Regarding the so-called “ideal,” Meng Xizhao spoke only truths.
Yet he did not reveal all truths.
He wished for Cui Ye to abdicate because he did not trust him.
No matter how brilliant and valiant an emperor may be, in old age, his character can falter. A moment of madness might lead him to act like the old Xiongnu Chanyu, committing incomprehensible, infamous deeds.
Earlier still, even the onset of middle age changes one’s temperament—an unavoidable consequence of human physiology, not Cui Ye’s fault.
Ministers may change, but an emperor’s authority still governs them. If the emperor’s temperament changes, no one can control the outcome.
Meng Xizhao did not want to see this gentle Crown Prince turn into a tyrannical ruler, nor did he want this near-perfect “history” marred by a single flaw.
Cui Ye was his friend, the closest person to him in this world outside of family. Because of that, Meng Xizhao felt an almost obsessive desire to control him.
—You must be emperor. And you must be a good emperor. If one day you cannot continue, then step aside, and hand the throne to another.
As for the throne falling into someone else’s hands—whether the realm would immediately descend into chaos—Meng Xizhao never considered it.
In other words, his obsessive control was only for when the throne rested with Cui Ye. For anyone else, he felt no such inexplicable possessiveness.
And regarding his ideal scenario of retiring next-door neighbors with Cui Ye…
Meng Xizhao didn’t think there was anything wrong with it. After all, it was just an ideal. Who’s ideal doesn’t involve growing old next to siblings or friends, sharing meals, leisure, and joy together?
So, had Cui Ye not suddenly arrived that afternoon and delivered such a striking, highly sensitive embrace, Meng Xizhao would have spent the rest of the day back at the mansion reflecting on why he always wanted to meddle in Cui Ye’s life.
Meng Xizhao didn’t know how others viewed him, but he understood himself: he could be a little domineering.
It usually went unnoticed because those he interacted with weren’t yet within his sphere of influence. Once someone entered that sphere, he would subtly intervene, shaping their life bit by bit, guiding them within the circle he delineated.
The clearest examples were his elder brother and younger sister.
His interference was genuinely for their good, true—he hadn’t consulted them at all—but this also caused them worry, fear, and sorrow. Meng Xizhao’s approach was to do good deeds without taking credit, never revealing the truth in their lifetime.
From an omniscient perspective, his actions seemed harmless. But from the viewpoint of his brother and sister, if they knew the full story, it would likely hurt them more than discovering that the Fifth Prince left their family to suffer.
Life isn’t a few lines of text or a few seconds of day and night. For them, it was a real, day-by-day process. Their brother, without a word, had decided everything for them. Modern people couldn’t accept it, and neither could those from the past.
And even ignoring them—if the roles were reversed, and Meng Xizhao faced some unseen crisis with Meng Xiang secretly resolving it without informing him, he would have likely exploded upon discovering it.
He couldn’t accept it, yet he continued his ways—a complete double standard.
One small consolation: this controlling behavior applied only to family. Even those closest to him outside the family, like Jin Zhu or Qing Fu, he respected their wishes and never imposed such meddling.
Yet, unconsciously, Cui Ye had become subject to the same treatment. Meng Xizhao realized he couldn’t tolerate Cui Ye not following his plans. After steering him back on track, he now included Cui Ye in his considerations for the future, occasionally imagining how he might act then.
Thus arose the “retire next-door neighbors” scenario.
…
Cui Ye suddenly appearing at Longxing Mansion stunned everyone who saw him, and Meng Xizhao, naturally, felt the most anxious. He desperately wanted to know what had happened; otherwise, Cui Ye wouldn’t have come silently and then stared at him without a word, as if the visit’s sole purpose were to look at him.
Several guesses flashed through Meng Xizhao’s mind, but he didn’t dare ask—last night, Cui Ye had seemed deeply off.
If he insisted on sleeping in the same room, it was surely out of worry, fear that something might happen to him.
According to Meng Xizhao’s original plan, after describing his ideal, Cui Ye would have been moved, grasped his hand, and the atmosphere would have softened. Meng Xizhao could then seize the opportunity to ask what had happened, and perhaps they could solve it together.
But Cui Ye didn’t follow the script. The handshake of sincerity never came. Instead, there was a fervent embrace—a thunderbolt that left Meng Xizhao stunned. Back at the mansion, he sat in his chair, dazed, hearing nothing of the outside world for a long while.
“…Sir? Why are you alone? Where is the Crown Prince?”
Meng Xizhao looked up to see Jin Zhu worriedly watching him, with Qing Fu behind her, face full of curiosity.
Qing Fu asked, “Sir, what does the Crown Prince want with you?”
Jin Zhu scolded him, “And you said you’d show more respect to Sergeant Zhang. Last night, all that shouting, even I heard it.”
Qing Fu felt wronged: “Who told him to scare me like that…”
Jin Zhu snapped, “Even when he didn’t scare you, you still acted that way. Qing Fu, as Sir’s personal attendant, whenever you’re out running errands, it doesn’t matter what his relationship with Sir is. We, as subordinates, must always behave respectfully. Only then will we avoid mistakes.”
Qing Fu thought: I am respectful to the Crown Prince; it’s just that I’m not respectful to the sergeant.
But he knew if he said that, Sister Jin Zhu would hit him with the melon hammer.
He fell silent and merely said, “Oh,” to indicate he understood.
Having admonished Qing Fu, Jin Zhu turned her attention back to Meng Xizhao. She noticed he was no longer dazed but was instead seriously staring at Qing Fu.
Qing Fu also noticed and felt a chill creep across his scalp: “…Sir… why are you looking at me like that?”
Meng Xizhao beckoned him over.
Qing Fu glanced helplessly at Jin Zhu, who shrugged, offering him the space.
He stepped forward, bent slightly, about to ask what instructions Meng Xizhao had. Suddenly, Meng Xizhao reached out and touched his face.
It was similar to the gesture with Cui Ye—three fingertips lightly brushing, then withdrawing.
Jin Zhu watched curiously.
Qing Fu, confused, lifted his hand to the same spot Meng Xizhao had touched and asked, “Sir, is there something on my face?”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
He stared blankly at Qing Fu for a while, then beckoned to Jin Zhu: “You, come here.”
Jin Zhu stepped forward, puzzled, only to see Meng Xizhao’s face taut, his hand reaching out to lightly touch her cheek.
Jin Zhu: “……?”
What does this mean?
Jin Zhu and Qing Fu exchanged glances. Both found Meng Xizhao’s behavior strange, yet neither immediately thought of anything romantic. A mere touch on the cheek didn’t seem like a big deal.
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Could it be that he was overthinking it?
Or perhaps this ancient world was even more open than the modern one, and touching a cheek was simply a common way to show closeness?!
He even felt as if he had woken up in the wrong posture. How else could he wake up and find the world so incomprehensible?!
A whirlwind seemed to sweep through his mind. Meng Xizhao depressedly waved his hands, dismissing them both. Once the room was empty and quiet, he couldn’t help recalling Cui Ye’s embrace.
Yes, that was undoubtedly an embrace.
Even if the King of Heaven himself had appeared, that would have been a hundred percent an embrace!
So why had Cui Ye hugged him?
Was it because he’d been moved hearing Meng Xizhao’s vision of the future, imagining a peaceful life, and in a moment of excitement, had hugged him?
That made sense, but then—why touch his face afterward?
If the embrace and the cheek touch hadn’t happened sequentially, he wouldn’t be breaking down like this.
No, no, no.
He shouldn’t jump to conclusions.
After all, he was only a pseudo-ancient person. Real people in the past were much more openly affectionate; close friends could say extremely sentimental things to each other. Phrases like “inseparable as glue” or “like a bird leaning on a person” originally described two men before later becoming associated with couples.
And the famous “mandarin ducks” were first used by literati to describe the loyalty and fidelity between men, only by the Tang Dynasty did it come to exclusively refer to spouses.
Words were unrestrained, so gestures even more so. Take his second cousin Li Huai, for example—always crying, always hugging him. He hadn’t touched Meng Xizhao’s face… but if he did, Meng Xizhao was sure Li Huai would immediately reciprocate.
Meng Xizhao’s expression hardened, as if he’d convinced himself. Yet seconds later, he collapsed again, burying his face in his hands and gripping his hair.
But… they weren’t Cui Ye…
Even though Cui Ye sometimes spoke sentimentally, Meng Xizhao could never imagine him casually hugging another man.
His mind felt like two little people playing tug-of-war—sometimes the left side dominated, then the right. If this continued, he feared his “CPU” might overheat. He decided to stop thinking and just go back to sleep.
He hadn’t slept much the night before anyway. Today, he would feign illness and get a proper night of rest.
Yet as he sat on the bed, he suddenly recalled that last night, Cui Ye had been inside the room.
When Meng Xizhao tried to move to the edge of the bed, Cui Ye had pulled him closer, forcing them to sleep even nearer.
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
It seemed tonight, sleep would be impossible.
＊
After two consecutive nights of sleep deprivation, Meng Xizhao appeared so listless that even Xie Yuan was shocked.
Xie Yuan had assumed Meng Xizhao was feigning illness to accompany the Crown Prince, but now, judging by his condition, it seemed he really was sick.
He hurried over, leaning on his crutch, concerned: “Lord Meng, are you truly ill?”
Meng Xizhao gave him a peculiar look: “How do you know I was pretending?”
Xie Yuan: “……”
He forced a wry smile. “The night before last, when His Highness entered the mansion, I happened to run into him.”
Meng Xizhao hadn’t known this and paused, then said, “Did His Highness ask how your leg was injured?”
Meng Xizhao worried that if Cui Ye knew, he might hold a grudge against Zhao Chengli, making it difficult to let him face consequences.
Xie Yuan: “……”
Why bring up such a painful memory?
After a long silence, he finally told Meng Xizhao what the Crown Prince hadn’t said a single word about.
Meng Xizhao couldn’t help but burst into laughter on the spot.
Xie Yuan wasn’t angry, just a little envious. “His Highness didn’t say anything to me, but he moved so quickly—it must have been to see you. I envy the closeness between you two. I wonder when His Highness will remove his grudges against me.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Why bring up something so untimely?
Since the day they first collaborated, they’d never had serious disputes, yet a few polite words almost triggered anger.
…
After a long silence, Meng Xizhao unilaterally declared his displeasure toward Xie Yuan. He changed into more convenient clothes and continued inspecting the farming at Longxing Mansion.
Spring sowing in the city was complete, and now it was the fertilizing stage. Shi Dazhuang was busy beyond measure, barely finding time to sleep.
When Meng Xizhao came to find him, he was frowning at a jar of fermenting fertilizer. Seeing Meng Xizhao, Shi Dazhuang hurriedly closed the lid and came to greet him excitedly.
“Lord! I heard you were ill. How come you’re out already? It’s still cold in spring. You should wear more to avoid catching a chill.”
Meng Xizhao: “…I only fell ill yesterday. How did you know?”
Shi Dazhuang chuckled. “Look at you talking like that. Everyone in Longxing Mansion knows everything about you. The common people are all hoping for your well-being.”
Meng Xizhao eyed him suspiciously. “Really? They’ve stopped wanting to beat me?”
Shi Dazhuang: “…………”
Clearing his throat, he said, “Most of them have. Nowadays, word has spread that Prefect Meng is a good official: leading people to farm, distributing grain, establishing orphanages and charitable institutions, and even setting up dispensaries. Everyone is grateful to you. How could they still want to harm you?”
Meng Xizhao finally let out a laugh. “It’s not my doing. You were the one who led everyone to farm the land, and the militia commander led the grain distribution. The orphanage and relief homes were funded by wealthy families in the city. As for the free clinic—that was Vice Prefect Xie’s idea. After the harvest, he plans to promote the cultivation of medicinal herbs. The clinic will provide medicine to the poor for free, and at the same time purchase herbs from the common people.”
Seeing how modest he was, Shi Dazhuang felt even more moved. “But without you, Lord Meng, how would we even know to do these things? Our achievements are your achievements!”
Meng Xizhao nodded in full agreement. “That’s true. In that case, I’ll accept it—yes, it’s all my credit.”
Shi Dazhuang: “…………”
He nearly choked on his own breath. Not knowing what to say, he could only force an awkward smile, thinking to himself: My lord, you really have no shame at all.
…
Meng Xizhao hadn’t come here to listen to flattery. He was quite skilled at that himself and had no interest in wasting time on it. Sitting down, he asked about the current state of farming. He learned that all usable farmland in the city had already been planted, and every able-bodied person had been mobilized. Some families who had fled before the city fell had heard that Longxing Prefecture no longer lacked food and were cautiously returning.
Meng Xizhao nodded. “I’ve heard the same. I’ve already instructed the city guards—anyone who returns is to be let in. Those who wish to relocate here are also to be admitted.”
Longxing Prefecture no longer lacked food or money, but it still lacked people. If he had the time, he would have introduced a population recruitment policy—anyone under forty willing to move here would be granted two mu of land outright.
As for giving out food or money, that was out of the question. The prefecture was still tightening its belt. But unused farmland? That he could afford to be generous with.
Still, such a policy couldn’t be implemented yet. The situation was too unstable. Bringing in people recklessly could easily lead to trouble.
Shi Dazhuang continued discussing farming.
After reporting everything, he suddenly sighed. “My lord, only now do I realize what a terrible person I’ve been.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
He looked at him, puzzled.
With complete sincerity, Shi Dazhuang said, “When you first chose me to study seed selection and new fertilizers, I was drawn by the promise of rank and reward. I did all this for myself—for my family—to give my Jiaojiao a better life, so she wouldn’t remain a dirt farmer. But after coming to Longxing Prefecture and seeing those children—hungry, their bellies swollen—I finally understood what you meant for me to do.”
At this point, he lowered his head in shame. “In the past, just because my harvest was a little better than my neighbors’, I became complacent. When people asked me for advice, I hid what I knew. I didn’t realize that a single grain of food could mean a chance to live. My understanding was far too shallow.”
Not as broad as his lord’s—nor even his own wife’s.
Sob…
Meng Xizhao fell silent for a moment, then smiled. “It’s not too late to realize it now. Whether you do this for rank and reward or to feed the people—it doesn’t matter. The outcome is what matters. As long as it’s a good deed, who cares what you were thinking?”
Shi Dazhuang, a burly, muscular man, was now crying like a young maiden. Wiping his tears, he nodded vigorously. “Yes! From now on, I’ll work hard and strive to develop the lime fertilizer you mentioned, so that all the people of Great Qi can have enough to eat!”
Meng Xizhao thought to himself, Even I wouldn’t dare make such a bold claim.
But dreams were a good thing. Whether they could be realized or not didn’t matter—what mattered was striving toward them.
They hadn’t spoken long before someone came looking for Shi Dazhuang in a hurry, calling him “Agricultural Master.”
“Agricultural Master, look at this fertilizer of mine—”
Another person followed right in. “Master, the seeds in my field have sprouted. Is it time to apply fertilizer yet?”
These were all local farmers. Many had never even entered the city before, so naturally they didn’t recognize Meng Xizhao. Pushed aside by the crowd, he watched as Shi Dazhuang patiently answered everyone’s questions, and he couldn’t help but feel pleased.
He had not misjudged him after all.
After inspecting the farming situation, Meng Xizhao went to check on the city’s reconstruction. When he had first arrived, nearly all the inns, restaurants, teahouses, and shops in Longxing Prefecture had been closed. Now, only about a third had reopened.
Aside from restaurants and teahouses doing decent business, everything else was struggling.
This wouldn’t do. If the city’s commerce couldn’t recover, even fewer merchants would be willing to come.
He had already handed the preliminary preparations for the snake trade over to Daoist Zangchen, who was likely busy these past few days. But even if they built a reputation, it might not attract many people. To maximize profits, he had to overcome Longxing Prefecture’s geographic disadvantage—
Namely, its proximity to Nanzhao.
Originally, his plan had been to develop a legitimate market by day and a black market by night. Officially, trade with Nanzhao was forbidden, but the Great Qi government largely ignored black market dealings—as long as they didn’t involve dangerous contraband like smuggling weapons, trading grain, or selling illegal salt, which were strictly prohibited.
Not everyone in Nanzhao lived well, and not all of them were hostile to Great Qi. They could find those who simply wanted to do business and draw them into the supply chain. Once entangled, if war ever reached Longxing Prefecture, their livelihoods would be at risk. At that point, the Nanzhao people themselves would find ways to persuade their compatriots.
But this method carried hidden risks and would take time—it was the cautious approach.
Meng Xizhao had originally been cautious, which was why he chose it. But now, in a foul mood, he no longer wanted to proceed that way.
Returning to the prefectural office, he went straight to find Xie Yuan.
The moment he stepped inside, he asked bluntly, “How far have General Ding and his forces advanced?”
At present, Longxing Prefecture had no Military Commissioner. Logically, military intelligence wasn’t under Xie Yuan’s purview—but since he was effectively the chief steward, he kept himself informed regardless, even without Meng Xizhao asking.
So when the question came, he answered immediately, “The army has been locked in a stalemate outside Jizhou City. The latest report from ten days ago said they had forced the Nanzhao troops back into the city. Since then, no good news has come—so I’m afraid nothing has changed.”
Jizhou lay just south of Longxing Prefecture. It had once belonged to Great Qi, but after the Emperor Tianshou ordered the campaign against Nanzhao, it was seized by them.
Meng Xizhao was a little stunned. “It’s been nearly three months since they left Longxing Prefecture, hasn’t it? How have they still not taken Jizhou?”
After all, they had brought gunpowder—an overwhelming weapon. With that, shouldn’t they have broken through on the first day?
Xie Yuan sighed. “My lord, you may not know—Jizhou is surrounded by mountains. The terrain itself serves as a natural fortress. The city gates and walls are almost secondary. After the Nanzhao took Jizhou, they carried off the local populace as forced labor. Now the city is filled entirely with their soldiers. And you know how shameless the Nanzhao are in warfare.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Yes, he had heard.
Ambushes with hidden arrows, clothing that functioned like camouflage, hiding in trees, haystacks, mud pits—setting traps everywhere.
Nanzhao also followed a shamanistic religion. They would cast curses at every turn, terrifying Qi soldiers.
To the south of Great Qi, aside from Nanzhao, there was also the Kingdom of Dali.
But because Dali bordered Tibet and Nanzhao more closely, it rarely interacted with Great Qi.
Before the war between Qi and Nanzhao, Nanzhao’s greatest enemy had not been Qi—but Dali.
The reasons were simple: proximity, and intense religious conflict.
Dali, like Yuezhi, was devoutly Buddhist to an almost extreme degree.
The difference was that Yuezhi knew its limits and kept a low profile, while Dali, lacking strength, chose instead to acknowledge a powerful “big brother” and use that backing to fight others.
…
Qi, as the Central Plains empire, was highly tolerant of different beliefs. As long as they didn’t harm lives or property, most religions could survive there. Sometimes, even those that did could still grow if left unchecked.
But Nanzhao was different. Their beliefs were fiercely exclusive, rejecting all foreign deities.
This was one reason Nanzhao seemed so mysterious to outsiders—their shamanism was incomprehensible to others.
Rumors abounded: some said a single curse could kill; others claimed they could control miasma to invade the body; still others said they practiced gu poison.
…The infamous poisons of the southern regions likely originated from there.
They were not only exclusionary toward outsiders—even their own traditions were never shared. Dali had repeatedly tried to build ties, hoping to exchange teachings and promote Buddhism together, but Nanzhao gave them no face at all. That was how the two ended up at war.
Tibet, located on the plateau, also practiced a form of Buddhism. Since descending to invade the Central Plains was difficult, after some attempts centuries ago, they gave up.
Instead, they had become one of Qi’s most stable neighbors—nearly two hundred years without war.
Originally, the balance in this region was: Dali and Nanzhao fought each other, Tibet supported Dali, and Qi stayed on the sidelines—occasionally aiding one side or the other, fanning the flames, and taking advantage where possible.
But then Emperor Tianshou made a rash decision to attack Nanzhao—and everything changed.
Now, Qi and Nanzhao were at war, while Dali watched from the sidelines, sometimes helping one side, sometimes the other, stirring trouble, profiting from it—and even sending some gains to its “big brother.”
…
How the tables had turned.
In truth, without Emperor Tianshou, Qi and Nanzhao might never have gone to war. They had their own conflicts elsewhere. But now, after thirteen years of fighting, it was too late. Though people say there are no eternal enemies, only eternal interests, both emperors were still in their prime. As long as they lived, the war would continue.
Xie Yuan only knew what was written in the reports. The real details, sitting here in Longxing Prefecture, were beyond him.
After some thought, Meng Xizhao returned and wrote a letter to Zhan Buxiu.
Jizhou was very close. He found one of the soldiers left behind by Ding Chun to deliver it—and that very night, Zhan Buxiu came back with the messenger.
He rode straight into the prefectural office. Only when he reached the discussion hall did he dismount. Still clad in heavy armor, he was slightly out of breath. Meng Xizhao watched him stride forward—months had passed since they last met—and his first reaction, seeing the healthy flush on Zhan Buxiu’s face from the hard ride, was… envy.
Envy of his strong body. Cui Ye had ridden day and night, yet his face had remained pale.
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Damn it—why am I thinking about him again?!
He immediately shook his head, as if to toss the thought out, then stepped forward with a smile. “General Zhan, long time no see.”
Zhan Buxiu looked at him and smiled as well. “Prefect Meng, I trust you’ve been well.”
Meng Xizhao let out a bold laugh and turned around. “Come on in. You’re full of vigor—I can’t compete with that.”
Zhan Buxiu followed him inside and sat down with him.
Meng Xizhao first brought up family matters. “You’ve been away for so long—have you written to your younger sister?”
Zhan Buxiu gave a short nod. “Once.”
Meng Xizhao: “…”
He stared at him in disbelief. “You’ve been gone four months, and you only wrote her one letter?!”
Zhan Buxiu: “…Ahui doesn’t mind.”
Meng Xizhao shot him a merciless look. “Whether she minds or not—do you think she’d tell you? Your sister is the most considerate person in the world. No matter who might hold you back, she never would. Fine, I’ll be honest—before I left, my sister mentioned Zhan Hui to me. She said the girl tends to overthink things. I figured you should pay more attention and help ease her worries.”
Zhan Buxiu paused. “But I’m here. How am I supposed to ease them?”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
You blockhead.
“Write letters! Write more letters! Show concern for her daily life, let her confide her troubles in you. Don’t tell me you think that just because you’re out here fighting a war, you can ignore everything at home? Aren’t you afraid that by the time you return, your sister will have completely changed?”
Zhan Buxiu fell silent for a moment after hearing this, then said quietly, “Ahui won’t change.”
Meng Xizhao was taken aback. This time, he didn’t press further.
The one who understood Zhan Hui best was undoubtedly Zhan Buxiu. As an outsider, what right did he have to meddle in someone else’s family affairs? Besides, given the situation of the Zhan family, it wasn’t his place to comment at all.
Meng Xizhao grew quiet. He had been in a foul mood today, and some of his true nature had slipped out. That overbearing tone of his—it really wasn’t a good look.
Silently chastising himself, he muttered, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Zhan Buxiu was briefly surprised, then smiled faintly. “It’s alright. I know you mean well.”
Meng Xizhao scratched his head. Good intentions weren’t an excuse to vent.
Clearing his throat, he decided to change the subject. “Anyway, I’ve said my piece—just keep it in mind. Right, I heard your army’s been stuck outside Jizhou City. What’s going on? Is the gunpowder not working?”
Zhan Buxiu shook his head. “It’s not that it doesn’t work—it’s that Jizhou is different. There’s no way to use it.”
He then explained Jizhou’s terrain.
Mountains and hills everywhere. The original city walls and gates had long been destroyed. The Nanzhao didn’t bother rebuilding them—instead, they cut down timber and patched the gaps with crude wooden barricades, calling that a “city wall.”
With walls like that, who needed gunpowder? A kick would knock them over.
But the Nanzhao weren’t fools. They did this precisely because they had better defensive measures and didn’t need walls.
Natural terrain was one advantage. The other was that the troops stationed there both lived in and were deeply familiar with Jizhou.
Before Longxing Prefecture had been taken by the Nanzhao emperor himself, Ding Chun had already been locked in a standoff outside Jizhou for a full year. Now, it was happening all over again.
It wasn’t like they hadn’t tried new tactics. If gunpowder couldn’t blow open gates, it could still be turned into other weapons. The craftsmen accompanying the army had been busy—attaching gunpowder to arrows. With extended range, they could still explode on impact. They even named them Thunderbolt Arrows.
But they only worked once. After that, they lost their effectiveness.
Meng Xizhao found it baffling. “What, they don’t kill when they hit?”
Zhan Buxiu shook his head. “They do. But there are too many enemies, and too few Thunderbolt Arrows. Once they charge forward, the arrows become useless.”
Thinking about it, Zhan Buxiu frowned. “Before every battle, the Nanzhao perform a sacrifice. They select ten men, have them stand before the army, and slit their own throats in full view of everyone. The first time I saw it, I thought I was seeing things. No wonder people call them barbarians—at a time like this, they’re still practicing human sacrifice.”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
Even he was shocked. “A sacrifice… actually works?”
Zhan Buxiu nodded. “For the Nanzhao, it works extremely well—no less than if their emperor himself led the campaign. Once the blood flows, every soldier fights like a madman. I had people investigate—it’s said they believe the dead will communicate with their shamanic god and help secure victory. Each sacrifice is thought to return to the god’s embrace, so they don’t fear death.”
“And if I have archers shoot those ten men before they can kill themselves, the Nanzhao still go berserk. Because in their eyes, the moment someone steps forward, the ritual has already begun. No matter how they die, they’ll still reach their god.”
Meng Xizhao was impressed.
When superstition reached this level, he had no choice but to concede.
If it could make people completely disregard their own lives, then they were utterly devoted believers. There was no way to bring them back to reason.
But this couldn’t go on. If Ding Chun’s forces remained stalled at Jizhou for another year—or several years—Longxing Prefecture’s development would be severely hindered.
Frowning deeply, Meng Xizhao pondered for a long time. Then suddenly, he looked up.
“If killing them doesn’t work… what if we disrupt the ritual itself?”
Zhan Buxiu frowned. “How? They have no altar, no priest. The general acts as the priest.”
Meng Xizhao waved a hand. “That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about defiling it. Rituals like that—they’re supposed to be sacred, right? Pure and clean, no matter the belief system.”
Zhan Buxiu blinked. “Yes… that should be the case.”
Meng Xizhao grinned. “Then what do you think—if, before they can slit their throats, we dump filth… human waste all over them… would their god still be willing to accept the offering?”
Zhan Buxiu: “…………”
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, taking a long time before he managed to speak.
“But they’re too far away from us…”
Meng Xizhao waved it off. “There’s always more solutions than problems. I remember some of the craftsmen traveling with you know how to build catapults. They may not be perfect yet, but throwing… that? That’s easy. You’ve got plenty of men—prepare more. The moment those ten step forward, start launching nonstop. I refuse to believe that once they’re drenched in stench, they can still carry out their ‘sacred’ ritual.”
At that, Meng Xizhao suddenly clapped his hands. “Right! Just to be safe, arrange for someone with a loud voice. After everything’s been launched, have him shout at the Nanzhao troops—say that using filth in a sacrifice has angered the gods, that their ritual is broken! The shamanic god is about to unleash its wrath, victory is on our side now! Soldiers of Great Qi, charge with me—!”
When he finished, he snapped his fingers crisply. “That way, no matter what the Nanzhao think, at least our side’s ‘ritual’ will be complete. Morale will definitely surge.”
Zhan Buxiu: “…………”
This time, he truly had nothing to say.