With Brush in Hand, I Shape the Realm and Its Fate

That winter, he wielded his brush from his sickbed. A single painting, Snow on a Cold River, was enough to wipe out the three hundred thousand barbarian cavalrymen of the northern frontier.

That spring, he casually recited a poem in the imperial garden. One line, “A drizzle moistens the streets like crisp pastry,” brought rain from the heavens and ended a drought stretching across ten thousand miles in the south.

At court, he seemed mild and refined, yet with a few words and a smile, he could bring powerful ministers to their knees. He had never set foot in the martial world, yet was already a legend.

The crown prince, powerful ministers, great clans, enemy states?

Xiao Junlin closed his book and smiled faintly. “In my previous life, I needed a million troops to kill you all. In this life, one sheet of paper and one brush will suffice.”

When the realm was finally at peace again, people realized that the frail prince, too weak to hurt a chicken, had long since painted an unprecedented age of prosperity with ink and brush.