The cold late-autumn wind grew fiercer as the night wore on. In the darkness, the silhouette of the mountains loomed dim, and all around came the rustling sound of footsteps, mixed with groans half of pain, half of stifled sobbing. A faint smell of blood drifted through the air, and now and then, someone collapsed.

“…Get up. Get up and walk…”

The voice speaking was likewise weak. In the darkness, that shadowy figure was dragged a few steps forward, and someone else came to help — but soon that struggle dissolved into a brief, choked sob. Because that crying came from a man, it didn’t last long — men don’t shed tears easily, especially not soldiers. But it was precisely because of this that the brief, sob-like sound seemed all the more wrenching, all the more sorrowful.

In these dark mountains, many people were making their way through, and most could sense what was happening, but there was nothing to be done about it — everyone simply kept moving forward, some alone, some helping each other along.

Before long, a small stream blocked their path; some waded across, others stopped. Not far now from Qi County, Ning Yi raised a hand. “Let’s rest a while.” All around the column, it was clear that many were too badly wounded to go on much further.

Ning Yi’s own right side was wounded as well, his shoulder and arm both bearing blade wounds, wrapped in bandages. Among the Bamboo Registry members around him, injuries ranged from light to severe; Yuwen Feidu, being supported by others, swayed unsteadily on his feet, having nearly fainted just moments before. His leg was wounded, his ribs were wounded, his back was wounded, and half his face had been scraped raw against the ground when he’d fallen while running — though that last was the least of it. His body was exhausted, having lost too much blood, and with the long trek that followed, the fact that he’d managed to hold on this far could only be credited to the excellent physical foundation the masters of the Bamboo Registry had built into him.

Compared to Yuwen Feidu, many of the more skilled fighters within the Bamboo Registry knew better how to draw on their own reserves of strength and endure injury. Along this long trek, several of them had suddenly collapsed mid-stride, passing away silently despite their grievous wounds. And before that, close to a hundred men had already been lost in the fighting itself — as for the carts they’d brought along this whole way, not a single one remained.

After this defeat, this slaughter, this long flight, those still gathered around Ning Yi — besides the Bamboo Registry members, Yue Fei, and the remnants of his unit — included many scattered, routed soldiers as well. Some were wading across the stream now; others, seeing Ning Yi and the others stop, instinctively stopped nearby as well — likely having witnessed the Bamboo Registry’s valor on the battlefield. After the great battle, people had scattered across the hills and fled in every direction; few who arrived here still retained any semblance of organized unit.

Some things were hard to even think about. During all that time spent in Qi County adjusting the elm-wood cannons, he had genuinely hoped they might make some difference — and yet, right there on the road, it had all gone up in smoke. Even the Bamboo Registry’s own numbers had been cut nearly in half, and those who remained were all exhausted and wounded. It was hard to even summarize what exactly they’d accomplished. But if one thought on a larger scale — an army of over a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand strong, had all gone up in flames just the same — he didn’t know if that thought was supposed to make things feel any better.

In the past — at least, in the days before Ning Yi had grown disillusioned — he had been used to being the one making decisions. But it was precisely because of this that he understood all the more clearly: if everyone tried to be the one making decisions, nothing in the world would ever get done. He’d come out to help with no more than three or five hundred men at his side; even if he mobilized every last subordinate he could call upon within the range of this Bianliang battlefield, it wouldn’t amount to more than a thousand men. Though he was disappointed in the quality of Wuchao’s troops, and frustrated by the capital’s fickle, almost farcical decision-making, since he found himself in this position, all he could do was proceed cautiously, step by step, pushing forward the policy of scorched earth. When the order came tonight to march out and coordinate with the Western Army’s raid on the enemy camp, launching this great encircling battle, he had simply gone along with it. No matter how poor the quality of Wuchao’s troops, in the end — the fight had to happen regardless.

But having suffered a defeat of this magnitude, and being someone privy to a great deal of what went on behind the scenes in the capital, it was impossible to say there was no anger in his heart.

Sitting for a moment amid the withered grass by the low woods and the stream’s edge, he went to check on the wounded nearby. Many within the Bamboo Registry were martial artists, and even heading into battle, most carried medicine for wounds and had experience dealing with injuries. Many had died along the way while fleeing the Jurchen pursuit, worn down by exhaustion and blood loss — but now that they could rest a little, most of the severely wounded, so long as they hadn’t already died, stood a decent chance of pulling through.

But naturally, there were exceptions to this as well. Passing through the crowd in the dim light, Ning Yi overheard a martial artist named Lin Nian speaking quietly to a disciple about the experience of staying alive and killing the enemy on the battlefield. Among the Bamboo Registry’s fighters, some of the more accomplished ones included Zhu Biao and the Qi brothers, men with whom he’d had past dealings and later recruited; some were former leaders from Liangshan, like the scar-faced giant Nie Shan, who had accompanied Ning Yi to Lüliang; and others were underworld fighters who’d come to join from outside, like Tian Donghan, the monk Hou Lietang who wielded the bronze-alloy cudgel, and this Lin Nian, who wielded the Five Phoenix Blade.

Among these underworld martial artists, Tian Donghan was honest and steady, which was why even Zhou Tong held him in high regard — it had been through Tian Donghan, in fact, that the original battle formation had first reached Ning Yi’s hands. Hou Lietang had a fierce temperament, obsessed with martial arts to the point of near-madness, but was comparatively quiet in speech — if he took a dislike to someone, he was the type to simply strike them down with his cudgel. This Lin Nian, nearly forty years old, was thin and gaunt in build, but carried something of a scholarly air about his face; ordinarily easygoing in temperament, he was also well-liked and respected by those around him. Earlier, in the thick of battle, he had repeatedly cut his way into the fray, pulling comrades out of danger and striding off with them, all while suffering relatively few injuries himself — proof enough of the depth of his martial cultivation.

Ning Yi, who also had a fondness for martial arts, overheard him speaking quietly to his disciple: “…From now on, practice these few moves over and over. On the battlefield, they’ll buy you a bit more of a chance to survive…” He walked over, but only a short while after he arrived, he heard Lin Nian’s disciple cry out urgently in a hushed voice: “Master! Master!” Rushing over, he saw the middle-aged man leaning against a tree, his head slightly tilted, unresponsive no matter how hard the disciple shook him.

A nearby Bamboo Registry martial artist, himself wounded and resting, struggled over, checked for breath, felt for a pulse, and after a moment, shook his head. Ning Yi crouched down as well to check the man’s pulse. “What happened? I just heard Master Lin talking a moment ago!”

The martial artist shook his head. “Master Lin’s flame had simply burned out. In his younger years, practicing his skills, his family was poor, and he’d carried hidden injuries in his body ever since, along with a chronic cough. Just now, in the thick of battle… he pushed himself past the very last of what he had…”

Ning Yi was briefly stunned. He’d known Lin Nian’s family was poor, and that he occasionally coughed. After joining the Bamboo Registry, Ning Yi had never shortchanged those who worked for him — the pay was generous, and he often made sure these martial artists had meat to eat, which had visibly improved the man’s complexion. But in an age when nutrition was widely disregarded, even many wealthy men, out of frugality, went about with sallow, malnourished faces year-round — it wasn’t anything unusual. Ning Yi cursed under his breath, “You can’t be serious,” and laid Lin Nian flat on the ground, performing chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, continuing for a long while. The people around him watched in silence, faintly puzzled; Lin Nian’s disciple had already broken into tears before Ning Yi finally gave up.

After all this exertion, the wound on his right arm had begun bleeding again.

He sat beside Lin Nian’s body for a while, then patted the disciple’s shoulder. “From now on, you’ll be the one looking after your master’s daughter.” Then he stood and walked away. When Lin Nian had come to join him, he’d brought along only a daughter, similarly thin and frail, whom Ning Yi remembered well.

This wasn’t the only tragedy nearby. Among the many wounded and dead, some might survive, but only to live out the rest of their days as little more than invalids, or with limbs lost — none of that would be surprising. Among the three Qi brothers, Qi Xinyi’s left hand had been nearly severed at the elbow; though the wound had since been bound, he’d lost so much blood that his survival was uncertain. He was among those unable to walk any further, and Qi Xinhan and the others had gone ahead to Qi County first, to find trusted physicians and additional hands for further treatment. Qi Xinyong, who had fought his way through the battle and then exhausted himself entirely trying to save his brother, had also collapsed from his wounds. Ning Yi walked the length of the group and found nothing worth saying — in some sense, it was he who had brought these people to this battlefield, and he himself was, after all, nothing more than a tavern keeper.

After resting a while, some of the Bamboo Registry fighters who still had strength left continued tending to the wounds of the scattered soldiers nearby. Toward Qi County, the night had gradually grown restless. Something seemed to be happening on the other side of the stream — only a faint glow could be seen at the edge of the horizon, tinting the sky a reddish hue. Ning Yi stood and looked over a few times; just then, Yue Fei approached as well, spear in hand, about to speak, when several figures appeared on the far side of the stream, mounted on horseback, crossing over.

The man leading this small group was a Bamboo Registry member who had gone with Qi Xinhan back to Qi County to find physicians; behind him rode two men who looked to be doctors, their hair and beards disheveled, looking thoroughly bedraggled. This man rode straight toward Ning Yi and reported to him urgently.

“Two Jurchen cavalry units, a thousand strong each, are charging straight at the Qi County camp. News of the defeat ahead has already reached them, and the garrison there has no stomach left to fight — only a handful are putting up resistance. The Jurchens are burning and killing everywhere as we speak. Brother Qi has gone to help the rest of the Bamboo Registry brothers move the Ministry of Revenue’s records; he sent us ahead first to report back…”

“That’s wrong!” Yue Fei stepped forward, cutting in with a low voice. “For the Jurchens to move this fast, it can’t just be about finishing us off… You said they’re burning and killing everywhere — have they found where the camp’s supplies and equipment are stored?”

The Bamboo Registry member paused, momentarily caught off guard, but Ning Yi had already grasped it. “Their real target is the grain!”

“I wonder where General Qin is right now…” Yue Fei murmured, exchanging a glance with Ning Yi. In the midst of a rout like this, if Qin Shaoqian were still alive and could bring the remnants of the army back, it might yet be possible to turn the tide — or at least keep the Jurchens from cleaning out the entire Qi County camp. But raising the thought now felt almost like the wishful fantasy of the powerless. After all, the men under their command here were already scattered and wounded everywhere — even if they realized what the Jurchens intended, what could they possibly do about it?

A campaign involving armies of tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands, wasn’t something a few hundred men could take part in.

The night air was cold and indifferent, yet restless all the same; in the distance, the faint glow rising into the sky seemed to hint at something. By the stream, the bleak silence continued, and as people moved, they tried their best not to make too much noise. But at last, the sound of flint striking rang out, and a torch flared to life, swaying in the air. Ning Yi held the torch aloft and walked to a slightly higher spot, planting it into a tree trunk.

His own body was wrapped in bandages, marked with blood and exhaustion, but as he looked out over everyone, he finally spoke.

“Things have turned out the way they have today. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything more, shouldn’t ask anything more of you. But still…”

He paused for a moment. “There’s still something I have to say…”

In the torchlight, there were the grievously wounded, and there were those who would never speak again — but everyone was listening…

…

In the capital, Cai Jing, Tong Guan, and the others’ procession had already caught up with the emperor’s convoy. A little farther off, at Nanxun Gate on the south side of Bianliang, the empress’s convoy had already arrived, and her accompanying uncle, Liang Feng, was ordering the gate commander to open the gates.

The commander guarding Nanxun Gate was a man named Cao Yan, an obscure, low-ranking officer known among his peers for his timidity and his habit of keeping his head down to stay safe. But this time, when the empress’s decree arrived, he simply hid up on the gate tower, muttering prayers to Amitabha Buddha under his breath, not daring to accept the order, pretending he wasn’t even there — a response that sent the imperial uncle storming up onto the tower, shouting and cursing furiously.

Meanwhile, farther back, Li Gang’s carriage had finally caught up with Zhou Zhe’s convoy. He positioned his carriage across the imperial avenue and prostrated himself on the ground. “This guilty subject Li Gang begs an audience with Your Majesty — I implore Your Majesty not to leave the city!”

Zhou Zhe summoned him at once.

“What guilt have you committed? I… when was I ever truly leaving the city! It’s only that the empress was persuaded by Liang Feng to urge me to tour the south, and I mean to go after her myself and bring her back—”

“The Western Army has already been defeated, the Jin have long been planning this, and their main army could strike at any moment. Even leaving through the southern gate is by no means safe, Your Majesty. I beg Your Majesty to return to the palace…”

“I told you, I am not leaving the city!”

Li Gang knelt on the ground, kowtowing again and again. In truth, scholar-officials held quite high status in Wuchao at this time, and though acts of prostration occasionally still occurred as ceremony, someone of Li Gang’s standing was by no means required to do this. But it was precisely because of this — an old man, his head still wrapped in a blood-stained bandage, kowtowing over and over — that Zhou Zhe found himself, for the moment, at a loss for what to do with him. And no matter how Li Gang might insist he only meant to pursue the empress, once he reached the city gates, he would surely be swept along and out by the empress and the ministers around her regardless.

In the midst of this standoff, another report came in: “Yan Mingzhao of the Ministry of Rites requests an audience…” This was a man known for being an upright, outspoken official; the moment he laid eyes on Zhou Zhe, he declared loudly, “With the nation at war, how can Your Majesty abandon the city and flee south—”

Zhou Zhe’s face flushed crimson with fury at once, and amid furious cursing he ordered the man dragged away. He seized the opportunity to have Li Gang pulled to his feet as well, saying, “I’ll deal with this matter first, and discuss things with you, Chancellor, afterward — just wait and see!” He was about to order the convoy forward, but then more commotion arose: “Vice Minister of Revenue Tang Ke requests an audience, Minister of Works Yu Fengzhong requests an audience, He Jiting requests an audience…”

Throughout the city, one force after another was rapidly converging to block his path.

Zhou Zhe flew into a rage, snatching something up in the carriage and hurling it aside, shouting, “What do they want?! I won’t see them — what exactly do they want—”

Just then, a trusted eunuch knocked softly at the window from the side, murmuring, “Your Majesty, Grand Preceptor Cai bids this servant to inform you: there is a curfew in effect tonight, and it would not do to disturb the people…”

He placed particular emphasis on the words “curfew,” and hearing this, a light seemed to come on behind Zhou Zhe’s eyes…