"A strategist to rival Zhuge Liang?"
Zhang Fei snorted the moment the words left the light-screen, his disbelief written plainly across his face.
"Ridiculous. Kongming stands alone."
Zhuge Liang merely shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips.
"Liang is but a man," he said calmly. "And under Heaven, how could a thousand years produce only one hero?"
Yet even as he spoke, his interest had already been piqued.
A man worthy of such words… let me see him.
In the Ganlu Hall, Li Shimin straightened in his seat as if jolted awake.
To be honest, in his eyes, Zhuge Liang was indeed formidable—but the squabbles that followed his death, the Wei Yan–Yang Yi affair, had always struck Li Shimin as unbearably petty.
When a state stood at death's door, they argued not about defeating Wei, but about power, rank, and personal grudges.
As an emperor who had fought his way to the throne with blood and iron, Li Shimin found it… distasteful.
"High Tang. Great Tang. Late Tang…"
He murmured the words, interest mixed with a trace of regret.
"A Tang Zhuge Liang, then?" he mused.
"How would he compare to Jingde? To Guo Ziyi?"
[Light-screen]
[In the Mogao Caves of Dunhuang, there is a renowned cave—Cave 156.
On its southern wall is a mural regarded as a treasure passed down through the ages.
The painter is unknown.
The scene depicts a Tang army on the march.
At the front ride ceremonial guards. Behind them, musicians and dancers raise the air with drums and song. Five ranks each of civil and military cavalry flank the formation.
At the center, surrounded by standard-bearers, stands a general clad in brilliant Mingguang armor—solemn, imposing, indomitable.
The mural is titled:
"Zhang Yichao Leading His Army on Campaign."
This mural stands as the finest testament to the turbulent, devoted life of Zhang Yichao, Military Commissioner of the Guiyi Army.]
"Guiyi Army?"
Li Shimin's eyes widened.
That term struck him like a hammer.
"Guiyi" — returning to righteousness.
Only those who came from afar, submitting themselves anew to the Central Plains, were said to "return."
But then—
Was this Zhang Yichao a foreigner?
Yet hadn't the light-screen just called him a warrior of High Tang?
If he was Tang-born, why speak of "returning"?
The mural itself radiated unmistakable Tang vigor—broad banners, disciplined ranks, the confidence of empire.
Li Shimin suddenly felt the urge to reach into the light-screen, seize that unseen narrator by the collar, and demand answers.
What became of my Tang?
"Everyone, remain calm," Zhangsun Wuji said gently.
"Let us continue watching. Though this is a scene of Late Tang, perhaps we may glimpse the root of Tang's maladies through it."
Li Shimin snorted softly.
Even with only the beginning revealed, his instincts as an emperor told him the truth likely lay where it always did—
Some generation of 'filial sons and worthy grandsons' had surely found a new way to disgrace their ancestors.
[Light-screen]
[As the climate shifted and the rain belt moved north, conditions on the plateau improved.
Taizong of Tang sent a princess in marriage to Tubo, resolving their shortages in production techniques.
The strengthened Tubo Empire did not hesitate. During the An Lushan Rebellion, they seized the Hexi Corridor, becoming the region's greatest slave-owning power.
Their rule relied on division:
they co-opted great clans and enslaved the common people.
For Tang civilians in Hexi, tattooing the face and arms and being enslaved was the best possible outcome.
The elderly, the weak, the sick—
were killed outright, or mutilated for sport before being cast aside.
Zhang Yichao was fortunate: he was born into a great clan favored by the Tubo.
Yet he was also unfortunate.
Because he was Tang.
And he grew up hearing stories of High Tang's glory.
That pride made it impossible for him to endure the devastation of a land once prosperous and powerful.
Later, when Zhang Huaishen wrote his uncle's epitaph, he recalled his youth in these words:
"Coiled like a crouching dragon, he lay in wait for the time to rise."]
The hall in Gong'an County erupted into murmurs.
"Tubo?"
"Where is that?"
In the end, all eyes turned to Jian Yong.
He might not have been the sharpest, but he had certainly seen the most.
He hesitated, then ventured, "Could it be… the Qiang?"
Zhang Fei immediately objected.
"Don't joke, Master Xianhe. The Qiang are a rabble—how could they stand against Tang?"
Zhuge Liang nodded thoughtfully.
"They are enemies of Tang—thus barbarians. And since this is Hexi, even if not Qiang, they likely share the same roots."
What intrigued him more was something else.
"The northward shift of the rain belt… unclear for now."
He frowned slightly.
"And this Tang emperor resolving Tubo's production difficulties…"
Pang Tong blurted out, "Could it be that this so-called Son of Heaven grew old and muddled?"
The strategists were deep in discussion. The generals, meanwhile, stared blankly.
Seeing this, Pang Tong patiently explained to Liu Bei.
"My lord—between the Han people and the Five Creeks barbarians, what do we possess that they do not?"
Liu Bei thought for a moment, then replied confidently,
"Everything."
Pang Tong raised a brow.
"Then if my lord ordered Ji Chang to teach the Five Creeks barbarians how to build wheeled carts, improve agriculture, make salt, smelt iron—what then?"
Liu Bei recoiled.
"Have I gone mad?"
Halfway through the sentence, realization struck him.
"…You mean—?"
Zhuge Liang nodded.
"These 'production techniques' of later ages refer to Tang expertise—agriculture, metallurgy, salt-making, textiles. Strategic knowledge."
Ma Liang understood immediately.
He had helped barbarians farm and build canals—but salt and iron? Those were untouchable.
In the Ganlu Hall, the air turned suffocating.
Fang Xuanling and Du Ruhui lowered their heads and kept writing.
Zhangsun Wuji wanted to offer comfort—but feared another kick.
"Did my people suffer thus… because of me?"
Li Shimin felt wronged.
He hadn't even married off a princess yet!
And even if he had—wasn't this merely following precedent?
Zhangsun Wuji stepped forward carefully.
"Your Majesty need not shoulder the sins of centuries."
Li Shimin said nothing.
But he spoke at last:
"Keming. This term—production techniques—must be examined."
Du Ruhui noted it down.
"And Tubo—its traces must be watched. If possible, destroyed early."
"Understood."
Li Shimin returned his gaze to the mural.
To that general whose spirit still crossed centuries.
Silent.
[Light-screen]
[Nine years after Zhang Yichao's birth, the Anxi White-Haired Army was annihilated.
These veterans had guarded Tang lands and pride for forty-six years—fighting from youth until their hair turned white.
After Kucha fell, they were maimed, enslaved.
Tubo celebrated:
"There are no Tang left in Hexi!"
Kucha lay close to Shazhou. Zhang Yichao likely grew up hearing of them.
Perhaps it was the White-Haired Army that first showed him what a Tang warrior truly was.
Like them, Zhang Yichao lay low in Shazhou—studying war, honing arms, waiting.
In 842, Tubo's ruler was assassinated.
Two warlords backed rival child kings. Civil war erupted.
The histories record it in a single line:
"They pillaged eight prefectures of Hexi.
They slaughtered the able-bodied, mutilated the weak and women, impaled infants for sport.
For five thousand li, the land was left bare."]
Li Shimin's eyes reddened.
My descendants… incompetent to this degree!
Foreign barbarians in chaos—and yet they let Tang people be butchered!
"Aaaah—!"
Zhangsun Wuji threw himself forward, clinging to Li Shimin's legs.
"Your Majesty is in his prime! Boundless achievements await!"
"Tubo can be crushed with a flick of the finger! Their ruler's heart may yet be offered to the ancestral temple!"
"Do not anger yourself—Zhang Yichao will not disappoint you!"
Li Shimin tried to kick him off.
Failed.
After struggling twice, he finally collapsed back, massaging his temples.
His old ailment flared again.
Zhangsun Wuji climbed up, expertly kneading his head.
Li Shimin waved Fang and Du away.
"I rage," he said slowly, "at Tubo's chaos bringing suffering to my people."
"And again—at the White-Haired Army. Forty-six years."
His voice tightened. Pain surged again.
Du Ruhui spoke softly.
"It was the An Lushan Rebellion. Tubo seized Hexi while Tang was broken."
"The road from Chang'an was cut, yet the frontier army held fast until old age."
"One army—each man a Su Wu."
No judgment could be spoken.
History itself remembered them.
Li Shimin sneered faintly.
"My fine descendants—forty-six years, and they couldn't reclaim Hexi."
"But they could flee to Chengdu at once."
"What a secure throne."
Fang and Du felt as if a tiger were grinding its teeth nearby.
Cold. Deadly.
Kongming watched, reverence in his eyes.
Pang Tong whispered, "The remnants of High Tang… they rival Great Han."
"These barbarians deserve death," Guan Yu growled.
Zhang Fei nodded fiercely.
"Only dead barbarians make good merit."
"I envy Zhang Eight Hundred," he added, remembering Zhang Liao's feats.
Wei Yan and Huang Zhong nodded.
Liu Bei sighed softly.
"White-haired loyalists of Tang… no less than Han's finest sons."
[Light-screen]
[Hexi burned. Resentment boiled.
At last, Zhang Yichao rose.
He was forty-nine.
"Heavily armored, he thundered at the city gates—and all Tang people answered."
The Tubo garrison fled.
Shazhou was recovered.
Zhang Yichao pressed east. Guazhou fell in one battle.
After reclaiming the two prefectures, he and his officers set their goal:
Return to Tang.
As acting Governor of Shazhou, Zhang Yichao wrote to the Tang emperor.
Ten teams of messengers departed.
Nine perished.
Only Gao Jinda survived.
They crossed deserts, plateaus, raids, and pursuit—over three thousand li.
From 848 to the end of 850.
Six men reached Chang'an.
They brought news to Emperor Xuanzong—called the "Little Taizong."
To Tang generals drinking to Western dances without shame.
To Tang people who had waited forty years.
Shazhou and Guazhou were restored.]
Fists were clasped.