Volume One: The Sword of the Son of Heaven Chapter 70: The Pact of Civil and Martial Virtue

The carriage bound for the Sword Palace turned directly toward the Duke of Yu’s residence.

Yun Que found this rather odd—why had Grand Historian Zhou come to see Lan Yu again?

This meeting between the Grand Chancellor and the Duke of Yu took place completely in private; even the carriage entered through a side gate.

Within Lan Yu’s study, the two high ministers sat facing each other, the room empty save for Yun Que. Zhou Yuanliang and Luo Xiaoyu both waited quietly outside.

Strictly speaking, Yun Que was but a junior, and he could sense that the meeting was of great import. He had intended to wait outside as well, but both Grand Historian Zhou and Lan Yu had insisted he stay and listen. Neither treated him as an outsider.

Thus, Yun Que could only resign himself to being a silent observer, to listen but not speak.

“Master Zhou, could it be that the feast this afternoon failed to satisfy you, and you’ve come to beg a midnight snack from an old man like me?” Lan Yu joked.

“You jest, Duke,” said Zhou, his expression growing stern. “I ate more than my fill today. But since I am sated, it is time for business.” His voice dropped. “Duke, it is time we laid our cards on the table with His Majesty.”

A sharp glint flashed through Lan Yu’s eyes. “What makes you say this, Grand Chancellor?”

Lan Yu represented the generals; Zhou led the scholars. They rarely met, and this was not out of animosity, but rather the way of loyal ministers. The heads of civil and military affairs must not grow too close, lest the emperor grow suspicious, and intervene—suppressing one or elevating the other. Never would he tolerate any sign of their alliance.

Such is the art of imperial balance.

Even the current emperor, disinterested as he was in governance, understood this, let alone the Grand Chancellor and the Duke of Yu.

When Grand Historian Zhou revealed that he had been poisoned by a strange toxin, Lan Yu sat in silence for a long while. The atmosphere became suffocating.

“It seems the barbarians are truly set on crossing the Coldwater River. If the two of us are eliminated, Yan would be like a nation with its spine broken. When that time comes, the great edifice will collapse—no one will be able to save it.” Lan Yu let out a heavy sigh.

“That is why we must strike first,” Zhou replied, eyes cold and brimming with killing intent.

“But it’s not so simple! I have spent years trying to persuade the emperor, resorting to every means—playing the aged veteran, even throwing tantrums in the throne room—but he simply shakes his head and refuses! What more can I do?” Lan Yu’s tone was indignant.

He dreamed, day and night, of marching to war, of clashing blades with the barbarians, avenging his fallen son and reclaiming honor for Great Yan.

Yet the emperor was utterly lacking in will, fixated only on the Celestial Sword, paying no heed to the vast lands north of Coldwater River lost to the barbarians.

“There is a way—one, and only one,” Zhou said.

“What way? Speak,” Lan Yu demanded.

“The Celestial Sword,” Zhou replied in a low, steady voice.

“The Celestial Sword?” Lan Yu was momentarily perplexed.

Yun Que, who had been quietly listening, caught the drift. He murmured under his breath, “Burn the boats behind us...”

Zhou looked at Yun Que with approval and nodded. “The marquis is right—it’s to burn our boats. The Duke must agree to assist His Majesty in forging the Celestial Sword.”

“Absolutely not! Don’t even think about it!” Lan Yu slammed the table in anger. “Grand Chancellor, do you not know how many lives have been lost to the Celestial Sword? The treasury is empty, craftsmen have perished, and His Majesty’s obsession has brought endless suffering—countless families torn apart! That is no Celestial Sword, but a demon’s blade—a devil’s sword!”

“Be it Celestial or devil’s sword, it is our last card to play,” Zhou narrowed his eyes. “But agreeing to forge the sword is only the first step—we must set a vital condition.”

“And what condition is that?” Lan Yu pressed.

“A northern campaign,” Zhou’s tone turned icy and merciless.

“A northern campaign…” Lan Yu’s gnarled hands clenched so tightly his knuckles cracked.

Aged as he was, the Duke of Yu, after five long years, finally saw hope rekindled.

“Very well! Let us burn our boats!” he roared, sending the table splintering beneath his palm. Hair and beard bristled like an aged lion’s mane. “I will help forge the sword, but Grand Chancellor, you must persuade His Majesty to set a date for the campaign!”

“It’s a promise,” Zhou rose and bowed, sealing their pact.

A covenant between civil and military might.

This was the first—and would be the only—alliance between these two elders since their rise to power.

Lan Yu nodded slowly, tears glimmering in his old eyes. His voice was hoarse and full of sorrow. “I have but a few years left in these old bones. My greatest wish is to march north, to cross the Coldwater River! If I cannot avenge my son, if I cannot uncover the truth behind the deaths of Yun Changji and the hundred thousand border troops, I will die with regret!”

Yun Que rose solemnly, the Duke’s fury and grief palpable.

Lan Yu’s only son and Yun Que’s father had both died on the battlefield, holding the line against the barbarians, leaving behind families on the verge of ruin.

The northern campaign was not only the Duke’s hope—it was Yun Que’s obsession.

Leaving the Duke’s residence, they returned to the Sword Palace.

Zhou Yuanliang hurried his father to the southern courtyard to seek Elder Quan Yu’s aid, while Yun Que and Luo Xiaoyu returned to their own quarters.

“How did you know the Grand Chancellor was poisoned?” Yun Que was curious about Luo Xiaoyu’s abilities.

This was more than a matter of tainted blood—it seemed almost a talent. If she could detect poison in food or drink, that would be impressive enough, but to sense it from a distance seemed fantastical.

Even the most sensitive poison detectors had to come into contact with the toxin. To detect it at range—he’d never heard of such a thing.

Luo Xiaoyu stammered, “I—I was just guessing, really. Who could have known that old man was actually poisoned?”

Yun Que didn’t even have to look at her expression; her tone alone told him she was lying.

He sighed. “Shall we trade secrets? I’m only at the third stage of Qi cultivation, and I can already control two flying swords.”

“Really?” Luo Xiaoyu’s eyes went wide, as if she’d just discovered a tremendous secret, excitement written all over her face.

Yun Que nodded, signaling it was her turn to share.

He felt a twinge of guilt, as though he were tricking a naive child out of her candy. But guilt aside, a trick’s a trick—every child in Yanmen Town had been duped by the Marquis of Coldwater at least once. Yun Que firmly believed that the more times children fell for it, the more they’d get used to it.

Besides, he hadn’t lied—controlling two swords at the third stage of Qi cultivation was simply a fact.

After glancing around to assure herself no one was listening, Luo Xiaoyu whispered, “I’m not entirely sure myself. Since I was young, I’ve had an extraordinary sense for poisons—how potent the centipede’s venom under a stone, how toxic a toad’s skin, how much venom drips from a snake’s fangs—if they’re near me, I can sense them clearly. It’s like, well, like…”

She searched for a word, scratching her head in frustration.

“Obvious at a glance,” Yun Que prompted.

“Yes! It’s obvious at a glance!” Luo Xiaoyu affirmed earnestly. “I was born with this sense for poison around me, though where it comes from, I don’t know.”

“Could it be a special spiritual root?” Yun Que asked. “Have you ever trained in a Qi cultivation technique?”

She shook her head.

As a Sword Servant, she believed such techniques weren’t meant for her—they were for Sword Disciples, and useless to one in her position.

“You should try. See if you can cultivate spiritual energy,” Yun Que suggested.

She agreed happily and went off to seek out a technique.

Returning to his own room, Yun Que reviewed the day’s events.

The crisis at the Duke of Yu’s residence had alerted him to the presence of a hidden hand in the imperial city, and the poisoning of the Grand Chancellor confirmed his suspicions.

“Could this be the work of the Zodiac Twelve?”

He frowned. “Is it possible their designs go beyond the Sword Palace—to encompass the whole of Yan?”

The Sword Palace was, in the end, a spiritual sect; Yan was a mundane kingdom. They existed on different planes, with little intersection.

That the Zodiac Twelve had a grudge against the Sword Palace was plausible, but what reason would they have to target the entire kingdom?

Especially after Yun Que learned of the existence of the Upper Sect, the Zodiac Twelve’s presence seemed all the more alarming.

After all, the Sword Palace was only an outer branch of the Spirit Sword Sect in Yunzhou. For the Zodiac Twelve to plot so deeply, their true aim might well be the Spirit Sword Sect itself.

And the Spirit Sword Sect was among the most powerful sects in Yunzhou—few forces would dare to challenge it, and surely only those of immense might.

It seemed the Zodiac Twelve hid an even more terrible power behind them.

A sense of urgency welled up in Yun Que’s heart.

Clearing his mind, he began to cultivate in earnest.

With dark currents surging through the imperial city, only by strengthening himself could he hope to survive when crisis erupted.