Chapter Ninety-Eight: The Persuader

“What are you doing?”

A sarcastic smile appeared on Lun Chengxin’s well-maintained face. The Tibetan words flowing from his mouth already sounded somewhat unfamiliar; he had to slow down his speech to convey his meaning clearly.

“Don’t you, Mulingti, know what I want to do? The great leader of the Supi tribe, the grand minister of Tibet, the sage of the plateau—when did you start learning to speak insincerely?”

Returning here again, he felt utterly uncomfortable. Even the Tibetan-style robe he wore felt awkward. In his memories, ever since he could remember, he had always lived like a Han Chinese. Tibet? It had never truly existed for him.

Mulingti understood his feelings well and could guess his intentions. Five years ago, he wouldn’t have even met him—he would have been cut down outside the tent, his head handed over as a great accomplishment.

But now?

Mulingti’s face was full of smiles, as if meeting a long-lost old friend. Not only did he personally welcome him inside, but he also pretended not to notice the missing courtesies from the other side. The situation dictated the attitude.

The two sat opposite each other on the couch inside the tent—one cross-legged, the Tibetan way, the other kneeling in the Han Chinese manner. Between them stood a small table. A maid poured them freshly brewed butter tea and mare’s milk wine. Mulingti waved his hand, dismissing everyone else.

“Gar Jiujou, my old friend, when you were born, I was only three years old. My father took me to your tribe to offer congratulations. At that time, your family was the most honorable surname in Tibet. Your grandfather was a celebrated hero, the chief of the Supi tribe. Even the tribal leaders would kneel before him and rarely meet his gaze.”

Mulingti’s words stirred waves in his heart. That was over fifty years ago. Gar Qinling, the great son of Ludongzan, the invincible war god in the hearts of Tibetans, the demon in the eyes of the Tang—was also his grandfather.

Under his hands, the Gar family had reached its peak. Several brothers successively became the great ministers of Tibet, controlling the nation’s internal affairs and most of its armies. Yet, it was precisely this that aroused the emperor’s suspicion. This suspicion was exploited by the Tang, culminating in a mutiny—a monarch’s revolt against his ministers!

The final result was the execution of Qinling and several brothers. His own father and another brother fled with thousands of tribesmen to the Tang, serving their former enemies. More than fifty years had passed.

“There is no longer a Gar family in this world. My surname is Lun, my father’s surname is Lun, and my grandfather’s name is recorded as Lun in the clan shrine.”

Lun Chengxin did not touch the mare’s milk wine; he only picked up the butter tea, lifting it gently to his lips to breathe in the aroma.

“The tea leaves were introduced to your Tibet by my great-grandfather from the Tang. It helped you overcome the harsh environment, enabling you to descend from the plateau, freely slaughtering and plundering everything from the Han. Even the barley and brewing methods were passed down from the Tang. You not only forgot their origins but also forgot those who brought them to you.”

He placed the tea cup on the table and said coldly, “I did not want to come this time. Because everyone knows that the only things that can make you fear are swords and death. Mercy is seen as cowardice, grace as foolishness. Barbarians are only safe to be killed like cattle and sheep; only then do they pose no threat to humanity.”

Mulingti sighed silently. Though these words seemed resentful, they were quite accurate. The strong naturally dominate the weak. When they were strong, they treated the Tang the same way. Now the tables had turned; who could they blame?

“My old friend, the Supi people are not Tibetans. There isn’t much hatred between us.”

“If that weren’t the case, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

Lun Chengxin’s tone barely changed. There was no recognition in his reference to an old friend.

“Tuyuhun has been utterly exterminated. You know better than I how many Qiang remain. Next in line are your Supi people. Tibetans will always hide behind others, praying for divine protection. This time, I wonder if the gods will hear their cries. So, what is the choice of you, the great leader Mulingti?”

A bitter smile tugged at Mulingti’s lips. The words came with great difficulty.

“Is this what Geshu Han wants to say to me?”

“This is what the great minister Geshu instructed me to say to you.” Lun Chengxin stared straight into his eyes, unflinching.

Mulingti looked at this familiar stranger. The distinct blush of the plateau had faded from his fair face, leaving only his bone structure and a trace of Tibetan features. In a few generations, this direct descendant of a great family might become a Han for good. His gaze was icy, his heart colder still; his tone left no room for negotiation, as if pronouncing a final verdict.

Who could blame him? Had the emperor not been so foolish fifty years ago, the Gar family would still be the nightmare of the Tang. No matter how many came, they would only become piles of corpses and stone monuments commemorating heroes.

For a moment, Mulingti wanted to draw his sword and strike, regardless of his future or life—he refused to be threatened and humiliated. But he endured, for the sake of tens of thousands of tribesmen.

He forced a smile and bent down to pour tea for his counterpart, seizing the chance to avoid the awkwardness. Even though not a drop of the tea was spared in front of Lun Chengxin.

“You should know better than I that the Supi never intended to oppose the Tang. Yet we live under Tibetan domination, controlled in all things. Many warriors are conscripted; the rest are left to herd or farm. Even the land beneath our feet is nominally ours—the Ruben—but the real power to mobilize belongs to only a few thousand. Even if I lead these few thousand to surrender to the Tang, it would bring disaster to the tribe, not much else.”

Seeing him soften, Lun Chengxin’s expression finally relaxed somewhat.

“Minister Geshu did not order you to surrender immediately.”

“And...?”

“Let me be frank. This time, the Heavenly Khan is determined. He will attack from all sides, regardless of cost. He sent me to say these words because I have been given the title of military governor over two garrisons and am now reorganizing the troops. Hexi and Longyou combined—your spies must know better than I how many soldiers are gathering. If you don’t believe me, send more scouts to verify my words.”

Mulingti gasped inwardly. This news was entirely new to him; it had just been issued from Chang’an. Lun Chengxin would not use such a clumsy lie. If all was true, under Geshu Han’s banner would be over 150,000 troops, all battle-hardened soldiers—not the slaves Tibetans usually counted.

How could this be? Geshu Han had always pursued cautious, steady tactics, never engaging Tibetans in open battle. He consolidated one fortress at a time. Since the sixth year of the Tianbao era, he had almost swallowed all of Qinghai. Where Tibetans once raided Han grain fields, now Han cavalry, relying on fortresses, struck back, seizing cattle, horses, sheep, and people, shrinking Tibetan lands step by step—soon to border their own territories.

How could he not be alarmed?

Previously minor skirmishes had another cause—Geshu Han’s discord with An Sishun, then military governor of Hexi. Though also formidable, An was a saint compared to Geshu Han, who dared anything once bribed.

Geshu Han was a dark cloud over Tibetans, impervious and ruthless, trusted by the emperor. Such a formidable man seemed born to oppose Tibetans.

One hundred and fifty thousand fully armed Tang soldiers!

At the thought, Mulingti’s teeth clenched painfully. Where could Tibetans find another Gar Qinling, a hero unparalleled? Where could they gather an army over 100,000 strong?

Laughably, even Da Feichuan—the former nightmare of the Tang—had fallen to Geshu Han!

Had the gods abandoned Tibet?

“Minister means...” Mulingti lowered his voice, leaning forward to ask in Han.

Lun Chengxin said nothing. From his sleeve, he pulled out a scroll—a rare, precious thing in Tibet—and casually placed it on the table.

“Read it slowly. I’m tired and will rest.”

And he rose and left just like that.

A letter from Geshu Han? Mulingti grew tense. Speaking could be denied, but handwriting was ironclad proof. If seized, his fate would be worse than the Gar family’s.

Yet, not reading it would waste today’s meeting. Curiosity won. He grabbed the scroll and unrolled it, suddenly dumbfounded. It was all in Han script. He could speak a little but could not read.

“Xinuoluo.”

A young man answered the call: “Father.”

“Do you read Han? Come look and tell me what this says.” Xinuoluo was his eldest son and heir of the Supi tribe. Such matters were never kept from him; even the camp’s security was entrusted to him.

Xinuoluo took the scroll and frowned. He recognized every character but was confused by the whole text. Fortunately, some sentences were clear.

“...In Hexi, Longyou, Anxi, Jiannan, and other prefectures, the military governor and soldiers who capture the Tibetan emperor will be granted princely titles; those who capture generals will be granted the rank of general; those who capture lieutenants or below will be appointed commanders or colonels...”

“Enough.”

Mulingti snapped sharply. This was no mere letter—it was a proclamation.

Geshu Han actually intended to grant kingships!