Is the Song Empire's gravest peril not the Jurchen invaders, but rather the discord within its own walls?
At first hearing this remark, Guo Jing couldn't help but shudder inwardly, his brows twitching—half suspecting that the words referred to himself, this so-called "immortal." Yet when Chancellor He Su continued his discourse, enlightenment dawned upon him: the man's concern lay not with him, but with Prince Kang, Zhao Gou, stationed in Hebei.
Or rather, with the man who, in a more orthodox branch of history, would one day ascend as Emperor Gaozong of the Southern Song.
—In the autumn of the first year of Jingkang, the Jurchen launched their second southern campaign from Yanjing. Their advance was like a hot knife through butter, sweeping across dozens of counties in Hedong and Hebei. The Song court was thrown into chaos; Emperor Qinzong, while feigning resolve in preparation for battle, secretly dispatched his ninth brother, Prince Kang, to sue for peace. He offered to cede the three prefectures of Taiyuan, Zhongshan, and Hejian, alongside annual tribute, in the hope that such terms would appease the invaders.
Yet clearly, such paltry offerings could never sate the insatiable appetite of the Jin. The lands he proposed to cede were already lost—flesh devoured by the enemy's blade—and the Song empire now lay prostrate like a helpless lamb before the butcher's cleaver. In such a moment, to enter the enemy camp was not only to seek humiliation, but perhaps even death.
Thus, Prince Kang tarried on his journey, deliberately avoiding the Jin army's path. He lingered for days in Xiangzhou, then proceeded to Cizhou, where he encountered Zong Ze, a staunch advocate of resistance. Zong Ze, mobilizing the populace to block the roads and hinder the prince's northward mission, urged Zhao Gou to raise the banner of defiance. He implored him to leverage his royal blood to rally forces from five surrounding prefectures, launch an expedition from Zhending, and disrupt the Jin's offensive on Bianjing.
Zhao Gou, already loath to brave the perils of the enemy camp, quickly took this advice to heart. Abandoning his imperial commission, he returned with Zong Ze to Xiangzhou and recruited the local prefect Wang Boyan. Together, they formed a faction under the pretext of raising troops to rescue the capital.
When news reached Emperor Qinzong of Zhao Gou's unauthorized actions, imperial wrath ignited. But with Jin forces already crossing the Yellow River and the capital teetering on the brink of collapse, desperate times demanded desperate measures. Swallowing his fury, Qinzong begrudgingly legitimized Zhao Gou's defiance. On the eighteenth day of the eleventh month, he issued a decree naming Prince Kang as the Grand Marshal of Hebei, appointing Zong Ze and Wang Boyan as his deputies, and entrusting them with the task of mustering scattered troops to relieve the capital.
Thus, Zhao Gou formally established the Hebei Grand Marshal's Office in Xiangzhou, gathering remnants of the shattered imperial armies, and enlisting local militias and volunteer forces. When, miraculously, the Jin army besieging Bianjing was annihilated by futuristic weaponry conjured by Doraemon—from the twenty-second century no less—the imperial court was stunned to find that, aside from the ruins left in the Jin army's wake, only two major military factions remained in the Central Plains: one in Bianjing, commanded by Emperor Qinzong; the other in Xiangzhou, led by Prince Kang.
Even more alarming was that, in terms of military strength, both factions appeared evenly matched. Qinzong controlled remnants of the capital's elite troops and southern armies, while Zhao Gou had rallied significant portions of the northern and western garrisons. Each possessed over ten thousand seasoned soldiers at their core, with tens of thousands more irregulars swelling their ranks. The imperial side lacked any overwhelming advantage.
Moreover, Qinzong had barely reigned a year and had faced crisis after crisis since his enthronement. His grip on the throne remained tenuous, with dissent lingering in both court and provinces. Should internal strife erupt within the royal clan, the new emperor might find himself unable to wield the full might of the nation against his brother.
In such a delicate and precarious situation, Zhao Gou, entrenched in Xiangzhou with a growing army and an increasingly independent command, began to exude a faint, perilous aura—a man with potential, however faint, to aspire to the Dragon Throne.
—Of course, it was only potential. The gap between possibility and realization remained vast.
After all, the court in Bianjing still held the Mandate of Heaven and the unassailable moral high ground. If open conflict were to erupt, they would retain a significant advantage. Moreover, the forces under Zhao Gou's banner had not sworn loyalty to him personally; they had responded to the call of the imperial court. It had been less than two months since he established his base in Xiangzhou—far too short a time to build a loyal cadre willing to follow him into rebellion.
The leaders of these militias and irregulars had joined him for vengeance against the Jin or for the chance to cleanse their names and secure titles under imperial favor. They were more than willing to resist the Jurchen, even to march south in defense of the emperor. But if Zhao Gou dared incite treason and seek the throne, he would likely find himself isolated. Zong Ze himself might be the first to seize him and drag him back to the capital in chains. Those who once hoped to ride Zhao Gou's coattails to fame would swiftly distance themselves from a prince gone mad.
Thus, while Zhao Gou had begun to gather strength and his ambitions stirred, he lacked the courage—or support—to make a direct move on the throne. Neither court nor soldier would follow him into treason.
Conversely, since Zhao Gou had shown no overt signs of rebellion, the court could not justify a preemptive strike against him. The imperial strategy, therefore, was to maintain a tense standoff while employing political tactics to divide and erode his faction from within—a domain in which Song officials excelled.
During this fragile interlude, the court had to walk a fine line: they could neither provoke Zhao Gou into a desperate uprising, nor afford to appear blind to his growing influence. If they committed their remaining troops northward to reclaim lost territory, who could guarantee that Zhao Gou, seeing the capital left vulnerable, wouldn't seize the moment, rally his loyalists, and strike south in a bid to "purge the court of traitors"?
After all, if the prize for victory were the throne itself, then even the most perilous gamble would tempt bold hearts to stake everything.
…
Standing silently beside the imperial desk, listening to Chancellor He Su's explanation, Guo Jing could not help but let out a quiet sigh.
—Even now, in this moment of national peril, the Song scholar-officials still could not forgo their internecine strife.
Yet, it suited his own designs perfectly.
"…Your Majesty," he said, stepping forward as He Su withdrew. Guo Jing clasped his hands and bowed deeply to the seemingly dazed Emperor Zhao Huan. "If the court is beset by such difficulties, then allow this humble Daoist to lead a force beyond the capital walls and attempt a northern campaign."
"The 'Divine Troops of the Sixth Celestial Stem' I have mustered were formed for no other purpose than to expel the barbarian scourge and strike deep into the heart of Yinshan. Now that the enemy has lost its will and the land yearns for restoration, yet the court falters for lack of men and faces internal constraints—how could I, in good conscience, refrain from redoubling my efforts to ease the burdens of Your Majesty and the realm?"