again. Such clandestine matters—if not for the direct intervention of the head of the Military School—would never have been so easily uncovered. 

A long silence passed.

When the spy finally raised his eyes, he saw the usual bold and unruly Seventh Prince’s face, the smile upon it fading bit by bit.

The prince’s hand, clutching the dossier, bulged with veins, even trembling slightly.

“This is real?!”

“This… this cannot be real…”

“You’re lying to me!”

The Seventh Prince suddenly roared in fury. With a violent sweep of his arm, the dossier in his grasp scattered with a sharp hua-la sound. His right hand raised and drew his sword in one fluid motion—then slashed outward with force.

A burst of sword qi swept across the chamber, shredding the dossier into countless pieces. Like snowflakes, the fragments fluttered down upon the room.

The prince, gasping for breath, staggered back a few steps.

Then slumped into his seat.

“It can’t be true…”

“It can’t be.”

His face was twisted, almost feral. The shattering of long-held beliefs struck him harder than even the fiercest onslaught of the demon clans. His mind plunged into chaos, composure shattered, reason slipping away. The military spy remained silent. Yet in the end, recalling the fate of the once-mighty Xuan Armor Army—also of the Military School—he finally spoke:

“This subordinate has already conducted covert inquiries among many of the Xuan Armor Cavalry still stationed within the capital. The information was pieced together through oblique questioning… Only our Military School possesses the capacity to gather intelligence this precise, this rooted in battlefield formations.”

“I stake my life upon it—this intelligence is flawless.”

He clasped his hands in a formal salute.

Then drew his sword, intending to end his life.

To possess such knowledge was to forfeit the right to live. The Military School had upheld the tradition of [Death Spies].

But just as the blade left its sheath, a hand suddenly pressed down on his. The Seventh Prince—who had stood several paces away—was now before him in the blink of an eye.

His right hand clamped firmly over the spy’s, forcing the sword slowly, yet irresistibly, back into its scabbard. There was no room for refusal.

In just a few moments, the Seventh Prince’s eyes were bloodshot, his breath unsteady. He said hoarsely, “What are you doing?”

“A subject such as I, should not know of such things.”

“You shouldn’t know?!”

“Ha! Since it was done, why should it not be known? You don’t know, then what of those who do know? Are we to kill them all? And those who cannot be killed—must we shadow them, hound them until death…” His voice suddenly froze. Then, as though realizing something, he suddenly let out a furious roar. Spinning around, he slammed a fist downward.

The tyrannical force of his punch exploded forth, causing the entire building to shake several times violently.

Had it not been for the last sliver of reason still anchoring him…

By tomorrow, the capital would surely be abuzz with rumor: that the infamous wastrel, the Seventh Prince, upon his return to the city, had done nothing else but smash the villa bestowed upon him by the Emperor.

His breath grew heavier, more ragged—like a fierce tiger in a blood rage. Teeth clenched, he growled: “He slaughtered my soldiers…”

“He killed those who gave their lives for the realm…”

“He—he killed… He… He is my father…”

“Why must he be my father?!”

He rose to his feet, loosening his grip on his subordinate’s collar. Then, as though all the bones in his body had been ripped out, he slumped back, eyes closed, and whispered:

“You… be silent.”

Stumbling forward, he dragged his subordinate’s sword and collapsed into the chair.

Lifting a cup, he drank tea as though it were wine. The once unrestrained and arrogant war god—who had remained calm and composed even on the battlefield against foreign races—now sat with a face stripped of its former luster. Fierce generals were always ill-suited for the court. He had once killed man and beast as though cutting grass, but reading the lines in that dossier, he felt his heart seizing again and again, his mind turning blank.

The path of the Military School was to wage war for the nation. One who bore the mantle of general existed to protect the country and ensure peace for the people.

The country remains—but where are the people?

As a general… as a scion of the imperial bloodline… all his lifelong teachings now threatened to unravel his very soul.

A son should shield his father’s wrongs… But when the father has committed sin—what then of the son?

What do you expect me to do? How am I to choose? How?!

From outside, a soft woman’s voice drifted in, laced with laughter, sweet as red dust in the springtime of a flourishing age:

“Your Highness? A few young masters have sent word again, urging Your Highness to come.”

“They say… if you don’t arrive soon, and end up showing up at all, you’d best not blame them for pouring wine down your throat…”

The military spy stiffened slightly. With visible tension and worry, he raised his head and looked toward the tall young man. But the latter simply tilted his head back and downed the tea in a single gulp. Rising to his feet, there was not the slightest trace of turmoil left on his face. He exhaled deeply, his gaze calm, eyes long and narrow like blades. He reached out and pressed a hand on the spy’s shoulder. “Stay here.”

“If you still wish to end your life, wait until I return today. Then I’ll decide… whether your life is worth sparing.”

The military spy bowed his head and said solemnly: “Your subordinate obeys.”

The young man strode out with long strides. Arms spread wide, he walked over to the two waiting maidservants with a booming laugh, pulling them into his embrace with a flourish of intimacy. His eyes glimmered with playful charm, and his teasing made the beauties blush. Then, he changed his attire. Donning splendid court garments, the tall and broad-shouldered youth now bore the air of a genuine, if flamboyant, princeling.

He ordered the carriage to be brought around—but the Seventh Prince merely laughed aloud. “What carriage?”

“That’s for womenfolk.”

“Horseback!”

To one side, a full-figured woman with gentle eyes covered her lips and giggled: “But aren’t all the ministers and officials arriving in carriages as well?”

The Seventh Prince scoffed and roared with laughter: “All the civil and military officials of court—none of them are real men!”

And then he added, half to himself: “Perhaps I’m no better.”

That last remark, the two maidservants did not catch—or if they had, they would not have understood.

Clad in a dark cloak, the prince of blazing youth and spirited steeds mounted his horse and galloped off. His black hair was tied high into a ponytail that streamed behind him, and his demeanor was carefree, even regal in its abandon. Yet this time, he restrained himself—no longer trampling over the roadside stalls as he had in his younger, wilder days. He rode straight toward the greatest of the capital’s 360 districts: Drunken Heaven Pavilion.

Even Heaven can be intoxicated—what arrogance that name holds.

Years ago, the reclusive Drunken Scholar had stayed here in drunken stupor for three days and nights, composing the famed piece “Ode to the Roc.” From then on, the name Drunken Heaven Pavilion had spread far and wide.

The Seventh Prince arrived on horseback, dismounted with a leap, and casually tossed the reins to a sharp-eyed servant boy who had rushed over to receive him. He then strode inside. The entire pavilion had been booked in advance—one could see how deep his pockets ran. Inside the finest private room on the upper floor, more than a dozen young men were already waiting. Upon seeing the prince arrive, they all rose to greet him.

He greeted each one with a hearty laugh and a bearhug.

These were the scions of the most powerful military families in the entire capital. They neither bowed to the Crown Prince nor to the Fourth Prince—but all of them followed this Seventh Prince.

Why?

Because in their youth, he had gone house to house, beating each and every one of them into submission.

If you yielded, you were welcome to join the next round of fights—against someone else. 

If you refused?

He’d keep beating you until you did.

Thus did he become the leader of this circle of scions from martial families. After the round of courtesies, laughter soon broke out as he invited the beauties to ascend the stage to dance and sing. The merriment lasted until dawn—needless to say. The eighteen top courtesans from all the pleasure houses across the capital all made their appearances that night. Each possessed her own unique allure: some were voluptuous and striking, others delicate and charming, but all were beautiful in their own right. They could compose verse, paint, sing to the qin, and recite poetry with equal ease.

Each brought wine to toast him, and the Seventh Prince, naturally, was well pleased. As he drank, he did not refrain from laying hands on them here and there.

This was no different from his usual disposition.

These women, aware of his exalted identity—especially his imperial dignity—naturally did not resist him. That one courtesan in particular, with skin like snow, peerless beauty, and a notably full figure, was soft and boneless like a snowdrift. It was as though she wished nothing more than to melt into the prince’s embrace. After only a few cups, her cheeks flushed red, her limbs turned pliant, and a faint, lingering fragrance arose from her body.

She played the qin and sang softly, her eyes moist and tender, as if dew might fall from her lashes.

The Seventh Prince tapped rhythm on his sword with his fingers, joining in with her song. Later, this prince—who had always been famed for his martial prowess and unrestrained manner—suddenly picked up the qin and began to play. All present knew that his mother had been of humble birth and had passed away early. In his childhood, he had been raised by his father, the present Sage-Emperor. Though he focused on martial cultivation, he had also studied the arts of qin, chess, calligraphy, and painting.

But when he played, the clear, serene notes of the qin bore a sharp, killing intent—three parts cold steel within the melody.

All who listened felt their hair rise, as though pierced by that murderous air.

Playing and singing in harmony, he chanted:

“In ancient days, Jinzhou stood glorious, yet now ground to dust—

How many heroes were wasted thus?

Think—iron-clad ranks, black swords wet with blood,

Army tents stretching into the void.”

“Sixty myriads of Xuan-armored troops scattered—

Surely they must have cursed in their hearts:

Why did we not cross east past the great river!”

“A lone sword, fierce as a dragon,

Could do nothing but witness the land stained with commoners’ blood.”

The music rang with steel and fury. The sons of generals and martial lords all recognized that this verse told of the battle at Jinzhou seven years ago. A tributary of the Jing River split Zhongzhou from Jinzhou; to the east of the river lay Jinzhou itself. The poem lamented that when the 600,000 Xuan Armor troops dispersed, they must have bitterly regretted not crossing east to take Jinzhou.

And yet—for reasons unknown—

Tonight, hearing this piece, all present felt a grief and fury so deep it seemed as though they had personally lived through it.

When the piece ended, the Seventh Prince pushed aside the qin, tilted his head back, and drank deeply, pulling the courtesan into his arms.

He paid no heed to the others’ praises, sitting in dazed silence for a long while. Then the sound of the qin returned, hollow and distant, as he recited:

“The old soldier’s lonely grave meets the autumn wind;

Millet and grain fill the land, yet all is desolate.

The painter of brows has gone far; the Tower of Swallows lies empty.”

“Life spans but a hundred years—

Let us be merry!

One drink—may it drain a thousand cups!”

“I look back to that desolate province at dusk,

Leaning on the railing, watching the wild geese fly.”

But as he played and sang to the line “Let us be merry”—

The qin gave a sharp, metallic snap, like the cry of a blade drawn. The string broke. The Seventh Prince stared at it for a long while, then suddenly burst into loud laughter, saying, “Enough! I’ve had my fill for tonight. Come, my friends—let us change venue!”

No one found this strange; all laughed in unison. The Seventh Prince swept the most voluptuous courtesan into his arms and, amid a flurry of startled cries tinged with shyness, strode out, placed her atop his steed, mounted up, tugged the reins, and laughed loudly:

“Let us ride!”

It seemed that the Seventh Prince greatly favored this beauty. The various young scions, understanding the situation, knew that the prince intended to take the courtesan to his bed for an amorous encounter.

They laughed and teased in jest.

The Seventh Prince, however, was not angered. He merely laughed heartily and spurred his horse onward.

The group of young scions rode through the streets, heading toward a familiar place—the pleasure boat. But after several streets, the Seventh Prince suddenly halted his horse. He raised his gaze to a nearby tavern. The eldest son of the Duke Zhenguo also stopped his steed. He saw that the Seventh Prince seemed troubled and approached to inquire, saying: “Your Highness, is something the matter?”

The Seventh Prince closed his eyes and replied, “This tune…”

The eldest son of the Duke Zhenguo listened for a moment, then asked, “It is a little strange, what is it?”

The Seventh Prince remained unfazed, only smiling as he said: “I remember that one of my soldiers once hummed this song, saying his sisters and cousins all knew it. Now hearing it again, it brings some emotions and a sense of familiarity.”

“Haha, since Your Highness feels this way, why not call forth the one who sang this tune?”

Soon, a figure was called out—a man, an old man playing the erhu, with a sorrowful expression. Alongside him was a young girl, likely about thirteen years old, who seemed completely overwhelmed by the grandeur surrounding her. While the old man still managed to keep his composure, the girl’s face had turned pale, and her hands trembled as she offered her greetings.

“It’s fine, do not cause a disturbance.”

The Seventh Prince, dressed in fine robes and atop his horse, smiled and waved off his companions. He dismounted and, with a beauty in tow, approached them, asking: “What songs can you play?”

The old man bowed deeply and answered: “I know most of the popular tunes, and some country folk songs as well. They’re not the sort of songs that would suit a grand occasion.”

The Seventh Prince replied, “These aren’t exactly grand occasions either.”

He then asked, “What happened to your eyes?”

The old man answered: “Seven years ago, at Jinzhou, I was farming when the heat seemed to suddenly intensify. I looked up, and my sight went blind. I was swept away by the chaos and somehow managed to survive.”

The Seventh Prince fell silent for a moment, then asked: “Is this your granddaughter?”

“No, she is a child I met along the way.”

He smiled again and said: “We are all from Jinzhou. No one has a home, but we survived together—such is fate.”

“We’ll just continue on like this.”

“What do you listen to, esteemed guest?”

The Seventh Prince tossed out a piece of silver and said, “Sing whatever you’re most familiar with. This prince has never heard the tunes of Jinzhou before.”

The old man thanked his honored guest, then, right there on the winter street, set down his erhu. From his traveling bundle, he pulled out another simple stringed instrument and adjusted the tuning. The melody that emerged was light and cheerful.

The young girl did her best to steady her emotions, then raised her voice and began to sing: 

“Who would know that Jinzhou, ten thousand li wide, 

Is it full of beauty everywhere?”

“Flowers that bloom in all seasons,

Trees that stay green through the year.”

“Top-grade tea, 

gourds of five colors, 

and blossoms through the four seasons…”

The Seventh Prince listened intently.

The beauty beside him let out a soft laugh. This song, after all, was plain in style and sung in rustic, homespun language—it struck her as rather ridiculous. “Top-grade tea, five-colored gourds, flowers of the four seasons…”

Such commonplace things—were they worthy of being sung of in verse?

She had studied qin since childhood under famous masters. In her eyes, this sort of thing was far beneath notice. Besides, with the prince so near, this was her chance; she could not let someone else pull his attention away. So she laughed softly and said, “Your High… Young Lord, such vulgar ditties are just noise. Hardly worth your time.”

Frightened by the beauty’s words, the thin, sallow girl dared not make another sound.

But the Seventh Prince only smiled and said, “Keep singing… it sounds lovely.”

The little girl, trembling slightly, resumed her song, though still hesitant.

The beauty, unwilling to give up, clung to his hand and pouted, “Young Lord…”

“This is so unpleasant to hear…”

Slap! A crisp sound rang out.

The beauty staggered back in disbelief, her cheek red from a heavy slap. She fell to the ground, still with that soft, fragile air—but her mind had gone completely blank. The Seventh Prince lowered his eyes and asked softly, “How does the next verse go…”

“They say Jinzhou is full of spring light,

Ten thousand li of blooming skies…”

He remembered how, once, one of his soldiers had hummed this tune beneath the full moon. That man had been just an ordinary soldier, nothing remarkable—yet the memory lingered.

During another surprise raid by the demon clans, that same soldier from Jinzhou had died at the border.

The Seventh Prince listened to the song and saw the little girl trembling—perhaps from fear, or perhaps from the cold.

He closed his eyes briefly, then undid the black cloak from his shoulders. With a sweep and a flutter, he laid it over the child’s thin, shivering form.

The child looked up and saw the finely dressed youth on horseback reach out and press his hand gently atop her head.

The Seventh Prince said softly: “Little one, you sing beautifully.”

The Seventh Prince took the treasured sword that had once belonged to the military spy—a blade worth fifty thousand coins—and tossed it into the old man’s hands.

From his bundle, he retrieved a humble eating-knife, the kind used by the people of Jinzhou at mealtime.

Gripping the knife, he seemed lost in thought. After a moment, he tightened his hold on the handle.

Then, without warning, he swung himself onto his horse. That black warhorse—its shoulder nearly a zhang high—suddenly reared with a sharp neigh, as if provoked. It whirled about and sprang forward, hooves pounding the earth.

Amid the startled cries of the crowd, the prince spurred the horse into a gallop, knocking over nearby stalls and plunging the street into chaos. That young man merely laughed wildly as he rode.

His warhorse, fierce and swift, charged straight in the direction of the imperial palace.

Without the slightest hesitation.

“Wang, though young, possessed great strength. Arrogant and proud by nature, he was often involved in fights, frequently injuring others and drawing resentment from the people.

At fifteen, not yet of age, he entered the frontier. He survived six battles of near-certain death and slew over three hundred demon-clan enemies. At sixteen, he became a leading figure in the military. He could draw heavy bows; however, he was still a youth, and many were unwilling to accept him.

When the demon clans invaded, he led a handful of personal guards to ride deep into enemy lines, taking heads and returning unscathed. Though the enemy numbered in the tens of thousands, they were powerless against him.

Thus, the soldiers revered him, calling him a divine man.

He then reformed the army’s ranks and enforced strict discipline. By seventeen, he could command an army of a hundred thousand, holding back the enemy three hundred li from the border.

He loved beauty, indulged in wine and revelry, and rode freely through the mortal world. He loved fine wine, squandered riches, and maintained over a hundred and thirty chefs within the army alone—his extravagance drew heavy criticism.

The officials rebuked him, saying such conduct was unworthy of a general. Wang would always scoff in reply, caring not in the slightest.

At twenty-two—

He entered the forbidden palace, carrying only a blade.

—Excerpt from Annals of the Greatest Generals under Heaven – Human Race – The Fierce, Brave and Martial Prince