The snow began falling again. Apart from the cold wind occasionally stirring the snowflakes into a dance, the vast plain surrounding Bian Liang lay wrapped in silence and stillness.

Battle after battle, bloodshed after bloodshed — the more than a million people who had once lived on this land had all been relocated by now, and the abandoned, empty villages and towns, under the falling snow at dusk, carried an eerie, deathly stillness about them. The birds had long since flown away; in the mountain forests, only a few animals still moved through the snow, a squirrel clutching its hazelnut, standing at the edge of the woods, watching this stretch of land that had once belonged to humankind. Over these past months, those who had fallen on this land had already grown cold in their bones.

Wolves appeared, now and then.

Only occasionally would a solitary column of horsemen ride through the deep snow, moving from one place to another, carrying out their assigned tasks.

In less than half a year, this place had become forbidden ground for the living.

Moutuo Gang lay some ten li from the defenses of Bian Liang, and the road between the two was still ruled by the presence of men. At dawn, a heavy boom echoed across the ice near Moutuo Gang.

A team of powerful Jurchen men, wielding iron balls bound with chains, or heavy hammers, struck down against the ice near the camp, sending white mist scattering into the air.

This region, chosen by the Jurchen for their encampment, had originally been Wu dynasty pastureland for grazing horses. Moutuo Gang was surrounded on three sides by water, its grasslands lush and abundant; once the remaining opening was sealed off, it was easy to defend and hard to assault. But with winter’s true arrival, the surrounding lake had begun to freeze over as well, and especially on snowy days, once the ice thickened, the three sides that had once been open water had now become fully connected to the land by solid ice.

After the failure of Yao Pingzhong’s night raid, few dared to launch any real attack against the Jurchen camp anymore. But once the ice had formed, the Jurchen soldiers at Moutuo Gang had taken on an additional daily task — breaking up the ice at the edges of the lake, and sending men out on patrol. Every morning, once the strongmen had broken up the ice at the shoreline, patrols of three soldiers each would go back and forth.

The heavy, drifting snow made it hard to tell morning from noon; one only knew that it had long since been daylight. The patrols came and went, occasionally glancing out at the flat, unbroken expanse of frozen lake stretching before them. Everything felt monotonous, with only the sounds of activity from within the camp occasionally drifting over the tall wooden walls. As one patrol passed by, a Jurchen soldier paused for a moment, turning his head to look out across the lake.

The snow kept falling.

He looked for a moment, then hurried to catch up with his two companions ahead.

If our view were to shift out across the ice, several hundred meters from where the soldier stood, there was something white lying there — two figures lying prone on the ice, in the snow, dressed in white garments nearly impossible to make out against the snowy backdrop. One of them lowered a tube-shaped object he held, silently covering the end of it with one hand.

Only once the three soldiers in the distance had moved away did the two raise the crude, elongated telescope once more. The other took out a small notebook, along with a piece of charcoal, and, hand trembling, began writing down numbers.

“Another hundred and twenty-five breaths… three men patrolling past… total time…”

Without any precise means of keeping time, they could only estimate roughly, and in weather like this, prolonged concealment was an enormous burden for the two of them. They lay there quietly, watching and recording, only occasionally shifting their bodies in small movements. When hungry, they would pull out dried meat, warmed against their bodies inside their clothes, chewing slowly, still trying to keep as still as possible.

Sometimes, a gyrfalcon would cut through the snow and rise into the sky — those were the moments hardest to endure.

At dusk, someone came quietly to relieve them.

The two of them retreated quietly from the ice, carefully covering their tracks, making their way into a small stand of woods on the far side of Moutuo Gang, walking on in silence after that as well. Their temporary lodging and rendezvous point was a cave in the mountains; someone came to collect what they had recorded, exchanged a few brief words with them, and delivered some supplies. As always, before leaving, he cautioned them: “Don’t light a fire unless absolutely necessary.”

The parched rice and dried meat strips he brought had already gone cold. But from inside his robe, he produced a small iron kettle, wrapped in several layers of cloth, and the soup inside was, remarkably, still warm — he had the two of them share it and drink it quickly, then offered another round of instructions before leaving.

Going out on a mission like this, the clothing they wore was warm enough. The two of them were a teenager named Chen Hai, and a middle-aged man in his forties surnamed Zheng, whom Chen Hai called Uncle Zheng.

“Uncle Zheng, do you think all this stuff we’re recording every day will actually be of any use?”

“Get some sleep.” Uncle Zheng spoke little, and never raised his voice. “How would I know.”

“The Jurchen are just too brutal…”

Having said this, Chen Hai fell silent again.

The reconnaissance team had been pieced together by Ning Yi, drawn from people selected during the scorched-earth evacuation and afterward, once the Wu dynasty’s armies had been scattered. Some had already been part of Bamboo Notes’ talent reserve; others were hunters, or people with a natural gift for wilderness survival. Chen Hai had always been healthy and lively as a child, and local legend had it that he could walk barefoot through the snow in the dead of winter. When the Jurchen came, his village had not escaped the first wave of slaughter; his parents had died beneath their blades, and he alone had survived by luck. Later, Ning Yi had brought him in.

By the next morning, the two of them woke up, ate something cold and hard, and went to switch places with the next shift. The snow kept falling, sometimes heavier, sometimes lighter; after returning and receiving new orders, they would occasionally move to a different location. They vaguely knew that theirs was not the only team responsible for scouting the Jurchen camp.

The man who came to make contact with them was probably some kind of official — at the very least, likely an official of some rank. The meat broth he brought each day, warmed against his own body, gave Chen Hai a certain sense of comfort, because he had a vague sense that probably no other official would go to such lengths.

He had not known Uncle Zheng for very long. Though Uncle Zheng was relatively quiet by nature, he had clearly once been a skilled hunter, and would occasionally offer him a pointer or two about concealment and hunting. Over these several days of lying in hiding under such harsh conditions, with only one companion beside him, it was inevitable that, without quite meaning to, he came to think of the man as the only friend, or perhaps family member, or elder, he had in all the world.

That day was the twentieth of the eleventh month.

At noon that day, while observing, the two of them had quietly shifted position. With the snow having fallen for so long, the ice on the lake was, in truth, quite solid by now; Chen Hai would occasionally reach out and tap it, without anything happening. But that day, they happened to have moved to a spot where the ice was relatively thin.

They had already been lying there since morning; as a patrol along the lake shore passed through their field of view, Uncle Zheng was holding the telescope, observing, when a faint, crackling sound rose up from beneath him.

Both of them froze in place, slowly turning their gaze downward. Uncle Zheng reached out and brushed away some snow, and fine cracks spread out from beneath him.

Both of them knew this was no time for careless movement. Uncle Zheng, quiet by nature to begin with, gave a slight wave of his hand, signaling Chen Hai to move away to one side, while he himself shifted toward the other.

The ice gave way.

Uncle Zheng fell into the water, then came back up, thrashing weakly for a moment. In the distance, the patrol continued walking on. Chen Hai, who had not fallen through, carefully reached out his hand; Uncle Zheng grabbed hold of it, and as he pulled with force, fine cracks began appearing beneath Chen Hai as well. Realizing what was happening, Uncle Zheng let go of his hand. He instinctively turned his head to look toward the direction of the Jurchen camp — from within the water, he likely could not see anyone — but he had already stopped thrashing and making any sound.

Amid the wind and snow, the faint sound of Jurchen voices could be heard; they too were looking this way, but with the distance and the wind and snow in between, they could not see that a hole had already opened up in the ice.

Though only in his forties, by the standards of the Wu dynasty, Uncle Zheng was, in truth, already an old man. Chen Hai lay off to one side, stretching his hand out with all his might.

“Give me your hand — you can still make it up…” he said through clenched teeth, voice barely above a whisper.

The old man, trembling in the water, undid the telescope from around his neck, reached out, and gently set it down on the ice. Then he untied the small bundle he carried on his back — Uncle Zheng always carried this small bundle with him; it seemed to be everything he owned. He tried to hand it across, but halfway through, the bundle slipped and fell into the water.

“…” Chen Hai opened his mouth wide, straining to make a sound. He was already crying, tears blurring his vision, and yet he could not utter any noise at all. Two months earlier, when the Jurchen had come to his village, they had killed his father; his mother had hidden him inside a stack of firewood, and he had heard a great deal of commotion and sound, the last of which had been his mother’s short, terrible scream. Once he was sure he had survived, he had come out from the woodpile; his mother lay dead outside the woodshed door, half her body caked in black mud, no clothes left on her, red blood and black mud covering half her form. It was inside that woodpile that he had cried, just like this.

He had had a vague sense of what was happening outside, and yet he had not dared to go out. His mother, from beginning to end, had not cried out or called for help, only letting out that one final, terrible scream at the very moment she was killed. He had sat beside his mother’s body, mouth open wide, crying — wide enough to fit his own fist inside — and yet not a single sound had come out.

Some people, when their grief reaches its utmost limit, cannot cry out loud at all.

In his blurred field of vision, the hand the old man had reached out did not withdraw. With the last of his strength, he raised a thumb toward him, giving it a small, gentle shake in the air.

The sound of equipment being built rose up from within the Jurchen camp, and a few of the patrolling soldiers moved off.

The old man had already sunk beneath the surface. By the time his body rose again, Chen Hai knew, the bitter cold would already have sealed this opening shut, and this winter, the old man would never again see this world…

That night, the official who had brought him the meat broth took him back to the valley at Xia Village. The valley was lively and full of activity, everyone going about their own tasks; he was placed in a small room, and someone brought him food, but he could not bring himself to eat. Before long, someone came to ask him once more about the details of Uncle Zheng’s death; he recounted it mechanically once again, and the man said, “Someone else will come by shortly as well — please bear with us and tell it once more, Brother Chen. They’ll write everything down.”

“Write it down… what for…” Chen Hai asked, mechanically.

“Write down… Uncle Zheng’s story, so it can be told to others afterward.”

“Why… does it need to be told to others?”

“Because…” The man paused, weighing his words, when suddenly someone knocked at the door outside, apparently to report something. He listened to the report, nodded, and came back. “…so that others can remember him.”

“He’s already dead…” Chen Hai shook his head.

“I know, Brother Chen, I know you’re grieving deeply — we’re grieving too. But I still have matters to attend to. The person coming will explain things to you.”

“What do you have to grieve over? You didn’t even know him — none of you knew him at all!” Chen Hai choked out, shouting.

The man’s expression seemed to show a flash of difficulty, but in the end he left all the same. After a while, someone else came in; Chen Hai was about to lose his temper again, but then he saw who was walking in behind that man — it was the man named Ning Yi. Chen Hai knew this was an important official.

The man who had entered first had already prepared brush, ink, paper, and inkstone; the important official called Ning Yi, along with his attendants, had them wait outside with a wave of his hand. He looked at Chen Hai for a while before sitting down beside him.

“I heard about what happened to Uncle Zheng. I came to see how you’re doing.”

Chen Hai shook his head, saying nothing.

The man said, “He’s going to ask you for more details, and we’ll write them down, so people remember him.” This kind of stock phrase only made Chen Hai’s anger flare up; he gritted his teeth and glared at him. “Who even was Uncle Zheng? Where was he from? He gave me that bundle right before he died. He must have — he must have meant for me to pass it on to someone. Who am I supposed to give it to now?”

“That was meant for you.” the man said. “Zheng Yiquan was just like you — all his family had already died. His wife passed away five years ago; his son and daughter-in-law, and his two grandchildren, when the Jurchen came…”

The man shook his head, letting out a long breath. “…So, whatever was in that bundle, it must have been meant for you.”

Chen Hai stood there stunned for a long moment before the tears began falling, more anger welling up. “That’s exactly why — that’s exactly why you… you people chose us, isn’t it? That’s exactly why you sent us off to die, isn’t it? You know how my family died, don’t you? How my father died, how my mother died…”

“I know all of it.” Chen Hai had not even finished crying before the man cut him off. “That’s precisely why you were chosen… not everyone, of course, but a great many of you, yes.”

Chen Hai was so furious his jaw trembled. “You people, hiding behind everyone else, you people…”

“I sent you to the most dangerous place there is, but I am not ‘hiding’ behind anyone.” Ning Yi said this firmly, then opened his robe, revealing scars across his chest and arms. He then walked over to the man preparing to write, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Neither is he!” On the side of that man’s neck, there was likewise a startling, jagged scar.

“There are certainly people who hide — but no one here today is standing ‘behind’ anyone else.” Ning Yi looked at him as he spoke. “I know what’s been happening around you. I’ve seen plenty of people die too. I’ll be honest with you — the reason I chose people like you for that place is precisely because you carry hatred pent up inside you, and that’s exactly what lets you do what needs to be done. Even facing death, you’ll still be thinking about not letting those men go unpunished. That’s why I chose you — but there was no other way, it’s the only way to get the job done. If I’d sent just anyone out there, and they weren’t careful enough, got caught by the Jurchen, weren’t resolute enough — our whole operation would have been exposed, bit by bit. And in the end, everyone would die anyway, the Jurchen would break through Bian Liang, and kill even more people — would that have been fair to you instead?”

“But… he’s already dead…”

“The continuation of civilization doesn’t depend on bloodline.” Ning Yi said this quietly, in words Chen Hai did not fully understand. “The Jurchen came, and a great many people died — whole families wiped out entirely, in some cases. Zheng Yiquan’s own bloodline won’t continue on. But you were there beside him when he died, and so you’re the one carrying him forward now. As the Jurchen cut their way through, with so many dying, if even part of some people’s stories can be preserved, letting those who come after know that a group of people like this once lived, and then died — then civilization carries on. The dead cannot be brought back to life. If there’s truly no other way, and someone dies, then the best we can do is try to carry their story forward.”

He looked at Chen Hai, who said nothing more. After a long moment, Chen Hai lifted his head, drew in a breath, and sat down on the stool behind him — only his mouth open, weeping silently and bitterly. Ning Yi closed his eyes and stood still for a moment, then walked over, and passing by the recorder, tapped the small table. “Whatever’s already been said doesn’t need to be asked again and again… it’s hard enough on him as it is…”

That night, Chen Hai saw, in his dream, the old man’s raised thumb. He woke from the dream, lying awake in a warm bed after so long without one, unable to fall back asleep. Remembering the figures he had seen at Moutuo Gang, he knew that countless more people would still die — that all of this had only just begun.

He pushed open the window; the snow had stopped for the time being. He thought of the old man, then of his own parents, and then of the people from his village, and of all those who had died on this stretch of land these past few months. The old man now lay quietly at the bottom of the lake. It seemed as though they were all standing quietly somewhere, and as the heavy snow spread outward from the valley in every direction, boundless across the earth and sky, their figures too seemed to spread outward along with it — there truly were so, so many of them…

The night sky held moonlight like flowing water. Moonlight like water, shining down upon countless black-robed figures.

He found that he could no longer sleep peacefully in that bed. The next day, he went back to Moutuo Gang; before he even reached the lakeshore, the Jurchen camp was already filled with a murderous energy that reached to the sky…

…

It was midday. At the new Suanzao Gate, as the old man climbed the city wall, he was surrounded on all sides by defenders running back and forth.

People carrying water buckets surged up onto the wall in waves, pouring water down the outer face before descending again, over and over. Soldiers had already raised their shields, prepared their spiked flails, rolling logs, and stones for defense — countless preparations for the city’s defense stretched out along the wall.

Atop the wall, the strong wind blowing through was bitterly cold, and yet by this point, the cold was no longer something worth worrying about. Qin Siyuan walked toward the center of the nearby watchtower, where the same two elderly men had already arrived — leading them was Li Gang, and beside him, Zhong Shidao of the western army. Zhong Shidao had not yet recovered from a serious illness, but by this point, all he could do was grit his teeth and endure.

Looking outward, one could see the encampment where the Jurchen had stationed themselves for the assault — over this period, a number of siege and trebuchet engines had been set up out there, though not in great numbers. Still, the atmosphere across that position had already begun to shift.

More siege engines and the main army had not yet arrived, but scouts outside the city had already received word that the Jurchen’s full assault was imminent.

Everyone within the city already knew about the Jurchen’s efforts, these past days, in quietly building their siege equipment. While ill, Zhong Shidao had once considered a strategy of taking the initiative and striking out — but after what had happened with Yao Pingzhong, no one dared take up such a plan again. And the thirty thousand troops of the Zhong family army, brought by Zhong Shidao’s cousin Zhong Shizhong, had likewise suffered a defeat not long ago on the plains outside Bian Liang, and were now hunkered down nearby, regrouping their defenses.

When the western army had first arrived, people had held high hopes for its fighting strength, very much expecting that its arrival alone would turn the tide of the entire war. Yao Pingzhong’s defeat had shattered that expectation, but people could still hold out hope for Zhong Shidao — yet under the weight of that same expectation, once Zhong Shizhong arrived with his troops, Zhong Shidao could not simply order him to hold back indefinitely either, and in the end, after a clash between the two sides, the Zhong family army too returned in defeat. Though, thanks to Zhong Shizhong’s quick judgment, the Zhong family army still retained over twenty thousand men of fighting strength, at the very least, those at the top now fully understood that even the Wu dynasty’s strongest western army stood little chance of victory against the Jurchen cavalry, unrivaled across the realm at this moment.

In truth, perhaps only Zhong Shidao himself had clearly recognized this from the very start. After arriving in the capital, he had restrained the Yao family’s army and had continually tried to prevent any reckless offensive, hoping only that once his own forces joined with all the armies coming to the emperor’s aid, they might be able to intimidate Wanyan Zongwang into withdrawing, or else concentrate their full strength for a single decisive battle. Unfortunately, his prestige upon entering the city had been too great for Zhou Zhe’s liking, and in the end, the emperor had placed him under house arrest, then approved Yao Pingzhong’s plan instead. By the time Zhong Shidao was finally released, the two hundred thousand-strong army had already been routed, and this old man, clear-headed even in his illness, could no longer turn back the tide.

At this time, within Bian Liang, the entire court, civil and military, had gathered together, and there were, in truth, no small number of men who genuinely understood warfare. And yet the Ministry of War’s officials, starting from the very top with Tong Guan, upon seeing the Jurchen’s overwhelming momentum, dared not take on the responsibility of defending the city at all, claiming only that having retreated from Taiyuan, he, as a man already carrying guilt, could no longer command the respect needed to lead others. This judgment of his proved, if anything, that he truly did “understand warfare” — and once he refused, everyone else understood as well; the few others with seniority likewise did not dare take it on either.

And the emperor’s recent silence meant that, although the two chancellors on either side held real power, what they had actually gained, in practice, was perhaps nothing more than everyone else’s wait-and-see attitude. In the end, the two chancellors held the authority to make appointments only among the mid-level officers, meaning that in the tactical execution of the city’s defense, they too could only proceed cautiously, without room for anything too daring.

In short, all that was left was to hold on and defend.

The wind blew past. The three elderly men, all past sixty, stood there in the wind and snow, waiting for Wanyan Zongwang’s army to arrive. Only Qin Siyuan, after a long, solemn silence, gradually began to laugh — a bold, hearty laugh, quite unlike his usual demeanor. But Li Gang, too, gradually began to laugh, and then Zhong Shidao joined in as well.

“That the three of us should be here together today, facing this — surely calls for a great cup of wine!” Li Gang said, laughing.

In the distance, the banners of Wanyan Zongwang’s army came into view.

…

At the valley in Xia Village, word had already arrived.

In one room, Hongti and Juan’er were sewing linings into some garments. Outside, in the open space beyond the door, Qin Siyuan, Han Jing, Yue Fei, Qi Xinyong, Yuzhi Feidu, and many others had gathered, watching as the young man named Xiao Hei put on the equipment.

Once the armor, fitted with iron and steel plates, was fully strapped onto his body, the young man’s entire figure had almost become a walking suit of iron plate armor.

This was not the first time he had worn it. When he swung a fist in a wide arc, even the snowflakes dancing in the air seemed to swirl and howl in response. Behind him, his iron-armored warhorse let out a soft snort, and behind that, over a hundred more heavily armored cavalrymen were all in the process of getting suited up as well.

“Not bad.” Ning Yi said quietly. Not far off, Qin Shaoqian ran a hand over the iron armor covering a warhorse, shaking his head in admiration.

Putting on his helmet and taking up his guan blade, the young man swung himself up onto his horse with a resounding thud.

Before long, activity spread throughout the entire valley, and as evening approached, everyone gathered together, from top to bottom across the whole valley, and bonfires spread out one after another. Ning Yi, Qin Shaoqian, and all the other commanders appeared atop the raised platform above the valley. Facing the entire gathered crowd, Qin Shaoqian raised his cup of wine, then, moving from left to right, slowly poured it out onto the ground.

“This cup today, I offer to Heaven and Earth, to gods and spirits, to those who have already died, and to all of you standing here in this place. Zongwang has today formally launched his forces in a full assault on Bian Liang. My friends — the hour is nearly upon us…”

The bonfires blazed fiercely, and the whole valley fell into a grim, solemn stillness, everyone listening silently to his words.

The wind and snow sweeping across the sky seemed, for a moment, almost reluctant to approach this place…

…

Taiyuan.

At night, Qin Shaohe, ill in bed, woke from his sleep. In the dim room, his concubine had fallen asleep beside the bed. He lay there, eyes open for a long while, until finally, unable to hold back a fit of coughing, he woke her.

“My lord, you’re awake — would you like some water?” the concubine asked, then added, “The city’s defenses are fine — don’t worry.”

“I had a dream. I dreamed of my father,” he said, his voice weak.

“Your father is in Bian Liang — surely that’s better than being here. Don’t worry.”

“Mm.” Qin Shaohe nodded faintly, then smiled and said:

“Zhanmei, I think… I may never see my father again…”

…

The sea of snow spread on, day turning into night and back again. On the twenty-second of the eleventh month, dawn arrived.

This particular morning in Bian Liang was unusually quiet; apart from the falling snow, it was as though no one had yet woken. The Fan Tower’s carriage passed through the silent streets and alleys, and by the time it drew near the city wall, the sky had only just begun to pale. Shishi stepped down from the carriage. She had been coming here often lately to help, but this time, the atmosphere within the military camp felt somewhat different.

Before she could even begin to make sense of this shift in mood, from beyond that massive distant wall came the faint but startling sound of horns. A massive object was passing through the sky above. A dull, heavy thud sounded, and amid the faint light of dawn and the drifting snow, it was as though a sudden gust of wind had swept past — Shishi’s body flinched involuntarily. She felt the ground itself tremble beneath her, and somewhere in the distance, someone let out a cry—

Boom—

—BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!!

In an instant, the sound of the assault on the city rose to its absolute peak, a terrifying roar that engulfed the entire city, shaking everything it touched…

The gates of hell had opened.