Inside the Ganlu Hall, the generals of the Great Tang Empire were dissecting the geopolitical board like a bunch of old uncles arguing over a chess game they'd already won, and they were definitely bragging about it.
"This island nation of Japan," Li Ji declared, crossing his arms over his chest. "They have no idea how to fight a war, do they? It's like watching someone try to cook rice with a hammer!"
His assessment was blunt. Absolute. Steeped in centuries of military tradition. Ever since the pre-Qin era, the martial commanders of the Chinese mainland had placed importance on a single concept.
Intelligence.
And not the kind you get from a fancy education where you memorize poetry all day. The kind you get from knowing exactly where the enemy is sleeping, what they are eating, and whether their general has a gambling problem so bad he has already bet away his wife and is now considering wagering his own mother.
Every man in that room who had ever commanded a battalion knew the immortal words of Sun Tzu by heart. They had practically memorized The Art of War while still learning how to hold a sword. The teachers back then did not mess around. If you did not know your Sun Tzu, you got beaten until you threw up.
Sun Tzu's most famous line? "If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles."
Basically, do your homework and you will be fine.
"If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat."
That means you might win, but you will pay for it.
"If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle."
That is just a fancy way of saying you are going to get absolutely wrecked.
Sun Tzu did not just mention this in passing while he was eating his lunch. In the closing arguments of his very first chapter, Assessments, he summarized the entire art of warfare into two core actions. You must calculate the tactical metrics, and you must aggressively seek out the enemy's true condition.
In other words: do the math and send some spies. Do not just pray to the gods and hope for the best. The gods have better things to do than help people who don't do their research.
Furthermore, in his final chapter dedicated entirely to espionage, Sun Tzu dropped another truth bomb. "Foreknowledge cannot be elicited from ghosts and spirits. It cannot be deduced by comparison with past events. It cannot be projected from the movements of the stars. Foreknowledge of the enemy must be obtained from living men."
Translation? Do not ask a fortune teller. Do not stare at the sky and pretend you can read clouds. Do not compare ancient battles and assume history will repeat itself, that's like thinking because your grandpa won a fight with a stick, you can beat a whole army with one too.
Send a guy. A real guy, with eyes and ears and a willingness to sneak around in the dark. Maybe even give him a cool disguise, like a traveling vegetable seller or something.
That is how you win wars.
Because of this ingrained philosophical foundation, any general worth his salt in the Tang Dynasty treated military intelligence as the lifeblood of a campaign. It was the pivot upon which victory and defeat balanced.
You could have the biggest army, the sharpest swords, and the best cavalry in the world. But if you did not know where the enemy was, what they were planning, and when they were going to strike, you were just a blind man swinging a stick at nothing.
And Japan? Japan had sent their fleet across the ocean without even bothering to send scouts first. They had no idea what they were sailing into. They were basically walking into a dark room with their eyes closed, hoping they would not trip over a tiger.
Li Ji shook his head in disbelief. Sun Tzu would have laughed these people out of the room.
Yet, looking at the historical broadcast, the military leadership of this Japanese nation was behaving like amateurs. They were blindly trusting biased, second-hand information fed to them by desperate allies.
"Do the commanders of this Japan nation simply lack the capacity for critical thought?" Li Ji asked the room, a look of genuine bafflement on his weathered face. "Goguryeo and Baekje are quite literally fighting for their survival. Of course they are going to lie. They would never admit they are losing. They will say whatever it takes to drag a Japanese army across the ocean to act as a meat shield against our Tang forces."
Li Jing had been standing quietly near the map table. Hearing Li Ji's breakdown, the legendary God of War stroked his beard and offered a geographical perspective. The old man rarely spoke, but when he did, everyone listened.
"Consider their physical reality," Li Jing noted calmly. "This Japan nation is trapped on an island archipelago. For their entire recorded history, they have existed without a peer competitor on their borders. They do not share a landmass with a hostile, armed empire. They have the ocean acting as a permanent, impenetrable moat."
"It is like living in a fortress and forgetting that walls can be breached."
Li Jing tapped a finger against the eastern edge of the map.
"Because they have never faced an existential threat from a neighboring state, their strategic culture is underdeveloped. They have never had to think like a cornered animal. I fear they do not resemble the martial traditions of our Great Tang in the slightest. The gap in experience is vast."
"It is like comparing a scholar who has read about war to a soldier who has actually bled in one."
Listening to this exchange, Du Ruhui stood with his hands tucked neatly into his wide sleeves. His brilliant mind was spinning. He understood the deeper implication of Li Jing's words.
Human culture was dictated by geography. The rugged traditions of the northern plains were vastly different from the maritime habits of the southern coasts. The agricultural heartland of the Central Plains bore zero resemblance to the nomadic survivalism of the Western Regions.
You could not transplant a farmer into the desert and expect him to thrive.
Therefore, a civilization born and raised in absolute isolation on a distant island chain would naturally possess a psychology alien to the mainland. You simply could not use the logical framework of a Tang citizen to predict the behavior of a Japanese aristocrat. They were playing a completely different game with completely different rules.
Instead of feeling frustrated, Du Ruhui felt a sudden surge of curiosity. He stared at the blank spaces on the map representing the Japanese islands. When the day finally came that the Tang banners flew over that distant archipelago, he genuinely wanted to sail across the ocean and study these strange people himself.
Not to conquer them, but to understand them. What made them tick? What made them so arrogant despite having no reason to be?
It was like finding a new species and wanting to take notes.
[Lightscreen]
[The moment the Japanese government officially mobilized their military and entered the conflict, the remaining leadership of the Baekje restoration forces threw a party. As far as they were concerned, the war had entered garbage time. Time to pop the good wine and start measuring the curtains for their new offices.
Their logic was surprisingly optimistic. Up in the north, Goguryeo was currently using their own faces to bruise the knuckles of the Tang expeditionary force. The northern front was a bloody stalemate. Down in the south, the Baekje restoration forces had failed to breach the walls of Sabi city. But equally, the Tang garrison trapped inside lacked the manpower to break out. It was a deadlock. Nobody was winning. Nobody was losing. Perfectly balanced, as all things should be.
The Baekje restoration forces believed they just needed to run out the clock. If they simply maintained the siege and survived, victory was mathematically guaranteed! It was like being ahead in a basketball game with two minutes left and just trying to waste time. What could possibly go wrong?
Spoiler alert: Everything.
Riding high on this wave of delusional confidence, the Baekje prince named Buyeo Pung decided to execute a classic, embarrassing maneuver. He popped the champagne at halftime. Big mistake. Huge.
Buyeo Pung had recently returned from years of political exile in Japan. Feeling arrogant, he dispatched an official envoy straight to the gates of Sabi city to flex on the besieged Tang commander, Liu Rengui.
The Baekje envoy stood before the city walls and delivered a pompous speech. He proudly announced that the invincible fleet of their Japanese allies was currently sailing across the ocean. He offered Liu Rengui a deal. If the Tang army surrendered and evacuated immediately, the Prince would graciously provide a marching band to escort them to the docks. But if they stubbornly chose to resist? When the heavenly troops of Japan arrived, every single Tang soldier would be slaughtered.
It was trash talk of the highest order. The kind of trash talk that gets you killed in any era.
Standing on the battlements, Liu Rengui handled the diplomatic insult with perfection. He did not yell. He did not threaten. He listened to the entire speech, nodded politely, escorted the envoy safely away from the gate, and said he needed some time to think it over.
Total professional. The man was playing 4D chess while the Baekje envoy was still figuring out how to hold the pieces.
The absolute second the Baekje envoy disappeared over the horizon, Liu Rengui dropped the polite smile. He immediately ordered his troops to arm themselves. He waited for the sun to set, waited for the pitch black of night, and then unleashed a ruthless surprise attack.
The man did not mess around.
The Baekje restoration forces were caught completely off guard. They were literally sitting around their campfires, drinking wine and prematurely celebrating their guaranteed victory. When the Tang heavy infantry smashed into their camp under the cover of darkness, it was a massacre. The Baekje forces collapsed. Prince Buyeo Pung abandoned his men, hopped on a horse, and sprinted for over two hundred miles without daring to look back.
The man did not stop until his horse was probably ready to collapse and his legs were on fire. Olympic sprinter level cardio right there.
Liu Rengui had been trapped inside Sabi city like a caged tiger for months, meticulously planning for this exact opportunity. Seeing the enemy line shatter, he did not hesitate. He ordered a full-scale advance. The Tang army pushed out of the city and rolled over the disorganized restoration forces, winning battle after battle.
Riding this wave of momentum, Liu Rengui directed his forces to strike a critical target. In one concentrated assault, they breached and captured the military stronghold of Zhenxian Castle.
To understand the geopolitical gravity of this victory, you have to understand the map. Zhenxian Castle was the strategic chokepoint between Baekje and Silla. It held the same terrifying importance as Tong Pass did for the defense of Chang'an and Luoyang back home. By seizing Zhenxian Castle, Liu Rengui physically reconnected the severed supply lines between the Tang army and the territory of Silla.
Suddenly, the trapped rats had a lifeline.
The nightmare of fighting as an isolated, starving garrison was finally over. Under the aggressive leadership of Liu Rengui, the Tang army transitioned from a desperate defense into a lethal offense. The tables had officially turned.
When the battle reports finally arrived on the desk in Luoyang, Li Zhi was thrilled. He was so happy that he instantly rubber stamped every request Liu Rengui had included in the dispatch. The man was practically dancing in his throne.
In the era of cold weapons, information traveled at the speed of a galloping horse. There was a severe, unavoidable time lag between the frontline and the capital. Because of this reality, an elite general needed to possess a level of strategic foresight. They had to accurately predict how the battlefield would look three months in the future and deploy their pieces accordingly.
Liu Rengui proved he was a master of this art. The man could see the future better than most fortune tellers.
When Liu Rengui sat down in his blood-soaked tent to draft his report, the Tang army had just barely secured Zhenxian Castle. The Baekje restoration forces were scattered but still dangerous. Yet, Liu Rengui calmly wrote to the Emperor that the Baekje insurgency was no longer a serious military threat. They were a nuisance.
He accurately predicted that the final, decisive boss battle of the Korean Peninsula would be fought against the incoming Japanese fleet. Therefore, his request to the Emperor was simple.
Send me the navy. I have a date with some fish.
Future historians often draw a hilarious comparison between Li Zhi and the infamous warlord Yuan Shao. When they were winning and holding an advantage, they were paralyzed by indecision and terrible planning. But when their backs were against the wall and they were fighting a desperate, losing war? They suddenly transformed into hyper competent, decisive leaders.
It was like a superhero origin story, but for terrible rulers.
Faced with Liu Rengui's urgent demand for naval power, Li Zhi did not hesitate. He bypassed standard bureaucratic procedures. He ignored the traditional naval academies of the Jianghuai region. Instead, he issued a draconian emergency order directly to the coastal province of Shandong. He ordered the immediate conscription of seven thousand elite marines and the requisition of over one hundred and seventy warships. He placed General Sun Renshi in command of this new fleet and ordered him to sail directly into the warzone to reinforce Liu Rengui.
While the Tang war machine shifted gears, Liu Rengui's accurate predictions regarding the Baekje leadership began to manifest in real time.
The Baekje restoration forces were imploding. A powerful warlord named Gwisil Boksin decided he wanted to be the supreme ruler. So, he orchestrated the assassination of a rival commander named Daochen. Prince Buyeo Pung, watching this power grab, refused to become a puppet king. Striking first, the Prince accused Gwisil Boksin of treason and had him brutally executed.
The restoration forces were now fighting each other more than they were fighting the Tang. Classic villain infighting. You just knew it was coming.
This bloody purge at the top of the rebel leadership completely shattered the morale of the mid-level commanders. Realizing their rebellion was doomed, famous Baekje generals like Heichi Changzhi and Shacha Xiangru decided to cut their losses. They surrendered their armies, marched into the Tang camp, and offered to help Liu Rengui exterminate the remaining Baekje traitors.
Talk about a plot twist. "Hey, can we help you kill our former friends?" "Sure, hop in."
Surrounded by enemies and bleeding territory rapidly, Prince Buyeo Pung panicked. He sent frantic, desperate pleas to his Japanese allies. The message was clear. If you do not reinforce me right this second, I am going to die! Please, I am begging you!
The Japanese command replied with supreme confidence. Do not worry, brother! Our land forces are invincible! Watch as we march our legions straight across the territory of Silla, smash through their defenses, and completely flank the Tang army from behind! Trust us, we got this!
It was a bold claim. It was also a complete lie.
The fundamental pirate nature of the Japanese forces had taken over. You see, the kingdom of Silla had recently undergone economic reforms. They were essentially the wealthy trade hub of Northeast Asia. The Japanese aristocracy leading the invasion force took one look at the overflowing treasuries of Silla and completely forgot about the war.
Priorities, people.
When the Japanese land forces hit the beaches, they acted like starving dogs let loose inside a butcher shop. They completely abandoned their strategic objectives. Instead of marching to rescue their desperate Baekje allies, the Japanese army spent five entire months wandering around the Silla countryside, violently looting towns and stuffing their pockets with gold and silk.
Who needs military glory when you can have cash?
It was not until Liu Rengui's juggernaut army marched right up to the walls of Zhouliu Castle, the temporary capital of the Baekje restoration movement, that the Japanese commanders finally woke up from their looting spree. Realizing they were about to lose their only foothold on the continent, the brilliant Japanese generals suddenly remembered a crucial detail.
Oh right. We brought boats.
In August of the year 663, the Japanese command frantically reorganized. They rallied a force of thirty seven thousand soldiers, loaded them onto a sprawling fleet of over a thousand warships, and sailed north to finally relieve the siege of Zhouliu Castle and rescue Prince Buyeo Pung.
Sitting in his command tent, Liu Rengui watched the intelligence reports roll in. He saw the entire board with crystal clarity. He orchestrated a perfect trap. He ordered General Liu Renyuan and General Sun Renshi to take the heavy infantry and maintain the siege on Zhouliu Castle, using the trapped Prince as bait. Meanwhile, Liu Rengui personally took command of the Tang naval fleet. He anchored his ships at the strategic chokepoint known as Baekgang, ready to feed the Japanese fleet to the fish.
The stage was set. Liu Rengui sat quietly on the deck of his flagship, waiting for the island barbarians to arrive and pay their final respects.
The very first military clash in recorded history between the nations of China and Japan was about to begin.]
Inside the sunlit government office of Chengdu, the Shu Han leadership was treating the historical broadcast like a premium streaming service. It was better than any storyteller's performance they had ever seen, and way more entertaining than listening to court officials argue about taxes.
"Far too much chaos," Liu Bei commented. His brow was furrowed as he analyzed the shifting alliances and betrayals. The man looked like he was watching a particularly confusing game of chess where everyone kept moving pieces to the wrong squares.
"Far too much glory," Zhang Fei countered. A massive grin split his bearded face. He was practically vibrating with the desire to smash an enemy fleet. His hands were twitching like he was already holding a weapon, or maybe just itching to punch something.
"Far too much stupidity," Pang Tong noted dryly. He raised an eyebrow at the sheer incompetence of the Baekje restoration forces and the Japanese looters. Pang Tong had witnessed plenty of tactical blunders in his life, but this was a masterclass in self-sabotage, like trying to build a house by starting with the roof.
Sitting nearby, Zhuge Liang slowly waved his trademark feather fan. He looked at the three men and let out a bright, echoing laugh. The sound was so genuine it caught everyone off guard, usually he was the one making serious faces and giving advice.
"Watching this future history unfold confirms a core truth," Zhuge Liang stated. His voice was calm and melodic. "Expanding the borders of an empire truly only involves two difficult hurdles. The first is maintaining the logistical supply lines. The second is peacefully governing the conquered populace."
He paused. A faint, confident smile touched his lips.
"And I, despite my meager talents, happen to be mildly decent at both of those disciplines."
Hearing this casual flex, the other three men in the room silently rolled their eyes. The collective thought echoed in their heads. If that was his idea of mildly decent, the rest of them might as well be brainless peasants. The man had zero self-awareness when it came to his own abilities, it was both impressive and annoying at the same time.
Pang Tong stared at Zhuge Liang. A sudden wave of complex emotions washed over him. He felt a sharp pang of competitive anxiety mixed with profound respect. It was like being a talented painter and watching someone casually create a masterpiece with their eyes closed, you're jealous, but you also have to admit it's amazing.
If they were talking about battlefield tactics, political deception, or manipulating the morale of a single province to win a specific campaign, Pang Tong firmly believed he was an absolute genius. He refused to concede ground to anyone in that arena. He was the best, and he knew it, like a chef who makes the best dumplings in town and isn't afraid to say so.
However, if they were talking about grand strategy. If they were talking about managing the macroeconomic health of an entire empire, designing agricultural policies to feed millions, and building the physical infrastructure necessary to sustain decades of war. Pang Tong had to admit defeat. Zhuge Liang operated on a completely different level. It was like comparing a skilled carpenter to an architect who designed entire cities, both build things, but one is building houses and the other is building kingdoms.
Pang Tong mentally reviewed their recent campaigns. Yes, he and Zhang Fei had executed a brilliant surprise attack to capture Yangping Pass and swiftly conquer Hanzhong. But how did they move their troops so fast? How did they feed them in the mountains? They used the wooden oxen and flowing horses. Those were the revolutionary logistical transports designed entirely by Zhuge Liang. They broke the fortress walls using siege engines engineered by Zhuge Liang. The man was everywhere, like salt in every dish you eat.
Look at the Jingzhou theater. Guan Yu and Xu Shu were currently dominating the battlefields and crushing enemy forces with terrifying speed. Their massive warships controlled the rivers. But where did those naval designs come from? Who standardized the mass production of their repeating crossbows? It all traced back to Zhuge Liang and his endless work in the engineering bureaus. The guy never slept, apparently, or maybe he had a secret clone doing all the work.
At a superficial glance, Zhuge Liang rarely commanded troops on the frontline. He rarely scored the flashy, decisive kills. But when you truly analyzed the anatomy of their victories, you found Zhuge Liang's fingerprints on every single sword, shield, and grain sack. He was the guy pulling the strings behind the curtain. He was the invisible hand that made everything work, like the wind that makes windmills turn, but you can't see it.
This realization sent a cold shiver down Pang Tong's spine. The warning alarm in his head rang loudly. If he became complacent and rested on his laurels, Zhuge Liang was going to leave him in the dust. He needed to step up his game. Fast, otherwise he'd be left behind like someone who still uses a quill pen when everyone else has a brush.
Meeting Pang Tong's intense gaze, Zhuge Liang merely offered a warm, comforting smile. He turned his attention back to the magical screen. His mind was already analyzing a different political dynamic.
"This Li Zhi," Zhuge Liang mused thoughtfully. "The historical broadcast compares him to Yuan Shao. The similarities are actually quite striking."
Zhuge Liang found the perspective of the future generations fascinating. Linking two men separated by centuries based on their specific psychological flaws under pressure was a brilliant method of historical analysis. And upon closer inspection, it made perfect sense. Both were wealthy. Both were powerful. Both had a tendency to choke when it mattered most, like a singer who hits all the high notes in practice but messes up during the concert.
Zhang Fei, however, processed the comparison a bit differently. He rubbed his thick jaw. A look of slow realization dawned on his face, like a light bulb finally turning on after being flickered for hours.
"Wait a minute," Zhang Fei rumbled loudly. "He commands massive armies, but his forces get weaker the more troops he brings. He hesitates when he has the upper hand. This Li Zhi sounds exactly like my big brother!"
Zhang Fei pointed a thick finger triumphantly. "My big brother is exactly like Yuan Shao!"
Instantly, the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Liu Bei turned his head slowly. His eyes locked onto Zhang Fei, radiating a silent, lethal promise of violence, the kind that says "I love you like a brother, but I will still knock you out if you keep talking."
Realizing he had just casually insulted the supreme warlord of their faction to his face, Zhang Fei panicked. He aggressively backpedaled, waving his massive hands like he was trying to swat a bee that was about to sting him.
"Uh, I mean," Zhang Fei stammered. "Yuan Shao is exactly like my big brother! No, wait, that is worse. I mean Li Zhi is exactly like my big brother! No, wait."
A few moments later, Zhang Fei sat sulking in the corner. He was rubbing a fresh welt on the back of his head. He grumbled under his breath, feeling incredibly wronged. No matter how he phrased the sentence, he got hit. Being the youngest brother was truly a miserable existence. There was no winning with these people, it was like trying to win an argument with your mom.
Having successfully disciplined his unruly brother, Liu Bei stretched his arms wide. He felt a sudden wave of relaxed clarity. It felt good to be the boss sometimes, especially when you get to remind people who's in charge without actually having to yell.
"This Korean Peninsula," Liu Bei observed. He studied the future maps carefully. "It appears to be an impoverished, desolate region."
The detailed topographical maps provided by the light screen revealed the harsh truth. The peninsula was a chaotic mess of jagged mountains, dense forests, and rocky hills. There was very little fertile farmland. It was not a wealthy prize. It looked like a nightmare to march through, like trying to walk through a thorn bush while carrying heavy bags.
"However," Liu Bei continued. He tapped his finger against the desk. "If we ever desire to project power and conquer that island nation of Japan, controlling the peninsula as a staging ground is an absolute geopolitical necessity."
"There is no need to rush, My Lord," Zhuge Liang concluded smoothly. He delivered his final strategic verdict. "We must approach this slowly and methodically."
Zhuge Liang had spent considerable time running mental simulations regarding the Japanese islands. His ultimate conclusion was simple: ignore them for now. They were not worth the effort. First, the Han Dynasty remained fractured. A civil war must be won before dreaming of overseas expansion. Second, based on the screen's timeline, Japan was currently a primitive backwater, posing no genuine threat for centuries. They were barely emerging from tribal warfare. Worrying about them while fighting a civil war was like fretting over a toddler while confronting a tiger.
Zhuge Liang understood the deep hatred future generations held for Japan, but he knew acting on emotion led to ruin. Revenge required patience and preparation. Destroying an island empire demanded a navy, advanced shipbuilding, knowledge of ocean currents and weather patterns, and above all, domestic strength. It was a project for decades, not days. A reckless, premature invasion driven by spite would be a logistical disaster. A single storm could annihilate an army. Half measures would only teach the enemy to fight better, like raising a snake that would eventually bite its keeper.
And Zhuge Liang did not raise snakes. He was too smart for that.
Back in the Tang Dynasty's imperial capital, Li Shimin leaned heavily on his throne. Watching the chaotic reality of the Korean Peninsula unfold was deeply educational, like studying a manual of everything that could go wrong. He found himself nodding in grudging approval at his son's recent decisions. When pressed, Li Zhi had shown real resolve, empowering the right general and deploying resources without delay. Perhaps the boy had potential after all.
Yet a dark, unsettling thought nagged at him, an itch he could not scratch.
Is the scale of my success a curse upon my children? Li Shimin wondered silently.
Stroking his long beard, he finally understood the old proverb about rich heirs squandering their ancestors' legacy. He had built an empire from nothing, while his son treated it like an endless feast. Li Zhi had been raised in the deep palace's suffocating luxury. He had never recruited peasant militias, forged swords, or overseen warship construction. He had never even seen a battlefield up close. His idea of hardship was likely a slightly cool meal.
Yet with a casual gesture, this sheltered prince could mobilize hundreds of thousands of elite troops. With a single order, he could send massive fleets across treacherous oceans to fight on foreign shores. The power at his fingertips was disconnected from the effort required to build it. He had no concept of its true cost, seeing armies as mere numbers on paper.
Li Shimin was different. Future generations called him the Young Master of Taiyuan, acknowledging his aristocratic roots, but he had spent his youth covered in mud and blood. He had slept in freezing tents, woken with frost on his brows and an empty stomach. He had watched loyal soldiers fall in battle, fought desperate campaigns for small patches of land.
He knew what war truly was, not glorious or beautiful, but loud, bloody, and cold.
He understood war's horrifying cost, the sacrifice behind every victory. And he knew his son had no comprehension of it.
Li Shimin knew he could lecture his sons endlessly about campaigns, describe battlefield horrors and the weight of command, but words were insufficient. A story about freezing in snow could never replace the experience of frostbite. One had to feel it to understand it, like explaining spice to someone who had never tasted it.
Perhaps I need to force these princes out of the palace, Li Shimin thought grimly. They need to walk through villages, see how common people struggle to pay taxes, understand the empire's true weight. Otherwise, they will be spoiled children playing with real armies, and that is a recipe for disaster.
Maybe I should send them to the front lines for a month, he mused. Let them sleep in mud, eat cold porridge, be disciplined by centurions. That would teach respect faster than any lecture.
Then he paused, imagining his wife's furious expression.
Would she even let me return to the palace if I tried?
He sighed. Conquering the world was easy. Surviving his wife was the real challenge.
Shaking off domestic concerns, Li Shimin's sharp eyes caught a detail mentioned in the broadcast.
Silla was incredibly wealthy.
While the peninsula's riches were modest compared to the Tang's vast treasury, Li Shimin was a pragmatic ruler. Wealth was wealth, and he valued it. "The wealth held by Silla," Li Shimin murmured, a calculating gleam in his eye, "could easily become wealth of the Great Tang."
Standing by the map table, Du Ruhui was already several steps ahead. He leaned over the parchment, charcoal in hand, drawing a bold line from Shandong's Laizhou port across the sea to Japan. Another line stretched from the Liaodong Peninsula south toward the islands.
Both vital maritime routes intersected perfectly within Silla's territory.
Studying the trade routes' geometry, Du Ruhui formulated a grand economic strategy. "If the Great Tang wishes to permanently pacify our eastern borders," Du Ruhui stated with absolute certainty, "securing control over Silla is essential. They hold the crossroads."
Du Ruhui saw the future clearly: if these routes were opened and proven profitable, merchant clans in Jiangzhe and Shandong would flourish, building massive fleets to fill eastern seas. Over decades, as long as Tang military supremacy remained unchallenged, cultural and economic exchange would reshape the entire eastern hemisphere.
But a great trade network needed valuable commodities to justify ocean travel's risks. What did the eastern seas offer? Gold was scarce in Silla; silk was already abundant in the Tang.
Du Ruhui stared at the map, lost in thought, when a memory surfaced, a casual detail from future broadcasts about Tang aristocrats' lifestyles, a luxury import that drove nobles to great lengths.
Du Ruhui looked up, meeting the Emperor's gaze.
"Silla maidens" Du Ruhui whispered, the dark reality of the ancient economy hanging heavy in the air.