"This Poet Immortal of the Great Tang…" Zhuge Liang said slowly, as if tasting an unfamiliar wine. "I wonder how he compares to that Minister Du."
The light-screen shimmered like rippling water. Lines of commentary scrolled past, reverent and careless at once. It spoke of "Minister Du" with startling intimacy—how he sought counsel late into the night, how he treated the fate of the realm as a personal debt, how he died before seeing victory, leaving only unfinished loyalty behind.
It even quoted poetry.
Kongming felt heat bloom beneath his collar. A faint, unguarded warmth. If anyone else had noticed, he would have denied it.
So there were men, centuries later, who still spoke my name without fear, he thought.
Men who argued with ghosts as if we were still alive.
What a pity he lived so late.
If I were to take up a brush now and write a Reply to Minister Du's Kindness, would the wind of history deliver it? Or would it be buried under cat videos and misquoted aphorisms?
From the fragments shown, Du Ruhui had been a man of immense talent, secure in office during the Tang's zenith—Minister of Works, no less. The state prosperous, the granaries full, the court arguing about poetry instead of survival.
A Golden Age.
The screen's earlier judgment returned like a needle sliding under the nail: Zhuge Liang never truly saw the Han in its prime.
For a fleeting moment, envy pierced him—sharp, almost rude.
Behind him, Zhang Fei ruined the silence with a laugh that could knock birds out of trees.
"Hahaha! An 'Emperor for the Ages,' and he still had to rummage through history like a drunk in a pawnshop to find an ancestor? A petty king from a chaotic backwater? If that Li Gao knew, he'd be throwing banquets in the Underworld until the wine ran dry!"
Guan Yu nodded, expression carved from stone. "Lineage is a borrowed robe. Besides, Li Gao was only stitched onto Li Guang's name after the fact."
As a man who had once counted enemies by the tens of thousands, Guan Yu had also counted footnotes. Li Ling's surrender had blackened that bloodline for generations; among the scholars of Longxi, it was spoken of the way one spoke of mold—quietly, and with distaste.
Jian Yong grinned. "General Yide mocks, but history is generous to General Yunchang. In later ages, anyone surnamed Guan will kneel before your tablet, whether you approve or not."
Guan Yu paused. He imagined incense smoke curling upward, a sea of descendants bowing until their foreheads bruised the floor.
After a moment, he inclined his head. "That… does not sound entirely disagreeable."
"HEY!" Zhang Fei suddenly barked, eyes lighting up. "Speaking of Longxi—wasn't there some fool during the Sixteen Kingdoms who claimed he was descended from A-Dou—"
Guan Yu did not even turn his head. A dried persimmon appeared in Zhang Fei's mouth with surgical precision.
"Third Brother," he said mildly, "eat more. Talk less."
Zhang Fei chewed, defeated.
The light-screen dimmed, its tone shifting from playful reverence to documentary gravity—the kind that warned rulers they were about to be blamed.
[Light-Screen]
"Actually, speaking of Longyou—if any of you went there today, you might struggle to reconcile legend with reality. The modern Hexi Corridor runs through Tianshui, Lanzhou, and Xining. Drive it now, and the experience can be summarized in one word: desolation.
We call it the Gobi Desert.
Which raises questions. Did the Li-Tang imperial house rise by eating sand? Did the Prime Minister really wage six campaigns over empty wasteland?"
Images flooded the screen: cracked earth stretching to the horizon, gray stone like bleached bones.
"This is Longyou?" Zhuge Liang asked softly.
He had never gone west himself, but he had read the memorials, traced the supply routes with his finger, calculated grain and horses until his brush frayed. None of those numbers spoke of death like this.
"This is not Longyou," Li Shimin said flatly.
In his own era, he had ridden those plains at full gallop, crushed Xue Ju's rebellion there, and slept on grass thick enough to hide a sword. He knew the land by the ache in his legs.
Longyou was not supposed to look like a punishment.
[Light-Screen]
"The Han opened the Hexi Corridor and birthed the Silk Road. The Tang inherited the Sui's foundations and expanded the Longyou Pastures—among the largest state-run ranches in history.
Han, Sui, Tang—their records agree: lush grass, emerald meadows.
Because conditions were so favorable, development began early. During the late Han and Three Kingdoms chaos, refugees flooded in. Mountains shielded it; Tong Pass guarded it. Longyou became a sanctuary—and from it rose the great clans of the West.
The Tang pushed this prosperity to its peak. But by the Kaiyuan era, desertification had begun. 'Households dwindle; beyond Liangzhou, there is only drifting sand.'
The Mu Us Desert—only recently reclaimed through massive reforestation—was largely formed during this period. Over-farming bled the land dry. The Hexi Corridor became the Hexi Desert.
By the Ming, the road was choked. Expansion westward meant pouring silver and lives into dunes. They turned south and north instead. To push west was to lose everything."
The vibrant cityscapes vanished. In their place: a bleached, pitiless emptiness. Shrubs clung to life like bad habits. Rivers thinned into scars.
Li Shimin stared, fists slowly tightening. "Did the Tang… truly leave this behind?"
The answer required no poetry. Only arithmetic.
"A man can fell a tree in half a day," Du Ruhui said with a sigh. "A sapling needs ten years."
Li Shimin's eyes sharpened. "Then the reverse is also true."
The general emerged, unmasked. "Suppress this 'desertification,' and the Hexi Corridor becomes the Tang's eternal spine. Supply decides wars. If the land turns to what we see here, one march west costs ten times the grain."
He pointed at the screen. "But if towns thrive and people settle, soldiers eat from the land itself."
Turning, he addressed his ministers. "After the New Year. I want a policy on my desk—Desert Suppression."
In Shu, Zhuge Liang heard Ban Gu's lament echo like a curse: When forests are felled without season, how can floods and drought not follow?
The screen had merely confirmed what history always whispered too late.
"This is a thousand-year project," Kongming said evenly. "We cannot rush it. First Wei must be settled. Only then can we plant trees."
Liu Bei nodded, his thoughts already elsewhere. "The people of Gong'an say those 'coal cakes' saved them this winter."
Mi Zhu leaned forward. "Cheaper than charcoal. Burns longer. Families are cooking with them now. For every bushel of coal, one less tree falls—a blessing for our grandchildren. But coal from the east is growing expensive. My Lord, we must take Chengdu soon. We need our own seams in Shu, or next winter will kill more people than swords."
"I know," Liu Bei said, jaw tightening. "I know."
[Light-Screen]
"Back to the Chancellor's era. At the time, Hexi was still a treasure trove.
People have mourned Ma Su's death for a thousand years. Why?
Because if Jieting had not been lost, the Great Han might have fully absorbed Longyou.
A desert-free Longyou would have been the ultimate cavalry stud—self-sustaining horse pastures, raids into Guanzhong at will. With Longyou in the west and Hanzhong in the south, Shu-Han becomes a pincer.
From desperate defense to strategic offense.
What fell at Jieting was not a mountain pass.
It was the forward base of the Northern Expedition.
The spine of unification.
The greatest opportunity in Shu-Han history.
The spark of the Triple Restoration.
In 228 AD, Ma Su held those embers in his palm.
And he squeezed."
Silence collapsed over the hall.
Zhang Fei's expression changed—not to rage, but to something far worse: calm. He turned slowly.
"Ma Youchang," he said gently. "You've read all the books. Tell me—if Jieting held, would the screen's words have come true?"
Ma Su stumbled back, pale, eyes darting for refuge.
Ma Liang did not look up. He was hunched over his desk, copying the screen's words with manic precision, as if writing fast enough could erase guilt.
"Ma Youchang," Zhang Fei said, stepping closer. "Answer me."
"Yide," Liu Bei said quietly. "Enough."
Zhang Fei straightened at once, the predator vanishing like mist. "Fine, Brother."
Huang Zhong exhaled. "If Zilong were here, he'd be crying over those horse pastures. He's cursed for years about the scrawny nags we buy from the east."
Zhuge Liang said nothing. A cold weight settled in his stomach—not regret, not yet.
Relief.
Relief that this future pain had not yet crushed him. That the wound was still ahead.
[Light-Screen]
"That's all for today. Next episode: Stars Fall on Wuzhang Plains. A mysterious guest appears. Stay tuned."
The comments erupted:
[WhiteCat_]: Too long and too short at the same time. I need more.
[Strategy_Midlane]: Chancellor big brain with Ziwu Valley, but gambled Jieting on a noob? Why.
[VoidWalker]: Northern Expedition was doomed. Cao Wei always had depth. Shu never did.
[HisMid_Carry]: Stop comparing Ma Su to Zhao Kuo. Zhao Kuo held Bai Qi for a month. Ma Su lost a hill and ran.
[Messme_Vibes]: Liu Bei's ghost screaming: I told you so.
[Gun66_Real]: Emperor's dying words were 200 IQ, but if the Chancellor ignores team chat, how do you carry?
Zhuge Liang read the last line.
Then he looked at Ma Su—silent, breathing too fast, still alive.
Then back to the flickering screen.
History had shown him its verdict early, with the cruelty of spoilers.
Kongming folded his hands into his sleeves, face serene, mind already racing—quietly, relentlessly—toward a future that had just been exposed, and would not be permitted to unfold the same way again.