Above Jinluan Hall, Yin Jiao bowed and kowtowed, every word ringing with force as he earnestly submitted his petition, requesting command of the army to march against Xiqi.
He stated bluntly that Xiqi's Chan Sect was brutal and bloodthirsty, had slaughtered Great Shang's loyal ministers and soldiers, and that the perfected immortals of the Jie Sect, countless heroic souls, had buried their bones on the battlefield. This hatred could not be settled!
He was willing to command the three armies and attack Xiqi once more, to avenge the dead souls of Great Shang who had fallen in battle, and to wash away the hatred of the fallen fellow disciples of the Jie Sect!
King Zhou was already filled with resentment over repeated defeats, heavy losses of troops and generals, and the decline of the kingdom's power. Hearing Yin Jiao's words, and seeing that his eldest son's fighting spirit was firm and that his heart was set wholly on the state, he was overjoyed.
He immediately agreed to everything and, without the slightest hesitation, issued an edict handing all military authority for the campaign to Yin Jiao.
The night over Zhaoge was heavy and gloomy, the palace lanterns in the imperial city swaying in a cold, mournful light.
The army had made ready to depart, waiting only for Yin Jiao's order to set out for Xiqi, when King Zhou dismissed everyone at his side and summoned Yin Jiao alone into the deep palace bedchamber.
There were no palace maids in the hall, no attendants. All around, it was so quiet that a falling needle could be heard. Stripped of the majesty of court, stripped of an emperor's killing edge, only a father and son remained, two people who had not truly faced each other in a very long time.
Di Xin