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The next day.
Fei Qian ascended a platform south of Anyi city to perform the flag-raising ceremony, leading the group in a solemn oath.
Outside Fei Qian's camp, next to the three-colored flagpoles, a new banner was raised: white with bold red characters proclaiming, "Reclaim Shangjun."
It became known as the Reclamation Flag.
The news of Fei Qian and his group's vow to reclaim Shangjun spread like the wind.
Under this gust, some rejoiced, some fumed, some were shocked, and others sneered…
Inside the Wei residence, Wei Ji was writing. His hand, holding the wolf-hair brush, paused as he said, "Noted." Then he continued writing.
After finishing the final stroke, Wei Ji placed the brush on its stand, moved the paperweight aside, and examined the paper. Frowning, seemingly dissatisfied with his calligraphy, he casually tossed the paper onto the desk.
Wei Ji stood, flicked his sleeves, and walked out of the study, standing under the eaves.
After the spring rain, the courtyard's plants seemed to seize the moment, eagerly stretching their limbs. A black line moved across the stone path; upon closer inspection, it was a group of tiny black ants, busily carrying something back and forth.
Wei Ji stood before this line of ants, staring at them, lost in thought.
A few ants strayed from the path, hesitantly probing outward, moving a bit, stopping, then moving again…
Suddenly, a large shadow loomed over these stray ants and descended…
Wei Ji lightly crushed the wayward ants with his wooden sandal, murmuring softly, "Ants should follow the rules of ants, understand?"
A gust of wind blew, lifting the paper from the desk. It floated to the ground, revealing four large characters: "Gentleman, Not a Tool."
---
Inside the Anyi governor's residence, Wang Yi, the governor, showed no trace of illness. In fact, his time of "recuperation" had left his complexion rosier. Looking at his deputy, Lu Chang, he said, "Is this true?"
Lu Chang nodded, confirming it was absolutely certain.
Wang Yi let out an "Oh," nodded, then chuckled twice, his meaning unclear.
Lu Chang couldn't decipher Wang Yi's intent. Seeing him remain silent, Lu Chang grew restless. After all, this was happening in the southwest suburbs of Anyi, right under their noses. Could they really pretend not to see it?
Moreover, Wang Yi had been "ill" for so long. Though there were no major issues in the prefecture for now, he couldn't stay "sick" forever. Shouldn't he at least give a timeline or some clarity?
Lu Chang tentatively asked, "My lord, what should we do about this?"
Wang Yi said nothing, instead picking up his tea bowl and sipping slowly, blinking as if savoring the flavor.
Lu Chang, helpless, could only wait quietly.
Wang Yi smiled and gestured for Lu Chang to drink.
In the Han dynasty, tea wasn't steeped but boiled, with various additives based on personal taste, resulting in wildly varied flavors. Tasting hints of tangerine peel, cinnamon, or even mud wasn't surprising. Even the same person's tea might taste different from morning to evening.
But Wang Yi's tea was unique. Every time Lu Chang visited, it was the same flavor: ginger. Wang Yi only drank ginger tea.
Setting down the tea bowl, Wang Yi gently swirled it, watching the foam rise in the tea. He said slowly, "Ten years ago, I loved sweet, fragrant tea, adding over a dozen ingredients. Five years ago, I used only four or five—scallions, ginger, green salt, and zanthoxylum. Now, I use only ginger, discarding the rest."
Lu Chang glanced at the tea bowl, beginning to understand Wang Yi's meaning.
In youth, one craves everything, adding all sorts to their tea. But with age comes discernment—what suits and what doesn't—leading to choices. Eventually, one settles on what fits best.
Tea was like this, and perhaps the current situation was too.
Still…
"What about the Wei family?" Lu Chang asked. "And Shangjun still has…"
Wang Yi lightly tapped the desk, as if to stop Lu Chang from continuing. "The art of brewing tea lies in balance—too little, and it's tasteless; too much, and it's overdone."
Lu Chang nodded, responding, "…Very well."
Wang Yi looked south, his gaze seeming to pierce through the courtyard and city walls, stretching far beyond. "No matter what, this is ultimately a good thing…"
Lu Chang followed his gaze. Neither felt like speaking further, sitting silently in the hall like wooden statues.
A gust of wind swept through, rustling their robes and hair, yet their statue-like forms remained unmoved…
---
Outside Anyi, in the suburbs.
A column of troops stood quietly, fully equipped and ready to move.
Huang Cheng and Ma Yan stood at the front, holding their horses' reins, waiting in silence.
By the roadside, Fei Qian was giving final instructions to Jia Qu and Huang Xu.
"…That's enough. You can stop here and head back," Fei Qian said, feeling he'd covered everything, and turned to move forward.
Jia Qu hesitated, then stepped forward, calling out to Fei Qian.
"My lord, Zichu is older than me. It's better to leave him in charge of the main camp," Jia Qu said, glancing at Huang Xu and bowing slightly to Fei Qian again.
Fei Qian turned back, looking at Jia Qu and Huang Xu. After a moment of silence, he shook his head.
"Liangdao, you're steady and meticulous. I understand your concerns, but they're unnecessary. I trust you with the camp, so don't decline. Zichu, when it comes to battlefield combat, Liangdao may not match you. But in understanding people and devising strategies, you don't match him. Work well together. If your opinions differ, follow Liangdao's. This place is small, but our future is vast." Fei Qian spoke earnestly, looking at them both.
Jia Qu and Huang Xu exchanged a glance, then bowed solemnly in agreement.
Fei Qian nodded, bid them farewell with a clasp of hands, turned, took the reins, and mounted his horse.
At that moment, a gust of wind swept through, kicking up yellow dust on the road. The banners and streamers danced wildly in the air, and the treetops by the roadside swayed, their leaves rustling in a continuous chorus, as if an invisible hand played a war song.
Everyone looked up, a shared thought rising in their hearts.
"The wind has risen…"