Sometimes, time flows backward in dreams. In them, he sees so many people — all of them vividly, achingly alive.
When he wakes, he sits for a while in a daze, forgetting where he is.
The dislocated memories still linger in his mind. It takes a while before the cold reality turns to an empty echo in his head, before he can painfully come awake within that blank, hollow space.
Something once whole — life, spirit, even a portion of the soul itself — had been permanently destroyed somewhere in the past.
And compared to what so many others had lost forever, the losses the survivors carried now hardly seemed to count for anything.
Late in the second month of the first year of Jin’s Tianjuan era, in Yunzhong.
Tang Minjie woke from his dream, sitting up in bed.
In the dream just past, Wu Qiuhe had appeared.
That woman had once been Chen Wenjun’s maidservant, and before that, the niece of the prefect of Kaifeng. She’d had more knowledge and cunning than most women, and after entering Chen Wenjun’s service, had schemed her way through a good deal — years earlier, she’d even saved his life once.
Still, when it came to the transmission and support of intelligence, Wu Qiuhe had generally leaned toward the Wu Dynasty’s regime, never having much fondness for the Huaxia Army.
Both sides shared the same broader goal while serving different masters, and during that period there had been several rounds of contention and friction between them. Wu Qiuhe was strong-willed, and Tang Minjie was no pushover either — but since she’d once saved his life, he could never bring himself to press her too hard in argument. Several covert operations had gone back and forth between them, each side winning some and losing some; whenever Tang Minjie came out ahead, he’d allow himself a bit of gloating, delighting in her sour, tongue-tied reaction.
Privately, he’d even considered — her temperament wasn’t bad, and someday there might be an opportunity to win her over to the Huaxia Army’s side.
Their last clash had been over that fool named Shi Jin — high in martial skill but empty in the head, practically begging to die, which had made both sides cautious in their dealings with him. Since Han Furen’s side held the greater resources, Shi Jin had initially been rescued by Wu Qiuhe’s people.
But Wu Qiuhe had underestimated the thoroughness of the manhunt inside and outside the city at the time. The authorities eventually found Shi Jin; he escaped their grasp, but only then did Tang Minjie, waiting in ambush, manage to gain the upper hand.
He’d been quite pleased with himself at the time.
Planning to mock her over it afterward.
But then, once Shi Jin woke and began asking about Wu Qiuhe — even wondering aloud whether that woman had led the soldiers there herself — Tang Minjie realized something had gone terribly wrong. If Shi Jin harbored that suspicion, it meant Wu Qiuhe’s appearance and the soldiers’ arrival had come within moments of each other… Grief followed close behind.
“In a place like the Jin state, what won’t a Han person do just to scrape by a decent life? Brave sir, now that you’ve seen that wretched woman’s true colors, you should know there’s no room for sentiment here. That treacherous bitch, that dog — next time, kill her along with the rest!”
After brushing Shi Jin off with a few words, Tang Minjie went straight to gather what information he could, and it wasn’t long before he learned that Wu Qiuhe had been cut down by a single stroke of Xiyin’s sword. She’d been clever enough, at least, to falsely accuse Gao Qingyi to his face — and died on the spot, sparing herself further torment. But where her body had been dumped, no one could say for certain at the time. By the time he finally learned it had been thrown onto a mass burial ground, more than half a year had already passed — by the time he went looking, there was nothing left to find.
Over these years, he’d witnessed so many people die this way — some even more humbly, some even more painfully, in ways someone living in peaceful times could never imagine. Even now, thinking back, whole stretches of those memories felt like blank spaces.
Why had he dreamed of Wu Qiuhe?
He thought about it for a moment — probably because of that woman named Cheng Min he’d met recently in the capital. Something similarly strong-willed about her. Something similarly full of hatred…
After Wanyan Dan’s ascension at the end of the tenth month, Tang Minjie had remained in the capital for another month or so, trying to find some possible opening amid the constant flow of information. During that time, he’d met with Cheng Min often, gathering together whatever news she managed to pick up.
Most of the news following the new emperor’s ascension concerned the various rewards and honors being handed out. Zonggan, Zongpan, and Zonghan may have lost the throne, but the honors and favor granted them afterward would leave them, for the foreseeable future, as men beneath only the emperor himself in power. Even so, the undercurrents of the power struggle hadn’t disappeared entirely.
The Western Bureau — Zonghan and Xiyin — had, after all, lost in the southwest, and in this whole affair in the capital, their scheming had gone further than most would have dared. This was an inevitable consequence of the western army’s defeat: over the coming half year, certain powers would be surrendered, certain positions replaced, certain interests lost. To ensure this transfer of power went smoothly, Zongbi would lead troops toward Yunzhong, and once the winter snow and ice melted, would even stage a large-scale martial contest against the Mountain-Suppressing Guard, to gauge exactly how much real power Zonghan still retained.
Throughout the eleventh month, this initial jockeying for power kept the capital in an uproar. Zongpan and Zonggan had reached a temporary understanding on this front — both determined to strip away as much of Zonghan’s remaining power as possible. By now, most of the clan elders and nobles had left the scene; many spoke out of genuine conscience, not wanting to see the Jin state fall into internal chaos, but their support for Zonghan and Xiyin amounted to little more than words.
Even so, by this point the two old generals showed their fiercer side, boldly accepting Zongbi’s challenge and doing everything they could to build up the significance of this upcoming contest throughout the capital. If the Mountain-Suppressing Guard lost, Zonghan would simply have to relinquish his remaining power, with nothing further to discuss. But if the Guard still won, it would mean the Black Banner army of the southwest was even more terrifyingly capable than anyone had imagined — and the Eastern and Western Bureaus would then need to unite in full preparation to face this looming future threat.
In the end, in the Jin state, what settled everything — the method everyone most readily accepted — remained force of arms.
By mid-twelfth month, having gathered enough of this news, Tang Minjie packed up his things and, braving the heavy snows that had sealed off the mountain passes, made his way out of the capital, setting off on the return journey to Yunzhong. When Cheng Min learned of his plan, she was quite taken aback, but in the end only saw him off with a few pairs of socks and gloves.
Setting out in mid-twelfth month, stumbling through wind and snow along the road, he finally reached Yunzhong safely by the second month. As he’d expected, Zonghan and Xiyin hadn’t lingered long in the capital either — they’d set out just before the New Year, still traveling with a mounted retinue over a thousand strong, and returned to Yunzhong in late second month.
Along that long, snowbound road, Tang Minjie, his hands wrapped in thick deerskin gloves, found himself thinking now and then of Cheng Min, still back in the capital.
Just as with Lu Mingfang before her, he’d raised the idea of her going south with him, but Cheng Min had simply refused, and even the silver-tongued Tang Minjie found himself unable to come up with any further argument to change her mind.
During his two or three months in the capital — amid all those meetings, the passing of intelligence, the weighing of information — Tang Minjie had gone several times to observe the brothel where Cheng Min sold herself for information. The first few visits had been simply to make contact and confirm she was there. The last time, the only exception, came a few days before he left — at dusk, he’d stood at the end of the street and looked, from a distance, at the lights of that brothel: warm yellow and crimson lanterns, heavy curtains, sturdy buildings — everything about it looking comfortable, secure, the sort of place designed to make its guests want to come in and rest.
He couldn’t bring himself to walk even one step closer down that street.
It was, to him as a Han man, an immense humiliation. He could have carved out his own heart with his own hands sooner than wish for her to spend even one more day in a place like that.
…
And yet he couldn’t persuade her.
After waking, he washed up, dressed properly, and went out for breakfast on the street before heading to the arranged meeting point to see two companions.
The meeting was set for the twenty-seventh of the second month. Besides Tang Minjie, two subordinates who reported directly to him arrived — Sun Wang and Yang Sheng’an, both members of the Huaxia Army who had come from the southwest and never left, skilled in planning and covert operations.
Holding a multi-person meeting like this in enemy territory was, in principle, something requiring extreme caution — but the meeting had been called by Tang Minjie himself. Having obtained firsthand intelligence in the capital, he needed to pool their collective judgment, and so he’d gone ahead and roused the personnel below him from dormancy.
“…In theory, over the next six months, the transfer of power between the Eastern and Western Bureaus is bound to generate a great deal of friction. If we play this well, we’re not without a chance to give them real trouble. But exactly where that opportunity lies needs discussion.”
Having spent half a year in the capital, Tang Minjie’s grasp of matters in Yunzhong had some gaps. But Sun and Yang, though they’d followed orders to go dormant, naturally had their own sources of information as well. The three of them first exchanged intelligence, then began their discussion.
Sun Wang said, “After Wanyan Dan took the throne, there’s been some speculation here in Yunzhong about what Zonghan and Xiyin did in the capital. I heard word that Shi Li’ai, who died last autumn, wrote a number of letters before his death instructing his family to follow Zonghan and Xiyin north and help persuade others to fall in line with their plans. Shi Li’ai held a top position among the Han officials, and he originally followed Wanyan Zongwang — though these days people outside call him a man of Zongfu’s and Zongbi’s…”
“…If this is true, that old dog betrayed Zongfu and Zongbi right before he died. I hear Jin Wushu is stubborn and self-important — if he found out Shi Li’ai did something like this, he wouldn’t let the Shi family off easy.”
Yang Sheng’an frowned. “But Shi Li’ai’s already dead. Even if this comes out, it probably won’t do much real damage to the Jin state’s overall balance of power.”
Tang Minjie said, “Worth noting down anyway — we can look for evidence later. However it turns out, as long as it sets them at each other’s throats, we’ll be glad of it.”
The three discussed a while longer, moving on to other matters.
“…Zonghan and Xiyin rushed back from the capital before the New Year without lingering, clearly to prepare for the coming contest with Zongbi once the ice melts. There’s no detailed rules for this contest yet, but I’d guess everyone’s about to fix their eyes on Yunzhong — wherever the Western Bureau shows weakness, that’s where they’ll get eaten away. If we can dig up more detailed intelligence, we could plan around it — stir up trouble from the start, maybe even carry out a few assassinations, to make sure the Western Bureau loses at some critical points.”
“…That’s plausible, but I think we need to be careful. Gathering intelligence this detailed would mean waking everyone up first — and honestly, even with everyone awake, our operational strength probably still isn’t enough… and now that Zonghan and Xiyin are back, we have to consider that Xiyin might already be on guard, setting traps specifically for us to walk into.”
“…In terms of feasibility, this is really our only opening right now… We all know the Western Bureau’s combat strength — the Mountain-Suppressing Guard lost in the southwest, sure, but against Zongfu and Zongbi’s men, I’d still put my money on the Western Bureau… Once Zonghan and Xiyin have stabilized the Western Bureau’s position, and going forward, as they’ve said themselves, give up the throne and focus entirely on defending against us — then when our forces eventually push north, a lot more of our people are going to die…”
“…Since last winter, even in dormancy without any operations, I’ve already lost four people on my end. If we wake everyone up and throw them all into this, we’d better be sure the odds are good enough to justify it…”
“…At the very least we can start by gathering intelligence — I think that risk is worth taking…”
“…”
The room buzzed with low discussion for a long while. As the morning wore toward its end, Tang Minjie suddenly spoke up.
“…I have another plan as well. Maybe it’s time. Let me lay it out, and we’ll put it to a vote together.”
Tang Minjie’s expression remained calm. Sun Wang and Yang Sheng’an both nodded, signaling him to go ahead. Over the past several years, many of Tang Minjie’s ideas, however risky they’d seemed at first, had always found a way to be carried out in the end. They trusted him accordingly.
Tang Minjie then slowly laid out his plan.
The other two listened, their expressions growing complicated. After a while, Yang Sheng’an was the first to shake his head. “This won’t do…” Sun Wang agreed with Yang Sheng’an’s assessment, and the two of them went back and forth, raising numerous objections.
By now it was nearly midnight. Tang Minjie nodded.
“Very well,” he said. “Yang Sheng’an, you’ll take the meeting minutes. This plan was discussed in detail, and after that discussion, we — the Huaxia Army — have voted it down.”
Yang Sheng’an paused. “The record… is that necessary?”
Tang Minjie nodded.
“…Write it down. Let posterity have a record to judge by.”
Yang Sheng’an made a simple note of it.
The wind blew past the window of this secret meeting place, and the city outside lay dim and quiet. White snow blanketed the world; many years later, people would come to know some of this world’s secrets, and would forget others besides… those were truths beyond the reach of any record. Truth and falsehood remain forever intertwined.
At noon that same day, the twenty-seventh of the second month, Wanyan Dezhong and Wanyan Youyi were attending a gathering.
They had followed their fathers north, witnessed a magnificent power struggle unfold, and then braved the driving snow south again, having only returned to Yunzhong a few days earlier. This journey had tempered their character and left them with a deeper sense of purpose, their hearts filled with fervor.
Regarding Zonghan, Xiyin, and the rest’s masterful maneuvering in the capital, the people of Yunzhong felt it all the more keenly. In these past few days, people had come to regard the whole operation as nothing short of magnificent, and in the days since their return, the city’s nobility had thrown feast after feast, waiting to welcome all these heroes and hear them retell everything that had happened, breathtaking detail by breathtaking detail, in the capital.
Wanyan Dezhong and Wanyan Youyi took great delight in such gatherings — many of the guests were old companions of theirs, impossible to turn down, and there was no reason to refuse spreading word of the Marshal and the others’ great achievements anyway. So for several days running, they’d been kept quite busy.
Drinking themselves thoroughly tipsy.
Returning home, they found their mother, who had seemed somewhat melancholy these past days. Well brought up as they were, they’d always known better than to speak too openly of Jurchen loyalties in front of her — but this time, after returning from the capital, flush with excitement on one hand and gripped by deep anxiety on the other, fearing the day the Black Banner might come to tear down everything the Jin state stood for, the two of them had taken, these past two days, to occasionally urging their mother to try to see things more clearly.
“Mother, the Marshal really is doing this for the sake of the Jurchen people…”
“We are Jurchen, after all. We may not usually concern ourselves with such matters, but we shouldn’t keep avoiding it any longer, Mother — there’s no room for sentiment in a war between nations…”
“We might have to go to the battlefield ourselves one day, to fight the Black Banner…”
Faced with such words, Chen Wenjun could only nod, melancholy, before having the household maids help the two of them off to rest.
…
At the same hour, Manduluu knelt in the study of this same mansion, receiving instructions from Wanyan Xiyin.
He had by now risen to the post of Chief Inspector of Yunzhong Prefecture — a rank not especially high, but one that had already crossed the threshold from clerk to proper official, and being granted entry into Gushen’s own study was proof enough that Xiyin now regarded him as a trusted confidant.
“…The army’s already on the move — Zongbi and his men will arrive any day now… The situation in Yunzhong right now isn’t just a matter of one battle or a few martial contests. Everything the Western Bureau controls that can be moved, they’ll try to move. Several local offices already have conflicting directives circulating — our people might yield one point today and find themselves stripped of office entirely by tomorrow…”
“…You’re someone I personally promoted as Chief Inspector, so you needn’t worry on that front. But under circumstances like these, the enemies behind the scenes — especially Black Banner agents planted here — are bound to be stirring. Where exactly they’ll strike, or what they’ll try to stir up, isn’t clear yet. But I put you in this position precisely for this reason — find a way to root them out for me…”
The audience didn’t last long. Once Xiyin finished speaking, he waved a hand, dismissing Manduluu to carry out his orders. As Manduluu left, Chen Wenjun came in from outside carrying some pastries, evidently having heard some news that had eased the tension in her brow somewhat.
Xiyin, who had been working at his desk, rose to greet her.
Over these past several days at home, it was plain to see that both husband and wife had grown thinner. This was Xiyin’s first time back in years, and he’d grown particularly gaunt, his hair now fully white where it had once been only half so. Chen Wenjun, meanwhile, had spent recent months worrying over the state of affairs, and her own hair had begun to gray as well.
“Was that…” Chen Wenjun asked.
“The newly appointed Chief Inspector, Manduluu,” Xiyin answered. “Over the coming days, there’s going to be a contest with Zongbi’s side, and the yamen has changed some personnel — mainly to deal with people stirring trouble in the shadows. In a few months there’ll be the martial contest between our two armies; if we lose, none of us will come out of this well… Mm, your pastries are still the best, my dear.”
Xiyin’s words were candid, carrying a certain note of warning within them, though before his wife he was, at least, being entirely forthright. Chen Wenjun watched him eating and her brow eased somewhat as she said, “I heard about the public notice outside.”
At this, Xiyin — who had been raising a piece of millet cake to his mouth — paused slightly, his expression turning grave as he set the cake down. He rose, went to his desk, drew out a document, and sighed.
“These past few months of winter, every single month, tens of thousands have frozen or starved to death — frozen to death simply because they weren’t allowed to gather firewood. This sort of thing is idiotic beyond belief — if you kill everyone else off, do you think you’ll survive on your own, you pack of fools… I only issued the order today, and it’s already too late. It won’t make up for much, honestly…”
He turned to look at his wife, finding it difficult to speak. “In all this… there’s so much I owe you for. I once promised you I’d secure better treatment for the Han people, but as things stand now… I know how hard these times have been on you. Our defeat in the southwest — that only happened because your Han people produced a true hero…”
Xiyin’s smile, as he said this last part, was strained and complicated. He’d once had genuine intentions of doing more for his wife, had made real promises to her — but some things now lay beyond his power to deliver. All he could do was speak of the Han people’s hero, to give her some small measure of comfort. A smile touched the corner of Chen Wenjun’s mouth, though tears were already falling freely. “…Whatever else — this time, you did save people. Go on and eat…”
This was the only thank-you she could offer him, as his wife, privately.
Manduluu walked out of Gushen’s mansion. The afternoon sky above hung dim and overcast.
He walked to a small square not far off, where a notice from the Marshal’s mansion had just been posted, someone reading it aloud to a gathering crowd. It was an order from the Marshal himself: no one, under any pretext, was to slaughter Han slaves any further; no household was to obstruct Han people from gathering the useless brush and deadwood outside the city; and the Marshal’s mansion would distribute a portion of charcoal and grain within and beyond the city’s Han quarters — the cost to be covered by fines collected from various noble households over the past half year…
Several other measures guaranteeing the survival rights of Han slaves were announced as well.
Some timid-looking Han slaves who happened to be passing through overheard this, and broke down weeping at the edge of the square.
Perhaps giving thanks for the Marshal’s benevolent rule.
That, at least, was what Manduluu assumed, standing off to one side, scanning the crowd for anyone who looked suspicious.
A gaunt man named Tang Minjie brushed past him from the other side, bent low.
The next major chapter should be titled: “The Clown”