"Though there are now eighteen rebel kings across the realm, and their momentum is immense, aside from six of them, most are merely pretenders padding out the ranks, not worth a single blow."
Another day in court, a civil official spoke aloud.
"As long as Grandmasters are sent to slay those six kings, our Great Qi will surely remain safe and sound for a thousand autumns and ten thousand generations."
The speaker wore an expression of utter loyalty. By the time he spoke of a thousand autumns and ten thousand generations, tears even filled his aged eyes.
Some of the figures who had lowered their gazes inwardly sneered at this.
How could words this crude possibly be on the level of the struggles they had once waged against one another?
It sounded reasonable enough, but in truth, it was still the same old empty drivel—at its core, nothing but perfunctory nonsense.
How to resolve this? Simple: kill the six kings. As for who should go, didn't the imperial clan still have plenty of Grandmaster experts?
At a time of such peril, with the eighteen rebel kings about to march on the capital, those Grandmaster experts who had drawn salaries for generations should step out and prove their worth.
They could hardly expect these people to go clash with the rebel armies themselves.
Yet raising this suggestion was nothing more than empty talk.
Who among the civil and military officials filling the court did not understand that?
The problem was that anyone capable of gaining a foothold on the other side also had Grandmaster experts at their side to protect their path.
When two Grandmasters fought, it was difficult to determine a victor.
Much less in a fight to the death.
They felt that few of the imperial clan's Grandmasters were