The spring rain of the third month fell in a fine, unhurried mist.
It did not soak armor, nor did it turn roads into mud. It was the kind of rain farmers loved—soft, steady, seeping into the soil. Soldiers on the march felt their spirits lift. Commoners in the fields lifted their heads and smiled.
Heaven, it seemed, approved.
The Imperial Uncle Liu, whom most of Zigui had never even seen, had kept every promise.
In mid–second month, officials arrived under military escort. They did not come to collect taxes or issue orders. They came to teach.
To Mr. Li, the refugee from Yanzhou, these men looked… ordinary.
Their heads were wrapped in plain cloth. No scholar's caps. No ivory tablets. No bureaucratic pens tucked behind the ear. If they stood quietly in a field, one could easily mistake them for neighboring farmers.
Back in Yanzhou, even the gatekeepers of powerful clans dressed better than this.
Officials? Mr. Li doubted it.
That doubt lasted less than a day.
They spoke of seed selection, of soaking and sprouting, of transplanting seedlings at the right spacing. They explained composting through fermentation, turning waste into strength. They answered questions endlessly, patiently, without irritation.
When an old man surnamed Guo casually remarked that his land had yielded three and a half dan per mu, the tone changed immediately.
"Envoy Guo!"
"Envoy Guo!"
The white-haired old man waved his hands in alarm.
"Enough, enough. Just call me Old Guo. I'm a common farmer from Gongan—what envoy am I?"
Standing on the field ridge, Old Guo pointed toward the river.
"This land is like ours back home. Close to the Great River, but rain is unreliable. Once Young Master Jiang finishes the water-powered workshops, you'll understand. No carrying water on your shoulders anymore. Paddle wheels will lift the river straight into the fields."
His voice carried confidence, not pride.
"In Gongan, water-lifting and grain processing barely need human hands. Officials don't hoard methods. What's useful is taught to everyone."
Zhao A couldn't help asking, "Old Guo, you've come all this way—what about your own fields?"
Old Guo laughed.
"My eldest son became a paper craftsman last year. He brings home surplus every month. We hired laborers. Besides, Military Advisor Zhuge pays me wages for this."
Paid… for teaching farming?
Mr. Li and Zhao A exchanged looks.
Zhao A hesitated, then asked the question that had been lodged in his throat for days.
"Aren't you afraid the people from the north will attack?"
Old Guo froze for half a breath—then burst into laughter.
"Last year some Cao general, Yue-something, tried to invade. General Guan crushed him at Jiangling. Six thousand of Cao's soldiers are still there now, building city walls for us!"
He slapped his thigh.
"In Gongan and Jiangling, everyone says General Guan is invincible under heaven. Afraid? Afraid of what?"
Mr. Li said nothing.
He had fled Yanzhou under Cao's banners. He had seen that army with his own eyes. He had heard people say Chibi was merely luck.
Yet looking at Old Guo—calm, well-fed, hiring laborers—Zhao A felt something stir.
If Zigui stays like this… could I live like him, someday?
Gan Gui rode the river like it was his own blood.
After leaving General Guan, he took a light boat downstream. Two days later, he reached Dantu. West of the city, he kicked open a gate hung with silver bells.
"Old man! I'm back!"
Inside the hall, Gan Ning sat alone in a brocade robe, warming wine. His eyes lit up—then hardened.
"You didn't return for the New Year," he said coldly. "Do you still recognize this as home?"
Gan Gui snatched the cup and drained it.
"Not spicy enough."
Gan Ning poured himself another without rebuke.
"So," he said lightly, "Liu Bei values you?"
"More than Marquis Sun values you," Gan Gui shot back.
His gaze drifted to the center of the hall.
A brocade sail, brought from Yizhou.
After Chibi, his father had wiped it clean every day. Now dust lay thick upon it.
Gan Ning followed his gaze. Silence stretched.
"If you want it," Gan Ning said at last, "take it."
"And your eight hundred personal guards," Gan Gui added. "And Uncle Gan."
Gan Ning nodded. "Take them."
Too easy.
Gan Gui frowned.
"Eight hundred men draw attention," Gan Ning continued calmly. "The Marquis is moving the capital to Moling. In April, they'll head directly to Jiangling."
"Moving the capital?" Gan Gui frowned deeper.
"Take the silver bells too." Gan Ning finished his wine. "You've chosen Liu Bei. Don't linger. Tell Governor Liu—"
He paused, struggle flickering across his face.
"Tell him to prepare for war with Jiangdong."
Then he waved Gan Gui away, claiming exhaustion.
In the courtyard, Gan Gui stood long after.
Moling.
Control of the Yangtze—but away from Jiangdong's clans.
Zhou Yu was dead.
Lu Su was cautious.
Which meant another hawk had risen.
Lü Meng.
Gan Ning would be used for his blade—and ignored for his mind.
The Gan family now rested on Gan Gui's shoulders.
He needed merit. Position. Weight.
First—
He needed ship blueprints.
Jiangdong's massive vessels weren't hard to find. Floating palaces, more than warships. By name, by bribe, by thread pulled—he had them the next day.
He packed the brocade sail. Took the silver bells.
Bowed three times to his father's study.
Then left without looking back.
For Cao Cao, Zhou Yu's death was the only good news in months.
Everything else—Liu Bei taking Nan Commandery, water-powered workshops, Yue Jin's losses—burned like poison.
How did Liu Bei rise again?
No.
He must strike the west.
If he attacked Jiangdong again, Liu Bei would stabilize Jingzhou, enter Yizhou, take Hanzhong, then Guanzhong—walking the very road of the Supreme Ancestor.
Game over.
So Cao Cao moved.
Before winter's chill faded, orders flew.
By mid–third month, Ma Chao received word:
Zhong Yao and Xiahou Yuan would pass Guanzhong—to attack Zhang Lu.
Guanzhong erupted.
"This is borrowing a road to destroy Guo!" Yang Qiu spat.
Everyone understood. If Cao passed through, who would stop him from turning his blade?
They shouted, argued—yet their eyes kept drifting upward.
To Ma Chao.
He sat still, gaze unfocused.
"General Ma," Yang Qiu asked bluntly, "are you thinking of Minister Ma… and surrendering?"
Ma Chao finally looked up.
"If you see the trap so clearly," he asked coolly, "what should I do?"
"If I fight, I abandon filial piety.
If I surrender, I abandon righteousness."
He smiled faintly.
"Teach me."
Silence.
Was this Ma Mengqi?
Instead of rage, he advised caution. Instead of rebellion, patience.
"Convince Han Sui first," he said. "Then decide."
After they left, Ma Chao reread Liu Bei's letter.
He sneered.
Why wait?
Why restore Han under another man?
He crushed the letter, tossed it into the brazier, and watched it burn.
If Cao came, Han Sui would beg.
And when Ma Chao stood atop victory—he would see if the old man still dared call him concubine-born.
In Gongan County, Zhuge Liang watched through a narrow crack in the door—
eyes bright, unreadable.
Something had begun to move.