Chapter 407 A Scholar?
Chapter 407 A Scholar?
Chapter 407: A Cultured Man?
Hutuke's furious roar was like a spark dropped into boiling oil, making the royal tent's already tense, about-to-snap atmosphere blow wide open!
After the initial deathly silence, everyone sharply focused their gaze on Wuliji, the shock in their eyes almost becoming something you could touch!
To rescue the detained tribesmen was already an open defiance of the royal court. But to kidnap the Khan's consorts and young princes?! This... this was practically poking a hole in the sky!
It was trampling the North Di's most rigid hierarchy and rules underfoot, grabbing the Great Khan's dignity and his weak spot in one fell swoop!
Wuliji... how dare he?! He actually did it?!
This was no longer simple resistance or negotiation—this was a complete declaration of war with no retreat!
Zhou Ming, seizing the moment when Hutuke's mind was shaken and his grip completely loosened, finally broke free from the deadly restraint.
He collapsed to the ground like a pile of mud, clutching his aching neck and gasping for air in great heaves.
Wuliji didn't even give him a single glance, as if his life-or-death struggle moments ago was just a speck of dust, nothing more.
Just then, the heavy, blood-stained curtain of the royal tent was flung open from outside! A squad of warriors filed in.
They wore not the golden armor of the Palace Guards, but the distinctive leather armor and battle robes of the Uerha Tribe.
Their eyes were sharp as eagles, their frames lean and tough, their curved blades gleaming bright, still carrying the faint smell of blood from the recent fight.
They naturally formed a semicircular barrier around Wuliji, positioning themselves behind and on both sides of him.
Just the sight of these elite Uerha warriors was a silent but thunderous statement: the royal court wasn't a solid block; the Great Khan's authority, in the face of these blades at this moment, was already cracking.
In the corner, the tribal chiefs who had witnessed the full bloody spectacle and dramatic reversal were already pale as ghosts, scared out of their wits.
They kept their eyes down, not daring to move or react.
Wuliji's gaze slowly swept across these nervous, rattled chiefs.
The calm on his face was a world away from the ferocity he'd shown when killing moments before, but it carried the same heavy, crushing pressure.
He didn't go after Hutuke right away. Instead, he turned to the men who might decide where the grasslands were headed.
He spoke, his voice not loud but exceptionally clear: "Honored chiefs."
His voice rang out through the silent tent. "By the Eternal Heaven above, the children of the grasslands should soar like eagles in the sky and gallop like horses across the plains.
We herd our cattle and sheep, honor our ancestors, and protect our clans—all we want is a peaceful patch of land and for our children and grandchildren to thrive."
He paused, his gaze, sharp as lightning, stabbed at Hutuke, whose face was purple with fury, chest heaving, but not daring to make a move.
"However, some have forgotten the laws of the grasslands and betrayed the teachings of Eternal Heaven!
He treats the tribes like penned cattle, taking whatever he wants, never satisfied! He sees tribal lives as nothing but grass, killing at will and using blood to scare people into line!
More than a dozen Bayan Tribe warriors were burned to ash, Chief Erdene's old mother was cut down by the blade, and today he's taking innocent tribesmen hostage to extort and bully us!"
His voice rose, full of grief and anger, but he kept it controlled, persuasive.
"Is this how a lord of the grasslands should act? Is this tyranny what Eternal Heaven wants?
He bleeds us dry of our cattle and sheep, starving our old people and kids! He takes our loved ones hostage to break our backs!
Today he slaughters the Bayan, humiliates the Erdene, and threatens my Uerha. Tomorrow, that same blade could be at your throats!"
Every word hit home with the chiefs, who were already rattled and scared.
They remembered how their own tribes had been squeezed with heavier taxes, the Bayan Tribe's tragedy and Erdene's mother's blood splashing on the ground—and they thought of their own clansmen who might even now be detained by the royal court, their fates unknown... A feeling of shared grief and dread welled up inside them.
Wuliji watched the fear, anger, and doubt flicker in their eyes, then his tone changed, turning firm and hopeful:
"But eagles won't stay caged forever, and horses won't willingly wear the yoke! Eternal Heaven has given us courage, and our ancestors have given us strength!
The men of my Uerha Tribe stand here today, not for our own selfish reasons, but to tell everyone—the grasslands don't belong to Hutuke alone! No tribe's dignity or survival should be trampled on!"
"I've rescued my people, and I've also taken the consorts and princes with me."
He admitted it openly, not a shred of fear in him. "Not to hurt the women and kids, but to make Hutuke understand—his blade isn't always sharp;
his tent isn't always safe! If he wants hostages, we have them too!"
He stepped forward, his gaze burning as it swept over each chief: "Chiefs, are you going to keep putting up with being squeezed dry, living in constant danger, watching your tribes wither and your loved ones suffer?
Or will you stand up straight and speak out for your children's freedom and survival?!"
His words mixed logic and emotion—calling out the tyranny and rallying them for the future.
He pointed out the common threat and laid out a path that seemed doable.
And on top of that, the speech was polished, the logic was clear, and it was incredibly persuasive.
In the corner, some chiefs' eyes were clearly conflicted, while others shot each other looks of shock and curiosity.
Could he really lead them down a different road?
Hutuke was shaking with rage, pointing at Wuliji, his lips trembling but no words coming out.
He never expected Wuliji to not only make a move but also openly try to turn everyone against him!
Zhou Ming, still sprawled on the ground, coughed as he tried to wrap his head around the sudden turn of events and Wuliji's rousing "speech."
He got the gist of it, and shock hit him like a wave: Damn, this Northern Di barbarian chief could fight, and he was a real man of culture too!
Inside the royal tent, the atmosphere was a weird standoff. On one side, Hutuke and his remaining guards stood, furious but stuck because of the hostages, their authority in shreds.
On the other side, Wuliji and his elite warriors stood, all muscle and menace, but now suddenly talking politics and stirring people up.
In the middle were the tribal chiefs, each with their own agenda, and a collapsed, confused Central Plains "prop" lying on the ground.
The balance of power on the grasslands, right then, with blood and fire, fiery words, and kidnapped hostages, was tipping for good.
And Wuliji had already gone from a victim forced to fight back to a challenger actively remaking the game.
.........
A few days earlier, in Wuliji's tent at the Uerha camp.
"Wuliji, have you ever thought about taking the throne yourself?"
Cheng Ge's voice got even lower, and he leaned in, his warm breath almost touching Wuliji's cheek.
"Instead of just taking hits and getting cornered step by step, why not strike first? You have to break things down to build them up—out with the old, in with the new."
"Without breaking... there can be no building." Wuliji savored these four words, his voice low and slow, as if every syllable bore tremendous weight.
He gazed at Cheng Ge's face, so close to his own.
Under the dim light, that face had lost much of its usual cool aloofness, replaced by a sharpness and a seductive allure that beckoned him into unknown territory.
Cheng Ge met his gaze without flinching, staring back with even greater determination.
In that moment, what passed between them was not just air, but a silent vow.
Then, Cheng Ge abruptly threw off the blanket and leapt barefoot off the bed.
He strode to the low table in the tent, deftly picked up the ink stick, and began grinding ink with swift, practiced strokes.
Next, he laid out a fresh sheet of paper, took up the brush, and dipped it into the thick ink.
The faint yellow lamplight traced the contours of his profile, highlighting a crisp jawline and a straight nose.
His brows furrowed slightly, his gaze intent, his lips pressed tight, and the fingers gripping the brush were steady and strong.
Light and shadow played across his face, as if he were wrapped in a soft glow.
Wuliji rose silently and moved to his side, not interrupting, just watching quietly.
His eyes followed Cheng Ge's hand as it moved the brush rapidly across the paper, characters emerging one by one, line by line, gradually filling the sheet.
Cheng Ge wrote quickly; the tent was filled with nothing but the soft rustle of brush on paper and the gentle rhythm of their breathing.
Time passed without notice.
After a long while, Cheng Ge finally pressed down with his wrist, completing the final stroke.
He set the brush down gently, let out a long breath, picked up the ink-stained paper, and held it up to the lamp for a closer look.
Then, he turned and held the paper out to Wuliji: "For you."
Wuliji took it instinctively; the page bore the scent of ink and the faint warmth of Cheng Ge's fingertips.
His gaze first fell on the line at the top, strikingly bold: "A Proclamation Denouncing Hutuke on Behalf of Wuliji."
A faint yet sharp smile tugged at the corner of Cheng Ge's mouth. He clasped his hands behind his back and took a couple of paces within the cramped tent.
Though dressed in thin undergarments and barefoot, he somehow exuded the composed air of one commanding the world.
"Since we're going to... uh... set things right on the grasslands, we need a proper justification."
Wuliji nodded uncertainly, his gaze returning to the proclamation—a text that seemed like heavenly script to him—with focused attention.
Cheng Ge cleared his throat and began to read aloud slowly:
"Let the grasslands all bear witness:
A Great Khan should cherish all tribes, foster harmony among neighbors, and honor the life-giving grace of Eternal Heaven.
Yet since Hutuke ascended, virtue has been neglected and punishment abused; benevolence withheld and taxes made harsh."
As he read, he paced slowly within the tent, as if before him lay not a cramped space, but the assembled tribal chiefs and countless clansmen.
"His greed knows no bounds. He seizes lush pastures by force, strips every tribe of their herds, leaving the old and young hungry and cold, livestock dwindling—driving the starving masses into fire and water.
He wages reckless war. He stirs up border conflicts at will, leaving warriors' bones to litter the wilds,
widows weeping beneath their yurts, and all living things suffering—Heaven itself withholds its blessing.
He kills to assert his might. He treats his own kin like weeds, and at the slightest defiance, the blade falls! His deeds violate ancestral precepts, his heart defies the will of Heaven—how can he rule the grasslands?"
His voice was not loud, but it carried a fierce, raw energy.
Wuliji's gaze stayed fixed on his moving figure, unable to see anything else.
Cheng Ge halted, turned to face Wuliji, his eyes blazing, and his voice rose sharply, ringing with resolve and finality:
"Now Wuliji, chieftain of the Uerha Tribe, heeding the clear mandate of Eternal Heaven and answering the burning outrage of all tribes, raises the banner of righteousness to cleanse the realm.
This is no private ambition, but a plea for the survival of the multitudes; nor a lust for power, but a vow to avenge the wronged across the land.
Let us unite the loyal tribes to slay this tyrant! We shall renew the covenant of the white banner—shared pastures, fair taxes and labor—so that our Northern Di may once again see the bright sun and moon.
Should any aid the wicked, Heaven's wrath shall strike like thunder!
When this proclamation arrives, let us stand as one. Heaven punishes the unjust; righteousness must prevail!"
As he finished, the tent fell silent, Cheng Ge's eyes blazing with fierce intensity as he looked at Wuliji.
Wuliji stood motionless, the proclamation in his hand, silent for a long time.
Those ornate phrases swirled in his mind, and only after a while did he come back to himself.
He looked at Cheng Ge, his expression complicated, and asked hesitantly: "What... does all this mean?" He pointed at the dense characters on the proclamation.
Cheng Ge was speechless.
The surge of passion and expectation was doused by Wuliji's plain, blunt question, deflating him considerably.
He raised a hand to rub his brow, feeling a pang of frustration. Right, he'd nearly forgotten—this big lug was illiterate.
He looked at Wuliji's earnest, questioning, yet genuinely bewildered expression.
The sense of defeat within him suddenly dissolved, replaced by a helpless kind of amusement.
It was rare for him to be so "inspired" and "eloquent."
"Cough," Cheng Ge cleared his throat, deciding to muster all his patience. He clapped Wuliji on the shoulder. "Ah, no worries! Dad'll teach you what to say. By the time we're done, even Hitler would step aside for you."
He walked back to the table and gestured for Wuliji to come closer. Then, extending his slender fingers, he pointed at the words on the proclamation and began coaching him on how to deliver it, line by line.