The Tang Empire and Tubo had reached a peace agreement—though, in truth, the terms favored the Tang. After all, victors dictate the terms; the bloodshed of soldiers on the battlefield must not be in vain. The Emperor understood Gesang Meiduo's intent: he praised the bravery of Tang women, and Tubo, unwilling to yield, sought to show the Emperor that victory was only temporary—they were neither fragile nor to be underestimated. A nation may accept a subordinate position, but the disparity must not be so great as to resemble conquest rather than peace.
Naturally, the Emperor hoped Ye Jiao would prevail; he knew her prowess with the bow. As for swordsmanship, she had sparred a few rounds at the city gate with her kin Quanwu. No matter how formidable the Tubo princess was, Ye Jiao ought not to suffer a humiliating defeat.
Yet, on the very first strike, Ye Jiao's sword snapped. Clutching the broken hilt, beads of sweat dotted her brow. The Emperor saw her distress. A duel was like a game of chess—better to lose a pawn than to forfeit initiative. Now that the opening advantage was lost, her momentum shattered, victory would be elusive.
"Bring forth the sword," the Emperor commanded, breaking the uneasy silence, "Since your blade is broken, take my Changji Sword."
Changji—Long Silence—the sword of ceasefire and eternal night during truce years. It was both a blade for expansion and a shield for the people.
Standing within the hall, Ye Jiao's heart fluttered uneasily. Her wrist and tiger's mouth tingled from the broken sword. She did not fear defeat; she feared disgrace upon the court, upon the Tang. So many soldiers had bled fiercely to earn Tubo's pledge to cease border incursions. Her loss would stain the honor they had upheld with their lives.
Each moment felt unbearable, like waiting in a bustling marketplace for a ship that would never arrive. She raised her eyes and caught in Gesang Meiduo's gaze an unmistakable arrogance.
Ye Jiao tightened her grip on the broken hilt, then glimpsed someone weaving through the crowd—Li Ce. The entire dome of Lindian Hall seemed to illuminate him. His steps were light and composed, the soft clink of his waist ornaments sweeter than the chimes of the bianzhong.
His fair cheeks glowed as if bathed in sunlight, eyes warm and lips curled in a slight smile—the only one among the Tang royal and officials who appeared so relaxed and cheerful.
Li Ce approached Ye Jiao and gently lifted the broken hilt from her grasp. She let him take it, her eyes faintly apologetic. Yet he reached out again, kindly saying, "Commander Wu, have you forgotten? When you fight, you must remove your sash."
The sky-blue sash was wrapped around Ye Jiao's arm, half trailing on the ground. Though usually graceful and elegant, in battle it was a hindrance.
Strangely, the simple, nonchalant remark eased the tension in the hall. Those who had been anxious for Ye Jiao stirred, a breath of relief rippling like wind through a dense forest, rustling leaves allowing all to inhale deeply once more.
Ye Jiao quickly untied the sash and handed it to Li Ce, who took his time folding it. As he did, he uttered a single word: "Water."
"Water?" Ye Jiao looked puzzled.
Li Ce patiently explained, "Have you studied the Art of War? 'The form of warfare is like water. Water avoids heights and flows downward; war avoids strength and strikes weakness. Water adapts to the terrain; war adapts to the enemy. Therefore, there is no constant form in war, nor fixed shape in water. Those who change according to the enemy and win are called divine.'"
His voice was measured yet audible to all, including Gesang Meiduo, who heard Li Ce speak of water and strategy. Gradually, her arrogance faded, replaced by cautious wariness—as if a net were drawing tight around her.
Gesang Meiduo had severed Ye Jiao's sword by force and valor, like an immovable mountain on the plateau. Li Ce's message was that Ye Jiao must embody water—soft yet unyielding.
Water dripping can carve stone—an old Han proverb. This was a bold stratagem, not some secret intrigue, but a profound truth spoken in few words that could change the heavens and earth.
Li Ce was no feeble prince wrapped in furs; he stood like a general on the battlefield, commanding victory from afar.
The sword had been delivered. Ye Jiao received it with both hands and bowed to the Emperor. Rising anew, she was transformed—composed, confident, her fear vanished, replaced by a resolute gleam in her enchanting eyes.
She drew the treasured sword, blade pointing downward in a defensive stance, and said to Gesang Meiduo, "Come."
Come then. Having feasted long in luxury, it was time for the Tang to reveal its storms. Let it come.
Gesang Meiduo raised her blade. Now we shall see if water can erode the mountain, or if the mountain can crush the water to a thousand-mile retreat.
A wind stirred inside the hall. No, the doors were sealed tight—this wind came from the swirling sleeves, the whirling blades.
The blue robes billowed like the fierce northwest gale; sturdy boots sliced the air like a summit hurricane. Golden necklaces danced, jewels blazing like stars—yet when focused, Gesang Meiduo was no mere wind but a massive stone weighing tons, hurtling straight at Ye Jiao.
The force behind that strike was no longer mere sparring—it sought to pierce flesh, sever soul, crush bone.
But Ye Jiao was neither wind nor stone—she was water. Flowing around peaks, pooling in valleys; gentle rain or tempestuous waves.
Her crimson skirt brushed the blade, narrowly evading. She bent with supple grace; rising like an earthquake that summoned waters to leap and crash with forceful strategy.
Ye Jiao's sword rang sharply as it struck Gesang Meiduo's blade. The princess's sword flew free; Ye Jiao landed steadily, blade's tip poised at her throat.
Water reveals the stone—now riddled with scars.
"Your Highness!" Tubo envoys gasped.
Ye Jiao's clear, entrancing eyes narrowed as she smiled, "Only now may one say, 'I concede.'"
Only the victor may utter that phrase—a Tang custom.
She then glanced at Li Ce, like a child awaiting praise.
He looked back with deep admiration, smiling warmly, applauding, "Well done."
"Well done!" "Well done!" echoed the hall as all rose, cheering. Even Li Jing grudgingly clapped while retrieving lost wagers.
The court musician struck the bianzhong, playing a triumphant melody.
The Emperor's expression remained solemn. He raised a hand to quell the noise, commanding with quiet authority, "Set down your swords! This is but a contest—no harm to the princess."
No crushing defeat nor boastful triumph.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Ye Jiao obediently sheathed her sword.
Gesang Meiduo, breathing heavily, bowed respectfully, "Commander Wu's skill is unparalleled—I admire you."
Ye Jiao accepted the praise gracefully and returned it, "Your Highness's blade was masterful; see, it even tore my skirt."
She picked up the shredded fabric, pouting playfully at the Emperor, "My humble attire is disheveled; I beg your pardon."
"No offense," the Emperor smiled broadly, "The Tubo princess, as valiant as any man—thus I bestow upon you a treasured sword and seven pieces of gold, silver, and jade."
Ye Jiao's torn skirt was a humble concession, granting Gesang Meiduo some dignity. The Emperor's gifts eased Tubo hearts; their smiles tinged with wary respect.
If women fought so fiercely, what of their men?
Holding her tattered cloth, Ye Jiao looked expectantly for her own reward. But the Emperor gave none—only a fond smile, "Hungry, perhaps?"
He glanced around, "Let the feast begin! No one may disturb Ye Qing; let her drink freely."
Ye Jiao bowed dryly, feeling her efforts had yielded little.
Opposite her, Li Jing smirked mischievously, eyebrows raised in mockery. Were it not for the court, Ye Jiao might have hurled a pork bone at him.
Fortunately, Li Ce understood. Mouth silently, he mouthed to her, "What do you desire? I will provide."
Chewing a buttery cake and sipping grape wine, Ye Jiao gazed steadily at the composed man opposite and said, "You."
I want you. If my lord refuses to reward me, then you shall be my prize.
Li Ce's face flushed deep peach before she tilted her head, playfully awaiting his response.
But then, a figure crossed the grand hall, blocking Ye Jiao's view—Prince Li Zhang. Wrapped in the hall's myriad lights, he moved like a slender blade stirring spring waters, inscrutable as friend or foe...