The sky over Zhenbei City had not cleared for seven days.
The garrison on the walls had changed shifts three times, yet no one dared to close their eyes.
The first shift consisted of veteran border soldiers who had gone up in the dead of night, their eye sockets sunken into dark hollows.
When the second shift arrived to relieve them, the old soldiers had not even removed their armor. They crouched under the crenellations, gnawing on dry rations in the cold wind, unwilling to descend from the walls.
By the time the third shift took over, the squad leaders had to pat awake the soldiers dozing against the parapets.
One young soldier, when roused, abruptly drew his sword and took a long moment to recognize his own men.
Scouts returned every half hour.
Before their horses had fully stopped, the riders would roll off their saddles and shout toward the tunnel beneath the gate: “Helian’s vanguard has crossed the Black Water Ancient Channel. They are less than seven days’ march from Zhenbei Pass!”
Seven days.
Those two words burned in the air, so fiercely that no one on the walls or below dared to ask further.
In seven days, the hooves of seventy thousand iron cavalry from the Yinshan direction would come crashing against these crumbling parapets.
Inside the General’s Mansion, lamps burned all night without rest.
In the main council hall, five or six ox-tallow lamps illuminated the walls as bright as daylight.
Tie Lanshan stood before a massive map, a blackwood measuring rod in hand, having traced the line from Zhenbei Pass to the Black Water Ditch countless times.
“General Xu’s three hundred cavalry for the surprise raid on the supply route—no reply yet,” reported Zhao Heng with a clenched fist, his voice hoarse from a sleepless night. “The dispatch to the eastern border troops has been sent. The western route is too treacherous; even at best speed, contact won’t be established until noon tomorrow.”
Xu Qinghuan sat in the lower seat, a dozen military reports spread before him.
The Supervisor Censor sat on the opposite side, twisting his beard, hesitating to speak.
The proposal to defend to the death had been suppressed by Tie Lanshan in the third watch of the night, leaving him restless with anxiety, though he dared not provoke the Marshal again.
In the hall, only the occasional crackle of the lamp’s spark broke the silence, along with the mournful howl of the north wind sweeping across scorched earth.
……
As dusk was about to fall, a lone figure on horseback gradually appeared at the far end of the western official road.
The light at that time was sinking behind the battlements. Half the sky burned a scorched red, the other half pressed down in leaden gray.
The lookout on the walls had been focused on the northern Yinshan direction, but when he glanced back and spotted the silhouette from the west, he froze for a moment.
The arrival came alone.
No banner, no attendants—just a traveler covered in dust.
The horse moved at a leisurely pace.
The entire city was strung tight like a drawn bowstring, but this lone rider and mount advanced with a casual air, so unhurried it seemed almost out of place.
The lookout watched for a long time, unsure what to make of this presence.
A straggler? No straggler would carry himself so calmly. Besides, there were no stragglers yet—the battle had not even begun.
A spy? A spy would hardly come swaggering down the main road in plain sight while the city prepared for war.
A refugee? Refugees should have desperation on their faces—but from afar, there was no trace of panic.
The silhouette drew closer, close enough now to make out a long object strapped slantwise across the horse’s back.
The gatekeeper, a seasoned border soldier in his early thirties named Wang, whose alias was Captain Cui, had served at this city gate for five years.
Seeing the visitor heading straight for the drawbridge, he steeled himself and, with four or five soldiers, barred the way with leveled spears.
“Halt!” Captain Cui pointed his spear tip slantwise. “Identify yourself! Give your name and present your travel papers!”
The rider reined in his horse.
He did not reply, nor did he reach for any papers. Instead, he lifted his head atop the horse and slowly surveyed the battered city gate.
His gaze moved from the gate tower, blackened by fire, to the uneven arrow slits on the parapet walls, then to the newly patched rammed earth of the gateway tunnel, still damp.
The look on his face was not that of someone looking at a city—it was more like an old craftsman appraising an object, calculating its worth.
This city—can it hold?
“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Captain Cui called out a second time, his spear point edging forward. “If you don’t state your name, don’t blame us for being rude!”
Only then did the visitor withdraw his gaze and dismount.
Captain Cui’s spear tip unconsciously lowered half an inch.
Now he could see the man clearly.
He appeared to be about thirty, extremely tall—standing a full head taller than most sturdy men—with broad shoulders and a thick back that filled out his dusty gray traveling cloak.
But his face was surprisingly refined.
His brows and eyes were clear and striking, his nose straight, his jawline clean and sharp—the kind of handsome, dignified features only sons of aristocratic families in the capital possessed.
“This gate… it was only repaired two days ago,” the man suddenly said. His voice was warm, carrying an authentic capital accent. “The rammed earth was used too hastily, not enough lime mixed in. It won’t hold for three days under a bombardment.”
Captain Cui was momentarily speechless.
The man had opened his mouth and spoken directly about the craft of fortification—and not a word was wrong.
Yet his entire bearing was clearly that of a scholar.
A moon-white old robe was tucked inside his gray traveling cloak, and the clothing was clearly of fine quality.
What drew the eye most was the long object tied slantwise across his horse’s back.
One corner of the faded cloth wrapping had come loose, revealing the darkened wood of a shaft underneath—a genuine long spear. Its blade was hidden within the cloth, but the shaft itself was polished and gleaming from years of grip, clearly a weapon long accustomed to a steady hand.
And in his other hand, he held an ancient scroll. Its pages were dog-eared, the title on the cover worn almost illegible.
The air of a scholar and the aura of battlefield savagery were pressed into the same frame—neither could overpower the other.
Captain Cui had spent five years at this frontier outpost and seen countless travelers come and go, but never one as peculiar as this.
Several soldiers at the city gate were also dumbstruck, whispering among themselves.
"Look at that build—he's clearly trained in martial arts."
"But that face... he looks like a scholar who's run straight out of some academy."
"These days, it's not unheard of for a literary clan to produce someone who wields a blade. I heard about that Xu Grand Secretary in the capital..."
At the mention of the Grand Secretary, the soldiers lowered their voices.
The Xu family of the capital.
Even here, thousands of li away at the frontier, that name thundered like rolling thunder.
One Grand Secretary sat in the imperial court, wielding the literary authority of the entire realm; the Xu family's collection of books surpassed all others in the land, and their protégés and disciples spanned the thirteen provinces and two capitals.
The current head of the Xu family, Xu Jie, served as the Grand Secretary of the Cabinet, a veteran of three imperial reigns. If one dared to speak of things better left unsaid, even the emperor could do nothing against him—he even held the privilege of not having to kneel during court sessions.
Every scholar in the land who spoke of Xu Jie did so with the utmost reverence, calling him the backbone of all Great Qian scholars.
The hierarchy of the Xu family was as rigid as iron; the old Grand Secretary resided high above the nine heavens.
His sons and nephews controlled the key posts in every ministry, while the grandsons were ranked with the character "Cheng" in their names. They were, without a doubt, the premier aristocratic household of Great Qian.
Naturally, Captain Cui had no idea that this strange arrival was none other than the second grandson of Xu Jie.
His name was Xu Chengguang.
Xu Chengguang had possessed a gift for memorization since childhood.
At seven, he could recite the Five Classics; at ten, he could compose elegant verses on the spot. The elders of his clan had long regarded him as the next top scholar destined to win first place in the imperial examinations and enter the Hanlin Academy, hoping he would one day carry on the Xu family's literary legacy.
But at sixteen, without telling anyone, he abandoned his brush for the sword and enlisted alone in the northwestern border army.
A son of a literary clan, going to the frontier to brandish a blade?
In any other family, the elders would have broken his legs for such an act.
But the Xu family was, after all, the Xu family.
Upon hearing the news, the family patriarch Xu Jie asked only one question: "Has he thought it through himself?"
Once he received a definitive answer, not only did he not stop him, he supported him wholeheartedly.
When some stubborn elders tried to intervene, Xu Jie silenced them with a single sentence.
In the following ten-plus years, Xu Chengguang remained in the northwest.
He quelled Qiang uprisings, destroyed bandit gangs, fought in dozens of major and minor battles, and rose from an unknown common soldier to the rank of general, earning every stripe through blood and steel.
In the northwestern army, just the mention of the name Xu Chengguang made even the most arrogant veteran soldiers tread carefully.
Some time ago, rumors spread through the capital and the military about a marvel who had appeared on the northern border.
They said a man named Xu Zhan could shatter twenty layers of armor with a single arm, slay a rebel general in the midst of ten thousand troops, and had earned the title "Iron Mace Ferōx"—unmatched against ten thousand.
The tale traveled all the way to the northwest and reached Xu Chengguang's ears.
After hearing it, he fell silent for a long while. Then, without a word to anyone, he handed over the defense of the northwest and rode eastward alone.
Why? He told no one.
Perhaps it was out of admiration for talent, perhaps a fighting spirit had been stirred, or perhaps there were simply too few kindred souls in this world worthy enough for him to seek out.
Now, standing before the drawbridge of Zhenbei City, facing Captain Cui's third round of harsh questioning, he still refused to give his name.
"I care not what bold madman you are—if you don't produce your travel credentials, don't blame me for enforcing military law."
Xu Chengguang did not lose his temper, nor did he explain.
He reached into his bosom, took out an object, and handed it over.
Captain Cui instinctively reached out to take it, but the moment his eyes fell upon the object...
The color drained from his face, inch by inch.
The hand gripping his spear went limp, and his well-used polearm crashed to the ground with a resounding clang.
As if his very bones had been pulled out of him, he slid down against the cold brick wall of the gate tunnel, landing on the ground, his mouth agape—unable to form a single coherent sentence for a long time.
Behind him, several soldiers saw their captain so utterly disoriented and crowded in to look.
The moment they saw the object, their legs also gave way, and they dropped to their knees in a neat row, not daring to breathe.
In the fading sunset, the silhouette of the object was obscured by their shadows, making it impossible for the sentries on the distant city wall to see clearly.
All they could see was that, beneath the gate tunnel, the entire gatekeeping squad had inexplicably knelt down before that lone traveler.
Xu Chengguang bent down, calmly retrieved the object from the trembling hands of the sprawled Captain Cui, and tucked it back into his bosom.
He turned around, took his horse by the reins, and walked on foot into the city.
Even his horse, he led himself.
Every soldier in the gate tunnel fell silent. Not one dared to rise to stop him, nor did any dare to speak up to interrogate him.
They simply knelt or squatted there, watching as that figure in mixed robes of moon-white and dusty gray, leading his horse, slowly made way through them and entered the city.
The less he explained, the more oppressive his presence became.
Xu Chengguang walked alone through the city.
The sights along the street were all absorbed into his eyes.
In a street corner was a small mountain of arrowheads and rolling logs, which several laborers were carrying up toward the city wall.
He did not walk quickly, but surveyed each site, weighing each element in his mind.
Organizing the laborers into a city-defense unit, assigning the strong and the old to separate duties for defense and logistics...
It was a harsh move, but a correct one. With seventy thousand iron cavalry pressing down on the border, relying solely on the small frontier army could never fill the entire battlement wall.
Then he observed the grain supply.
All the grain stores within the city had been gathered into the barbican, guarded by heavy troops.
Xu Chengguang nodded to himself. The garrison commander of Zhenbei Pass, Tie Lanshan, truly understood warfare. Every move he made, though executed with cold precision, struck at the enemy's vitals.
He continued his observations, walking step by step until he reached the inner city gate.
There, he collided head-on with a patrol of city guards. Leading them was a broad-shouldered, thick-waisted deputy general—none other than Zhao Heng.
Zhao Heng immediately spotted this unfamiliar face strolling boldly through the cordoned-off city, leading a horse. He reined in sharply and bellowed, "Halt! This area is under martial law—who dares trespass? Seize him at once!"
The soldiers behind him raised their weapons in unison.
Xu Chengguang stopped in his tracks and once again reached into his chest, producing that certain object.
Zhao Heng, a battle-hardened deputy who had stared death in the face more times than he could count, glanced down at the token from his elevated position atop his horse.
His face turned deathly pale in an instant.
He opened his mouth, but didn't bother asking a single question. Instead, he wrenched his horse's head around, spun on the spot, and galloped at full speed toward the commander's mansion, forgetting even to dismiss his men.
...
Inside the commander's mansion, the war council was in full swing.
Tie Lanshan was discussing with Xu Qinghuan the plan for a surprise assault on the supply route when the Supervisor Censor, unable to get a word in, stood awkwardly by. Suddenly, frantic footsteps echoed from outside the hall. A personal guard burst through the door, stumbling and crawling, and dropped to his knees with a thud.
"Marshal! Outside the city... a lone traveler has arrived, bearing... bearing 'that object.' He's already entered the city!"
Tie Lanshan didn't look up. He continued writing a line on a military dispatch with his brush.
"That object?" He swore casually. "Some terrified soldier must have seen things. At a time like this, what object could be more menacing than an iron cavalry? Withdraw."
He paid it no mind.
No sooner had he spoken than another rapid rush sounded outside. Zhao Heng's voice arrived before his body as he crashed through the hall door, dropping to one knee. His armor clattered noisily.
"Marshal!" Zhao Heng gasped for breath. "Someone's come into the city! I saw it with my own eyes!"
He reported in full detail: the pattern of that token, the bearing of the visitor, and how the guards at the city gate had collapsed in rows upon seeing it.
Halfway through the account, Tie Lanshan's hand, brush in midair, froze.
He raised his eyes, and the color drained from his face. In those eyes—so accustomed to life and death on the battlefield, so rarely betraying emotion—a heavy seriousness now roiled.
"You saw it clearly?" he asked in a low voice.
"I swear by my head on the chopping block—I could never mistake it!"
A lamp wick in the hall popped with a sharp crackle.
Tie Lanshan rose slowly, staring for a long moment beyond the hall's open door. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a gravity he himself hadn't anticipated:
"Go. Invite that guest in."
Invite. Not "arrest," not "bring"—invite.
Every officer in the hall was stunned.
Xu Qinghuan put down the military report she was holding.
She said nothing, but her gaze came to rest on the wide-open hall door.
The Supervisor Censor's face flushed and paled, fluctuating uncontrollably.
Before long, footsteps sounded outside.
A tall figure strode across the threshold and entered the brightly lit main hall. Wearing a moon-white robe beneath a gray travel cloak, his frame was broad yet his features refined and scholarly. In his hand, he clasped an ancient scroll. He walked to the center of the hall and, with neither arrogance nor obsequiousness, cupped his hands in a polite salute to Tie Lanshan.
"Xu Chengguang, of the Xu clan of the capital."
Six words—tender, composed—delivered in the precise accent of the imperial city.
The hall erupted in uproar!
"The Xu clan?"
"The Xu clan of the capital... Could it be the Xu family of Grand Secretary Xu?!"
The officers buzzed with chatter, a wave of commotion.
The Supervisor Censor shot to his feet, his complexion cycling from red to white, then from white to green.
