Night had fallen, and the wind and snow gathered over the Xia Village region, mingling with the light of the bonfires.

With the Resentment Army withdrawn, the surrounding area had once again come fully under Xia Village’s control. The great battle had only ended that morning, but all manner of matters showed no sign of concluding even now. The initial wild celebration, the excitement, the relief of having survived against the odds, had already begun to fade somewhat; both within and outside the camp, all sorts of business now pressed in from every side.

“…Our first victory in this campaign—I know everyone’s exhausted, I’m exhausted too, but just now, in the meeting, General Qin and Master Ning have already decided: tomorrow we break camp and reinforce the capital. You all need to pass this word down properly…”

In a small lamplit shed, the mid-level officers of the Xia Village army were holding a meeting; the news relayed by their commanding officer, Pang Liu’an, was not an easy one, but even after this exhausting day, these officers—each responsible for a few hundred men—still forced themselves to stay alert.

“…Ten straight days of fighting, and we defeated Guo Yaoshi—everyone knows what condition we’re all in. But the capital is in dire peril, and the news that came in this afternoon has already made things clear: Young Marshal Zhong has gambled everything, striking straight at Zongwang’s own main force! He knows that Zongwang’s siege of the capital has already run its course—if the Jurchen suffer more losses, they won’t be able to keep pressing the assault. Young Marshal Zhong has drawn Zongwang’s attention, but right now, the capital’s own troops cannot sally out to help him! Within several dozen li, the only force capable of fighting is this one—ours!”

“At today’s meeting, Master Ning already made clear: as far as the fight for the capital goes, once Guo Yaoshi withdraws, it’s essentially over and done! This is our victory!”

By the firelight, Pang Liu’an waved his hand. “But ‘over’ only means the broader situation won’t change—the capital, in all likelihood, can now be held. But this battle we just fought—did we truly win? Tens of thousands of Jurchen swept down, drove straight through, struck all the way to our dynasty’s capital, breached the wall more than once! Outside Bian Liang, they crushed several hundred thousand of our troops in defeat after defeat! We’ve barely managed to drive them back now—but even having driven them back, what does that really mean? If they come again another day, will our dynasty be able to hold them off?”

“Brothers, General Qin and Master Ning both said today: no matter what today’s outcome was, someday in the future, the two nations will inevitably face a decisive battle again—a fight to the death, a war where one nation destroys the other. In that war, the most important thing of all will be… men willing to fight!”

Pang Liu’an paused, looking over the assembled officers. “Men like us here at Xia Village. Like General Long Hui and the others who came to our aid. Like Young Marshal Zhong, who dares to fight the Jurchen even now. What we can rely on is not those clever men who, once they see the bigger picture, shrink back in fear—it’s brothers like these, who press forward even knowing the danger! Brothers, the Jurchen’s only hope of getting home safely now rests on this one battle. Our army, through this clash with Guo Yaoshi, has already been tempered into a blade. Tomorrow we break camp to meet the Jurchen’s main army—whether we end up fighting or not, this is all part of forging that edge. When the Jurchen come again someday, all of you will be the pillars holding up this nation—what joy could compare to standing against the whole world alongside them… All of this, you need to pass along to the brothers under your command.”

The order from above, though only just given, was still settling in—but among the many officers and soldiers of Xia Village, most already had some sense of what it meant. A great victory, for the soldiers of Xia Village at this moment, carried a weight almost too heavy to bear, simply because such victories had been so rare; hardship and stubborn endurance like this, they had experienced too little of before.

Though there had been celebration and revelry at noon and through the evening, once bellies were filled and throats wetted, those who remained purely immersed in joy were not, in fact, the majority. Before this, after all, every single person here had endured too many defeats, had witnessed too many comrades die. When death becomes the norm, people stop finding it strange—but when the possibility of not dying suddenly appears before them, the old questions of why they had died, why they had lost, begin to surface once more.

Among all the armies in the realm at this time, this was likely the only unit that would produce such a reaction after a great victory—in a sense, this too was the result of Ning Yi’s months of guidance. And so, after the victory, there were those who felt sorrow, those who wept—but of course, amid these complicated emotions, joy and heartfelt personal admiration still made up the greater share.

The images of Ning Yi and Qin Shaoqian—one a scholar, one a warrior; one skilled in strategy, one decisive in action—combined with the black cavalry from Mount Lüliang and the great many underworld fighters under Bamboo Registry’s command, each with their own extraordinary skills—all of these carried a clear symbolic weight, and had easily left their mark on the hearts of everyone in this hodgepodge army assembled from scattered remnants.

After a hearty meal, Mao Yishan went to the field hospital to check on a few brothers he knew, and on his way out, saw Qu Qing waving to him. Over these past days, this veteran soldier, seasoned by years of warfare, had always given off a steady but somewhat melancholic air—only now did he seem somehow different. Amid the wind and snow, his face carried a look of genuine ease and joy.

No soldier here was giving the wind and snow around him a second thought.

After exchanging a few words, Qu Qing handed him a whetstone: “Stop wandering around, go sharpen your blade.”

“Huh?” Mao Yishan blinked, then understood. “Tomorrow—we’re fighting again?”

“Maybe not tomorrow, and maybe there won’t be another battle at all—but a standoff with the Jurchen is certain. Better if it doesn’t come to fighting. If it does, we’re not afraid either. Just make sure we’re ready.”

That afternoon, during the memorial rites for Long Hui, despite their exhaustion, everyone’s blood had still run hot. Not long after, word had come of Zhong Shizhong’s direct clash with Zongwang. Having visited the many wounded brothers who, despite their injuries, were still rejoicing over the victory, Mao Yishan, like the other soldiers, had already begun bracing himself, mentally, for another confrontation with the Jurchen—there was even, faintly, a lingering thirst for blood. But of course, wanting something and actually doing it were two different matters; Mao Yishan himself knew that after ten days of fighting, even the soldiers who hadn’t ended up in the field hospital were utterly exhausted.

Still, if the order came down from above, it surely meant they had confidence in the outcome—no need to think too hard about it.

The two of them stood partway up the hillside, chatting idly while looking down toward the base of the hill. Near the Xia Village camp gate, things looked rather lively—several groups had already arrived from other forces stationed around Bian Liang, which was, frankly, a bit irritating to witness. A thought occurred to Mao Yishan, and he asked, “Brother Qu, before all this… which unit were you actually an officer in?”

Qu Qing’s martial skill was considerable, and his combat experience ran deep; he could read the shifting tides of a battlefield clearly, something Mao Yishan had already witnessed firsthand. Seeing him in good spirits now, he finally asked. Qu Qing gazed down the hillside, showing no irritation at the question, and after a moment, smiled. “Being an officer… isn’t as good as being an ordinary soldier.”

“Then… Brother Qu, once this battle’s over, will you and I have to go back to our own units?”

Mao Yishan had hesitated a while before asking this. Once he had, Qu Qing fell silent as well, and after a moment, looking toward the commotion by the camp gate, he frowned and let out a cold snort, saying nothing more.

It had been less than a day since the great battle at Xia Village, yet already, from the evening onward, envoys from the various armies stationed around Bian Liang had begun arriving one after another. These men were either high-ranking figures from other forces, men of reputation and skill, or former officers of the Wuriu Battalion who, after its collapse, had been absorbed by senior officials like Chen Yanshu. Their arrival served two purposes: on one hand, to congratulate the victory at Xia Village and praise the unparalleled achievement of Qin Shaoqian and the others; on the other, to signal their willingness to follow Qin Shaoqian’s lead, hoping to advance together with the Xia Village army while morale was high, riding this great victory to jointly break the siege of the capital.

And beneath the surface of their visits lay another question, asked in roundabout ways: at the outset, when the various armies had suffered crushing defeats, the scattered remnants had been absorbed and reorganized in whatever way was expedient at the time—but now that there was finally room to breathe, might these soldiers of mixed origin be restored to their original units?

The chaos in the ranks of ordinary soldiers might be hard to sort out any time soon, but the placement of officers was comparatively clear. For instance, within the Xia Village army now, He Zhicheng had originally belonged under He Chengzhong of the Wuwei Army, while Mao Yishan’s commander, Pang Lingming, was an officer under Chen Yanshu of the Wusheng Army; these mid-level officers were, in the present arrangement, generally responsible for the scattered troops under them. The matter of common soldiers could be left vague, but these officers had, from the start, only been “borrowed”—so when, exactly, would they be allowed to lead their men back to their original units?

The Xia Village side was being deliberately evasive about such questions—but compared to their usual sluggishness, and their clumsiness in facing the Jurchen, everyone’s reactions on this particular matter were, without exception, sharp and swift.

Anyone capable of discussing matters at this level—who among them was truly a fool?

…

The capital.

Leaving the palace, Qin Siyuan went to the Ministry of War and worked through a pile of matters at hand. By the time he left the ministry’s main hall, wind and snow were swirling together, and the city’s bleak lamplight was all but swallowed up in the storm.

That day, the Jurchen had paused their siege of the city. According to reports arriving from various sources, after the long, agonizing ordeal, a glimmer of hope had finally appeared—even if the Jurchen, having won a great victory outside the city, turned back to resume the siege, their morale, already flagging once, would flag further still, and exhaust itself entirely by a third try. The assembled court officials had already begun to sense the possibility of peace negotiations; though the city’s defenses could not yet be relaxed, the pause in the Jurchen’s assault had at least brought a moment’s respite.

Only for Qin Siyuan, matters showed no sign of lessening—if anything, given the possibilities now unfolding, the things he needed to prepare for had suddenly grown even more numerous.

Whether it ended in war or peace, the affairs that followed would only become more tangled and complex.

“…To Suanzao Gate.”

Having given this instruction to his attendant, he boarded his carriage, and by the lamplight within, the old man continued reviewing the reports that had come in. The days of great battle had left countless dead and wounded; within Bian Liang, tens of thousands had already perished, giving rise to an overwhelming weariness of war. Prices were soaring, public order was in disarray, and the wailing of women, children, and the elderly who had lost family members went on unceasingly, day and night—one could faintly hear it all along the road from the Ministry of War to the city wall. And the problems arising from all of this would, in the end, all funnel back into the old man’s hands, transforming into burdens of a weight few ordinary men could bear, pressing down upon his shoulders.

Arriving at the devastated area near the New Suanzao Gate, the old man finally set aside the work in his hands, descended from the carriage, and, leaning on his cane, slowly made his way toward the wall.

All around were bonfires for warmth, tents, gathered soldiers and wounded, and many eyes turned in his direction. Thin and frail, the old man waved off the attendants who moved to support him, and, lost in thought, made his way toward the wall on his cane. He paid no attention to these people—not the wounded, nor those grieving the loss of family within the city; these past days, the old man had regarded most of them with a kind of cold indifference. Reaching the tall staircase, he again refused any assistance, slowly climbing the steps while still lost in thought.

Atop the battered wall, the stench of blood hung heavy in the air; the wind and snow raged fiercely, and in the darkness, the dimly lit Jurchen camp could be seen in the distance, with pitch-black emptiness stretching beyond it. The old man gazed out at the distance for a while; a group of men with torches approached, and the elderly man leading them bowed to Qin Siyuan amid the wind and snow. Qin Siyuan returned the bow, and the two old men exchanged a wordless salute in the storm.

After a moment, the other old man spoke—it was Zhong Shidao.

“I have heard of what transpired in court today. That the Chancellor pleaded for troops to be sent for my younger brother—Shidao is deeply grateful.”

“…” Qin Siyuan silently, gravely, cupped his hands in return.

Zhong Shidao had already straightened up. “But this gratitude is a personal one. As a matter of public duty, Shidao, like the other ministers, does not agree with the Chancellor’s proposal. The capital is in dire peril, its troop strength already stretched thin; to rashly sally forth would only see us picked off piece by piece by the Jurchen. If the Jurchen, in desperation, were to resume their assault on the city, our position would only grow more untenable. The Right Chancellor’s proposal… ah…”

Both men were exceptionally shrewd, worldly wise—there was much between them that made little difference whether spoken aloud or not. In the defense of Bian Liang, Qin Siyuan had been responsible for logistics and administrative matters, rarely intervening directly in military affairs. Zhong Shizhong’s charge, while stirring, had changed nothing about the fact that once the Jurchen shifted their full force toward pursuing and encircling him, the capital simply could not spare troops to relieve him—this much everyone understood. And yet, in this situation, the one voice speaking out most forcefully, wanting to commit their last reserves to a desperate gamble to save Zhong Shizhong, had turned out to be none other than the normally cautious Qin Siyuan—something that had genuinely surprised everyone.

So much so that in court that day, apart from Qin Siyuan himself, even Li Gang, the Left Chancellor who had long been his closest partner, had voiced opposition to the proposal. The fate of the capital concerned the survival of the entire nation—how could anyone be permitted to gamble everything on a single throw?

Moreover, regardless of whether Zhong Shizhong lived or died, this great war now seemed to carry some hope of concluding—why stir up further complications unnecessarily.

The court session had dragged on a long while, and in the end had concluded only with Qin Siyuan alienating a great many people, achieving nothing at all. Having handled the day’s administrative affairs after the session ended, the old man had come here—and Zhong Shidao, as Zhong Shizhong’s elder brother, while grateful for Qin Siyuan’s righteous stand, likewise felt, in view of the current situation, that troops could not be sent.

“Only… Chancellor Qin, I confess I don’t understand. You knew full well what the outcome of that proposal would be—why did you insist on it anyway…”

Amid the wind and snow, Zhong Shidao and Qin Siyuan walked together to the edge of the wall, gazing out at the distant darkness, sighing quietly over the uncertain fate of Zhong Shizhong, whose whereabouts remained unknown.

…

“…Qin Siyuan, that old dog—what he did today was truly strange.”

In the imperial study, having written a few characters, Zhou Zhe set down his brush, frowned, drew a breath, then rose and paced about the room.

“Du Chengxi, what do you suppose he’s playing at…”

In the room, Du Chengxi, who had been keeping his eyes and thoughts carefully to himself, gave a start. “Your Majesty has said before that the Right Chancellor is a man of extraordinary talent. As for what’s on his mind, this servant truly cannot guess.”

“Heh. Extraordinary talent.” Zhou Zhe clasped his hands behind his back and smiled, then let the smile fade. “Qin Siyuan is a man of deep calculation, versed in both the orthodox and the unconventional—truly formidable. In the past, whenever he had some scheme in court, he would always have every angle smoothed over well before the session began. Only this time—heh—he proposes something like this, and it even turns Li Gang against him. To say there’s no deception in it, who would believe that?”

Du Chengxi hesitated. “Your Majesty is wise, only… this servant wonders, could it be that the turning point on the battlefield only emerged today, and the Right Chancellor wished to smooth things over beforehand but simply ran out of time?”

“Oh? You old dog, speaking up for him—have you taken his money?” Zhou Zhe shot him a glance. Du Chengxi, startled, immediately dropped to his knees to beg forgiveness. Zhou Zhe waved a hand.

“Get up, get up. I was only joking. Even if you had taken his money, do you think I’d let myself be swayed by you?” He paused. “But you’ve got it backward. If there simply wasn’t enough time, and he knew full well that holding firm would do no good, Qin Siyuan would naturally have spared himself the trouble of even bringing it up. That he argued so fiercely against the assembled ministers today—as I see it, he must have sensed his position had grown awkward, feared that others might settle scores with him later, and wanted to make enemies deliberately, to shed some of his power! This old dog, deeply cunning as he is, knows that sometimes being cursed at, being reprimanded by me, actually works in his favor—but does he really think I can’t see through a trick like that… heh…”

He smiled, and that smile lingered strangely on his face for a long while; then, as if savoring or turning something over in his mind, he murmured a few words under his breath: “Heh… the great victory at Xia Village, is it…”

Amid this murmuring, someone came to announce that Li Zhuo had arrived.

“Send him in.”

Zhou Zhe said, walking back behind his desk.

Before long, Li Zhuo, the minister who had previously gone out of the city to negotiate with the Jurchen, entered.

…

“…War and governance are different matters.”

The wind and snow lashed against the city wall; the old man’s pale beard and hair trembled in the storm, already crusted with frost.

Qin Siyuan reached out and touched the frozen bloodstains on the parapet. “Over these years, I’ve often discussed with others what matters most in a great war. At Xia Village, my unworthy son’s partner, a man named Ning Yi, has always favored clever techniques, delighted in the study of natural philosophy, and taken great interest in firearms. Yet scholars beyond, when debating strategy, always concern themselves with tactics—what should come first, what should come second, how to respond in a given terrain. And yet… none of it proved of any use against the Liao, or against the Jurchen, simply because our dynasty values scholarship over arms, and several hundred thousand troops, utterly lacking the will to fight, were routed by a mere few tens of thousands…”

The old man paused, sighing. “Brother Zhong, this is how scholars are—when debating strategy with others, they must always choose one side over the other. But in truth, all things under heaven cannot escape the principle of the golden mean. As Confucius said: to draw the bow taut without ever slackening it is beyond even the most capable; to slacken it without ever drawing it taut is something no capable person would do. One draw, one release—that is the true way of both scholarship and arms. But foolish men are often unable to distinguish between the two. This old fool has spent his whole life seeking safety and caution, yet on matters of great consequence, everything I’ve done has been a gamble. And now, Brother Zhong, do you truly believe that even if we manage, by sheer luck, to survive this time, the Jurchen won’t come again?”

Zhong Shidao said, “With this lesson learned, so long as we take it to heart hereafter, His Majesty is diligent in governance, and the many ministers at court…”

“You speak too lightly, Brother Zhong.” Qin Siyuan smiled. “Several hundred thousand men were crushed outside the city walls; ten thousand more died within these walls. If it were several hundred thousand like these, or even several million, it would still mean nothing. Is the truth of this world, the root of the problems in this court and this army, really so hard for anyone to see? What this world lacks has never been men who can see clearly—what it lacks is men willing to bleed, willing to die. The battle at Xia Village is precisely this principle at work. Before General Long Hui set out, he called widely for others to join him, and few answered; I’ve heard that Chen Yanshu even tried to stop people from joining his cause. And sure enough, Long Hui’s battle ended in defeat—how clever of Chen Yanshu! And yet, had Long Hui not stirred the fighting spirit in others, the battle at Xia Village would very likely have ended in defeat, not victory. What use are clever men? If this world were filled entirely with such ‘clever men,’ who, when the moment truly arrived, all fell silent and drew back, who understood the danger all too well and grew disheartened—then Xia Village, then this very Bian Liang, would never have needed to fight at all. Several million people would simply have become slaves and livestock, and that would be that!”

“Calling them clever is only petty cleverness—true wisdom is not like this at all.” The old man shook his head. “What does our dynasty lack today? To hold back the next Jurchen invasion southward, what do we lack? It is not the million souls within this capital, nor the several hundred thousand troops outside it. It is those ten-thousand-odd men at Xia Village, it is General Long Hui and the ten-thousand-odd men who died beneath the blade alongside him, and it is the twenty-thousand-odd men that Young Marshal Zhong now leads, daring to charge straight at the Jurchen. Brother Zhong, without them, the million souls within our capital cannot even be counted as truly human…”

Zhong Shidao fell silent. Qin Siyuan gazed out into the distant darkness, his lips trembling: “This old fool may not understand warfare, but I only hope that with the strength remaining within this city, we can tie down the Jurchen as much as possible, prevent them from turning their full force against Young Marshal Zhong, so that by the time the Xia Village army arrives to break camp and confront the main Jurchen force, the capital might yet negotiate peace and preserve what living strength remains. With these men still alive, we would have the seeds needed to face the Jurchen the next time. I know this is a gamble—but who is to say that today’s cause won’t spare us tomorrow’s disaster? If we can take this risk today, we may yet leave behind, for tomorrow, a small measure of capital to build upon…”

“…Chancellor Qin’s devotion runs deep. Shidao… on behalf of my brother, and on behalf of every disciple of the Western Army, offers his thanks.” After a long moment, Zhong Shidao bowed once more, deeply. The old man’s face was etched with sorrow; beside him, Qin Siyuan drew a breath and returned the bow: “Brother Zhong, it is I who should thank the Western Army on behalf of all under heaven—and I who owe the Western Army an apology…”

He sighed, and after a moment, Zhong Shidao, standing beside him, suddenly gave a hearty laugh.

“In truth, perhaps the Chancellor worries too much.” He spoke into the wind. “My brother has always favored caution in his conduct of war as well—whether he can win or not is secondary; he has surely already planned his line of retreat. Years ago, in the wars against the Western Xia, this was always his way. Even in defeat, leading his men to withdraw should pose no great difficulty. The Chancellor need not trouble himself with worry over him.”

“Oh, is that so.” Qin Siyuan replied. “Ha ha… let us hope so.”

Atop the wall, the two exhausted men both gazed toward the distance, as did the many soldiers stationed along the wall. Snowflakes drifted through the darkness; since the torches, buffeted by the wind, gave off little light, neither could truly make out the other’s expression. Yet on the old man Qin Siyuan’s face, tears fell silently in the dark—that such a thing should happen to a man normally so cold and resolute was, one might suppose, simply because the wind and snow atop the wall that night were, in truth, far too fierce…

In the throne hall, Zhou Zhe had finished giving his orders to Li Zhuo.

“…As for the peace negotiations, the Left Chancellor has been quite eager to go in person. I have thought this over at length, and since you have already dealt with Zongwang before, and are more adaptable than the Left Chancellor, I permit you to act as circumstances dictate in this negotiation. At present, Zhong Shizhong is being pursued by Zongwang’s Western Army; I do not wish the Western Army to suffer excessive losses. Take this decree and set out from the city at once. This Wanyan Zongwang ought to understand, by now, when it’s time to quit while ahead!”

…

North of Bian Liang, at Wuzhang Ridge.

Deep in the night, the wind and snow had frozen everything between heaven and earth solid.

Atop Wuzhang Ridge, bonfires burned; several thousand men were gathered on the frigid hilltop, and since there was little firewood to be found nearby, few fires could be kept burning. Soldiers and warhorses huddled together, leaning against one another for warmth amid the storm.

Far below, in the distance, torchlight moved back and forth—messengers of death searching through the darkness.

Before long, the sound of battle cries rose up, sweeping across the ridge on the wind and snow; the soldiers braced themselves, watching warily for enemies attacking out of the darkness—but before long, they realized this was merely a psychological tactic by the enemy in the night.

In a small tent at the very center of the camp, the old man, his body wrapped in bandages still seeping blood, opened his eyes at the sound.

“The men sent for reinforcements… did they break through…”

“They broke through, they broke through…” said Wang Hongjia, the veteran deputy who had served at his side for many years.

“Don’t stay here—be careful of encirclement, tell everyone to move quickly…”

“Yes, sir.”

Wang Hongjia acknowledged the order, and after a moment, left the small tent. A gravely wounded officer came in: “We’re surrounded on all sides, the Jurchen have cut off every route…”

…

“…The Western Army’s escape routes have all been cut off by our forces.”

Outside Wuzhang Ridge, in the hastily established camp, a scout came running to report the situation to Zongwang. Only then did Zongwang dismount, unfastening his cloak and tossing it to an attendant. “Good—surround them! If they try to break through, cut off another piece for me! I want them all dead here!”

Through the day’s fighting, the Western Army had held out for the better part of a day against the Jurchen’s fierce assault before finally collapsing. Zhong Shizhong, leading the bulk of his forces, had fled and maneuvered his way across the terrain—but in truth, all the fury Zongwang harbored over this battle had already been poured entirely onto this reckless Western Army. Once the Jurchen cavalry launched their full pursuit, the Western Army’s main formation had no realistic chance of escaping intact; they were cut apart and encircled piece by piece along the way, and stragglers were slaughtered without exception. In the end, they had been driven all the way to this hilltop, where at last, both sides came to a halt.

Before long, someone else arrived.

“Reporting to the Marshal—an envoy has come out from Bian Liang, the same Wu Dynasty man who negotiated with us before. The Wu Dynasty Emperor…”

“Kill him.”

“…He wishes to negotiate peace with us.”

“Oh? Then don’t kill him yet—bring him here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let him watch me slaughter these men… then we’ll talk!”

…

Bian Liang.

Deep in the night, in a small room near the city wall, those who had come in from outside the city met with the old man.

“Marshal Zhong…” Several young officers, blood on their bodies, knelt down at once; some, upon seeing the old man approach, even burst into tears.

Zhong Shidao brought over hot water, walking toward them, patting their shoulders. “I know, I know…”

“Marshal Zhong, Young Marshal is trapped at Wuzhang Ridge…”

“I know, I know—Cheng Ming and the others arrived before you and already told me. Drink some hot water first, warm yourselves up…”

“Marshal Zhong, will the court send troops…”

“I said I know!” The old man’s voice sharpened for a moment, then he said, “I’ll handle what comes next. Go get something to eat in a while, and meet up with Cheng Ming and the others—someone will arrange for your wounds to be treated and a place for you to stay.”

“Marshal Zhong…”

Before long, the men were led away. In the room, Zhong Shidao sat in his chair, gazing at the faintly flickering lamp flame nearby. After a while, a guard came in to report that his comrades had been settled; Zhong Shidao nodded. “You may go.”

“Yes, sir.” The guard answered and, as he was about to leave the room, glanced back—the old man was still sitting there in a daze, staring at the small point of lamplight ahead. Unable to hold back, he asked, “Marshal Zhong, shouldn’t we petition the court to…”

“…There’s no possibility of that. No use making a nuisance of ourselves.”

Zhong Shidao answered simply. In his mind, he thought of Qin Siyuan, of the words they had exchanged atop the wall earlier—and in the small glow of the oil lamp, the old man quietly closed his eyes, his deeply lined face trembling faintly.

…

The next morning, at Wuzhang Ridge.

The wind and snow had stopped.

Zhong Shizhong emerged from his tent.

Though called the “Young Marshal,” he was, in fact, no longer young at all—his hair had gone entirely white. He had been gravely wounded the day before, but now he still put on his armor, then mounted his warhorse and took up his guan-blade.

The soldiers gathered around him; many others had frozen to death during the night, and could no longer move.

“My elder brother will come.” Zhong Shizhong, paying no heed to the fallen soldiers, said to Wang Hongjia, “Follow me—we break through!”

Wang Hongjia said, “Yes, sir.”

In Bian Liang, Zhong Shidao stood atop the city wall, gazing out at that seemingly boundless expanse of snow in the distance.

In a place beyond his sight, Zhong Shizhong spurred his horse forward, blade raised, charging straight into the Jurchen cavalry.

At Xia Village, the army broke camp and set out on campaign.

In a small room within Bian Liang, Xue Changgong opened his eyes, the smell of medicine filling his nose; his body was wrapped tightly in bandages. Turning his head slightly, he saw, on the small bed beside him, a woman lying there as well—her face pale, her breathing faint, likewise steeped in the smell of medicine—but breathing still. That was He Lei’er.

Before long—he had no idea how long, exactly—someone came to tell him that peace negotiations with the Jurchen were to begin.

Outside the window, the wind and snow had finally stopped. After enduring such a long, hellish stretch of gloom and storm, they had, for the first time, finally caught sight of the light of dawn…