“I am to march south.”

Her fingers pressed down on the guzheng strings; in the exquisite little tower of the courtyard, the woman looked up toward her husband before her.

Wanyan Xiyin sat there, tilting his head slightly to gaze up at the ceiling, then drew a breath. He was already past forty, nearing fifty. Though renowned for his literary reputation, in truth he had fought his way up through the ranks of the Jurchen to hold immense power, and the man before her carried more than enough authority and killing intent about him — yet only in front of this concubine did he ever set that killing intent aside.

“His Majesty’s preparations are complete, and the imperial edict has arrived. We march south in two columns. Nianhan commands the left column, as Left Vice Marshal; I am to serve as army supervisor. Today… we set out.”

“Nianhan…” Chen Wenjun’s lips parted slightly. Among the Jurchen, he was known as the most battle-hardened and most decisive of their generals — his other name was Wanyan Zonghan, a man of overwhelming force who had played an enormous role in Aguda’s rise and enthronement. She had met him before. “You… never mentioned this before.”

The mobilization and assembly of a great army could hardly be arranged overnight; though Xiyin’s rank placed him beneath Zonghan, serving only as a deputy, given his standing he would certainly have known of this beforehand. Hearing the woman’s question, Xiyin sighed.

“I have always opposed taking the Wu Dynasty by force, but the decision from above has been made, and it cannot be changed. Telling you sooner would only have caused you needless worry. I know you still hold some feeling for the Wu Dynasty — if you have any family or relatives left in the south, tell me now. Our forces will sweep through everywhere, sparing nothing. I will see that they’re brought to you.”

He finished speaking. The woman was silent for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “There’s no one left…”

Xiyin nodded, rose, walked over, and set his hand on Chen Wenjun’s shoulder. She leaned her forehead against his stomach. The two of them had, after all, spent many years together — Xiyin, with his deep admiration for Han learning, and Chen Wenjun, once a young lady of a fine scholarly household who had ended up adrift in the north, clinging to him as a vine to a great tree. What had perhaps begun in helplessness had, over time, grown into mutual admiration born of shared temperament — something hard-won indeed, in an age like this. And yet, with their two nations now standing opposed, though Chen Wenjun had long since accepted her lot and had even won the Jurchen’s acceptance, that did not mean her heart was free of its own weight.

“Once I’ve gone south, don’t trouble yourself worrying over me here at home. I’ve already spoken to the steward — everything in the household will continue as before. If you find it tiring, you needn’t manage the social obligations yourself. But if anyone ever treats you with disrespect — whether within the household or outside it — simply have them thrown out. You are the wife of Wanyan Xiyin, and no one has any right to look down on you. Once the matter with the Wu Dynasty is settled… when I return, you will be mistress of this house, and I will see that His Majesty is informed of it…”

“My husband needn’t think so much of it. I understand.” Chen Wenjun smiled gently, then said, “I only hope, husband, that on this journey south, you’ll bear in mind Heaven’s virtue of cherishing life, and not… harm the innocent more than you must. Since Jin and Wu are now at war, I cannot in good conscience wish you victory — but I will pray for you here, day after day, and hope you return home safely.”

“That will be enough. On the battlefield, I won’t hold back — but beyond the battlefield, the Wu Dynasty is a land of great splendor, and I will try to leave as much of it standing as I can. I’m going now. Don’t see me off.”

Wanyan Xiyin embraced her, then turned and left. In the past, whenever he set out on campaign, she, as the lady of half the household, would always see him off to the gate — but this time he’d told her not to bother, itself a kind of tribute to, and consideration for, the Wu Dynasty. Chen Wenjun had so much she wanted to say, yet not a word of it came out. She walked out onto the terrace and watched her husband’s steady, unwavering figure stride out of the courtyard; only once he was gone did her shoulders sag, and she finally let out a long sigh, closing her eyes.

She stood there on the terrace for a while, listening to the wind and the stirrings around her, then called out, “Lüqi” — the name of her maid — “go up front and watch for when your master leaves. Come tell me when he’s gone. I want to pray for his safety.”

The maid who came at her call went off to do as bidden. Chen Wenjun’s gaze settled quietly; she raised a hand to wipe the dampness from her eyes, then walked back into the room. At her writing desk, she took out a painting of plum blossoms she’d been working on for a long while and still hadn’t finished, spread it out, then drew out a slip of paper and wrote a few lines of very small characters upon it.

Before she could finish, the sound of hurried footsteps rose from below — this was a wooden tower, and even light steps on the stairs carried clearly. She quickly put the slip away; the ones coming up now were her two children. The elder, a girl of six, was named Wanyan Qingxue; the younger, a boy of three, was named Wanyan Qiming — both children of hers and Wanyan Xiyin’s. The three-year-old boy dashed straight for his mother the moment he arrived.

“Mama, Mama, Papa’s going out, he told us to come see you, he said you weren’t happy and told us to come cheer you up. Mama, why aren’t you happy?”

Chen Wenjun held him close, laughing. “Mama isn’t unhappy.”

Wanyan Qingxue stood to one side; at six, she already carried herself with more composure, not clinging to her mother the way her little brother did. “Mama must be unhappy because Papa’s leaving. Papa’s off to fight bad people again — but he’s always gone so long.”

Chen Wenjun’s gaze wavered for a moment, then she pulled her daughter close and said with a soft sigh, “No. This time your father isn’t going out to fight bad people.”

“Then what is Papa going out to fight?”

“Mm… let’s not talk about that. You’ll understand when you’re older. For now… how about Mama plays with you both?”

The two children clapped their hands and laughed. The woman settled in to play with them, and before long, the maid Lüqi returned to report that the master of the house had already left. The children played a while longer, and with their father gone, both of them clung close to their mother. Not until that afternoon did a secret message quietly leave that household.

Two armies were already marching south. Word of it traveled by galloping horse, by boat, by carrier pigeon, all flowing south at once, and before long, the old man named Zhou Tong was already racing south through the starlit night of the northern lands astride his swift horse. Tens of thousands of troops, the Jin emperor’s state documents and edicts, carrying information of immeasurable weight, poured southward — north and south together like one vast nervous system. By the time the news reached Yan and Ji, the Wu Dynasty to the south had only just recently emerged from the joys of the Qixi Festival; then the first wave of news struck Yanjing Prefecture like a massive neuron firing, countless sparks of alarm shooting outward across this great body that was the Wu Dynasty.

On the eighteenth of July, the surge of news crashed against the peaks of Gouzhu Mountain (that is, Yanmen Mountain), spreading across the towering heights of Yanmen Pass.

On the nineteenth of July, the news swept past the Taiyuan line! By land and by water, galloping horses raced along the post roads, tearing across towering mountains and bustling markets and rivers alike — every possible channel of communication, running at a frenzied eight-hundred-li emergency pace, stretching out with astonishing speed!

Then, on the night of the twentieth of July, in the brightly lit city, the palace gates had already closed for the night, and galloping horses came tearing straight toward the palace walls…

The news of the Jin invasion struck like sudden thunder out of a clear sky, an immense shock spreading with wild, crackling force, reaching countless people one after another. On the night of the twentieth of July, when Ning Yi received that slip of paper, he was entertaining a guest at a Bamboo Records tavern — the visitor was Puyang Yi from Jiangning, and also present were Shishi and another currently celebrated woman of the Alum Tower. On the stage of the tavern, performers were singing.

Over this past year, for reasons of deliberate intent, the performances at Bamboo Records had often mixed in ancient war songs, or pieces recounting the stories of war. What was being sung on stage at that moment was “Ode of Longing for Home,” a military song from the state of Chu in the Chu-Han contention period. As the music rang out amid the bustle of the street outside, there was something oddly poignant about it.

Ning Yi’s household — Xiao Chan had given birth to a boy only four days earlier, and Puyang Yi had already paid a visit to the Ning residence that day. As they spoke, Qi Xinhan came rushing up the stairs with a report in hand. Ning Yi opened it, read it, then rolled it back up.

The expression on his face, the instant he finished reading, turned cold and distant. Puyang Yi sensed the sudden change, and so did Shishi. In that moment after reading the report, it seemed as though every trace of feeling had suddenly drained from the face of this young scholar — this friend of theirs — leaving behind only a calm, pure, unclouded rationality. He looked across at Puyang Yi, pressed his right hand lightly against the table, tapping it twice, as if weighing his words.

Puyang Yi said, “Has something happened with the child at home…”

“No. It’s something else…”

Ning Yi rose to take his leave, then glanced at Shishi. “I’m heading out. Sit a while longer — I’ll have someone see you back to the Alum Tower later.”

“Yes.” Shishi, who had performed at Bamboo Records more than once or twice before, nodded reflexively at this, wanting to say something more — but before she could get the words out, Ning Yi had already started down the stairs.

He descended from the Alum Tower. Out on the street, a few men were swaggering past; one of them called out, “Ha, Ning Yi!” It was Gao Mu’en at the head of the group — but seeing Ning Yi’s stride bearing down on him without the slightest pause, he instinctively took a step back. “You, you, you—” His guards moved to intercept Ning Yi as well, but Ning Yi simply spread both arms.

With a resounding thud, his figure shot straight past the guard trying to block him and slammed into Gao Mu’en in a crushing embrace. Gao Mu’en let out a strangled “Ugh… cough, cough, cough, cough—” nearly coughing up blood, his face flushing red — but Ning Yi released him almost at once, patted his cheek, and said, “Enjoy yourself. Take care.” By the time Gao Mu’en had recovered his senses, Ning Yi was already far off; he bent over, clutching his chest, and raised a hand after him in utter bewilderment. “…Huh?”

Ning Yi climbed into his carriage, with Zhu Biao, Qi Xinhan, and the others boarding as well.

“Send someone north to notify General Qin Shaoqian — the five hundred men trained at Dulong Ridge can be delivered. Bamboo Records is activating its first emergency protocol — all personnel stationed in the north are to gather at once once they’ve finished their current surveying tasks, and all records are to be archived and filed with the utmost speed. To the Right Chancellor’s residence.”

A string of orders, delivered almost without pause for breath, and the carriage set off toward the Chancellor’s residence. By the time it arrived at the gates, Qin Siyuan had already boarded his own carriage, preparing to head to the imperial palace; seeing Ning Yi, he quickly called for him to climb aboard so they could confer on the way.

At that same moment, across the entire city, across the entire nation, countless people were already stirring, rushing, gathering. Within the imperial palace, Emperor Zhou Zhe let out a roar and swept everything off the imperial desk in one violent motion, the crash echoing through the hall as the curtains around him trembled and the lamplight swayed.

On the twenty-second of July, the Jin state document arrived in Bian Liang, furiously denouncing the Wu Dynasty over the Zhang Jue affair, demanding reparations and the cession of all territory north of the Yellow River. Even as the entire court raged at the sheer absurdity of this document, the Jin forces, already advancing along a front stretching a thousand li to the north, did not wait for any reply — the attack had already begun.

On the twenty-third of July, the Jin eastern army split into two columns. General Wanyan Chang led the southern advance column to seize Gubeikou, north of Yanjing, and on the same day took Tanzhou as well; at the same time, Wanyan Zongwang led the western advance column across the Yutian region of Hebei, and four days later captured the vital town of Jizhou, east of Yanjing, closing a pincer around Yanjing from both sides.

Two years on, the Jin had once again brought the fires of war to what had once been the Liao capital. And to the west, the western army under Wanyan Zonghan and Wanyan Xiyin had already swept forward like a scythe through dry grass, driving toward the Yanmen Pass line.

On the twenty-seventh of July — the very day Wanyan Zongwang took Jizhou — Guo Yaoshi, Zhang Linghui, and the others led the Ever-Victorious Army out of camp to intercept, meeting Wanyan Zongwang’s forces at the Chaobai River east of Yanjing. This was, for now, the only genuinely capable fighting force the Wu Dynasty had; since defecting to the Wu Dynasty, Guo Yaoshi had thrown himself into drilling his troops with grim, unyielding resolve. Facing him on the other side was Aguda’s second son, the very soul of the Jin army in the days before Wushu — a man who had never needed to consider whether anyone could stand against him. Neither side wasted much time on maneuvering: Guo Yaoshi reached the Chaobai River, drew up his formation, and Wanyan Zongwang came charging straight at him.

Before any of this had yet registered in the sluggish nerve center of the Wu Dynasty, along the banks of the Chaobai River, two armies numbering more than a hundred thousand men combined had already collided with the most ferocious force imaginable, churning up waves of blood…