Chapter 372 Worthless

The Deputy General was the first to snap out of his daze, leaning in and muttering under his breath: "General, if the southern front reports are true, the Southern barbarians are gonna have their hands full, and the Western Rong just got stabbed in the back by Nanling. That takes a ton of pressure off Cloud City... So what about the Northern Di right on our doorstep?"

Zhao Cheng whipped his head up, the bloodshot eyes, clouded by exhaustion and strain, as if a sudden storm had blown through and set them ablaze!

A savage light—the kind that's been bottled up too long and finally sees a crack—exploded in his eyes!

He licked his cracked, bleeding lips and ground his back teeth, letting out a faint grating sound.

These past days, getting hammered day and night by the Northern Di's main force, with the Western Rong and Southern barbarians pinning him down on the flanks, he'd been fighting with a suffocating sense of frustration! That pent-up fury had been building until his lungs and heart were about to explode!

Now... the Western Rong and Southern barbarians had suddenly gotten their hind legs chomped by this rabid "mad dog" called Nanling that's lost its damn mind?

The Northern Di just lost their flank support and coordination, and judging by how Nanling's hitting, this ain't no small-time skirmish.

The Western Rong and Southern barbarians won't be able to put together a coordinated attack anytime soon!

A godsend! No—a "madness-send" from Nanling!

"Where the hell is Veteran General Liu Ben?!" Zhao Cheng whipped around, his gaze hitting the Deputy General like a bolt of lightning.

The Deputy General flinched and scrambled to pull out his map: "Old General Liu's already through Changfeng Pass with the reinforcements and the first load of heavy gear and supplies. At his current pace, he'll be at the main city walls by noon in three days, guaranteed!"

Zhao Cheng felt the fire that had been bottled up in his chest blast through every restraint with a roar, making his blood boil and scream for action!

"Good! Good! Good!" He shouted "Good!" three times, slamming his fist into the cold battlement, sending dust and mortar raining down.

"Spread the word! Tell the cooks to get the rice on! Anyone who can still open their damn mouth—feed 'em till they're stuffed! Let 'em eat their fill!"

He took a deep breath, like he was trying to suck this sudden opportunity down into his lungs and turn it into raw strength.

His gaze swept over the soldiers who'd slowly gathered around, their faces showing the same mix of disbelief and excitement after hearing the news, and his voice suddenly shot up.

"Once you've eaten your fill, sharpen your blades and shine your spears! Then get out there and beat the living hell out of those Northern Di bastards!!"

In the Northern Di royal camp, inside the grand golden-domed tent, the charcoal brazier blazed hot, but it couldn't shake the bone-deep chill that had just settled in.

"CRASH—!" A heavy sandalwood table got kicked over, sending stacked sheepskin maps, bronze wine cups, and jeweled daggers clattering and rolling every which way.

Wine splashed everywhere, soaking the carpet and filling the tent with the sharp stink of fermented mare's milk.

"Nanling! Nanling!! Goddamn Nanling!!" Hutuke stormed back and forth across the tent, his leather boots grinding the scattered maps into the floor.

"What the hell are they playing at?! Huh?!" He stopped abruptly, jabbing a finger at the trembling messenger who was kneeling in the middle of the tent.

"Weren't we getting along just fine before?! So why, at this exact moment, do they come lunging out like a rabid dog to bite?! And biting two of us at once, goddammit!!"

The other Northern Di commanders in the tent were all quiet as mice, heads bowed, not daring to meet Hutuke's furious gaze.

They'd been on the verge of breaking through the Great Zhou's northern border, but Nanling's two sudden, out-of-nowhere hits hadn't just smashed the Western Rong and Southern barbarians in the back of the head—they'd also landed a sucker punch right in the Northern Di's kidney.

Without the support and coordination of their two flanks, the Northern Di were now facing the Great Zhou's battered northern forces all alone, and the situation had instantly flipped from absolute advantage to disadvantage.

Hutuke paced irritably across the thickly carpeted tent, his heavy leather boots thudding dully against the soft floor, each step like a weight pressing on everyone's taut nerves.

The brazier cast his tall silhouette against the tent wall painted with a ferocious wolf's head, the shadow twisting and writhing with his movements, adding to the suffocating tension.

"Nanling... Nanling..." He chewed on the name repeatedly, as if trying to squeeze blood from it. "What the hell is going on?! Who sent the troops?!

Their emperor—I remember he's always been an advocate of peace, hasn't he? How did he suddenly change his tune and dare to bite both the Western Rong and the Southern barbarians?!"

He stopped abruptly, his bloodshot eyes sweeping over the cowering crowd, finally fixing on the man responsible for southern and southwestern intelligence: "You! What else did the scouts report?!"

The man swallowed hard and steeled himself to speak: "It... it was Nanling's Third Prince, Yun Xunyu."

"Yun Xunyu?" Hutuke's brow furrowed even deeper. Having had little interaction with Nanling, he only knew of the man by hearsay.

"And the emperor? He just let his son run wild? Or is this... a double act between father and son?"

The man's head dropped lower, his voice shrinking further, carrying a barely believable difficulty: "The Nanling emperor... he... he refused to send troops."

"And then?" Hutuke felt a growing sense of unease and pressed on.

The man took a deep breath, as if summoning every ounce of strength, and spat out a world-shattering statement: "Then... the Third Prince Yun Xunyu killed the emperor."

Silence.

The tent fell into absolute dead stillness. The air seemed to freeze, even the brazier flames appearing to stop dancing.

Killed?

Regicide?

Patricide?!

Hutuke's mouth hung open, and for a long moment, no sound came out.

Finally, he found his voice, tinged with absurdity: "You... what did you say? Killed? Just because his father refused to send troops?"

"...Yes." The man's voice trembled. "The intelligence... should be reliable. And... it happened very suddenly, just days after a palace banquet."

"Then... what about the other princes?" A Tribal Chief couldn't help but interject, disbelief written all over his face. "They just stood by? Doesn't Nanling have any loyal ministers or capable generals? They just let this Third Prince... run amok?"

The man looked up at Hutuke, his expression complicated, licking his cracked lips before continuing: "I heard the Second Prince and Fourth Prince... did try to stop him."

Everyone breathed a slight sigh of relief.

"Then... they were also killed by the Third Prince."

Everyone: "......"

This time, even the sound of inhaling was gone.

Everyone looked as if a massive invisible hammer had smashed into their skulls—stunned senseless.

Those who opposed sending troops? Killed! Brothers who tried to stop him? Killed!

This... was no longer political struggle, not even ordinary succession rivalry!

Were Nanling people... all this savage?

What kind of madman was this Third Prince Yun Xunyu of Nanling?

It wasn't just the Northern Di caught off guard—when the news reached the Great Zhou court, it triggered a violent earthquake and sustained bewilderment.

The old hands at the Ministry of War pored over maps and fragments of contradictory intelligence, nearly pulling out their beards, racking their brains until they boiled, yet still couldn't make heads or tails of it.

This plot twist was more absurd than the wildest storybook!

In the imperial court, opinions ran wild. Some said the Third Prince of Nanling had long been secretly in league with the court and was acting on secret orders.

Others claimed this was a disaster caused by out-of-control internal power struggles in Nanling, with a madman stumbling into power.

Even more conspiracy theorists suspected that some third-party force was manipulating everything behind the scenes.

After days and nights of heated debate and an endless war of words, a relatively acceptable conclusion gradually gained ground among the anxious minds—loot the burning house and blaze a new trail.

Nanling might have long coveted the pastures of the Western Rong and the mineral deposits and fertile river valleys of the Southern barbarians, but had simply lacked the opportunity.

This time, the three kingdoms' joint siege of Great Zhou appeared formidable, but Nanling's slice of the pie might not be substantial, and it would have to face Great Zhou's desperate counterattack—a considerable risk.

Rather than chewing on a tough bone in the frontal battlefield, it would be better to take advantage of the Western Rong and Southern barbarians being tied down at the front lines with relatively weakened rears, and brazenly stab them in the back, driving straight into their heartlands!

Though risky, if successful, the gains could far exceed participating in the partition of a dying Great Zhou.

As for the patricide and fratricide, it might be the Third Prince Yun Xunyu's mad act to consolidate power and clear obstacles, or perhaps an extreme manifestation of Nanling's internal power reshuffling.

In any case, Great Zhou had, this time, been inadvertently and incidentally extricated from its predicament by this sudden, bloody infighting among its "allies."

Though the process was horrifying and the cause inexplicable, the result seemed to temporarily alleviate the most lethal pincer threat.

"Truly... heaven never starves a blind sparrow," an old minister remarked privately.

---

At the northern border, in the Great Zhou camp.

Lü Rou wrapped her cotton robe tighter around herself; the cold fabric scraped against her chapped, cracked skin, bringing a sharp sting.

Her cheeks and the backs of her hands were covered in fine cracks, some crusted with dark scabs, others still red and swollen.

The most unbearable was the bone-weary exhaustion and the scorching, parched ache and stifling, swollen sensation in her throat.

She lifted the thick felt curtain serving as the camp gate, almost purely on instinct.

The curtain fell back, blocking out most of the light and the biting wind outside.

Lü Rou nearly stumbled into the tent. Days of relentless travel, mental and physical exhaustion, coupled with the bone-piercing cold and worsening fever, had snapped the last shred of her fighting spirit.

Her vision went black, and the world spun around her. Before she could even see the ground beneath her feet, her knees buckled, and she pitched forward, slamming hard onto the thin felt-covered ground.

Funiang, who had been by the brazier soothing a baby, was scared out of her wits by the sudden commotion.

She quickly set the infant into a makeshift cradle and rushed to Lü Rou's side.

"Lü Rou! Lü Rou! Wake up!" Funiang's voice trembled as she hurriedly felt Lü Rou's forehead.

Her skin was scorching, her breathing rapid and feverish. Funiang's heart plummeted—another high fever!

Summoning strength she didn't know she had, she half-dragged, half-carried the semi-conscious Lü Rou to the bed.

Frantically, she grabbed thick quilts and wrapped them tightly around Lü Rou in layers.

Lü Rou's body trembled involuntarily, her face flushed an ominous flush in the firelight.

She seemed to regain a faint glimmer of awareness, but kept her eyes shut, pressing both hands tightly over her eyes.

Warm tears seeped silently through her fingers, quickly soaking the backs of her hands and the bedding beside her cheek.

Funiang's eyes reddened at the sight. She sat by the bed, reaching out to gently pat her back.

After a long while, a muffled, nasal, tear-soaked, fractured voice came from beneath the quilt.

"I... I failed the young master... I shouldn't have... shouldn't have left him alone there... It's all my fault... I'm useless..."

Funiang held her close, her own heart aching with turmoil, but she spoke softly:

"The young master is a lucky soul; heaven will see him through. You must take care of yourself, so you can be here when he returns."

Lü Rou's sobbing gradually subsided into stifled sniffles, and her trembling eased somewhat.

After another moment, she seemed to summon all her strength and pulled free from Funiang's embrace.

Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes swollen, but her gaze held a fiercely obsessive lucidity replacing the earlier vacancy.

"I... I'll go see if the general is awake..." That man—the one the young master risked everything to save—cannot be allowed to die.

Lü Rou, driven by that almost fanatical determination, shuffled step by step toward the tent of Chief Commander Cui Ji.

Funiang supported her, anxious and heavy-hearted, but not daring to stop her.

Just as they neared the main tent, a startled cry drifted faintly from inside: "General... the general is awake!"

It was the physician's voice!

Lü Rou's foggy mind was as if struck by a thunderbolt, exploding into a fleeting flash of clarity.

Summoning strength she didn't know she had, she broke free from Funiang's support and stumbled and lunged toward the tent flap.

The guard at the entrance recognized her and, seeing how unwell she looked, initially moved to block her.

But meeting her fever-bright eyes, he instinctively shifted aside.

Lü Rou practically slammed through the thick felt curtain.

Inside, the tent was far warmer than outside and thick with the smell of medicine. Several tallow candles blazed, flooding the tent with light.

Several military physicians and personal guards surrounded the bed, every face a mixture of surprise and strain.

Hearing the commotion, they turned, saw Lü Rou, and didn't scold her; they simply parted to make way.

Through the gap, Lü Rou saw Cui Ji lying on the bed.

His face was still as pale as paper, his lips drained of all color, his cheeks hollowed out, looking utterly haggard.

His eyes were slightly open, his gaze murky and unfocused, as if shrouded in a dense fog—but they were indeed open.

Hearing the noise, Cui Ji turned his head with great effort.

His gaze drifted past the physicians at his bedside and landed on Lü Rou.

The tent went utterly silent, broken only by the soft sputter of candles and the hushed breathing of everyone there.

Time seemed to stand still for an age—or maybe just a heartbeat.

Cui Ji's cracked, parched lips quivered almost imperceptibly, as if to speak, but only a thin wisp of air escaped.

He shut his eyes, then fought to open them once more, his gaze locked hard onto Lü Rou.

Finally, a voice so hoarse it was nearly shattered was wrenched from his throat.

One word at a time, as if each syllable drained every last bit of his strength: "Mu... Yu..."

...

On the other side, Cheng Ge felt that he had maybe, possibly, turned into a puddle of sentient sludge.

The high-end kind of sludge, completely drained of all vitality, only wishing to merge with the bed until the end of time.

Ever since that time he'd let his temper get the better of him and gone skull-to-skull with something hard, his life had been switched to hard mode.

"Eat." Two words, hard and blunt, carrying the gritty texture of grassland sand and wind.

Wuliji stood by the bed holding a bowl, looming like a little moving mountain, his shadow perfectly enveloping the "sludge" form that Cheng Ge was trying to curl up into.