Chapter Eighteen: Journey to Sui

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The twilight gradually stretched across the water, and at some point, the little boat had come to a halt. A faint mist, barely there, had crept in all around them. Meng Di rubbed his eyes hard, trying to see more clearly, but only noticed that everyone aboard wore a grave expression.

“Meng, my boy, we’re in trouble—we may have run into mirage mist,” Old Jing said in a low voice.

In the blink of an eye, the fog thickened, turning the world into a white void where direction was lost. The other small boats appeared and disappeared, ghostlike, in the haze.

The Cloud Dream Marsh was known for its fog; they said ten days out of ten, there would be mist. Legend claimed that deep within the marsh lived a mirage clam turned spirit, which sometimes emerged to breathe in and out, swallowing heaven and earth, feasting on the essence of the sun and moon.

The villagers of Jing had seen mirage mist before. In the past, they only dared fish and hunt in the marsh after yearly rituals and offerings. Now, after so long away from home, to run into it suddenly filled them with unease—afraid this was the spirit’s punishment for years without tribute.

Their voices hushed, the villagers clustered the boats together as best they could, laying offerings on the prow, kneeling in prayer.

Ji Mi, who had already walked through the shadow of death, was not afraid; her bright eyes flickered as if searching the mist for the legendary mirage clam.

Lost in the fog, the boats drifted with the wind. Through a long night, perhaps the villagers’ piety took effect, for the mist ahead began to thin.

But just as hope dawned, a horn blared through the fog—“Wuuu—” A dragon-prowed warship burst through the white haze, sails billowing, shattering the mist and appearing suddenly before them.

The little boats were tossed high by the waves. Chaos broke out among the people.

At the prow of the warship stood a tall figure, hands behind his back, who swept them with a cool glance and then looked away. Behind him, the soldiers raised their bows.

Meng Di saw clearly: this was Fu Gai. He remembered him well from a battle on the road back to Ying—the man’s valor had left a deep impression.

Fu Gai was about to give the order to fire when he suddenly stopped, turning back to meet Meng Di’s gaze.

With a wave of his hand, the Wu soldiers obeyed, turning the sails; the great ship traced an arc around to the front of the small boats. The skill of the Wu sailors was unmatched—the vast ship moved with surprising grace.

Fu Gai stared for a long moment and then asked in a deep voice, “Are you the Chu general from that day?”

“Meng Di.”

No explanation was needed. The spark of recognition flared between them.

Fu Gai had always been proud—defeated only once, outnumbered and routed, a humiliation that had brought laughter from his brother King Helü, who mocked him for disobeying orders and bringing it upon himself. All thanks to the man before him.

As if by agreement, both men drew arrows, bows at the ready, their eyes locked. All was silent between heaven and earth.

Fu Gai stood like a mountain, eyes blazing, his presence overwhelming.

Meng Di, though inexperienced in naval combat, found his rhythm with the rise and fall of the boat, standing steady at the prow, moving naturally with each swell, as if he were a stag leaping through the air—present, yet leaving no trace.

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Both men knew they had only one chance, yet neither could find the moment to strike.

Fu Gai frowned. “A bamboo arrow?”

“Bamboo arrows can kill, too.”

After a long silence, Fu Gai suddenly tossed his bow aside and laughed aloud, “Splendid! Worthy opponent—one who once bested me. I never thought Chu still had men like you!”

His lieutenant hurried forward, urging, “General, it’s best to silence them!”

“No need,” Fu Gai replied, waving a hand. He looked Meng Di in the eye and said solemnly, “You and I are kindred spirits. We’ll settle this next time on the battlefield!”

He ordered, “Full speed ahead!” The sails unfurled, the horn sounded, and from deep within the mist, other horns echoed in answer, the sound unending.

Only then did the villagers realize they had escaped death, weeping for joy. Only Ji Mi kept her gentle gaze fixed on Meng Di.

From afar, Fu Gai’s voice carried back: “I’ll give you a piece of news—Xiong Zhen is in Sui!”

Elder brother! Ji Mi exclaimed to Meng Di, overjoyed, “My brother is still alive!”

The clash just now awakened the fighting spirit Meng Di had lost for days. Since his brush with death, his hatred for Li Ling had faded—after all, everyone has their own path.

But what was his own choice? To live quietly with Ji Mi as a fisherman in the depths of the marsh? Meng Di knew that was not the life he wanted.

Since there was not yet a great Han in this world, he would forge one himself! At this thought, Meng Di smiled, turning to Ji Mi, “Good. We’ll go to Sui.”

Bidding farewell to the villagers of Jing, Meng Di and his two companions set off for Sui, for Jing Chuo had insisted on joining them. Old Jing had at first refused—his eldest son lost at the border, he still hoped his second son would be his support in old age.

But seeing the longing in Jing Chuo’s face, the old man remembered his own youth and knew he could not stop him. With tears, he let him go.

In the palace of Sui, chaos reigned.

Sui was an oddity among the feudal states. Once enfeoffed by the Zhou royal house to watch and defend the south, it had ended up bullied time and again by the once-weak Chu, finally becoming its vassal.

Yet Sui was content with its lot, never seeking hegemony. With a powerful patron above, they were happy to tend their small domain, living life cheerfully.

But now trouble had arrived. When King Zhao of Chu and his party appeared, travel-stained, at the palace gates, the Marquis of Sui was struck dumb with shock—his mighty patron reduced to this! Still, a starved camel is bigger than a horse; he hastily gave up a side hall for them.

The King of Chu in person demanded proper ceremony, however hasty, and the palace was soon in an uproar.

Yet the welcoming rites were left unfinished, for the envoys from Wu had already arrived in the capital. The court was thrown into noisy debate, no one able to decide what to do.

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For three days in a row, the Marquis of Sui held court, watching his ministers argue until their faces flushed and tempers flared, his head aching.

“Sire, Sui and Chu have been neighbors and allies for generations. How can we surrender the King of Chu at the word of a Wu envoy? Would we not be mocked by the world?” boomed a general, clad in armor, his beard bristling, voice like a bell.

“Ally? General Jin, why deceive yourself? Sui is a vassal of Chu—everyone knows it!” quavered an old minister, hair and beard as white as snow.

“Indeed, we’re hardly even a vassal—Chu only ever demands tribute! Even the Prime Minister Nang Wa wants our national treasure, the Sui Pearl, as an offering. What sort of overlord is that?”

“Nang Wa is just a greedy schemer, but the King of Chu is at least generous and tolerant.”

“But Wu is strong. If the King of Wu attacks, our state could be destroyed!”

The Marquis listened—this one made sense, then that one, until his head throbbed. The more he heard, the more lost he felt, thinking he hadn’t enjoyed music with his favorite consort in days—would she be upset when he returned tonight? His thoughts flew to his new bride and wandered off entirely.

Suddenly, the hall fell silent. The Marquis was startled—had they reached a decision so quickly? Looking up, he saw a man at the doors, tall hat and flowing sash, striding in despite the guards’ protests.

The ministers parted, and the man walked to the center of the hall, bowing deeply. “Your Majesty, have you and your ministers reached an agreement?”

It was Zi Xi, a high official of Chu, elder brother by another mother to King Zhao, renowned for his talent and generosity—a man of great prestige.

The Marquis, at a loss under Zi Xi’s question, looked to his ministers for help.

They glanced at each other until at last one ventured, “The Wu envoy said if we don’t hand over the King of Chu, they’ll invade Sui.”

“And didn’t he also say that if we help Wu, they’ll let us have all the land north of the Han River?”

Zi Xi replied coldly, “Your Majesty, Sui borders Chu and is separated from Wu by great mountains. Even with all its might, Helü’s surprise attack on Ying brought only thirty thousand men. Cai and Tang, the other two petty states, only made a token show. True, Prime Minister Nang Wa’s incompetence led to the defeat of our one hundred fifty thousand soldiers, but Chu still holds vast lands and countless troops. King Zhao has not lost his kingdom, and the great state of Qin in the west stands with us. Meanwhile, Helü pillages and burns, leaving unrest in his wake—he will not remain long on Chu soil.”

“If you obey the Wu envoy and Wu turns back tomorrow, what will become of Sui?”

At this, the ministers began to whisper among themselves, and the Marquis’s headache grew worse. A bodyguard approached and murmured, “Consort Mei has sent word—she’s prepared shepherd’s purse soup for Your Majesty.”

The Marquis’s eyes lit up. “We’ll discuss this later!” he said, hurrying away.

Zi Xi watched the ministers continue their debate with a sigh, turning to leave the hall, his eyes full of helplessness. He gazed at the lengthening shadows of the palace walls cast by the setting sun, his heart heavy with sorrow.