Xiahou Zuo had brought twelve hundred elite frontier soldiers. After the sustained, brutal fighting, fewer than four hundred remained capable of battle, around two hundred were wounded, and six hundred would never return to where they had come from.

The day before, in truth, the Black Wu forces had very nearly broken through. After Xiahou Zuo’s men held them back by the skin of their teeth, he turned and looked at the observers — the men from the Left Martial Guard who had been watching without lifting a hand.

They had simply been tracking the battle’s progress, waiting for the moment when the volunteers were spent. At that point they would report back, and the Left Martial Guard would move in at once.

It was at that exact moment that Xiahou Zuo had thought about giving up.

Was a Dachu like this — an imperial family like this — worth bleeding his men dry to defend?

So after withstanding that wave of Black Wu attacks, Xiahou Zuo gave the order to pull back. Everyone off the wall. In that instant, the cold observers panicked and immediately sent riders to report.

Xiahou Zuo was roaring commands, one after another, ordering his men to withdraw from the fight. His soldiers looked back at him — then quietly readied their weapons and equipment for the next assault.

“This is my military order. Why are you not moving?”

He roared at them.

His deputy, An Song, wiped blood from his face and looked back at Xiahou Zuo with an expression that was exhausted and proud at once: “We’re all soldiers you made. Who’s to blame?”

Xiahou Zuo went still.

An Song worked his badly notched blade back and forth against the stone of the wall, grinding the edge as he spoke: “General — too many people have already died to hold this city. Not just those volunteer brothers. Our six hundred brothers too.”

He looked back at Xiahou Zuo again. “They died. We have no right to leave.”

An Song raised his hand and slapped his chest, hard, twice. “This. This won’t let me leave.”

A soldier handed Xiahou Zuo a flask of water and walked wordlessly to the wall’s edge, picked up his bow, and looked out toward the enemy — but the quiver at his hip was empty. Not a single arrow left.

“General — if we left now, why did we come at all?”

Xiahou Zuo stood and looked at them. The hand holding his sword was shaking. These were his soldiers. Who was to blame?

—

The next day, when Yu Jiuling arrived, so did the relief force.

Xiahou Zuo sat on the ground with his back against the wall, eating his ration one bite at a time. Tears ran silently down his face, cutting through the grime and dried blood.

“General!”

A soldier came running. “Prince Wu wishes to see you.”

Xiahou Zuo looked at the soldier once. Said nothing. Lowered his head and kept eating.

The soldier stood there, lost as to what to do.

Fortunately it wasn’t long before Prince Wu Yang Jiju came himself, resplendent in golden armor, attended by a fierce, well-armed escort, banners snapping in the wind, radiating the full authority of imperial lineage.

“Zhuo,” said Prince Wu.

He looked down at Xiahou Zuo. He was not particularly fond of this nephew, but he had to acknowledge the boy was his nephew.

Xiahou Zuo looked up at Prince Wu once. Said nothing.

Prince Wu was not angry. He understood perfectly well why Xiahou Zuo was like this, but he considered it childish. Very childish.

“Take your men somewhere to rest and recover.”

Prince Wu’s voice was measured. “I will take command here. Your soldiers protected Dachu’s frontier and held off the foreign enemy. I will personally petition the Emperor on your behalf, and as the officer charged with overseeing military affairs in the northern territories, I hereby formally elevate your rank to Full Fourth Grade General.”

He waited for some response from Xiahou Zuo. None came.

“Rest now.”

Prince Wu gestured, and his personal guard brought forward a chest and opened it before Xiahou Zuo. Inside was a set of Full Fourth Grade general’s armor of exceptional craftsmanship, alongside a long sword set with precious stones.

“Your father said you were perceptive,” Prince Wu said. “That you would understand my position. The court cannot afford for the story to be that rebels defended this pass. Nor can it allow the people of the realm to know that story. If everyone knew — would they still be rebels?”

He looked back at Xiahou Zuo: “Rebels must remain rebels.”

Xiahou Zuo looked up at Prince Wu. In that moment he wanted to smash the armor before him to pieces. But he didn’t. He suddenly laughed — reached out and ran his hand over the Full Fourth Grade general’s armor — and said: “My gratitude, Your Highness.”

He didn’t smash it. Didn’t argue. Didn’t rage. Didn’t curse.

Because in that instant he understood: only by wearing this Full Fourth Grade general’s armor could he protect more people. If he smashed it and raged and fought, his men would suffer the consequences.

He was Prince Yu’s son. Prince Wu, however angry, would not kill him. But he would deal with his soldiers.

Prince Wu saw Xiahou Zuo’s expression and nodded. “Good. I’m glad you understand.”

He stepped forward and mounted the city wall.

In truth, several days before this, Prince Wu had already sent an urgent memorial to the capital. Its content was approximately as follows: the Black Wu forces, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, had besieged Daizhou Pass in relentless waves; all stationed defenders had perished; General Xiahou Zuo had arrived with twelve hundred men and, with this single company, held back the overwhelming Black Wu forces for over ten days.

Once this memorial reached the court, the Emperor could not fail to respond. So the rewards due to Xiahou Zuo for this battle would be far more than a Full Fourth Grade commission — that was within Prince Wu’s gift to bestow on the spot. The Emperor had his own gifts to offer.

The Emperor would also move to proclaim this throughout the realm — that realm he could no longer actually proclaim to — letting all people know how Dachu’s frontier soldiers had repelled the foreign invader, how Dachu’s general had displayed his greatness.

Even with rebel armies rampant in every corner of Dachu, dozens of large forces already known by name, ordinary people would still honor a genuine hero. Xiahou Zuo was exactly the kind of hero the court needed.

So the court’s recognition of Xiahou Zuo would not be stingy. It might well be unprecedented.

And more than that — this unprecedented recognition would go to no outsider. Xiahou Zuo carried his mother’s surname, but he was of the Yang family. Prince Wu would make certain that fact was written in his memorial more clearly than the battle record itself. More clearly than anything.

This hero, this general — he had to be surnamed Yang.

And that was precisely where Xiahou Zuo’s torment lay. He was standing on the bodies of the rebel brothers and the volunteer brothers, occupying their deeds and perhaps even their names, to receive recognition from the court.

Before mounting the wall, Prince Wu had said: *Good. I’m glad you understand.*

Xiahou Zuo said to himself, under his breath: “Understand. How could I not understand. Who told me to be surnamed Yang.”

Xiahou Zuo rose and walked to Liu Wenju’s convoy. Liu Wenju took one look at him and didn’t dare breathe too loud. He threw himself to the ground immediately: “Commoner Liu Wenju, paying respects to General Xiahou.”

Xiahou Zuo ignored him. He opened one of the chests and looked inside. Silver, packed full. Block after block, reflecting a pale light in the sun.

Xiahou Zuo laid his hand on the chest and rapped it twice, then turned and said: “Count out the silver. Distribute it per head.”

The soldiers answered, but none of them showed any hunger for the silver. If the general hadn’t given the order, they would rather have gone and rested. What use was touching money?

“No need to count,” said Liu Wenju ingratiatingly. “General, there are a full two taels — twenty thousand taels in total. The count cannot be wrong.”

Xiahou Zuo finally looked at him. He nodded.

The silver was distributed quickly, because there were not many left alive. Fewer than six hundred — but the silver was not divided into six hundred shares. It was divided into five thousand six hundred and thirty-six shares. Each share came to roughly three and a half taels.

Five thousand six hundred and thirty-six: the number of names carved into the walls of Daizhou Pass. Six hundred of those people were still alive.

One soldier looked at the silver in his hand. He stood there quietly for a moment. Then he walked over and placed it back into the chest.

He shook his head. “I don’t want it. Use it to raise a monument for the dead. Their names should be on a stone.”

Every soldier came forward. They placed the silver back, every last tael.

Prince Wu stood on the city wall and watched. His expression was not pleasant.

After a long silence, Prince Wu gave an instruction: “Go and tell General Xiahou — a grove of monuments may be erected outside Daizhou Pass. But they may carry only names, not affiliations. If they are to be recorded at all, they will all be recorded as soldiers of Dachu’s frontier army.”

His people went to relay the order. Xiahou Zuo agreed — because he knew that this was his last, and only, concession.

If he refused, those who had died here would not even have their names preserved.

Liu Wenju had been waiting all along for Xiahou Zuo to address him, had been looking for his moment to speak. An opportunity like this, if not seized, would not be in keeping with Liu Wenju’s nature.

“You’re the man my brother Li Chi sent?” Xiahou Zuo asked.

Liu Wenju answered quickly: “Yes, yes — Li Gongzi arranged for me to come.”

After a brief pause, Xiahou Zuo said: “I know what you want. Then let me be direct about it. Write a letter home in your own hand, telling your people to send another fifty thousand taels of silver as quickly as possible. When the silver arrives, I will give you everything you are seeking. You can see for yourself — I need to build a monument grove, but the funds are not sufficient. You raise the silver, I will report to the court, and the Emperor will know your name.”

He gave Liu Wenju a pat on the shoulder. “You want power. I can give it.”

Liu Wenju’s expression shifted. Fifty thousand taels — that was a staggering amount. It pained him.

But he also understood that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Let it slip, and it would never come back.

Compared to power, what was money?

As long as he could serve under Prince Yu, once he rose to high office, the money would flow back in endless streams.

So after only a slight hesitation, Liu Wenju agreed at once.

“When I return, I will prepare it immediately—”

Xiahou Zuo’s brow furrowed before he had finished speaking.

“Did you not hear what I just said?” said Xiahou Zuo. “I told you to stay here and wait. You write the letter, and when the silver arrives, you go. Was that not clear enough?”

“Clear, clear, completely clear — I apologize, General, I was wrong.”

Liu Wenju immediately had someone produce paper and brush, wrote a letter, and handed it to a trusted attendant with instructions to return home without delay and bring the silver to Daizhou Pass as fast as possible.

The attendant dared not linger. He took a few men and set off out of the pass at once.

Once they were through the gate and gone, Xiahou Zuo turned to Liu Wenju and said: “Since you’ve come all this way, you may as well make yourselves useful — that way I can file a commendation for you. Go to the supply depot of Prince Wu’s army over there and bring back some sheaves of arrows. Carry them up to the wall. That counts as assisting in the defense.”

“Of course, of course, right away.”

Liu Wenju was delighted. He led his hundred-odd men over to Prince Wu’s army’s supply depot. Once there, they stood around in confusion, unsure where to go.

The group waited for Xiahou Zuo’s direction. Xiahou Zuo had already crossed to a cart nearby and yanked off the canvas — bundles upon bundles of arrows. He beckoned. Liu Wenju immediately led his men over, two bundles per person, and they started carrying them toward the city wall.

They had barely walked any distance when, from behind them, Xiahou Zuo’s voice cracked out in a sudden roar.

“What bandits are these, seizing military arms and supplies?!”

Liu Wenju spun around in fright. A sheet of arrows was coming at him from every direction.

Xiahou Zuo’s soldiers were releasing arrows one by one. The Left Martial Guard men, hearing Xiahou Zuo’s shout, began shooting as well, not entirely certain what was happening. The arrows came thick as a screen. Within moments, the hundred-odd men had been shot to the ground where they stood, every body bristling like a hedgehog.

Xiahou Zuo walked over to Liu Wenju. He looked down at this man still clinging to a last breath, and said in a flat voice: “Being a villain — I can do that too. And I do it legally.”

Liu Wenju looked up at Xiahou Zuo. He tried to lift his hand. He couldn’t manage it.

That last breath — he let it go.

—