In the twilight of the evening, the minor official at Chang’an’s city gate was half-asleep in the fading glow of the setting sun. Cooking smoke billowed up behind him — it was the hour for making dinner, and from the thousands of households came the sounds of splashing water, crackling fires, and the bubbling of boiling pots, mixed with the lazy calls of street vendors and the neighing of horses as carts hurried past.

A perfectly ordinary evening.

The minor official hugged his long spear, recalling through half-wakefulness his days in the military of old — and it was precisely this momentary sharpness that made him catch the scent of scorching carried on the empty air.

He opened his eyes. Outside Chang’an’s north gate, a sky full of billowing dust and smoke rose up.

He recognized that kind of dust and smoke — it was the sand and soil thrown up by a great army on the march!

Then a feathered arrow bound with a cotton cloth soaked in flaming oil shot straight out from the dust and smoke, its force capable of a thousand catties, and suddenly shattered the majestic Black Tortoise statue atop the north gate to pieces.

Though it was made of stone, after being doused in flaming oil, the headless statue caught fire at a terrifying speed.

Flames leapt to the sky.

The scene was truly appalling. The minor official stood stunned for a moment, then with all his strength he waved his long spear and screamed with a voice that seemed to tear at heart and lungs toward the fire-watch tower in the distance:

‘Enemy — attack —’

‘Enemy — attack —’

The people on the street looked up and saw billowing black smoke rising from the north gate, and had not yet grasped what was happening when they heard the heavy, resounding boom of the city gates closing from every direction.

This place had been at peace for too long. The idle sons of wealthy families who had tilted their heads up and stared blankly at the city gates were still holding half-eaten pastries in their hands.

The divine instrument of imperial authority had been set ablaze in this tranquil evening, and nothing felt real.

The minor official crouched behind the city wall, trembling uncontrollably, watching the infantry and cavalry from the north gradually take shape from the dust and smoke, the sound of war horns drawing near with its threatening pressure, unable to discern how many troops there were.

Chang’an’s soldiers were fine and horses were strong, but they had enjoyed too many years of peace. If he counted on his fingers, it had been more than ten years since anyone had actually gone into battle. Since Western Shao had been driven back by General Zhuo Zhou of the Ye family, and then the Ye family and the Yan family had taken turns garrisoning Youzhou, the northern tribes’ forces had never penetrated as far south as Chang’an’s walls.

The attack was sudden. The city’s garrison at present was no more than thirty thousand, half of whom had returned to farm and sericulture, and needed time to be assembled. The other half had gathered hastily, and it was unclear whether they had any fighting capacity. Beyond the city walls was the northern army’s surprise strike force; at sunset, one might call it an ambush. If they pressed in and attacked the city, the consequences would be simply too dreadful to contemplate.

The minor official felt his hands holding the spear trembling ceaselessly.

A military officer rushed up to the city gate to survey the scene from afar, and gave frantic overlapping commands. The drums sounded heavily, and the people on the street quickly scattered like birds and beasts.

Smoke bombs exploded in the air — a desperate call for relief from the surrounding prefectures.

The northern army burned, killed, and pillaged everywhere it went. Chang’an was so wealthy and prosperous, and if the city gates were opened — the thought was simply too dreadful to imagine.

Tonight would surely be a battle to the death!

Soldiers gathered behind the city gates, but from outside the gates came a hearty burst of laughter, accompanied by a string of foreign-sounding speech. A foreign general with an elaborate braid of small plaits rode his horse and swaggered in a circle around the moat outside Chang’an, then turned his horse around, said something no one understood, and set off laughter throughout the army.

One man among the northern army rode his horse forward and shouted up at those above the city gates: ‘Now that the great chieftain Wumang of our Ezhen tribe has personally led an expedition, you must immediately lower the city gates and surrender your weapons. Those who surrender shall be spared, but if you refuse, our army’s iron hooves will level this city — kill all, leave no survivors!’

The army immediately gave a uniform shout in response — but no one knew what they were shouting. The military officer on the city wall had legs shaking as if passing through a sieve, but he mustered all his restraint, steadied himself against the stone wall beside him, and cursed: ‘You barbarian wretches — how dare you act with such insolence! Now our city holds tens of thousands of armed soldiers — all who come will die beneath a ten-thousand-arrow barrage. You had better bind yourselves and surrender at once!’

Wumang looked up and examined him with interest.

He suddenly burst into loud laughter, then reached for the distinctive great bow at his waist — a bow unlike any in the Central Plains.

His arrows were all noticeably thicker than ordinary arrows. The one that had struck the stone statue apart just before must have been from this bow.

The soldiers on the city wall saw him draw his bow, and though fearful, they nocked arrows and raised shields one by one, preparing themselves for battle.

Yet just as Wumang’s arrow was about to leave the string, another light, nimble feathered arrow shot out at an angle, splitting that arrow cleanly in two.

The severed arrow lost momentum and dropped from midair into the moat.

The arrow that had split it was slender and delicate — who would have imagined it possessed such divine power?

The minor official heard the sound of another force of cavalry galloping. He ran in disbelief to the eastern side of the city gate and could see in the distance a Great Yin military banner fluttering in the wind.

The garrison troops on the city wall and the infantry below all turned their heads. In the last glow of the sun like flowing blood, the military banner snapped in the wind, its two words vivid and striking, as if galloping here from a dream.

The minor official murmured: ‘Chengming…’

The military officer was also shocked beyond belief: ‘This — this is the royal army! Crown Prince Chengming’s royal army!’

In an instant, everyone almost forgot to discern truth from falsehood, and could only shout wildly everywhere with joy: ‘Relief has come! It is — His Highness’s army!’

Wumang glanced at the severed arrow in the moat, then spurred his horse closer by a few steps. The source of the great army faced the setting sun, and dazzling light radiated from the flower-pattern armor of the person at its head.

And that person had not even donned a helmet.

He walked over in this unhurried, careless manner — without a bow now, flipping down from his horse, alone and fearless, striding toward him. He laughed out loud: ‘Great Chieftain Wumang, it has been a long time.’

Wumang studied him carefully, and only after a long moment did he slowly call out his name.

‘— Song Lingye.’

Before he had become Ezhen’s great chieftain, he had once seen that Crown Prince Chengming who was famous throughout the world while serving in the military. Later the Great Yin dynasty fell into internal turmoil, and the Crown Prince died an untimely death. He had thought it meant the removal of a great rival, but unexpectedly, several years apart, he encountered those eyes again at the border.

Those eyes were in a face utterly unfamiliar to him. At the time, Wumang had been dressed as a merchant, mingling in a tavern in a border city, holding a tea bowl and listening to a spy’s report, when he raised his eyes and saw those eyes.

It was rare to find a literary scholar in pink attire at the border. That man’s face was all smiles, but Wumang was certain he had seen a familiar, fleeting cold light in those eyes.

Later, a group of merchant travelers came to the tavern, and by the time Wumang came back to his senses, that man had vanished.

A flash of suspicion had come and gone. He had not memorized the man’s face, could not describe that look, and the spies he sent out did not know what sort of person he was looking for. Gradually, even Wumang himself forgot the matter.

But today that person had appeared flying in like heavenly soldiers under a military banner, and with one glance Wumang was certain of his identity.

He had truly not died.

Song Ling whistled at him: ‘Great Chieftain has good eyes. Would you care to dismount and play a game of chess with me? I have heard that the Great Chieftain is proficient in the Central Plains’ poetry, books, rites, music, and the arts — particularly excellent at chess. I have come especially to receive your instruction.’

Years apart, even that overly taut, youthful quality he had once had was now completely worn away, replaced by an ease and composure that made it impossible to read his cards.

Wumang heaved a long sigh and dismounted.

*

‘Ezhen’s great army… the Yinshan Mountains… past Chang’an, taking Biandu… the Crown Prince Chengming’s military banner…’

A clatter and crash echoed from within the inner hall, and the court officials exchanged glances with one another, with no one daring to push open the inner hall’s doors.

The news arriving at Biandu together with the military report was truly shocking. Now, hearing the little Emperor’s furious questioning within the inner hall, everyone felt even more clearly that the Emperor’s relationship with his elder brother was not what the world had been told. Who would dare step forward and court disaster?

Song Lan swept all the memorials stacked on the desk to the ground with one stroke, and for a moment felt as if his head might split open with pain.

Ever since Luowei had made a feint at Guyou Mountain and escaped, his headaches had been growing more and more frequent. After their parting at the Bianhe River, they had nearly driven him mad.

Ye Tingyan’s betrayal had left him with an uncountable number of messes to clean up. Back then Ye Tingyan had used a sword tassel to cripple the Jintian Guard, and now he repeated the same old trick. Biandu’s three guard camps had two hundred thousand Imperial Guard troops, with countless large and small officers — he had spent three years carefully selecting a thousand men he could consider trusted confidants, yet after this incident, he dared not trust a single one of them.

Building the Vermilion Bird guard had originally been for keeping a reserve, but these days he kept having nightmares where Vermilion Bird guards held knives and entered the hall to assassinate him. Half-asleep and half-awake, he had even killed a man by mistake, and from then on was even more silence-filled with fear.

Ye Tingyan and Su Luowei had seen through him completely.

Had seen through the fact that even if he clearly understood this was their heartbreaking stratagem, he could not overcome his own increasingly rampant suspicion and doubt.

The bodyguard knelt before the desk trembling, beside him the fallen Buddha statue that Song Lan had just smashed to the floor.

‘Tell me… once more.’

The bodyguard pressed his forehead to the cold gold-paved floor, restraining the trembling in his voice with great effort, and repeated: ‘This — this servant is delivering the military reports from Youzhou and Chang’an. General Li and Grand Advisor Chang’s forces are marching under forced night march, but have encountered diverted rivers, mountain collapses, and other such events, and have had to change their march route multiple times. It is feared they will be unable to arrive as scheduled…’

He swallowed a mouthful of saliva and continued: ‘The coalition forces at Youzhou are locked in fierce battle. Ezhen tribe’s great chieftain Wumang personally led a hundred and twenty thousand troops, forced a crossing of the Yinshan Mountains, and fought all the way to Chang’an’s city walls. At the critical moment of danger, someone… someone raised Crown Prince Chengming’s military banner and faced off against the northern army before Chang’an’s city gates. It is said that… that the person claiming to be Crown Prince Chengming played a game of chess hand-to-hand with Wumang. During this time, two women commanded troops and burned Wumang’s rear supply of grain and provisions. After the game concluded, Wumang withdrew his troops from before Chang’an’s gates, rounded the mountain road, and changed course to advance directly toward Biandu!’

Silence reigned for a long while. Then the bodyguard heard the Emperor give a strange laugh, which grew louder and louder: ‘Ha ha ha ha… he is heading straight for us! Crown Prince Chengming has been dead so many years — who is it! Who has such audacity, daring to impersonate his royal army?’

Then, losing all presence of mind, he muttered: ‘He is not dead. There are women who burned the grain supplies… women… he truly is not dead, how could he not be dead! How could he not be dead! They held Chang’an, and now they only need to look down from on high, let Wumang advance to Biandu, let the Imperial Guard and his army fight to the death, and afterward they sit and reap the rewards of the fisherman — what a masterstroke, ha ha ha…’

Song Lan struck the table and screamed: ‘Guards!’

Yan Ji at one side immediately clasped his fists and fell to his knees, terrified: ‘Your Majesty!’

‘Send an urgent dispatch to General Li and Chang Zhao — have him return to Biandu!’ Song Lan composed himself with great effort, and furrowing his brows said: ‘Youzhou is nothing but a feint — they will likely not fight to the death there either. Wumang means to strike east while making noise in the west, and go straight for Biandu. My Biandu has tall walls and deep defenses, the Imperial Guard and the main camp working in mutual support — I refuse to believe that even if they stand aside and watch, we cannot hold Biandu!’

*

Near the border region, the night was deep and black. Chang Zhao sat in his military tent polishing the blade in his hand, and in the gleaming surface of the sword saw his own unfamiliar eyes reflected back.

He gave a cold scoff, and set aside the letter that had come from Biandu — stuck with a white feather — on the brazier at the side and burned it. Tongues of fire licked upward, and in an instant reduced the urgent letter written personally by Song Lan to ash.

His personal guard happened to enter the tent just as he watched him burn the Son of Heaven’s letter, yet did not speak. Chang Zhao glanced at him, and suddenly asked: ‘Number Sixteen, how many years is it since you have been on a battlefield?’

The personal guard called ‘Number Sixteen’ counted on his fingers but could not come to a clear sum: ‘It must be… about ten years.’

‘Ten years…’ Chang Zhao repeated absently, and pointed to the military defense map before him: ‘I ask you — if you were him, would you remain to garrison Chang’an, or return to defend Biandu?’

Number Sixteen observed carefully for a while and answered honestly: ‘I would certainly remain to garrison Chang’an. Defending a city gives one a fighting chance, while returning to the front would mean being someone else’s meat on the chopping block. You have asked this question countless times already, Commander. Whoever it were, this is how they would choose.’

Chang Zhao smiled. He rolled up the military report and suddenly said: ‘I do not believe he did not die.’

Number Sixteen did not understand what he meant. Chang Zhao did not explain, but only sighed: ‘We shall see.’