Governing the country, enriching the people, an unparalleled imperial tutor

Zhou Yan suddenly stood up: "Where's the letter?"

"They're retrieving it now. The metal box is too deep; they need to tie it with ropes to pull it up."

Zhou Yan and Shen Qing exchanged a glance. The same light shone in their eyes—gold and silver were just numbers; these letters were the real, irrefutable evidence that could pin Zhang Lin and all his cronies to the ground.

"Tell the brothers going into the water to be careful," Zhou Yan said. "The letter paper will easily fall apart if it gets wet. Let's pull the box up intact first."

The captain accepted the order and left.

Zhou Yan sat down again, looking at the spread-out account books and lists in front of him, and suddenly muttered, "Zhang Lin cultivated his influence in the court for decades, his influence running so deep. The Imperial Advisor uprooted him in just one month... Sometimes I wonder, where did he come from?"

Shen Qing did not answer. He simply stood up, walked to the door, and watched the Imperial Guards bustling about in the morning light, watched wooden boxes filled with gold and silver being loaded onto carts, and watched the paintings, jewelry, medicinal herbs, and land deeds confiscated from various parts of the Grand Tutor's mansion piled up like a small mountain in the courtyard.

He looked for a long time, then said only one sentence: "No matter where he came from, he's here."

The main gate of the Grand Tutor's residence was resealed. Zhou Yan stamped his official seal on the seal and wrote the date and reason for the sealing next to it, his handwriting neat and powerful. As the seal was affixed, the sunset glow fell on the damaged red-lacquered gate, reflecting a scattering of warm light onto the remaining copper nails on the door panel.

The neighbors finally dared to peek out. Some watched the Imperial Guards withdraw through cracks in their doors, while others stood at their own doorways, gazing at the brand-new seal on the Grand Tutor's mansion, whispering amongst themselves. An old man selling breakfast stood at the alley entrance, holding a pot of hot porridge, watching for a long time before saying to the person next to him, "Now, shouldn't the world be at peace?"

The person next to him didn't reply, but nodded.

When Zhou Yan and Shen Qing entered the palace to meet the emperor with the search list, Emperor Jinghe, Zhao Yan, had been standing in the Zichen Hall all day. The young emperor was dressed in plain clothes, without a crown, and in front of him was a map—of Jizhou, the capital, and the northern border—the candlelight had been changed three times, and the last one was almost burned out.

When Zhou Yan presented the list, Zhao Yan took it, flipped through it page by page, and remained silent for a long time.

He then placed the list on the imperial desk, looked up at the gradually brightening sky outside the palace, and said, "The master said he could resolve this within three days. Today is the second day."

Zhou Yan bowed: "Your Majesty, rest assured, the Imperial Preceptor will always keep his word."

Zhao Yan did not respond. He lowered his head again, looking at the few lines in bold at the end of the list—these were Zhang Lin's secret correspondence with the Khans of the three Northern Di tribes, evidence of his collusion with the salt merchants of Jiangnan, and a list he had personally written of "the enfeoffment of officials after the great undertaking is accomplished."

The list included almost all the ministers in the court who had previously wavered in their positions.

Zhao Yan looked at the list, a calmness beyond his years appearing on his young face. He put down the paper and said, "Issue my decree: arrest everyone on the list, without exception. After the trial, deal with them according to the law; no further approval from me is required."

"Your Majesty—" Zhou Yan hesitated slightly, "Some people hold high positions, and touching them would have far-reaching consequences—"

"Move," Zhao Yan said. "Before he left, the Master told me that governing a country is like treating an illness; if the rotten flesh is not removed, new flesh will not grow."

Zhou Yan bowed and accepted the order.

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away on the city wall of Jizhou, Lin Yanzhou looked at the enemy camp outside the city and thought: Jurchen tribe, don't disappoint me. This plan was carried out simultaneously in three locations, and none of them could be missing. He himself liked this feeling of strategizing, and each force had to and willingly follow his plan.

The various military camps are already moving about in an orderly manner; it seems they are preparing to attack the city.

He reached up and touched his brow. The mineral crystal was calm and peaceful, as if to say: It's about time to close the net.

The fire at Jinjibo burned for a full day and night.

Wanyan Zonghan stood on the still-smoking grassland, his boots sinking into the scorched earth, where a few unburnt grains of rice occasionally peeked out from the ashes. Behind him, five thousand cavalrymen were gathering their horses. The more than three thousand warhorses left behind by the Northern Barbarians had been driven into a dark, surging tide, their manes billowing in the morning breeze like a flowing, dark body of water.

The original location of the left-wing royal tent was unrecognizable. Scorched wood lay scattered, and piles of ash stretched like mountains. The wolf-head flag, trampled into the mud, remained in its original place. Wanyan Zonghan did not allow anyone to move it—he had the flag replanted in its original spot. Half of the flag was scorched, covered in mud, and stood crookedly among the ruins, like a silent declaration.

A scout galloped in from the south, reined in his horse ten paces away, landed on one knee, and reported: "General! A Northern Di patrol of about fifty men has been spotted forty li to the south, searching northward along the edge of the grassland!"

Wanyan Zonghan turned his head sharply, his smile fading slightly: "How many people? What banner do they wear?"

"Their banners were on the left, but their attire was haphazard, as if hastily put together. Judging from their marching direction, they seemed to be scouts retreating from the front lines."

Wanyan Zonghan was silent for a moment, then grinned. The smile looked somewhat ferocious against the backdrop of the charred ruins, yet it also carried the satisfaction of a hunter watching its prey fall into a trap.

"The scouts at the front have been withdrawn," he said, "which means the people up there are getting restless."

He turned and took the reins from his guard, mounted his horse, and shouted to the messenger behind him, "Order the entire army to rest in place for half an hour. After half an hour, break camp and advance fifty li north, setting up camp in the Abagai River Valley. I want the Northern Di Left Wing to return without even a place to rest!"

The messenger obeyed and left.

Wanyan Zonghan sat on horseback for a moment, watching the herd of horses gathering in the distance and the soldiers tying tents to the horses' backs. The fire in his heart had not yet been extinguished. But just then, the sound of hooves suddenly rang out again from behind the southern hills—more frequent and heavier than before, as if more than a dozen horses were galloping side by side.

He gripped the hilt of the knife and squinted at it.

Seven or eight riders emerged from the hilltop, dressed differently from his Jurchen cavalry and the remnants of the Northern Di's left flank—their grey-brown leather robes, small drums hanging from their saddles, and coarse hemp belts around their waists were typical of the nomadic attire common on the central border of the Northern Di. But the leader sat upright on his horse, his control impeccable, his gaze piercing through the smoking ruins and landing precisely on Wanyan Zonghan's face.

Wanyan Zonghan withdrew his blade an inch and then stopped. He recognized the man's eyes—not the eyes of a herdsman, but the eyes of a scout.

The seven or eight riders stopped atop the hill, not advancing any further. The lead scout dismounted, took a dozen steps toward Wanyan Zonghan, then stopped, raising his voice slightly: "General, do not be alarmed. We are here on the orders of a gentleman from the south to deliver a message to you!"

Wanyan Zonghan squinted: "What 'Mr.'?"

"That gentleman asked me to tell the general that the three tribes of the Northern Barbarians have indeed come out in full force, leaving their rear vulnerable. The rear of the left tribe has already been captured by the general, and the rears of the central and right tribes are equally poorly defended. The gentleman also said that if the general is willing, he can make the Khans of the central and right tribes withdraw their troops to reinforce them within three days. At that time, the general will naturally know what to do."

Wanyan Zonghan sheathed his sword completely. He remained silent on horseback for about five breaths, then dismounted, walked a few steps toward the scout, and stood before him, a head taller than him.

"Who exactly is that gentleman?"

The scout didn't answer directly, but simply shook his head slightly: "We don't know either. It's said to be a deity descended to earth."

Wanyan Zonghan did not press the matter further. He turned his head, glanced at the still-smoking ruins behind him and the herd of horses being herded, then turned back to the scout, his voice lower than before: "Go back and tell your master that the Wanyan tribe has accepted this gift he sent. If we meet again in the future, Wanyan Zonghan will treat him with the respect due to a teacher."

The scout clasped his hands in a salute, mounted his horse, and led the seven or eight riders away like a gust of wind, disappearing behind the hill.

Wanyan Zonghan stood there, watching the dust kicked up by the horses' hooves gradually dissipate, and said in a low voice, "This expedition is bigger than I thought."

Half an hour later, Wanyan Zonghan's army broke camp and headed north. Five thousand cavalrymen, carrying more than three thousand captured warhorses, marched in a mighty procession towards the Abagai River Valley. Behind them, the embers of Jinji Lake were still emitting wisps of smoke, like words written on the grassland, telling every passerby: the heartland of the Northern Barbarians had been breached.