Chapter Twenty-Eight: Deception

A war whose outcome had already been decided—what difference could his involvement possibly make? Liu Ji was no prophet, yet he believed things could only improve. As the youngest among this group, he saw a variety of expressions in their eyes. Most regarded him politely, thanks to Feng Changqing, but no one expected a man famed for brute strength to offer any profound insight. Perhaps the only exception was Yang Yu.

Before speaking, Liu Ji arranged them in a wide circle, placing himself at the center—not, of course, to play some game from future generations. Grasping the sharpened stick that had earlier skewered a leg of lamb, he traced a round symbol in the muddy earth.

“Let’s say this is the capital of the Tibetans, Lhasa.” He marked the name with the pointed tip, then drew a bowl-shaped circle around it. “This is roughly the territory they control.”

In the 750s, the Tibetan Kingdom ruled a region that included the later Qiang Autonomous District, the borderlands of Sichuan and Yunnan, and most of what would become Qinghai Province. Lhasa, later known as the City of Sunlight, was the capital of this future Qiang region.

When his audience realized he was drawing a map, they exchanged puzzled glances. Even Feng Changqing had not expected it, and what shocked them more was that Liu Ji’s diagram bore little resemblance to the maps they knew; his sketch emphasized proportion and distance.

“Here are Greater and Lesser Bolü; below lies India, above are the Onion Ridges. These mountains separate the Tibetan heartland from these regions. Skirting around them, one can reach Yantong and Nepal, both not far from their capital.”

“Now look here—the Kunlun Mountains, stretching over five thousand li, dividing our Anxi garrison from Tibet. Sometimes, the Tibetans raid through mountain passes, harassing the borders of Khotan and places like Boxian and Qiemo. Doesn’t it seem, from this, that the threat is nearer and greater?”

The conclusion was clear in his description, especially to Yang He, the commander of Khotan, who listened most intently since these lands were under his charge.

“First, terrain restricts them. Crossing these mountains is no easy feat, so the Tibetans can’t muster large armies. Small raids are easily repelled, which is why they focus on inciting locals.”

Indeed, Boxian had been swayed by Tibetan persuasion many times and remained a volatile region.

“Second, Tibetans are born and raised in frigid heights. They aren’t suited to heat. In such places, if they took off their long robes, they couldn’t so much as walk.”

Liu Ji’s remark drew laughter, even from Feng Changqing, whose interest was piqued as Liu Ji turned his stick to another direction.

“East of Khotan are the prefectures of Gua, Sha, Su, Gan, and Liang, all under the Hexi Military Governor. Further on are the Shanzhou, Lanzhou, Hezhou, and Minzhou under the Longyou Military Governor. Southward lies the Jian’nan Western Sichuan command. All these border Tibet and none are free from the frontlines of conflict.”

Now the question arises: as our Anxi troops gather here, what are the other regional commanders doing?

Liu Ji clapped his hands and stood up, surveying his rough sketch. Though merely a schematic, it was enough to astonish these men—most of whom could barely read.

Feng Changqing’s face remained calm as he regarded the crude map, but inwardly he was astounded. He could not imagine how this youth had reached such conclusions, for in all Anxi, only a select few knew the truth of things. Of all present, only he knew how Liu Ji could have obtained this knowledge. Feng Changqing could scarcely believe it was mere guesswork, nor did he credit Tibetan informants from his mission to Greater Bolü.

This was not the time for such inquiries. Addressing Duan Xiushi by his courtesy name, he instructed, “Chenggong, have your men make a copy of this map. Today we are here only to see Wulang; the rest can wait.”

Duan Xiushi bowed in assent, and as he left, exchanged a glance with Li Siyi. There was more to this matter, likely connected to the Grand Protector in Kucha.

In the official residence at He Polao City, Xi Dongzan had changed his clothes and now sat facing the visiting Shang Jiezan. Though from different clans, both were members of the elite and well acquainted.

“Daza Lujong can’t come. He asked me to warn you—be careful. The Tang are not so easily dealt with.”

“What?” Shang Jiezan nearly lost his composure at these words upon sitting down.

“It’s from the side of Cuowenbo?”

“Yes.” Shang Jiezan glanced sidelong at the Bolü girl busying herself in the room, lowering his voice. “The Tang are making major moves. Geshu Han has already taken three of our fortresses; we’ve lost half our pastures, and the rest won’t hold for long. It seems they will press on.”

Such bold actions? Xi Dongzan sipped his butter tea in silence, the familiar taste steadying his nerves as he considered the pros and cons.

Cuowenbo was Qiang for “Qinghai”—later, the Chinese would designate it as Qinghai Province, a scenic region famous for environmental conservation and tourism. At this time, the area around Qinghai was lush pastureland. The Tang’s relentless pressure meant that losing the entire lake region would forfeit not only great pasture, but also critical salt-producing grounds. Qinghai was a saltwater lake.

Clearly, the situation there was far more severe, and its importance beyond compare. Each Tang offensive involved over a hundred thousand troops, and Tibet had to rally its entire nation to respond, even though it had often triumphed before.

“Nanzhao has sent word—the Tang’s Jian’nan commander is also recruiting heavily; it won’t be long before they strike.”

“They dare return? Didn’t they lose over a hundred thousand men just last year?”

At this, Shang Jiezan gave him a look as if he were a fool, replying slowly, “People call you clever—how could you say something so foolish?”

“The Tang are like stars in the sky—countless. Even if we added all our people, cattle, sheep, and horses, they would still not equal a fraction of their numbers. Over the years, how many times have they lost a hundred thousand? When have they ever retreated?”

Xi Dongzan knew this well, but could not accept it. The vast disparity in national strength meant that only Tang victories truly counted, while a single Tibetan defeat would be devastating—a reason why every setback forced them to plead for peace under the Princess Jincheng’s name and draw up new treaties.

But the princess had been dead thirteen years. Now, not even that pretext remained.

“Without Daza Lujong’s imperial guards, you and I alone cannot defeat them.”

Shang Jiezan agreed. “That’s why I came—to see if we should change our plans. Even if they take Bolü, it won’t change the larger picture. The Tang won’t stay here long.”

“Not necessarily.” Xi Dongzan shook his head. “If we walk away, will the Tang spare the next place? Where would we go—Xiangxiong, or the Qiangtang?”

His gaze grew firm. “The land of Tibet was won by our warriors with their blood. If we must lose it, then the Tang will have to pay for it with their lives.”

Shang Jiezan knew he could not be persuaded. He fell silent, eyes flickering, lost in thought.