Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Edge

In Liu Ji's memory, the Gilgit Valley had long since been overtaken by burgeoning urban developments. Especially after the completion of the China-Bactria Highway connecting the two nations, economic growth had swept through the region. Yet now, standing here, it seemed more like an untouched mountain village, secluded from the world and untouched by progress.

Patchworks of fields dotted the landscape, vibrant green rice shoots offering an endless sense of hope. Farmers garbed in a variety of ethnic costumes walked between the furrows, stopping and starting, chatting and laughing, using only a handful of words mutually intelligible to both sides—yet their communication flowed unimpeded.

This was merely the result of five years under Tang rule. What if they had fifty? In time, the language, customs, and social systems of China would become the sole standard here, just as in the Four Garrisons of Anxi. Such was the influence of Han civilization, seeping into land and hearts over thousands of years, lifting China to one pinnacle after another.

Lost in these thoughts, he found himself wandering onto a stretch of river shoal, smooth pebbles beneath his feet, the crystal-clear water babbling past. The breeze carried a breath of chill from the snow-capped peaks—invigorating and pure.

“Wulang, now that there’s no one else around, will you tell me—what else did you learn among the Tubo?” A voice sounded suddenly, prompting him to withdraw his feet from the water.

Brought here, and with no one else in attendance, Liu Ji knew exactly what Feng Changqing wanted to ask—precisely what had emboldened him to speak so brazenly back in the tent. It was the eleventh year of the Tianbao era, only three years before the coming upheaval. He could easily have chosen to keep his head down and protect himself, but as someone who knew history, how could he resign himself to mere self-preservation?

Turning, he met the other man’s probing gaze and walked over, his tone calm. “The news is just as Yang Huzi said—nothing out of the ordinary.”

“So what did Yang Er tell you?” Feng pressed.

What could Yang Yu possibly know? Liu Ji doubted he could have hidden anything under those circumstances.

“There’s no need for such tests, sir. I’ve simply worked out some things for myself. As for the rest, it’s a matter of glimpsing the greater picture from the smallest clues.” He addressed the man’s greatest doubt first.

“The art of mapmaking—I learned it from the Hu people. They say it came from the farthest West, from Dashi and Furun, both lands skilled in this craft. I’m hardly proficient; what little I know is but skin-deep. With time, perhaps I could master it further.”

Feng Changqing fell silent. It wasn’t just the radical language or the odd behaviors that unsettled him—standing before him now, Liu Ji exuded a sense of both familiarity and strangeness that defied explanation.

“Sir, in your opinion, with Wang Zhongcheng’s passing, who could succeed him?”

Liu Ji’s next question caught Feng off guard, leaving him momentarily speechless. “How did you...?”

“Have you forgotten, sir? It was your own attendant who spoke of it, just now in the house.”

“Even so, you shouldn’t speak of it openly. There are rules in the army, and now that you know, keep it to yourself.” Yet despite his words, Feng didn’t stop the conversation. In this sensitive time, only this young man could discuss such matters with him.

“Wang only held office for less than a year, overseeing two districts. In the wake of defeat, rallying the troops and pacifying the surrounding tribes consumed his every effort. No one else could have done better in his place—a pity heaven did not grant him more years.”

The circumstances of Wang Zhengjian’s death were unrecorded in the histories, his deeds pieced together only from stray fragments in other texts. Still, Feng’s tone spoke of sincere respect. Liu Ji believed there was no need for pretense between them, and so he listened intently as Feng continued.

“I was appointed acting commander by imperial edict, delivered personally by Minister Li’s envoy at the start of this year, gathering the troops of Boduocheng, Shule, and Khotan here.”

Minister Li? Liu Ji realized then that this was Li Linfu, the right chancellor, who also held the title of Grand Protector of Anxi—the true master of the four garrisons.

“When Wang received the edict, he had just sent Deputy Commander Cheng as envoy to Dashi. Thus, the post of acting commander fell to me. We assembled the troops for three months, but did not move, as Deputy Commander Cheng had not yet returned. In Wang’s eyes, I suspect Cheng was always his intended chief of staff.”

Though Feng spoke as if relaying trivia, Liu Ji heard the true meaning: Wang’s chosen successor was this Deputy Commander Cheng. The identity was obvious—there was only one General Cheng serving as Deputy Protector of Anxi at the time.

He was none other than Cheng Qianli, whom Li Siyi had mockingly called “Madman Cheng.”

Both men were giants in stature and strength, famed for their martial prowess. Cheng Qianli had risen early to Deputy Protector, senior even to the recently retired Gao Xianzhi, but because he was not a tribal general, he’d long been suppressed—until Wang Zhengjian took command. At the thought, Liu Ji couldn’t help but smile wryly; the face of a charlatan revealed.

“I don’t know what Wang intended, but as for Deputy Commander Cheng, he could never become the master of Anxi—unless the court intended to lose this war.”

Feng was startled by his certainty, but on reflection, realized the point. He stole another look at Liu Ji, his curiosity deepening—what made this youth’s mind so quick that even he struggled to keep up?

If that was true, then the earlier question became all the more interesting. Excluding Cheng Qianli, with Wang Zhengjian’s passing, only one man could take charge of the four garrisons and lead their armies without chaos ensuing.

Before he could ask further, two riders came galloping from the direction of the camp. They reined in at the riverbank; leading was the camp’s marshal, Duan Xiushi, followed by a scout with a banner fixed to his back.

“Marshal Cheng, what’s the matter?” Feng Changqing asked as they approached, his expression turning grave.

“Patrol reports say the Tubo on the right bank of the Boyi River have withdrawn to the far side. They rode straight to the riverbank and met no resistance.” Duan Xiushi took a scroll from the scout and handed it to Feng.

Seeing Feng’s furrowed brow, Liu Ji couldn’t help but sigh. Though the histories ranked Feng and Gao as equals, when it came to command in the field, the latter was far superior. Feng would ponder over such an obvious fact for so long; it was little wonder the only battle attributed to him in the records was actually credited to Duan Xiushi.

Feng Changqing, ultimately, was a logistical talent thrust reluctantly into the front lines—pity he never realized it himself. In his sad fate to come, one saw the truth: character is destiny, and he embodied it perfectly.

“What do you think, Marshal Cheng?” What surprised Liu Ji even more was that after reading the report, Feng still seemed at a loss. Unable to restrain himself, Liu Ji interjected.

“The Tubo are likely planning to destroy the vine bridge.”

At that, not only Feng but even Duan Xiushi turned to look at him.

Their expressions seemed to say, “Must you steal the scene?”