Chapter Twenty-Five: Gao Qiu’s Worries

The greatest value of a strategist lies in their ability to advise their lord, fill in the gaps, and patch up any oversights. To this, one must add: birds of a feather flock together. The kind of master determines the kind of followers he attracts. Zhao Yu was a pragmatic man, with a touch of sly cunning. After spending time with Yang Xu, he found that many of Yang’s ideas coincided with his own. Zhao Yu never admitted to being a scholar, but Yang Xu was undoubtedly a scoundrel in scholar’s garb.

Of course, such a description of Yang Xu might be somewhat unfair, but truth be told, were it not for Zhao Yu, Yang would still be contentedly serving as a strategist for the Crown Prince.

“Your Highness, have you noticed that Grand Commander Gao has been uncharacteristically quiet lately? From what I know of his temperament—unpredictable, vindictive—it’s hard to believe he would simply swallow the humiliation over Gao Kan. My guess is that he’s secretly gathering evidence against you, hoping to strike a fatal blow when the time is right.”

The evening breeze was cool as Zhao Yu and Yang Xu strolled through the city streets, chatting as they walked. After a busy day, it was rare to find a moment’s leisure, and this stroll served as a welcome respite.

Zhao Yu nodded, letting out a slight sigh. “I’ve thought about it as well, but I’ve simply been too occupied lately. And to be honest, Brother Yang, I have far too few people I can rely on at my side.”

The more Yang Xu learned about the prince, the more he was struck by the odd illusion that this young man’s manner and demeanor were far too mature for someone only fifteen or sixteen.

Then Zhao Yu continued, “Brother Yang, do you have any suggestions for resolving this matter?”

“To resolve it completely is impossible, but we can certainly divert his attention,” Yang Xu replied, a sly smile flickering at the corner of his lips.

Zhao Yu was a man of keen intelligence. At Yang Xu’s words, he was momentarily taken aback, then joined in the smile—a grin that would make anyone want to give him a good smack.

Just as Yang Xu had suggested, starting the very next day, crimson banners emblazoned with a black-winged eagle began to appear outside brothels and gambling houses across the city, springing up like mushrooms after a rain. At first, they appeared in the southern districts, then gradually spread throughout the city. No one knew what these banners represented at first, but soon word spread: this was the insignia of the mysterious Little Yu. Wherever the banner flew marked his domain.

Rumors about Little Yu once again became the talk of the capital. At the same time, news of a grand cuju tournament began to circulate.

In the main hall of a restaurant on Imperial Street…

“Hey! Have you heard? That vacant lot in the south city’s been fenced off and turned into something called the ‘World Football Club.’ At first, I wondered what football was, but after watching them practice, I realized—it’s just cuju!”

“Keep your voice down! I’ve seen that place too, and I noticed the flying eagle banner above the entrance.”

At the mention of the flying eagle, the table fell silent. A few men at the neighboring table, clearly not locals, had been listening in with interest. Seeing the others clam up, they grew anxious.

One of them couldn’t help but interject, “Gentlemen, what’s the matter with the flying eagle banner? We’ve seen it all over the city—it doesn’t seem so intimidating, does it?”

The man at the first table smiled. “One look and I can tell you’re from out of town. You’re right, the banner isn’t frightening at all. In fact, it’s more like a talisman. Wherever it’s displayed, you can rest assured you’ll be safe in Bianliang.”

“Really? Is it issued by the authorities? Where can we get one?”

The local just smiled and didn’t answer.

He turned back to his companions. “I’ve heard the World Football Club is holding a cuju tournament, with a grand prize of ten thousand taels of silver for the champion.”

“Is that true? I’m no novice myself, but there are so many ways to play cuju. Which rules are they using?”

“Why don’t you go and find out? But I hear there’s an age limit. At your age, old friend, you’d have trouble just getting out of bed, let alone kicking a ball! Ha!”

Such conversations became the most popular topic at every restaurant and teahouse in Bianliang, and every day crowds flocked to the World Football Club to inquire about the event.

The rumors were intentionally spread. For those who came seeking confirmation, the club posted a public notice detailing the rules and schedule of the tournament.

There would be first, second, and third prizes, with awards of ten thousand, eight thousand, and five thousand taels respectively.

Cuju had been a beloved sport for thousands of years, enjoyed by royalty and commoners alike, yet never before had anyone organized a league, let alone one with such generous prizes.

Once the news was confirmed, the city was gripped by a wave of cuju fever. Teams sprang up spontaneously, preparing to compete. In every alley and street, one could see children playing with a ball.

Not to be outdone, the families of officials and nobles began recruiting players as well. For them, the money was secondary; what mattered was the glory—and, perhaps, the chance to show off.

The tournament would be a direct knockout, teams of twelve, with matches beginning in mid-September and the final scheduled for the tenth day of the tenth month.

Why this day? Because it was the Taoist birthday of Zhao Yu’s imperial father. As Zhao Yu put it, he would honor the Emperor’s birthday with this grand event.

Anyone can flatter, but to do it in a way that pleases is an art in itself.

Gao Qiu was ill—he had a toothache. According to the physician, it was a “fire illness.” His cheek was so swollen that despite being thin, he now looked like a fox whose face had been beaten to a pulp.

While the entire city of Bianliang was swept up in preparations for the tournament, the Grand Commander's residence was a world apart, its servants silent and cautious, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of incurring their master’s wrath.

Just as Zhao Yu and Yang Xu had predicted, Gao Qiu was like a wolf lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Given Zhao Yu’s actions, there was no shortage of faults to be found, but Gao Qiu knew well that none of the so-called evidence in hand was truly damning. With Empress Zheng and figures like Cai Jing covering for Zhao Yu, minor misdeeds would never hold up. He was waiting for a chance to deliver a fatal blow.

Today, Gao Qiu was especially agitated. That morning, while tidying the study, his servant found a thick envelope on his desk. After being informed, Gao Qiu glanced at it, then immediately ordered the servant beaten to death and summoned Wu Zidou at once.

The envelope contained a memorial accusing Gao Qiu of embezzling military funds, selling army supplies, and illegally trading military garrisons.

If he hadn’t committed such crimes, there would be nothing to fear. But in truth, Gao Qiu’s actual misdeeds were even worse than what was written. The sight of the document nearly scared his soul out of his body. According to the laws of the Song, any one of these charges would be enough to wipe out his entire clan.

If not for his extreme terror and anxiety, Gao Qiu would never have killed the servant on the spot.

Gao Qiu had always considered himself cautious, but he could not imagine how such evidence had come to light.

Wu Zidou, his chief advisor, had been involved in many of these affairs. Seeing the document, he too was terrified.

In the sweltering summer, the windows and doors were shut tight, leaving the study almost suffocating, yet both men felt a chill in their hearts.

After a long silence, Wu Zidou finally spoke. “Grand Commander, forgive my bluntness, but perhaps it is time to set aside your business with the young master…”