Chapter Eleven: Entering the Palace at Midnight

In the distance, a slender figure approached with graceful steps. As he drew nearer, it became clear that he was a young eunuch with delicate features and a smiling expression. His petite frame was dressed impeccably in the uniform of his rank, his posture naturally bent at the waist.

“General, please come with me. His Majesty has been awaiting you for some time.”

After traversing a long corridor, passing through countless ornate palaces, and enduring three rigorous inspections, Zifan was finally led into the Imperial Garden.

It was spring, and the garden was awash with blooming flowers. Countless butterflies danced among the blossoms, and the air was thick with the vitality of life.

The Emperor Ling of Han, long plagued by illness, was especially fond of this feeling of vigor and life. Thus, he had chosen this spot to summon Zhang Yang, the Governor of Shangdang, as well as Minister Wang Yun, to discuss the defense against the Xiongnu invasion.

“Your Majesty, I have brought the man,” announced the sturdy eunuch who had led the way. After a deep and formal bow before the Emperor, he stood respectfully to one side. “So he is Jian Shuo!” Zifan finally understood who his mysterious guide had been—Jian Shuo, one of the “Ten Constant Attendants.”

“Your servant, Wu Zifan, Tiger Guard General and Sima of Youzhou, pays his respects to Your Majesty. Long live the Emperor! May you reign for ten thousand years!”

“Rise and look upon me!” came a voice that, though refined and elegant, was clearly lacking in strength.

“Yes, Your Majesty…”

Zifan raised his eyes to meet Emperor Ling’s gaze. Though the Emperor appeared in good spirits, a pall of death lingered between his brows. His body was already like a lamp running out of oil.

It seemed the rumors of the Emperor’s recovery were false. Emperor Ling, as if perceiving Zifan’s thoughts, smiled wryly in his ceremonial robes and said, “I know well enough that clinging to life is a luxury. I know how many years remain to me—at most, a decade. But if, in that time, I can subdue the resurgent Xiongnu, that will be enough. After that, nothing concerns me anymore.”

Zifan hesitated for a moment, then blurted out an unplanned question. “As the Emperor of the Han, why do you not refer to yourself as ‘the lonely one’?”

The man lightly placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “For nearly a thousand years, the Han have been regarded as barbarians. I do this to remind myself never to forget that humiliation.”

Zifan was taken aback.

The Emperor withdrew his hand and chuckled. “I’m only teasing. I simply find that title inauspicious.”

Inwardly, Zifan thought, this is how a true ruler should be—possessed of such bearing and wit.

“Now, with troubles besetting the borders, I summon you to ask: how might our great Han defeat the Xiongnu and clear the northern deserts?”

After a moment’s thought, Zifan replied, “Your servant believes that the Xiongnu can hardly be eradicated, but they can be restrained. On the steppe, the Great Chanyu still accepts the Han court’s investiture in name. The Xiongnu have existed for ages, but their internal structure is loose—they have never formed a true nation. Their tribes remain largely independent.

“If Your Majesty would have the court spare some gold to cast additional golden seals for the Great Chanyu, distributing them among the different tribes, the Xiongnu would never know peace among themselves. In the end, like five splayed fingers, they could be broken one by one.”

Emperor Ling, grasping the essence of the plan, grew visibly flushed with excitement. His ailments seemed momentarily forgotten. Zifan’s strategy was indeed feasible—if it could bring peace to the Han and end the four-hundred-year menace of the Xiongnu, then Liu Hong could hold his head high above all his imperial ancestors since Liu Bang, founder of the dynasty. His place in the Ancestral Temple would be forever exalted. “To be remembered as an emperor for the ages is no mere dream!”

Who says that all under heaven are mere commoners, their rise and fall only a matter for the tomb? Who claims the borderlands lack true spirit, that stirring deeds are unworthy of record? When the people prosper, the empire flourishes and peace prevails. When the people suffer, the realm falls, and the Son of Heaven must guard his court with diligence.

Closing the ancient volume, his resolve was set.

Recalling old friends, he wondered, who could now compose a song of such valor?

He ordered Zifan to go to General He Jin’s residence to discuss specific strategies.

At that moment, the general was seated on a mat, engrossed in a game of chess. Upon seeing Zifan, he waved him over. “Come, come, Zifan! You are from a noble family and must surely be skilled in the game. The contest between black and white is so intricate and entangled—can you discern who will emerge victorious?”

“Your humble servant holds a lowly office and dare not presume to judge!” Zifan replied with the requisite humility.

“There are only the two of us here. Speak freely,” said He Jin.

On the board, black and white stones clashed like two armies locked in desperate battle. The game had reached the middle phase, the situation exceedingly complex, with the pieces intertwined—each within the other, friend and foe indistinguishable.

In officialdom, words were always veiled. Ostensibly, He Jin was asking about the game, but in truth, he sought Zifan’s opinion on the current state of affairs.

After a brief contemplation, Zifan spoke slowly. “In my view, the forces of black and white are evenly matched. Neither can truly destroy the other. However, black is scattered. With the right moves, white can break them apart and defeat them one by one.”

He Jin’s eyes lit up with sudden understanding. Zifan’s words had opened new avenues of thought for him.