Chapter Thirty-Nine: Meeting Zhuge Xuan Again

Although Gan Ning and I had only recently become acquainted, our conversations were already deep and candid. Yet Gan Ning was a man of straightforward temperament—despite being educated, his nature often led to his marginalization. For instance, while serving under Liu Zhang, he rebelled and left Yi Province out of disdain for Liu Zhang and his son. Later, under Liu Biao, feeling unfulfilled, he left without hesitation, intending to journey down the river to Sun Quan in Jiangdong.

Thus, although my words might have been sensitive, to Gan Ning they rang true and pleasing. He was a man who acted as he pleased—my sentiments merely echoed his own. In that moment, we found ourselves like kindred spirits separated by age, sharing confidences late into the night, both in high spirits as the conversation deepened.

Before long, the food arrived. True to his reputation for extravagance, Gan Ning had ordered a lavish feast—venison, bear’s paw, and other rare delicacies—hardly surprising that he was often resented. He was like a wealthy scion sampling military life, living in greater luxury than even his superior, Zhang Yun.

The sight of such abundance quickly melted Deng Hong’s earlier reserve; the hard rations he’d been eating suddenly lost all appeal, and he devoured bowl after bowl of venison. Though midnight feasts were said to make one fat, I was at the age of growth and welcomed whatever came my way, my lips soon glistening with oil. After the meal, the three of us continued our lively conversation, discussing classical texts and essays until, at last, we retired for the night.

The next day, grandfather and I prepared to set out once more. Gan Ning accompanied us to the southern city gate, and as we parted, he asked, “Achen, you are exceptionally astute—what are your plans for the future?”

I glanced toward distant Nanyang and replied softly, “Nanyang will be engulfed in war for several years yet. I intend to build my strength here. When the time comes, you may lead your men away from Zhang Yun and join me.”

“Won’t Liu Biao mind?” Gan Ning asked, perplexed.

Leaving Zhang Yun would be tantamount to forsaking Liu Biao—a second defection. How could Liu Biao tolerate a force beyond his control within his own domain?

I smiled. “Liu Biao would welcome it. He needs someone in Nanyang to guard his northern gateway. As long as I acknowledge his supremacy, even if I obey in form but not in substance, he will not interfere. Mark my words, next year I shall tell you what to do.”

Gan Ning nodded in agreement. It was precisely because he was educated and discerning that he admired my learning so much. Still, he understood that book learning alone did not confer an understanding of the world’s affairs. For now, he would listen, but time would be needed to test my judgment.

It was much like the scholars of Jingzhou who endlessly debated the state of the realm, yet Sima Hui, the famed gentleman of Yingchuan, dismissed them all—only Zhuge Liang and Pang Tong met his standards. Most scholars, though learned, lacked true insight into the tides of events, far from the level of Pang Tong and Zhuge Liang.

Yet my own analysis seemed sound. I explained that Nanyang’s coming chaos would stem from the turmoil in Guanzhong; the internal strife between Li Jue and Guo Si would force some of the Guanzhong warlords to migrate, possibly through Wu Pass into Nanyang. Furthermore, once Henan stabilized, its warlords would covet Nanyang’s fertile lands and populous towns. With Liu Biao neglecting military affairs and lacking in martial capability, conflict in Nanyang would be inevitable.

Of course, these were only present assessments—the future would judge their accuracy. Gan Ning was not a man to accept words blindly. If time proved me right, he would make his choice accordingly.

After bidding Gan Ning farewell, my grandfather and I boarded our donkey cart and set off once again. We reached the southern dock of Fancheng, boarded a ferry, and crossed the river toward Xiangyang.

The Han River surged majestically, and Xiangyang still stood proudly on the far bank—a world apart from the Nanyang Basin to the north. The basin stretched endlessly, cloaked in dense forests and vast, grassland-like plains; only in the distance could one glimpse the faint silhouettes of the Funiu and Dabie mountain ranges.

Xiangyang, meanwhile, nestled in the easternmost foothills of the Daba Mountains—a spur of the Qinling range—its back protected by endless ridges, lush and encircled by forests. Amidst the verdant woods, the first sight was the vast expanse of land along the northeastern bank, orderly rows of villages and farmsteads stretching from the distant Xianshan all the way to the Han River, a continuous ribbon ten kilometers long.

This land was home to many of Xiangyang’s people, dominated by great lineages such as the Pang, Kuai, and Cai families. When Liu Biao first arrived in Jingzhou, it was these three clans who enabled him to gain a foothold. Since Pang Ji’s death after helping Liu Biao secure Jingzhou, Pang Degong had refused office, so the Cai and Kuai families now held sway in official circles.

Most of these two clans lived within the city, while the vast tracts near the Han River were occupied by the Pangs and ordinary folk. In later generations, this area would form an inner ring near the Dongjin Bridge, where the Pang ancestral hall still stood.

The boat my grandfather and I took was no small craft, but a great vessel capable of carrying hundreds. By chance, a migrating clan from Guanzhong was aboard, numbering over a hundred—fewer than the thousand at Huangmen Pavilion, but impressive nonetheless.

On the way, Deng Hong and I spoke with them and learned they were the Zhang clan from Shangluo in Guanzhong. Since chaos had erupted there this year, barely one in ten survived, and they had no choice but to resettle in Jingzhou.

We discovered that the Zhangs had once been powerful in Shangluo, their estate spanning over two hundred hectares. They had survived last year’s drought, but this year Guanzhong was in even worse straits. The main causes were drought, plague, and locusts; internal discord among Li Jue, Guo Si, and others made matters worse.

At the year’s start, Li Jue killed Fan Chou, making the rift public. Both sides called on allies, fighting in and around Chang’an, driving all of Guanzhong to misery. Worse still, the armies pillaged the people. The peasants, already impoverished, now suffered even more; not even the powerful could endure, and so were forced to flee their homeland.

During our conversation, I learned a key piece of information: the Emperor, Liu Xie, was held captive by Li Jue, while Guo Si had seized Yang Biao, Zhang Xi, and other high ministers.

It seemed that history was proceeding as before; the butterfly from Xuzhou had yet to alter its course.

Perhaps it had nearly changed. Had I killed Cao Ren, several future campaigns might have been drastically different. But in that case, Liu Bei’s fortunes would have suffered greatly.

For now, I had to swallow my resentment, awaiting another chance to avenge my kinsmen of Zengyang.

After disembarking, my grandfather and I bade the Zhangs farewell, boarded our donkey cart, and made our way slowly toward Xiangyang.

This city, destined to weather the storms of the next millennium, was seeing its population swell due to the chaos in the north. Yizhou and Jingzhou were among the few stable regions; commerce thrived, people prospered, and migrants from all directions brought new vitality to this ancient city.

Inside, the city bustled with life. Along East Street, shops crowded both sides, vendors hawked their wares, and countless merchants and townsfolk mingled. There were few beggars in rags here—compared to the suffering I’d witnessed en route from Xuzhou, Jingzhou was a rare haven of peace and prosperity.

Even so, the region had not yet reached its peak. Liu Biao had pacified Jingzhou only four years prior. The north suffered years of drought, but the south had enjoyed fair weather, ensuring stable grain harvests and fostering prosperity.

In a few more years, once Liu Biao had fully secured Jingnan, his power and the strength of Jingzhou would reach new heights—over a hundred thousand armored soldiers, stronger even than Cao Cao at that time.

Following East Street southward to the provincial governor’s mansion, Deng Hong requested an audience. Upon learning the Dengs had arrived from Xuzhou, Liu Biao ordered us brought to the central hall.

To our surprise, the hall held several figures beyond Liu Biao—one of whom was an old acquaintance: Zhuge Xuan.

Deng Hong and I entered and bowed. “Hong and Chen pay their respects to the Governor.”

“Be seated,” Liu Biao said, glancing around before introducing us: “These are Deng Hong, styled Youshuo, and his grandson Shen Chen, descendants of the Dengs who migrated from Xuzhou. I have summoned them for their reputed talents.”

He then gestured to another man. “Allow me to introduce my registrar, Kuai Liang, styled Zirou.”

We looked over to see Kuai Liang seated at Liu Biao’s right, clearly of high rank, about forty years old, with a sharp visage, a goatee, and piercing eyes.

“Greetings, Registrar Kuai,” we said, bowing.

Kuai Liang returned the salutation.

Liu Biao continued, “This is my administrative officer, Deng Yi, styled Zixiao.”

“Greetings, Administrative Officer Deng,” Deng Hong said, then asked, “May I ask if you are from Xinye?”

Deng Yi replied, “I am from Zhangling.”

“Oh,” Deng Hong said, leaving it at that.

The Dengs of Nanyang were a great clan, but not all bearing the surname were descendants of Deng Yu. Deng Ai, for example, may not have been of that lineage; others with the surname might have shared an ancestor eight centuries ago, but were now distinct.

Liu Biao went on, “This is my assistant officer, Liu He, styled Lao Zhi.”

Liu Lao Zhi? I thought in surprise.

Deng Hong bowed. “Greetings, Assistant Officer.”

I quickly followed suit.

Liu He seemed not to notice, merely nodding in return.

The final person was Zhuge Xuan.

He smiled and said, “No need for an introduction, Governor. Youshuo and I have long been acquainted.”

“You knew each other?” Liu Biao said, surprised, then slapped his forehead. “Ah, of course! Yin Yi came from Xuzhou, as did Youshuo. Did you meet on the road?”

Zhuge Xuan nodded. “We met in Yuzhang. Had it not been for Achen, I might have fallen to Liu Yao’s blade.”

“What happened?” Liu Biao asked.

Zhuge Xuan recounted the story, concluding, “I did as Achen advised—appealing to Yuan Shu for aid while also sending word to Zhu Hao. As expected, Yuan Shu did not send troops, but Zhu Hao brought Liu Yao’s forces to Yuzhang. Had I not written in advance, I would not have returned safely to Jingzhou.”

At this, the others turned to me, their gazes changed by what they had heard.