The Prince of Pingyang’s rebel army advanced swiftly, meeting almost no resistance worth speaking of along the way before descending on Pucheng and encircling it on all four sides, declaring they would take the city within a matter of days.

The rebel forces made this claim with solid grounds. For one, the uprising had caught everyone off guard, and the time left for the court and the cities along their northward path to prepare was far too short. For another, the two sides were wildly mismatched in numbers. The Prince of Pingyang had been scheming in secret for a long time. For this northward campaign, aside from a portion left to hold Pingyang Commandery, he had dispatched nearly fifty thousand troops — while Pucheng had only five thousand garrison soldiers.

Faced with this dire situation, the Pucheng magistrate was not, at the outset of the siege, particularly alarmed.

He had reason for confidence.

He himself had come up through the military, and he was experienced in commanding troops in battle. The five thousand garrison soldiers under him were all fine warriors — well-trained in ordinary times and obedient to command. Though far fewer than the rebel forces come to besiege them, the city’s defenses were solid. Holding out for a stretch should pose no difficulty.

Beyond that, there was a more important consideration: Pucheng held a special strategic status.

For many years, the court had established three lines of defense on the road leading north to the capital, in order to protect it.

Pucheng was the southernmost city on this defensive line.

Several hundred li behind Pucheng, reachable in a few days, lay Longguan — which held the middle position in the defensive line.

In the dynasty’s era of peak strength, Longguan alone had maintained a permanent garrison of fifty thousand troops. Though greatly diminished now, it still had ten to twenty thousand men.

Pucheng was like the front gate of Longguan. By court decree, as long as Pucheng came under attack, Longguan was obligated to send troops to its aid.

Before the rebel army had even arrived, the Pucheng magistrate had already sent men to Longguan with a report, requesting that the Longguan commander dispatch reinforcements promptly. As long as his side could hold for a few days and the reinforcements arrived, they could use the terrain to their advantage and strike from inside and out simultaneously. Even if they could not defeat the rebel army outright, lifting the siege should be manageable.

But the situation unfolded far beyond what the Pucheng magistrate had anticipated.

Three days passed, and the Longguan reinforcements he had been waiting for failed to appear.

Three more days passed, and still no reinforcements. Faced with the rebel army’s relentless and ferocious assaults, the casualties among the city’s defenders mounted steadily. The entire city was in danger of falling. Fortunately, Pucheng’s fortifications were strong, the magistrate led from the front to bolster morale, and the common people — having heard of the rebel army’s burning, killing, and plundering — had rallied behind the defense of their own accord. Thanks to all this, the rebel army’s fierce attacks had been beaten back time and again, and the city continued to hold.

But the mood inside the city was growing unstable. Rumors began to spread that the court had abandoned Pucheng.

The magistrate’s initial confidence had begun to waver with them. But he still clung to a last thread of hope — that the reinforcements had simply encountered obstacles on the way.

That last thread of hope was finally cut off several days before.

That day, after beating back yet another attack organized by the rebel army, he received an imperial edict from the court.

The court commanded him to hold the city for one full month — at whatever cost — or face charges of dereliction of duty, with punishment to extend to his family.

At that, the Pucheng magistrate finally understood the court’s intent.

Longguan’s terrain was formidable — easy to defend, difficult to assault. The court intended to sacrifice Pucheng and concentrate all available forces at Longguan, intending to stop the rebel army there with everything it had.

Pucheng was nothing but a pawn in this “sacrifice the pawn to protect the chariot” strategy.

The Pucheng magistrate’s parents, wife, and children were all in the capital. He had no choice but to comply.

He concealed the news and continued to use the promise of reinforcements — reinforcements that would never come — to sustain the morale of the remaining soldiers.

Inside the besieged city, more and more people were dying, and the atmosphere of despair grew thicker by the day.

There is no wall in the world without a crack. By the time they had endured to the fifteenth day, the news that Pucheng had been abandoned by the court had spread completely.

The Pucheng magistrate executed two deserters who had been undermining morale, then led the fewer than a thousand soldiers still remaining, weapons in hand, to mount the city wall.

No one believed anymore that they could repel the rebel army’s next assault. That included themselves.

Towering siege ladders, one after another, were hooked onto the battlements. The rebel soldiers swarmed up like ants, scaling the ladders and pouring over the top of the wall.

The city was on the verge of falling.

The Pucheng magistrate had been struck by multiple arrows. At his back was a city full of despairing people — fathers calling for their mothers, mothers clutching their children — darting about like headless flies, desperately trying to find somewhere to hide in these final moments before the city fell.

Terrified wailing sounded from every direction.

The end had arrived, and there was nowhere left to retreat. The magistrate, his heart full of resolute grief, led the last several hundred soldiers still standing on the wall in a fight against the rebel troops pouring down from the siege ladders — making a final, futile stand.

Suddenly, from somewhere deep in the distant fields, what seemed to be a wave of battle cries reached them.

At first he thought he had heard wrong. But quickly, along with those battle cries, something appeared on the horizon — a vast, dark shape.

It was a great cavalry force — the kind that only the frontier could forge.

Ten thousand horses thundered forward, like a black tide rising from the earth, surging in from all directions toward the city at fearsome speed.

Beneath a clear sky, a massive black banner — the sight of which had been known to drain the color from enemies’ faces — snapped and billowed fiercely in the great wind.

The rebel forces below the wall had also noticed something was wrong. Their commanders immediately ordered the assault on the city to halt, and the soldiers formed up to face what was coming.

The magistrate and the few hundred soldiers still at his side cut down the rebel troops on the battlements who had not yet managed to retreat, then — as though in a dream — rushed to the top of the city wall and stared at the banner advancing with the cavalry, growing clearer and clearer with every moment.

At last, they recognized it.

The Pucheng magistrate stood frozen for a moment. Then, all at once, he let out a cry — filled with a disbelieving, overwhelming joy — with every last ounce of breath in his body: “Heaven has not forsaken us!”

“The Hexi Military Governor Xie Changgeng has come!”

That shout, wrung from his last reserves of strength, burst from him as tears poured down his face. With a heavy thud, he pitched forward and collapsed on the city wall.

Out on the open ground before Pucheng, the Hexi army, newly arrived from its long journey, clashed with the rebel forces.

Arrows filled the air; fire and stones rained down like storms. Fresh blood flowed in layers over old, soaking red through the walls already scorched black by fire.

The rebel army had known that the Empress Dowager intended to abandon Pucheng and hold Longguan with everything available. Even if Xie Changgeng was summoned to suppress the rebellion, the most likely meeting point would be at Longguan.

They had not expected him to personally ride to the relief of this place.

Though they held the advantage in numbers, faced with this formidable, battle-hardened cavalry from the frontier — whose fighting strength was nothing short of astonishing — the rebel forces began to show signs of flagging.

Half a day of fierce fighting left several of their generals dead. With the rebel army’s morale crumbling, they used the cover of nightfall to beat a disorderly, panicked retreat.

The siege that had lasted half a month was finally lifted. The great gates of Pucheng swung wide open, and torches burned throughout the area nearby, lighting it as bright as day.

Word had already spread through the city that Hexi Military Governor Xie Changgeng had personally led troops here to drive back the rebel army. The entire city, snatched from certain death, was overcome with gratitude and weeping. Thousands of people poured to the city gate, pressing in along both sides of the street, eager to see with their own eyes the face of the youngest Military Governor in the dynasty’s history.

The Pucheng magistrate had already regained consciousness. He led the city’s officials to the gate as well, personally waiting there to welcome Xie Changgeng into the city.

Supported by others, he waited in place. At last, he heard the sound of swift hoofbeats emerging from the darkness at the far end of the night, approaching the gate — closer and closer.

The Pucheng magistrate craned his neck, peering ahead.

Soon, accompanied by a measured and heavy rhythm of footsteps, two columns of imposing armored soldiers came into view, and between them, striding forward, a man.

The man’s armor was still on, drenched in blood and filth. The blazing torchlight on all sides illuminated his face.

His features were striking, but his eyes blazed a deep, blood-tinged red — and the terrible killing aura that clung to his entire being had not yet fully receded.

The people packed at the city gate knew this man was Hexi Military Governor Xie Changgeng.

The clamor around them fell utterly silent at his appearance.

Everyone held their breath. With gazes that held near-reverence and fear, they watched this blood-soaked man, and as he passed before them, they sank involuntarily to their knees and pressed their heads to the ground in deep obeisance.

Yet the man seemed not to notice. His steps slowed briefly as his gaze swept the crowd ahead and quickly settled on the Pucheng magistrate, singling him out from among the countless faces.

This man — who had always been steadfast and enduring — could not hold back what surged in him now. His eyes reddened as he said: “Military Governor, you descended like a divine army and saved the entire city from disaster. This grace is one I will carry to my grave. Please, accept my deepest bow!”

He led the officials at his back and the surviving several hundred soldiers in dropping to their knees, and kowtowed in solemn deference.

Xie Changgeng gave a nod and told him to rise. His gaze swept once more across the many faces nearby, and he asked evenly: “Where did you house the Princess of Changsha and her party?”

The Pucheng magistrate was helped to his feet by those beside him, then answered respectfully: “My lord, there is something you should know. The Princess is no longer in the city.”

Xie Changgeng paused. His brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Where has she gone?”

The magistrate heard the slight sharpening of his tone and quickly explained: “More than half a month ago, the Princess’s party was passing through the area and, caught in the chaos of the rebel army, did indeed enter the city for refuge. But shortly after, someone arrived from Changsha to meet her, and the Princess left with the party from Changsha by water — taking the Pu River, then turning south along the waterways. She should be safe.”

Xie Changgeng went still.

“Was the one who came to meet her a man surnamed Yuan?”

A moment later, he asked slowly.

“That is right. The Princess called him ‘Elder Brother,’ and when they departed, the Princess asked Guard Liang and the others to return on their own — there was no need to escort them further. But Guard Liang said that before setting out, he had received your orders to escort the Princess all the way to the Changsha domain, so they continued on together.”

Xie Changgeng was silent for a long stretch.

“I have prepared a place for you to rest, my lord — please come into the city.”

Seeing that his complexion appeared somewhat pale, the magistrate hastily urged.

Xie Changgeng closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. “There is no need. The army will be stationed outside the city for now — supply the provisions.”

He turned after speaking, and amid the swelling chorus of voices behind him calling out “respectful farewell to the Military Governor,” he strode out through the city gate.

The army had already made camp in the open fields outside Pucheng. Viewed from a distance, scattered campfires dotted the dark.

Xie Changgeng returned to the main tent of the camp. The moment he stepped inside, his stride slowed.

He removed his armor piece by piece. Looking down, he saw that the wound on his side — where an arrowhead had been snapped off, leaving the tip embedded in his flesh — had already soaked through with a large dark-red bloodstain, saturating the close-fitted garment beneath.

The military physician arrived in haste, pulled out the hooked arrowhead that had driven deep into his flesh, then heated a blade in the fire and pressed it to the wound to cauterize and stop the bleeding.

Once the wound had been tended to, Xie Changgeng wiped the cold sweat from his brow, steadied himself, and then summoned a close attendant. He gave his orders: “Go south along the Pu River — pursue Liang Tuan at once. Call him back. Tell him he no longer needs to escort them.”

His close attendants, whenever they went out, always left hidden trail markers along the way — marks that only those of their own group could follow and read.

The attendant glanced at the wound at his side, said “take care, my lord,” and left the tent. His figure disappeared into the dark of the night.