The Veteran General's Gaze
Like the old general who had spent his entire life on the battlefield, Lian Po carried an aura of pressure that felt on an entirely different level from anyone I had met before. Add to that the muscular physique visibly bulging beneath his tightly stretched clothes, and it felt less like facing a person and more like standing before some colossal statue. Yet strangely, his face appeared remarkably youthful. I had heard he was already past sixty, but judging by his features alone, he looked like a man in his mid-to-late forties at most—early fifties at the very latest. It wasn’t that his skin was particularly smooth or handsome in a delicate way. Rather, it overflowed with such raw masculinity that it practically spilled over. His face, which showed none of the expected signs of his age, combined heavy gravitas from its wrinkles with fierce, piercing eyes and a sharply angled jaw, reminding me of the boss of some massive criminal syndicate from a movie I’d once seen.
‘No wonder they call him the greatest general under heaven.’
Just looking at his face made it clear his reputation was no empty boast. I had thought that among so many formidable figures, Lian Po couldn’t possibly stand out that much—but he was different. There was something distinctly different about him. For a moment, I was overwhelmed by his sheer presence. Only when I noticed his eyebrows twitching did I finally snap out of it, hurriedly bringing my hands together in respect.
“It is an honor to meet you, General of Xinping. I am Ji Dan, Crown Prince of Yan.”
“Hmph. If you had been even a little later, it would have ended right there.”
“Is that not simply because the thrill of meeting the great Lian Po was so overwhelming?”
“I dislike men whose only talent is a silver tongue. You would do well to watch your words.”
Good grief. Damned if I spoke, damned if I didn’t. How was a person supposed to feel after that? What Lian Po meant was clearly that he had no patience for flattery. But if I agreed with him now, then my previous remark would truly become nothing but empty flattery. In times like these, the only option was to push forward even more shamelessly.
“Is that so? Then our thoughts align perfectly. I feel exactly the same way as you, General.”
“Ha, what a smooth talker you are.”
“I truly mean it.”
I brought out a line I had prepared in advance for today’s meeting.
“Yidan Qipo, Yongjun Zuijing. How could I possibly face Lian Po without feeling both tension and overwhelming emotion?”
Originally the phrase had been Qizhan Pamu, Yongjun Zuijing, a line from the Thousand Character Classic. It was one of the four-character praises that grouped Bai Qi, Wang Jian, Lian Po, and Li Mu as the greatest commanders of the Warring States. I had removed Wang Jian and Li Mu, who had not yet fully revealed themselves to the world, and replaced them with Yue Yi and Tian Dan. Yue Yi needed no further explanation, while Tian Dan was the savior of Qi who had single-handedly revived his kingdom from the brink of destruction caused by Yue Yi’s campaign.
Lian Po repeated my words as if savoring their meaning, then let out a soft chuckle. It was not mockery, but an involuntary sound of satisfaction.
‘Looks like all that classical Chinese study in my previous life still comes in handy sometimes.’
Confirming that my words had landed, I allowed myself a small, triumphant smile inside.
“Yue Yi, Tian Dan, Bai Qi, Lian Po. These four are the purest when it comes to commanding armies. You have quite the talent for crafting interesting phrases.”
“I merely expressed my shallow personal opinion.”
“Indeed. It is rather shallow.”
This old man was being difficult again. Was he upset about being listed last? That order wasn’t based on strength, but simply on the chronological order of their birth and death. Yue Yi had died first, Bai Qi had passed most recently, and Lian Po was still alive. That was why I had arranged them that way. If he was going to nitpick, I had something to say too.
“Yue Yi and Bai Qi were outstanding generals. Yue Yi was flawless, and though Bai Qi was a despicable man, his ability cannot be denied. However, leave Tian Dan out. He falls short of standing among us. Ma Fuchun should have been included instead.”
“Is not General Anping renowned for the Fire Ox Strategy?”
“That is true. Yet he lost a debate to Ma Fuchun. Therefore, it is only right that Ma Fuchun takes his place.”
Ma Fuchun was the title granted to Zhao She, who, alongside Lin Xiangru, Lian Po, and Lord Pingyuan, had led Zhao during its period of resurgence. He was also the renowned commander who had voluntarily taken on a battle against Qin—something even Lian Po had hesitated over—and turned it into a great victory.
“There was such an event? I was not aware.”
“He died far too young.”
Lian Po muttered bitterly. To him, it must have been a cherished memory of the past. Unlike the Zhao of today, which was barely holding on, the Zhao of his predecessors’ era had been a mighty kingdom whose name shook the world. Yet all his old comrades who had achieved that resurgence against Qin were gone, leaving only Lian Po behind.
After briefly sinking into nostalgia, Lian Po’s eyes turned cold once more.
“If that had not been the case, I would not have had to witness the disgrace of a fool like Zhao Kuo running wild.”
Zhao Kuo. He was Zhao She’s son, the man who had replaced Lian Po as supreme commander at the Battle of Changping and proceeded to utterly ruin everything. That was all I had known, but Lian Po gave me a far more detailed account of who Zhao Kuo truly was.
“Zhao Kuo was a child prodigy. At a very young age, he had already memorized every military text in existence. Even when debating strategy with Zhao She—the man who had defeated Tian Dan—he never once found himself at a loss for words. Everyone praised him, saying he would follow in his father’s footsteps and become the pillar that would protect Zhao.”
However, it was said that Zhao She refused to recommend his son until the very moment of his death.
“Why do you think that was? Why Zhao She never recommended Zhao Kuo.”
In the end, Zhao She’s judgment had been correct. Zhao Kuo had caused the catastrophic defeat at Changping. But what exactly had Zhao She seen in his son that allowed him to foresee such a future? If one’s beloved son displayed such exceptional talent, anyone would be overjoyed. Had it been me, wouldn’t I have gone around bragging to everyone in the neighborhood?
After thinking it over carefully, I recalled a similar case from one of my favorite historical novels in my previous life—Romance of the Three Kingdoms. Zhuge Jin’s son, Zhuge Ke, had shown astonishing talent from a young age, just like Zhao Kuo. Yet Zhuge Jin had sighed that the boy would bring ruin to their family. Why? Because although Zhuge Ke possessed brilliant talent, both his speech and actions were far too frivolous.
“Because he was too superficial,” I said.
“Oh? In what way?”
“You said that during his debate with Ma Fuchun, he was never at a loss for words even once. Doesn’t that mean his thinking lacked depth? That he simply recited whatever was written in the military texts he had memorized?”
“Correct.”
A spark of interest flickered in Lian Po’s eyes. I hadn’t said much, but I could feel that his evaluation of me had risen considerably.
“I hear you also play some musical instruments?”
How did he know that? In my previous life I had learned guitar, and in this life I had taken up the guqin, a similar instrument. It wasn’t the large gayageum or geomungo I remembered from modern times; the guqin of this era was somewhat smaller and had seven strings.
“I only know enough to play a little.”
“Then this should be easy for you to understand.”
While I was still trying to follow the flow of conversation, Lian Po suddenly recited a four-character idiom.
“Jiaozhu Guse.”
“Gluing the bridges of a pipa or se?”
“What would happen if you did that?”
What else? It would become a half-baked instrument capable of producing only a single tone, unable to be tuned.
“That was Lin Xiangru’s assessment of Zhao Kuo.”
In other words, Zhao Kuo was nothing more than someone who had memorized military texts and was completely helpless in situations not covered by them. Both his father Zhao She, his mother, and even Lin Xiangru—who had been Chancellor at the time—had opposed his appointment. Yet the King of Zhao had appointed him anyway, pulling the trigger on Zhao’s downfall.
“I was concerned that you might be the second coming of Zhao Kuo.”
Praised as a prodigy by those around him, yet nothing more than an empty cart—glorious on the outside but hollow within. If I truly were such a person, and if I gained the support of Lord Pingyuan and Lord Xinling to become the representative of the allied states, the resulting damage would be no less—perhaps even greater—than what Zhao Kuo had caused. And if things truly unfolded that way, Qin’s unification of the world would occur even faster than it had in the original history.
“Can you prove that you are different from Zhao Kuo?”
Yes, this was exactly like him—throwing such a direct fastball without hesitation. I recalled not only the prepared lines but also the other item I had brought and asked,
“Do you enjoy playing Go or Liubo?”
“I know how to play both, but I take no pleasure in them. They are too different from the real battlefield.”
“I understand. Go contains profound principles, yet because every stone holds equal value, it cannot express the worth of a fierce general. Liubo has different pieces with varying values, but it has too little variation and too much reliance on luck to capture the subtle mysteries of tactics.”
I placed the item I had prepared between myself and Lian Po. The situation overlapped somewhat with what had happened with Lord Xinling.
“Then what about Xiangqi?”
“Xiangqi… it is not bad as a simulation.”
In Xiangqi, each piece had a different value, and that value could shift as the game progressed. Sometimes the lowliest soldier could become as powerful as a chariot, while the cannon—second only to the chariot in strength—could at times prove weaker than a mere pawn. But even that seemed insufficient in Lian Po’s eyes.
“I acknowledge that Xiangqi is an interesting game, but the battlefield is far too vast to be contained on such a small board.”
It was the reaction I had expected. A general of Lian Po’s caliber would naturally find ordinary Xiangqi lacking. That was why I had enlarged the scale of the game just for him.
Thud.
With a rather heavy sound, I brought out a new board that was easily twice the size of a standard Xiangqi set.
“This is called Da Xiangqi—Great Xiangqi. It includes the left wing, central army, and right wing that would be deployed on an actual battlefield.”
Also known as Guang Xiang Xi, this variant involved commanding forty-three pieces per side—for a total of eighty-six pieces—boasting an immense scale. It introduced new pieces such as skirmishers, ambush units, and heavy cavalry, along with new rules like capturing enemy pieces to use them as your own. Da Xiangqi, which captured the fluidity of battle and the evolution of tactics, was quite literally a miniature model of warfare.
“Would you care to play a match with me?”