Zhang Xin's words had been explicitly directed at the boy, but their true trajectory had been aimed squarely at Zheng Xuan.
There was no helping it. The old master's staggering academic seniority demanded a delicate touch; there were some brutal truths Zhang Xin simply could not utter to his face without causing an unfixable rift. But with the twelve-year-old Zhuge Liang, those political constraints dissolved.
Zheng Xuan was no fool. He understood the chilling undercurrent of Zhang Xin's lecture perfectly, and he sank into a profound, heavy silence after the boy's capitulation.
Zhang Xin didn't pressure him. He quietly resumed his seat, sipping his tea and allowing the old man the time to untangle his own moral knots. Today, he had deliberately avoided the theatrical rhetoric he usually used to incite the desperate peasantry. Instead, he laid his raw geopolitical calculus bare before the master of classics.
I slaughtered them because they chose treason. And the price of treason is total eradication.
One should not be deceived by Zheng Xuan's current, serene lifestyle—spending his twilight years tucked away in a quiet courtyard, looking for all the world like a naive scholar detached from the blood-soaked realities of the empire. In his youth, Zheng Xuan had climbed the ranks of the imperial bureaucracy, walked the polished corridors of the Imperial Academy, and navigated the treacherous currents of the central government. Furthermore, he had survived more than sixty winters in a fracturing world.
The hollow, sugar-coated excuses Zhang Xin used to placate the illiterate masses would never fool a titan like him. Rather than insulting the master's intelligence with hypocritical claims of "defending the people"—which would only earn Zheng Xuan's permanent, quiet resentment—it was far more effective to use the academic debate with Zhuge Liang to state the terrifying, unvarnished truth.
Throughout his long life, a legendary Confucian like Zheng Xuan sought only two things: Yi—Righteousness—and the cultivation of a true Junzi, a gentleman who upheld that righteousness.
To a scholar of his caliber, true loyalty was not a matter of sentimental brotherhood or blind fealty to a title. It was the absolute preservation of cosmic justice.
Is my unyielding determination to rescue the Emperor from traitors righteous? Zhang Xin's silent gaze challenged the old man. Is my vision to bring absolute order to a bleeding realm, preserving the lives of millions of common folk, a work of grand benevolence? Old man, your own texts forbid you from saying no.
And if my path is righteous, then aren't those greedy regional clans who stabbed me in the back the very definition of the unjust? Killing the unjust to preserve the just is the ultimate execution of righteousness.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until the old scholar finally let out a long, defeated sigh.
"Alas..." Zheng Xuan murmured, his shoulders sinking under the weight of his robes. "I have always known that Ziqing is fiercely loyal to the sovereign and possesses a deep love for the realm. Were it not so, you would never have endured the brutal hardships of a thousands-li campaign to aid the imperial house."
Zhang Xin's lips curled into a faint, victorious smile. The old man had stepped out of his ideological trap and accepted the paradigm.
"This initial attempt to restore the Emperor was shattered at the final hour by the treachery of others," Zheng Xuan continued, his voice laced with a heavy, pragmatic fatigue. "I can comprehend your immense difficulties, Ziqing. However... I pray that you will not wield a blade so drastically in the days to come."
The master paused, his eyes drifting back to the bamboo scrolls on his desk. "Remember the ancient truth: 'Since the late King diligently employed his virtuous rule and embraced the people, all the states prospered.' Now that your foundational brothers have arrived, I urge you to hold fast to this wisdom."
The quote, yet again, was drawn from the depths of the Zicai.
Centuries ago, after the Duke of Zhou had ruthlessly crushed the Rebellion of the Three Guards, he had enfeoffed his ninth younger brother, Ji Feng, over the volatile ruins of the old Shang territory, establishing the State of Wei to govern the conquered elites. History remembered him as Kang Shu Feng. It was a testament to his governance that the State of Wei became an enduring anomaly—the solitary feudal state that Qin Shi Huang chose not to violently dismantle when he unified China under iron rule.
Back then, the Duke of Zhou had given Kang Shu Feng an absolute directive: You must implement a rule of profound virtue and visible benevolence over these conquered Shang people. Force them to willingly embrace our Zhou sovereignty, pay their taxes, and become peaceful subjects. Only when the hearts of the conquered accept the peace of the conqueror can your State of Wei endure for ten thousand generations.
Zheng Xuan was utilizing the very historical framework Zhang Xin had invoked to issue a final, solemn warning: You used the bloody precedent of the Three Guards to justify your slaughter. Now that the executions are done and the land is cleared, you must pivot to true, benevolent governance. If you rule solely by the sword, your state will rot.
Zhang Xin bowed his head, his gesture flawless and entirely sincere. "I am deeply grateful for Master Zheng's profound teachings. Ziqing will engrave them upon his heart."
Seeing the tyrant offer a genuine nod of submission, a small, weary smile finally broke through Zheng Xuan's stern countenance.
With the philosophical warfare concluded, the atmosphere in the room shifted seamlessly into the predictable, necessary dance of mutual flattery. Zhang Xin signaled toward the door, and Dian Wei strode in, bearing the lavish, meticulously selected gifts.
Zheng Xuan cast a sideways glance at the chest of treasures. You clever rascal, the old man's eyes seemed to say, if I hadn't conceded the argument, would you have marched your black-armored killers out of my house and left your elder empty-handed?
Yet, reflecting on Zhang Xin's conduct since entering Gaomi—the deliberate dismounting a hundred paces away, the shedding of his terrifying war gear for a scholar's robes, and the unyielding respect he had maintained through every breath of their encounter—Zheng Xuan decided to let the petty grievance slide. He accepted the tribute with a dignified nod.
They conversed for a short while longer, with Zhang Xin inquiring closely about Zhuge Liang's curriculum, before the Governor finally rose to take his leave.
The twelve-year-old Zhuge Liang escorted him all the way to the outer gates of the estate, his young face tight with an intense, unreadable emotion.
"Liangzai," Zhang Xin said, halting in the slush and turning to face the boy. He placed a heavy, reassuring hand on his young shoulder. "Master Zheng is the premier scholar of our age. You must pour your entire soul into your studies under his roof."
His gaze sharpened, boring into the boy's eyes. "The world beyond these walls is drowning in chaos and fire. I expect you to master your craft with absolute speed. The day is coming where I will need your mind to help me reshape the empire."
"Liang will never fail the Governor's grand expectations," the boy whispered, his small fist clenching as he nodded with a solemnity that belonged to a grown statesman.
Zhang Xin felt a deep surge of satisfaction. He offered a few more words of fierce encouragement before gesturing for the boy to return to the warmth of the courtyard.
"May the heavens preserve your health, Governor... as we part ways today."
Zhuge Liang stood in the snow, tears welling in his brilliant eyes as he bent his body into a grand, ancient ceremony of absolute devotion.
To the Zhuge line, Zhang Xin's beneficence was as vast as the ocean. He had rescued them from obscurity, secured powerful administrative posts for Zhuge Xuan and Zhuge Jin, and personally placed the family's youngest prodigy under the tutelage of the greatest living mind in the realm. A debt of that magnitude could never be repaid in a single lifetime.
Watching the boy reluctantly trace his steps back inside, turning his head to look back with every few paces, Zhang Xin felt a thrill of dark anticipation ripple through him.
This version of Zhuge Liang... will be vastly more terrifying than the icon of my past life.
In the original tapestry of history, Zhuge Liang's youth had been a fractured nightmare of displacement. He had fled the slaughter of Xirozuhou, migrated to the volatile lands of Yangzhou, and eventually sought refuge in the wilderness of Jingzhou. He had spent his formative years constantly on the run, a refugee of a broken empire.
Many later generations mistakenly believed that the legendary hermit Sima Hui had been his primary master, but that was a historical illusion. Sima Hui had merely been a talent scout, recommending the "Sleeping Dragon" and the "Fledgling Phoenix" when a desperate Liu Bei came knocking. The official chronicles never recorded a formal master for Zhuge Liang; they merely stated that he settled in Longzhong with his uncle, farmed the earth, boldly compared his intellect to the ancient strategists Guan Zhong and Yue Yi, and conversed with regional minds like Cui Zhouping and Xu Shu.
Furthermore, the verified disciples of Sima Hui—men like Xiang Lang, Yin Mo, Liu Yi, and Li Ren—never approached true greatness. Xiang Lang, who achieved the highest rank among them, peaked as a mere Left General. If Sima Hui had truly forged the mind of the man who ruled Shu Han, history would have shouted it from the mountaintops.
In truth, Zhuge Liang's early education had been an accumulation of the Zhuge family's private archives, supplemented perhaps by his secondary brother-in-law, Pang Shanmin, the son of the respected scholar Pang Degong.
But Zheng Xuan was an entirely different beast. He didn't just specialize in a single lineage of thought like the regional gentry clans; he had mastered the entire classical canon.
With a mind like that guiding him, and the absolute stability to study without the terror of wandering as a refugee, this incarnation of Zhuge Liang would achieve heights that would make his past self look like a mere prelude.
Leaving the quiet sanctuary of Gaomi behind, Zhang Xin threw himself back into his iron saddle. The column roared southwest, tracking directly toward the administrative fortress of Ju County.
Cui Yan had received the scouts' warnings early. He had already lined the frozen approaches to the city with the entire municipal bureaucracy, stepping forward to greet the arriving warlord.
"This servant pays his highest respects to the Lord."
"Dispense with the empty protocol, Jizuo," Zhang Xin said, swinging down from his horse and gripping Cui Yan by the forearms to pull him upright. His eyes instantly swept past the Chancellor, widening in genuine shock as they locked onto the massive crowd of unfamiliar faces standing rigidly behind him.
"By the gods... look at this crowd!" Zhang Xin breathed, a rare look of astonishment crossing his face. "Did the gentry of Jizhou truly migrate across the borders this quickly?"
"Indeed they did," Cui Yan replied, a proud, knowing smile gracing his refined features. "The moment my fellow clansmen heard that the Lord was facing an acute deficit of capable administrators in Qingzhou, they did not waste a single heartbeat. The moment their ancestral ancestral worship ceremonies concluded on the fifth day of the New Year, they packed their carriages and raced across the border. They didn't even wait for the winter festivals to end."
Qinghe Commandery sat directly adjacent to the borders of Pingyuan; a single moon was more than enough time for an ambitious caravan of scholars to track down to Ju County.
Zhang Xin stepped past Cui Yan, facing the massive assembly of Jizhou intellectuals. He straightened his posture and bent his body into a deep, profoundly respectful bow. "On behalf of the starving, broken populace of Qingzhou, I offer you all my deepest gratitude."
"The Lord flattery is far too generous!" the Jizhou scholars shouted in a chaotic chorus, hastily dropping to their knees to return the gesture. "The Lord is a peerless titan of our age, and more importantly, you are a son of our own Jizhou soil! It is our sacred duty to offer our feeble talents to aid your grand cause!"
Zhang Xin blinked, momentarily caught off guard before the reality of their words clicked in his mind.
Ah. That's right. My official lineage hails from Jizhou.
In their eyes, he wasn't just a powerful warlord; he was their successful hometown boy who had conquered a neighboring province. This intense, fiery enthusiasm wasn't born out of abstract loyalty to his banner—it was the fierce, unyielding tribalism of shared regional blood.
In that fleeting moment, Zhang Xin finally understood why the ancients guarded their hometown networks with such rabid ferocity. When a man was bleeding himself dry in a foreign territory, having a wall of his own countrymen surge across the border to stand behind him was a feeling of intoxicating, absolute security.
A sharp smile broke across his face as he instantly activated his long-neglected passive asset—his legendary reputation for respecting the wise and sheltering the learned. He stepped into the crowd, initiating a masterclass in interpersonal diplomacy. Under his charismatic, deeply attentive assault, the aristocratic scholars of Jizhou were thoroughly captivated within minutes.
"The Lord is so astonishingly young, yet he wields a power that makes the empire tremble... truly, he is the vision of an enlightened ruler," the scholars whispered among themselves, their eyes bright with ambition.
Cui Yan, watching the display with a mix of admiration and wry amusement, realized the greeting would last until nightfall if he didn't intervene. He stepped forward, cutting through the praise. "My Lord, the winter wind bites deep. Shall we escort this assembly into the warmth of the city gates first?"
"Ah!" Zhang Xin slapped his own forehead in mock dismay. "Look at me! I was so entirely overcome with joy at meeting my fellow countrymen today that my manners deserted me. To leave you all shivering in the freezing gales of the city gates... it was an unpardonable discourtesy!"
The scholars practically wept at his humility, waving their hands in frantic denial. "The Lord is too kind! We feel no cold in your presence!"
"Come, come! Let us move inside where the wine is warm!"
Zhang Xin took the lead, guiding the massive retinue straight toward the Chancellor's primary administrative palace. He had walked these corridors during his previous campaigns; he had no need for Cui Yan to show him the way.
The moment they breached the heavy wooden doors, Zhang Xin unleashed the three mandatory tenets of aristocratic hospitality: roaring hearths, an absolute mountain of delicacies, and endless rivers of fine liquor. The banquet was an absolute triumph, the air thick with drunken laughter and the forging of new alliances.
On the following dawn, the Jizhou scholars, arrayed in meticulous order under Cui Yan's direction, lined the great hall to perform the formal ceremony of vassalage.
As their foreheads hit the floorboards, the sacred master-servant relationship was carved into stone. Zhang Xin watched them with profound satisfaction.
He was acutely aware of the political reality: as the Chancellor of Beihai, Cui Yan could have easily absorbed these arriving scholars into his own private faction, building a formidable bureaucratic stronghold right beneath Zhang Xin's nose. Yet, the man had deliberately stepped aside, ensuring their absolute loyalty was sworn directly to the Governor.
Cui Jizuo is indeed a man of terrifying, flawless integrity, Zhang Xin thought, his respect for the chancellor deepening.
With the formalities out of the way, the machinery of statecraft ground back to life. Within hours, the crowd cleared, leaving only Zhang Xin and Cui Yan alone in the quiet expanse of the hall.
"How do they look?" Zhang Xin asked, leaning back against his tiger-skin mat.
"The Lord can rest easy," Cui Yan replied, his lips twitching into a confident smile. "Most of these men have already cut their teeth as minor officials and scribes back in Jizhou. The moment they familiarize themselves with the local land registries and tax tallies, they can be deployed into the districts immediately. I can personally guarantee that the spring planting in Beihai State will not be delayed by a single day."
"Excellent. Flawless," Zhang Xin praised, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Furthermore, my Lord," Cui Yan's expression turned serious as he reached into the deep folds of his robes, pulling out a sealed bamboo container. "A messenger from Tao Qian arrived at our borders a few days ago, bearing this urgent missive for your eyes. Knowing that your grand circuit was approaching Beihai, I held the letter here rather than risking a courier to Pingyuan. Please review it."
Tao Qian again? What the hell does that old fox want now?
Zhang Xin cracked the wax seal, unrolling the silk scroll. The moment his eyes swept the text, his face contorted into an expression that mirrored a man who had walked into a wall of solid stench.
"Has Tao Gongzu completely lost every single shred of human shame?"
The letter contained very little actual intelligence, but its political ambition was staggering. Tao Qian was writing to propose that they jointly recommend the veteran General Zhu Jun to ascend to the vacant seat of Grand Tutor. Once appointed, Zhu Jun would officially lead the united warlords of the Guandong coalition, raising the righteous banner to launch a second, massive campaign to eradicate Dong Zhuo.
According to the text, eight regional players had already signed their names to the conspiracy in blood: Yin De, the Chancellor of Langya; Liu Kui, the Chancellor of Donghai; Ji Lian, the Chancellor of Pengcheng; Zhou Gan, the former Inspector of Yangzhou; Yuan Zhong, the Chancellor of Pei; Ying Shao, the Prefect of Taishan; Xu Qiu, the Governor of Runan; and Fu Qian, the former Prefect of the Jiujiang Commandery.
Including Tao Qian himself, nine lords stood ready. The letter was a formal invitation to Zhang Xin, offering him the prestige of becoming the tenth pillar of the new alliance.
"Recommending Zhu Jun as Grand Tutor..." Zhang Xin stared at the silk, utterly dumbfounded. "Where does that old man get the unmitigated gall?"
The position of Grand Tutor was a relic of the ancient Shang Dynasty, an office originally known as the Grand Minister—the absolute head of all civil and military bureaucracy. The early Han Dynasty had discarded the title entirely, and it wasn't until the reigns of the puppet Emperors Ai and Ping that it was resurrected, honored with the terrifying rank of Shang Gong. When Emperor Guangwu restored the Eastern Han, he quickly abolished the post to prevent any single minister from overshadowing the crown. It had remained dead ever since.
In the original timeline, after the coalition fractured and Sun Jian withdrew his forces, Dong Zhuo had violently claimed the title of Grand Tutor for himself, elevating his status above every regional king. But in this altered world, Dong Zhuo had been so thoroughly terrorized by Zhang Xin's military might that he was still trapped in his role as a cautious Chancellor, terrified of taking a step out of line.
Even Dong Zhuo doesn't dare touch that cursed title right now, Zhang Xin thought, a scoff escaping his lips. And yet Tao Qian wants to hand it to Zhu Jun? If Zhu Jun found out about this letter, he'd march his remaining men to Xuzhou just to slap the teeth out of Tao Qian's mouth.
In truth, Zhu Jun had already been catastrophically ruined by Tao Qian's political machinations right before the New Year.
Originally, Zhu Jun had merely wished to raise a loyalist army from the Kanto lords to launch an independent strike against Dong Zhuo. Tao Qian, seized by a sudden burst of reckless political ambition, had written a rogue memorial to the court in Chang'an, unilaterally appointing Zhu Jun as the acting General of Chariots and Cavalry.
When the news reached Chang'an, Dong Zhuo had exploded in a feral rage. He immediately unleashed his premier pack of wolves—Li Que, Guo Si, and Zhang Ji—commanding tens of thousands of elite infantry and iron cavalry to breach the passes and obliterate the threat.
Zhu Jun had been entirely blindsided. He had been quietly sitting in his camp at Zhongmou, minding his own business, when a giant bowl of imperial wrath was dumped directly onto his head from the capital. With the enemy legions bearing down and the walls of Zhongmou too low to withstand a siege, he had been forced to march his green levies out into the open plains to meet the veterans of the West.
The result had been an absolute slaughter. Li Que and his cohorts had beaten Zhu Jun so severely that his forces were shattered into dust; he was still cowering in the ruins of his camp, completely incapacitated.
The man was just beaten within an inch of his life as a General of Chariots and Cavalry, Zhang Xin mused darkly. If you try to make him Grand Tutor now, he'll scream that Tao Qian is trying to murder him.
"How does the Lord intend to reply to Chancellor Tao's invitation?" Cui Yan asked, his tone level.
Zhang Xin tossed the priceless silk scroll carelessly onto the floorboards. "Reply to him with a single character."
"Which character, my Lord?"
"Roll." (Get lost).
Cui Yan's lips twitched. He bent, retrieving the scroll. "This servant understands perfectly." He turned and exited the hall to draft the insult.
Once the chancellor departed, Zhang Xin picked up the discarded list of names, analyzing the signatures one last time. "Neither of his birth sons possess a modicum of talent... so why is this dying old fox so obsessed with playing kingmaker?" He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Dancing around like a monkey on a leash."
The roster was a joke. Yin De, Liu Kui, and Ji Lian commanded Langya, Donghai, and Pengcheng—but all three territories sat directly under Tao Qian's own jurisdiction in Xuzhou. They were his own subordinates signing a petition to make their master look grand.
Ying Shao, the Prefect of Mount Tai, had merely served alongside Tao Qian during the ancient campaigns against the Han Sui rebels in Chang'an. Xu Qiu, the Governor of Runan, was simply an old war buddy who had fought the Yellow Turbans alongside Zhu Jun years ago. As for Yuan Zhong of Pei State, he was merely a bitter remnant of the Yuan clan who held a blood feud against Dong Zhuo.
And the final two—Fu Qian and Zhou Gan? The word "former" written before their titles exposed the entire charade. Both had been stripped of their commands months ago due to absolute incompetence.
Tao Qian had scraped together a collection of desperate, irrelevant has-beens and regional cronies to thrust Zhu Jun into the seat of Grand Tutor. Zhang Xin could see through the strategy with his eyes closed.
It was a desperate bid for historical prestige. If Zhu Jun actually accepted the title, Tao Qian, as the grand architect of the petition, would instantly be elevated to the status of a kingmaker. If this rogue coalition somehow achieved a victory against Dong Zhuo, Tao Qian would be recorded in the imperial annals as the second most virtuous savior of the Han line. At that point, even Zhang Xin would have to bow his head and stand behind him in the imperial court.
The old bastard has the ambition of an emperor, Zhang Xin thought, tossing the paper into the hearth. He just lacks the brain cells to execute it.
Zhu Jun had been shattered into pieces last winter; it would be a miracle of the gods if he agreed to stick his neck out for Tao Qian a second time. Besides, Zhu Jun's military record was pathetic; he couldn't even handle secondary commanders like Li Que and Guo Si. Sending him to crush Dong Zhuo was a comedy.
Zhang Xin shook his head, erasing the petty distraction from his mind, and focused his absolute attention on auditing the military assets of Beihai State.
Once the inspections concluded, the iron column mounted up once more. The twenty-five hundred black-clad riders surged out of Ju County, their hooves striking the frozen earth as they headed due west, riding at a breakneck gallop straight toward Linzi, the ancient capital of Qi State.
There was a very specific reason Zhang Xin had chosen the State of Qi as the final, absolute stop on his bloody circuit.
Within the high walls of Linzi City, an old account was waiting to be settled.
Liu Cheng, the King of Qi.
When the powerful clans had launched their sweeping rebellion, Taishi Ci had been overwhelmed, losing control of Linzi. And sitting precisely at the heart of that local betrayal, signing the decrees that locked the gates against Zhang Xin's loyalists, was the King of Qi himself.
The hour of the butcher had arrived.
The black wave of the Xuanjia Army tore through the frozen outer valleys, their armor gleaming like ice under the pale winter sun as they ground to a halt before the towering gates of Linzi.
The Chancellor of Qi State was already waiting in the slush, his robes trembling violently as he rushed forward to throw himself to his knees before the tyrant's stirrup.
"This minor official... pays his absolute, terrified respects to the Governor!"
Zhang Xin looked down from his massive warhorse, his face carved from cold stone, completely devoid of human warmth.
"Dispense with your useless groveling," Zhang Xin whispered, his voice cutting through the freezing air like a razor. "Where is the King of Qi?"