The light screen in Chengdu's command center lit up the room. Red arrows traced Li Jing's invasion routes, showing how the Tang army took apart the Tuyuhun kingdom step by step.
The men stared at the map. Even by Tang standards, that march was absurd.
Zhuge Liang waved his feather fan, eyes locked on the red lines pushing west.
"Chasing the enemy from the Hexi Corridor all the way into the western wasteland," he murmured. "When Huo Qubing struck like lightning across the northern deserts, his vanguard must have looked exactly like this."
He sighed.
The Tang's Duke of Wei, Li Jing, was a tactical god, no question. But the Han had its own legends too.
Huo Qubing, Zhuge Liang thought. Marquis Guanjun. At eighteen, he was already raiding deep into Xiongnu territory. At twenty-two, he was blocking the northern routes and sacrificing to Heaven at Mount Langjuxu. His entire career was one fast, deadly sprint from start to finish.
He could recite those achievements in his sleep.
But seeing them animated on a map? Watching those arrows trace his lightning strikes across the northern steppes with the same modern visuals that made Li Jing's campaigns look so terrifying?
That, Zhuge Liang admitted to himself, would be something else entirely.
He hoped the light screen would get to it eventually.
Nearby, Zhang Fei was going through a rare experience.
For the first time in his military career, he had a crisis of confidence.
Not in battle, of course. If someone handed him a spear and pointed at an enemy line, he'd still charge without hesitation.
But command? That was another matter.
Over the past few months, he'd actually been making an effort to study military history. He'd read about Wei Qing and Huo Qubing. He knew the famous campaigns. He knew the victories.
The problem was that reading about a campaign on bamboo slips and watching one unfold on the light screen were two completely different experiences.
A line in a history book might say "the army advanced two thousand li and destroyed the enemy kingdom."
That sounded impressive.
Then the screen showed what that actually meant.
Thousands of cavalry moving across mountains. Supply routes stretching over impossible distances. Commanders coordinating multiple armies across vast regions. Generals making split-second decisions while operating hundreds of miles apart.
Suddenly, those historical records felt like they were only telling a small part of the story. A tiny fraction. The surface. What they wrote barely scratched the surface of what actually happened.
How do you even write that on bamboo? Zhang Fei thought. "We were scared. We had no food. A lunatic charged downhill with five hundred men and won."
He grunted.
Historians left out the good parts.
Zhang Fei found himself thinking back to Cao Cao's favorite boast.
Eight hundred thousand troops at Red Cliffs.
In the past, hearing that number had made him angry. Now it made him laugh.
Who taught you math, Cao? Your sword teacher?
Because after watching the Tang campaigns, Zhang Fei finally understood the brutal math of warfare.
If Cao Cao had actually marched eight hundred thousand men south, Zhou Yu wouldn't have needed to burn anything. He could have just enjoyed the view.
The army would have starved before reaching the battlefield. The supply officers would have surrendered first. Then the troops would mutiny. The quartermasters would have jumped into the river. And the horses? They probably would have filed complaints.
But Li Jing's campaign maps proved the Tang actually pulled off long-range deployments at scale.
Zhang Fei mentally put himself in the Tuyuhun's shoes. If he had to fight Li Jing, his only real weapon would be courage. And judging by the footage, the Tang had plenty of that too.
He watched the two Xue brothers launch a counterattack while completely surrounded. He watched a madman named Qibi charge thousands of enemy riders with just a handful of men.
Even Zhang Fei, with all his legendary boldness, had to admit he couldn't have done it better.
He made a sudden decision and sidled up to Zhao Yun.
"Zilong," he whispered loudly, leaning in close, "you got any free time later? Let me check out those mixed-color elite cavalry units of yours."
Zhao Yun stared at him.
Mixed-color again, he thought. Every single time. Mixed-color this, mixed-color that. I've told him a hundred times. They're elite cavalry. Are you a fish, Yide? Do you have a three-second memory?
He sighed.
"Fine. Tomorrow."
---
[Lightscreen]
[Some military historians argue that Li Jing might be the most boring god of war in human history.
He had a weird talent for taking continent-spanning epic wars and making them taste like unseasoned boiled cardboard.
Before a battle, his predictions were spot on. During the fight, his strikes were perfectly timed. The whole campaign just... worked.
No drama. No last-minute saves. No desperate stands. Just victory after victory after victory.
That was Li Jing's trademark. He mastered civil wars and border conflicts. He excelled at naval combat and heavy cavalry charges. From the southern rivers to the northern deserts, from highland plateaus to brutal sieges, he won every single time.
Far to the west, around the same era as the Han dynasty's greatest generals, lived another military prodigy named Julius Caesar. After crushing his opponent at the Battle of Zela, this uncrowned emperor of Rome sent a famously short report back to his senate.
It read: Veni, vidi, vici — I came, I saw, I conquered.
Those three short phrases sum up Li Jing's career perfectly. March out. Destroy the enemy. Erase the nation.
Sounds simple. Yet countless generals throughout history have tried and failed.
The problem is that generations of commanders have attempted exactly that sequence and discovered it is much harder than it sounds.
Most wars become exhausting contests of attrition. Armies get stuck. Supplies run low. Plans fall apart. Commanders spend years waiting for opportunities that never arrive.
Li Jing had a habit of skipping those parts.
His campaigns were fast. Decisive. Ruthlessly efficient.
He rarely fought wars that dragged on for years. He rarely relied on desperate gambles. He rarely put the survival of the state on a single dramatic battle.
Instead, he solved problems before they had time to become disasters.
That style of warfare gave the early Tang Dynasty something priceless.
Time.
While rival kingdoms were being conquered, farms were still producing grain. Trade routes remained open. The treasury continued filling.
The empire expanded without constantly exhausting itself.
In many ways, that was Li Jing's greatest contribution.
People often say great generals change history.
Li Jing didn't merely change it. He sped it up.
The final decades of his life were almost as smooth as his military career.
In the eleventh year of Zhenguan, he received the title Duke of Wei and stood at the height of imperial favor.
Three years later, tragedy struck when his wife passed away.
The loss hit the old general hard.
Li Shimin, who had spent decades relying on Li Jing, personally tried to comfort him.
The Emperor ordered that Li Jing's future tomb be modeled after Tieshan Mountain, the very place where he crushed Illig Qaghan, and the Stone Mountain of the Tuyuhun, transforming his victories into monuments that would endure for generations.
Several years later, Li Shimin decided to honor the founding heroes of the dynasty.
He commissioned Yan Liben to paint the famous portraits of Lingyan Pavilion.
Among the twenty-four great contributors to the Tang Empire, Li Jing ranked eighth.
The only military figure placed ahead of him was Yuchi Jingde.
This ranking has fueled arguments among history enthusiasts for over a thousand years.
Many of those arguments remain unresolved.
A year later, Li Shimin prepared to personally invade Goguryeo. He asked Li Jing if he wanted to come. Li Jing practically begged to lead the vanguard, claiming his illness was clearing up and he was ready to ride.
But the Emperor looked at his seventy-year-old friend and told him to stay home and rest.
There's a fun alternative version of this story in a later text called the Sui and Tang Anecdotes.
It claims Li Jing actually refused to go. Li Shimin allegedly smiled and warned him that Sima Yi was also old and sick, yet he still managed to steal the Wei dynasty.
This comparison supposedly made the seventy-three-year-old Li Jing sprint after the army like a teenager, begging for a job.
However, that text was written around the time of the An Lushan Rebellion and is basically historical gossip.
Hard to take seriously.
In the twenty-third year of Zhenguan, Li Jing fell seriously ill. A dying Li Shimin dragged his own failing body out of the palace to visit his old friend one last time.
Li Jing passed away in May, receiving the highest honors and a burial at the Zhao Mausoleum. Two months later, Li Shimin followed him.
The Zhenguan era was over.
Bai Qi was forced to kill himself. Han Xin was executed in a palace trap. Yue Fei was murdered by his own king. Wei Qing and Huo Qubing died with regrets left behind.
Compared to all of them, Li Jing's life mirrored his battlefield style perfectly. A smooth, easy march to the finish line.
But as the old man closed his eyes for the last time, he probably never realized that his most spectacular legend was about to be built after his death.]
[Server Chat Log]
[Zhuge Liang: The Song dynasty is being invaded from all sides, yet they execute their own best generals? What kind of emperor does that? Did a donkey kick you in the head?]
Inside Ganlu Hall, Li Shimin let out a low chuckle.
"The most boring god of war," he repeated, amused. "I'll take that as a compliment. The future descendants really are your fans, Yaoshi."
Du Ruhui set his brush down and looked up at the ceiling.
"He doesn't boast. He doesn't brag. He just marches out and wins. No mistakes. No drama. Just victory."
He paused.
"Yaoshi is the living embodiment of Sun Tzu's ideal commander."
Another pause.
"Millions have read The Art of War. Only a handful have ever managed to actually live by it.
Li Ji nodded firmly.
"Keming is correct," he said. "No man alive can match Yaoshi in command. Such a legendary general is a national treasure. It would be a crime to risk his life on a chaotic battlefield. We truly need to take care of him. We must preserve him."
He puffed out his chest.
"He is the empire's sharpest weapon. Let him stay here in Chang'an and teach strategy. Leave the dangerous, life-threatening cavalry charges to me!"
Du Ruhui covered his mouth. Oh, boy...
The declaration was delivered with passion. It was also so blatantly self-serving that Du Ruhui had to hide a laugh behind his sleeve.
Li Jing turned slowly, eyes wide with outrage.
Damn this kid...
During the Turk campaign, he thought, I specifically let this brat command a flanking wing so he could share in the glory. And now he's trying to steal my future command assignments right in front of the Emperor?
"Capturing Illig Qaghan left a power vacuum in the north," Li Jing fired back smoothly, his tone laced with venom. "I hear the Xueyantuo tribes are showing signs of rebellion. We need a seasoned veteran to sit on their border and terrify them into submission."
He looked at Li Ji.
"Maogong has governed Bingzhou for years. He's perfect for the job."
The Emperor had just officially recognized the Xueyantuo leader as a legitimate Khan last year. Li Ji fully agreed they needed to be crushed eventually.
But sending him to freeze on the remote border right now? That was pure revenge from the old man.
Li Shimin ignored the bickering generals. He was staring at the screen, captivated by the Roman's seven-word message.
"Seven short words," he said. "Plain language. But the arrogance? Chef's kiss. Magnificent."
Yuchi Jingde usually kept his mouth shut during court debates. But next to him, Qin Qiong turned his head and grinned at the throne.
"Does Your Majesty regret not having the chance to cross swords with this Caesar on the battlefield?"
The regret was written all over Li Shimin's face. He sighed.
"I would have given anything to take you two as my vanguard and smash his formations."
His tone dropped.
"It's been eight years since the Battle of Mingshui."
He had defeated the rebel king Liu Heita at twenty-three. That was the last time Li Shimin had been forced to push his tactical genius to the limit. After that, the realm was mostly peaceful. The supreme commander of the heavenly hosts had traded his iron lance for a calligraphy brush.
He was only thirty years old right now. He could still ride a horse hundreds of miles a day. He could still split a target at a hundred paces with his bow.
But the world simply lacked an opponent worthy of his attention.
He was alone at the top.
Then the broadcast mentioned the Sima Yi joke.
"Absolute slander!" Li Shimin barked, eyes wide. "Sima Yi was a treacherous snake who pretended to be loyal before stealing a throne. How could anyone compare General Li to that garbage?"
The ministers exchanged confused glances. The whole anecdote sounded ridiculous. Why would Li Jing ever rebel? Sima Yi didn't just wake up one morning and decide to steal the state. He spent decades laying the groundwork.
Plus, while Li Jing was undeniably a god of war, the man sitting on the throne in front of them was arguably even better. Rebellions need weak targets. And Li Shimin was a predator.
Fang Xuanling stroked his beard.
"It's probably the work of future scholars looking for a dramatic story," he said. "They hear a tavern rumor, polish the wording, and publish it in their private journals for cheap entertainment."
The court dismissed it as historical fiction.
Li Jing had been doing the math on his projected lifespan. He smiled, at peace.
"To leave this world at the same time as Your Majesty," he said. "That's the highest honor a minister could ask for."
While Li Jing looked serene, Li Shimin looked like he wanted to throw something.
"You are twenty-eight years older than me," he said, rubbing his forehead. "How do we die within two months of each other? That math doesn't add up."
He paused.
Then his eyes lit up.
He broke into a wide grin and aggressively patted Sun Simiao's shoulder.
"Well, that timeline is dead! I have the King of Medicine right here. We're definitely not following that schedule anymore!"
Because this was a private gathering, the Emperor felt free to speak his mind without formal filters. The room burst into laughter.
Li Jing chuckled along, his eyes catching the new text floating across the top of the screen.
"It seems Marquis Wu is quite upset about the fate of General Yue Fei," he said.
Li Shimin had previously briefed his generals about the future temple dedicated to Zhuge Liang and the legendary Song general Yue Fei who had written the famous poem swearing to reclaim the lost territories.
Seeing Zhuge Liang publicly rip into the Song Emperor was entertaining. After all, Li Shimin had his own long list of grievances about the dynasty that would eventually succeed his Tang.
Let them have it, he thought. Someone should.
---
Deep in the imperial gardens of Bianjing, Zhao Kuangyin felt a sense of injustice.
"How am I supposed to know who this Yue Fei person is?" he muttered to the empty courtyard. "I've been dead for over a hundred years before he was even born. How is that my fault?"
Ever since the broadcast had casually mentioned the Weishui Treaty and somehow tied the failure to his Song dynasty, Zhao Kuangyin had been feeling attacked.
His own officials had spent the morning criticizing him for minor infractions. His handwriting. The way he sat. His choice of dinner menu.
And now he was getting publicly roasted by a legendary strategist from the Three Kingdoms era. A dead one. From five hundred years ago.
Wonderful.
He took a deep breath. Suppressed his anger. He was a rational man who had built an empire from scratch. He could endure criticism.
Then Zhuge Liang's comment appeared, calling the Song court fools for executing their own loyal generals.
Zhao Kuangyin stared at the screen.
I don't even know who that general is, he thought. He hasn't been born yet. Why am I getting blamed for something my descendants did over a hundred years after I died?
His mind spun. Was this future Song dynasty truly his own creation? If so, how did it rot so thoroughly? Why would anyone execute their own defenders while actively fighting a war?
The lack of logic was maddening.
I built this empire, he thought. I ended the chaos. I united the land. And this is my reward? Getting blamed for things that haven't happened yet?
He gripped the edge of his stone table.
Maybe I should have stayed in bed that morning.
Miserable.
[Lightscreen]
[According to the timelines reconstructed by later historians, Li Jing may have actually lived long enough to witness the very beginning of his own transformation into a deity.
To understand how that happened, we need to take a brief detour into the wonderfully chaotic world of medieval religious storytelling.
The Sui and Tang periods saw Buddhism spread rapidly throughout China. Temples everywhere. Monks traveling freely. Buddhist ideas woven into everyday life.
As a result, later generations produced a truly impressive collection of legends involving emperors, monks, spirits, and divine intervention.
One of the more entertaining examples comes from a Yuan dynasty text called The Comprehensive Origins of the Three Religions.
According to this account, when Li Shimin was still fighting alongside Li Yuan during the wars that founded the Tang Dynasty, a mysterious divine warrior suddenly descended into their military camp.
This heavenly visitor allegedly had the head of a boar, the body of an elephant, and enough supernatural aura to make ordinary mortals question all their life choices.
The being introduced himself as Vaisravana, the Heavenly King of the North.
He then proceeded to guard Li Shimin's command tent.
As the story goes, every battle afterward became suspiciously easy. Coincidence? The legend strongly suggests otherwise.
After becoming Emperor, Li Shimin was supposedly so grateful that he ordered shrines dedicated to Vaisravana built throughout the empire.
From a historian's perspective, this story is about as reliable as a fisherman describing the size of the one that got away. Complete nonsense.
But from the perspective of ordinary people, it makes perfect sense. Explaining why Li Shimin won his wars requires discussions about logistics, strategy, political alliances, cavalry doctrine, and administrative reform. That's a lot of work. Simply saying a god was helping him is much more convenient.
The interesting part is that Vaisravana was not originally a Chinese deity at all. He came from Indian Buddhist traditions, where he was known as a protector of the faith, a guardian of the north, and a god associated with wealth and military power.
As Buddhism spread eastward, so did his worship. By the Tang Dynasty, shrines dedicated to the Heavenly King could be found across the empire. To the average citizen, he was already a familiar and respected divine figure.
And this is where things start getting strange.
Because while the people worshipped Vaisravana, they also remembered Li Jing. Generation after generation repeated stories about the general who destroyed Xiao Xian, crushed the Eastern Turks, and erased the Tuyuhun Kingdom from the map.
The stories grew larger with every retelling. Victories became miracles. Campaigns became legends. Military brilliance became supernatural wisdom.
Eventually, the line separating the historical Li Jing from the divine protector worshipped in temples began to blur.
The process wasn't deliberate. No official sat down and announced that a famous general would now absorb a Buddhist deity. It simply happened the way folklore often happens. People told stories. Then they combined stories. Then they forgot where one story ended and the other began.
Century after century, the reputation of the undefeated Tang general slowly fused with the image of the Heavenly King.
At some point, the old Buddhist guardian stopped looking entirely like Vaisravana. And started looking suspiciously like Li Jing.
One can only imagine the confusion this would have caused the real Li Jing. The man spent his entire life trying to avoid attention. After destroying multiple kingdoms, he deliberately kept a low profile in court so nobody would accuse him of becoming too powerful.
His reward? Being promoted after death from "famous general" to "actual deity."
History has a peculiar sense of humor.
Li Jing successfully avoided political trouble for seventy years. He was completely unprepared for what happened afterward.
Because the next stage of his career would take place not in imperial courts or military camps, but in the realm of gods.
Not bad for a man who just wanted to keep his men from starving.]