In the early morning, in the courtyard behind Bamboo Records Tavern, people had swept away the accumulated snow, and in the still-dim light, people had already begun to gather, greeting each other in low voices.
The courtyard was quite large, with about sixty or seventy people, most wearing robes, some carrying instruments like the erhu. They found long benches and sat down in twos and threes in the cold weather.
They were all storytellers. Lu Si was one of them. He held his erhu, with a few sheets of paper still in his hand, his eyes slightly red from staying up all night. After sitting down, he saw several shopkeepers and proprietors coming in from the front.
“Gentlemen, forgive me for gathering everyone so hastily. The city is short on supplies, and there’s no fire going, so I’ll be brief. When I’m done, please stay for noodles. The short stories that have been distributed to you—most of you should have read some of them already.”
“We’ve read them,” Lu Si answered from within the crowd, and the responses around him were mostly in unison. They were ordinarily storytellers, skilled at glib and clever speech, but at this moment there was no one making jokes or bantering. On one hand, the man at the front commanded considerable respect; on the other hand, during this period of the Jurchen siege, everyone had experienced too much. Some people they had once known had gone to the walls to stand garrison duty and never returned; others had had their limbs hacked off by the Jurchen and had still not died. In the end, because most of these people were literate and could count, they had been assigned to logistics work, and having survived, it was only last night, after reading the stories of some people inside and outside the city, that they realized just how much had happened during this time.
Lu Si had stayed up the whole night reading the two stories that had been given to him, his emotions stirred. As storytellers, they sometimes told fanciful tales of the supernatural, sometimes recounted hearsay and rumors embellished with exaggeration, but these were ultimately different from the matters at hand—especially since he himself had taken part, which made it different still.
From the neighboring courtyard already came the fragrance of noodle soup. The proprietor at the front continued speaking.
“The printing house has only just resumed work, and there aren’t enough hands, so for now we can’t give a copy to everyone—you can pass them around among yourselves after reading. This battle against the Jurchen wasn’t fought well; many people died. But in this battle, whether inside or outside the city, there were many people who charged forward and gave their lives. They died charging forward, not while fleeing. It’s for their sake that we need to preserve these stories…”
“There’s no need for grandiose, stirring embellishment. There’s no need to speak of them the way people speak of Li Guang or Huo Qubing, saying things like ‘those who offend the mighty Han, however far, shall be punished,’ or talking about grand exploits sealed at Langjuxu. This time we’re only telling of individuals—the stories already compiled, and those not yet compiled. There are many such stories; if you hear of them, you can help compile them too. In our storytelling, ordinarily we might just draw a laugh from people. But right now this whole city is grieving, and you need to go and lift their spirits a little. There’s nothing else to it—those who sacrificed themselves, we will remember them… We speak of tragic solemnity, not of heroic bravado. Does everyone understand? If there’s anything unclear, you can raise it, and we’ll discuss it together.”
Someone then began to speak, asking, “Proprietor, has the peace negotiation outside the city been settled yet?”
“The negotiations are not yet settled.” These days, storytellers were often among the most well-informed people in society, and after telling their stories they would often discuss the facts with others. Naturally someone might ask about the negotiations. The proprietor answered, “To be honest, there’s been some progress—both sides may be inclined toward peace. But gentlemen, don’t forget the wolfish nature of the Jurchen. If we truly treat this as a sure thing and let our guard down, the Jurchen will certainly pounce on us. Old hunters in the mountains all know that when you meet a fierce beast, the important thing is to fix your eyes on its eyes—if you don’t watch it, it will surely bite you. When you go out, you can emphasize this point.”
“…If we are prepared to fight, then we have the standing to make peace. If we have no mind to fight, then we are certain to be beaten.”
The clamor of voices continued for a while longer, and then the noodles were ready, brought out steaming hot.
This morning, Bianliang remained a stretch of white snow. After breakfast, the storytellers gradually went out. Together with the workers from Bamboo Records, they mostly went out in pairs. Lu Si found a small market by the riverside and sat down, raising his erhu.
The siege had dragged on, the weather was cold, and there wasn’t much to buy in the market. The two white tents set up not far away were perhaps the most eye-catching thing around—under such circumstances, families able to hold funeral rites for the dead were mostly those with some savings left. He played the erhu for a while, and after he began to tell his story, some people from nearby came over.
The sound of the erhu was mournful, and what he told was, in truth, not an uplifting story either. When the Jurchen had attacked the city, he too had witnessed many deaths. He had spent most of his time in the rear and had survived by luck, seeing others go to their deaths, or the desolate scenes before their deaths, without being deeply moved at the time. Only now, combined with these thoroughly recorded and organized stories, did those who had died back then seem to suddenly gain meaning and a place to belong. The people who gathered around, including those listening from a distance at their doorways, had for the most part had similar experiences of their own. Once these were drawn out into reality by the stories, most of them could not help but feel a bitter sorrow in their hearts.
After he finished telling one story, a small crowd had already gathered nearby, including children dressed in mourning hemp. There was a small incident afterward. A woman in mourning clothes from a nearby household came to plead with him. She had set up a memorial hall for her husband, but with so many dead in the city, let alone a monk, she couldn’t even find anyone nearby who could play an instrument. Seeing that Lu Si could play the erhu, she brought money and begged him to come help.
After Lu Si refused, the woman sat down on the ground and wept in grief, murmuring about her family’s affairs. Her husband had been a young landowner in the area who liked practicing swordsmanship in his spare time. When the Jurchen came, he had left behind his wife and their two young children and gone to the new Suanzao Gate, where he died. Now the two children were two and four years old. Though the family had left behind some modest wealth, she, a woman just past twenty, had no way to hold the household together. She had arranged a memorial hall for her husband but couldn’t even find a monk or a musician to hire—she could only see her young husband off in this harsh winter all on her own.
It had already been a modest family, and the young woman, burdened with two children, had found it hard to bear this responsibility alone. These past few days, the pressure on her had already grown unbearably heavy, and now, weeping as she spoke it aloud, those around her began wiping away tears too. Nearby, a child of eight or nine in mourning clothes cried out, “My papa died too, my papa died too…” and then the crying spread through the crowd.
This was the kind of scene the storytellers encountered throughout the city that day. Whether inside or outside the city, a single person’s death rarely carried much room for grand and stirring rhetoric. For the survivors within the city, the deaths of their loved ones mostly made them see the harsh reality pressing down before their eyes more than anything else. Only when so many people, of different backgrounds, all died in the same way could a little meaning be added to these deaths. Even though much of this meaning-making was deliberately manufactured, at the very least it kept people from sinking directly into an abyss of darkness.
While the city was being stirred into a modest commotion by those working behind the scenes, outside the walls of Bianliang, in the various army camps facing off against the Jurchen, things were far from calm either.
Earlier, when General Zhong Shizhong had led the Western Army in fierce fighting against the Jurchen, the Wuchi Battalion had arrived one step too late, and word of the peace negotiations had spread soon after. The Wuchi Battalion and the more than a hundred thousand troops that had gradually arrived from the rear had drawn up their formations, facing the Jurchen in front. The Wuchi Battalion chose a not-too-steep snowy slope to make camp, then began constructing fortifications, preparing equipment, and making large-scale preparations for battle. Seeing the Wuchi Battalion’s actions, the others also began building fortifications one after another.
As the peace talks progressed step by step, and word spread that the Jurchen no longer wished to fight and that the peace agreement was all but settled, the other hundred-thousand-plus troops—who had never really come to fight the Jurchen head-on in the first place—grew even more lax. Only the Wuchi Battalion’s stance had been made plain; on one hand, with the fighting nearing its end, the others had no choice but to keep pace with appearances. On the other hand, they had come mainly hoping to claim a share of this elite force’s glory before others could get involved. Since morale had never been high to begin with, their fortification work, already hasty and sloppy, now grew even more perfunctory.
Only within the Wuchi Battalion did the daily routine of building defensive works and practicing offensive drills continue as a matter of course, and at a glance the contrast with the others was stark. After a day or two, someone came to say that during the peace talks, no new hostilities should be stirred up—that parading around in full battle readiness in front of the Jurchen every day looked like provocation, and that if the other side’s temper flared and fighting broke out again, no one could bear the responsibility for having wrecked the peace talks.
During this time, private contact and lobbying between the various armies became commonplace. The Wuchi Battalion could certainly refuse some of it, but there were also things it could not refuse. After a few more days, on the suggestion of Bamboo Records’ council of advisors, they too sent out persuaders to try to win over capable fighters within the enemy’s ranks.
In this way, although it could be counted as a countermove against the other side, privately, things within their own ranks had begun to stir as well. Another round of discussion, review, and self-examination broke out within the army. Naturally they could not target the other side’s actions directly, so instead they gathered to discuss why they had lost to the Jurchen, where exactly the gap between the two sides lay, and what needed to be done to defeat them. Whether learned or unlearned, the men in the army gathered together to share their thoughts, which were then gradually collected and unified.
Everyone has a mind of their own—even a peasant who couldn’t read a single character before enlisting could still tell, after discussing things together, what made sense and what didn’t. Why had they lost to the Jurchen? Because their side feared death. But why, when not one of them individually feared death, did they become fearful once gathered together?… The moment one dug even slightly into such questions, certain issues began to surface. The discussions of these past days had let some sharp truths begin to stir among the mid- and lower-ranking soldiers, resolving to some extent the crisis of being divided from within, while at the same time, something full of vigor and vitality had also begun to sprout within the camp.
Treading through the not-too-deep snow, Chen Dongye returned with his men after training, and as he neared his own tent, he saw an officer standing outside, and at the same time heard the sound of discussion coming from within the tent.
The man outside the tent was someone he knew fairly well. He looked as if he were standing there casually, but was in fact keeping watch. Seeing Chen Dongye, the man gave him a look and waved him in. He lifted the tent flap and went inside, where he found six or seven officers of about the rank of colonel already gathered. When they saw him come in, the conversation paused for a moment before picking up again.
What they were discussing was how the superior officers of the other units were scheming and trying to poach men behind the scenes.
“…A brother of mine came to find me, saying that if I’m willing to go back, there’s a reward of a hundred taels of silver and an immediate promotion of three ranks. These people, afraid the world isn’t chaotic enough already, are spending more and more with each passing day…”
“Can you honestly say you weren’t tempted at all?”
“Heh, do I lack money? Let me tell you, I drew my blade right then and there and told him plainly—say that again, and there’ll be no brotherhood left to speak of, I’ll cut him down with one stroke!”
“Brother He, what nerve!”
“Nothing to do with nerve. Look at how we’ve fought our way through these past days!”
“These past few days I think I’ve finally come to understand how we lost, how those brothers of ours died…”
The men in the tent were all lower-ranking officers, most of them young. Though they had suffered early defeats, they had fought their way out of the Xia Village battle, and this was precisely when their fighting spirit and ferocity ran highest. Luo Ye, who shared this tent with Chen Dongye, came from a prominent family with connections in the capital, and had always been one to speak his mind and dare to fight without hesitation—it was largely because of him that the others had gathered here. As the talk continued, voices grew louder, and someone slapped the wooden bench beside him. Chen Dongye said, “Keep your voices down.”
“What is there to keep quiet about!” said a man across from him, his face marked with a knife scar. “At tonight’s discussion meeting, I’ll say the same thing out loud! The Jurchen haven’t even left yet, and already they want us fighting each other! Everyone in this army can see it clearly now—we only stand a chance if we stick together. If we’re really torn apart, we’ll go back to being a mess of scattered bears in one den, just like before! A hundred taels of silver, three ranks of promotion—so what! It just turns men into dogs!”
“What I mean is: let’s not add to the troubles of those above us. General Qin and the others probably aren’t having an easy time of it either…”
After all this time, the men had come to hold their commanding officers in high regard, especially now, when the daily discussions had given them some sense of the difficulties those above them faced. In their hearts they felt more of a sense of solidarity and shared hatred of the enemy. Someone changed the subject.
“Young Master Ning really is something—gave them quite the show of force.”
“Still, I heard from a brother at Bamboo Records that it’s just an expedient measure for now.”
“Whether we get split up or not, in the end it’s up to those above us to decide…”
“If we really do get split up, will we go back to being like before? Honestly, if they really break us up, give me a hundred taels of silver and three ranks of promotion, and next time the Jurchen come, I won’t have the confidence to fight them off. Once I’ve saved enough money, before the Jurchen come again, I’ll just run off somewhere with no people around…”
“Heh, if you’re going somewhere with no people, what do you need money for…”
“To buy things first!” the man shouted. “Before, I didn’t know any better. We fought the Jurchen and lost so badly—now if I go back and follow those same sons of dogs, and the Jurchen come again, would I even dare fight? Last time, I charged forward, and once I saw the Jurchen bearing down and got wounded, I ran. Next time they charge, I bet I’ll turn and run from the start. Following those officers who skim funds and pocket ghost soldiers’ pay—how can we count on that to win a fight! We finally scraped together some real fighting strength, so many brothers died to get here—honestly, if we stay together, wherever General Qin and Master Ning point, I’ll fight there. If I ever take a step back, may eighteen generations of my ancestors be dogs!”
As he spoke, his eyes reddened slightly, but no one could say anything against him—this man was somewhat sentimental, but on the battlefield killing the enemy, he had always been among the fiercest.
Someone beside him said, “I don’t understand all that much, but if we really do get split up, what should we do?”
“Right, matters of those above us—what right do we foot soldiers have to speak on it…”
“That’s not entirely true,” said the officer named Luo Ye. “Those above have their own ways of fighting it out. There isn’t much we below can do to help, but first and foremost, it comes back to that same point—we have to stick together!”
“When have we not stuck together, all the way up to now!”
“Sticking together isn’t just something you say with your mouth! When the scholars have ideas, all they do is talk. When we soldiers have ideas, we need to stand up—and that means fighting!” Luo Ye, though from a prominent family, was among the boldest fighters, never one to worry about consequences. His eyes widened. “What does sticking together mean? My family knows a lot of people in the capital—whoever doesn’t submit, we finish them off, that’s what sticking together means! General Qin and Master Ning, I respect them. Now that bunch of scum is scheming behind our backs, and our commanders can only handle it from above—which, put plainly, comes down to whoever has more men, more influence. We count as people too—why do these men send persuaders to work on us privately? Because they think we’re easy targets. If they want to stab General Qin and the others in the back through us, then we need to show them that we’re not easy targets at all—that we’re a solid wall of iron! That way, it’ll be easier for General Qin and Master Ning to get things done.”
“Brother Luo, so what do you say we do?”
“Fight! Whoever doesn’t submit, we fight them—same principle as fighting the Jurchen! Don’t you all see it yet—in a few years, the Jurchen will surely come again. If we’re broken apart and end up following those shameless dogs, we’re as good as dead. And if it’s death either way, then we fight! Just like at Xia Village—when the ten-thousand-plus of us stood together, who could stand against us! Those who try to sabotage us, we fight. Those who prove themselves true men, we befriend. This isn’t just about you and me anymore—the nation faces calamity, on the brink of ruin, there’s no time to play games with them…”
The men nodded, half understanding. In the wind and snow, within the camp before them, many similar things were fermenting. Like scattered sparks, though they might be snuffed out at any moment under outside pressure, at least during this stretch of time, people carrying the same feelings had begun, under that outside pressure, to band together—people determined to do something had, after all, emerged.
Like an undercurrent beneath a layer of ice, such things kept surfacing amid the countless tangled affairs of the moment, only to sink back down again. And even as these things unfolded, outside the Jurchen camp, wagon trains were transporting in herbs, grain, and other supplies—meant to placate the Jurchen during the negotiations. This matter was being handled by the Right Chancellor’s household, and it soon drew no small amount of criticism.
Time flowed quietly by amid the wind and snow. In Bianliang, the propaganda led by Bamboo Records gradually lifted the spirits of the grief-stricken people somewhat. Talk of those who had sacrificed themselves in the great battle, of heroes, began to increase. The negotiations were still ongoing. At the Fan Tower, Shishi, amid this flood of information, waited hopefully for Ning Yi and the others to apply the right pressure in the negotiations—Ning Yi and the others, along with the men of the Right Chancellor’s household, were at this time busy running about the capital for this very matter, and every so often, over the past few days, she would hear some news of it—but what she did not know was that, despite all the effort exerted, this time the response the Right Chancellor’s household’s efforts had drawn was less than ideal.
On the twenty-third of the twelfth month, the fourth evening after Ning Yi had quietly returned to Bianliang, he came down from Wenhui Tower discussing matters with one of his advisors at his side.
“…The situation in the capital right now is rather strange. Everyone’s dancing around the issue. The ones actually giving any real response are, ironically, that faction of Tang Ke’s who originally favored peace… Tang Qinsou himself is a man of decent personal character, but he isn’t the important one. Regarding the negotiations outside the city, the crucial point is this: on our side sending troops to escort the Jurchen out of the pass, there’s one detail within it—the question of what becomes of the Wuchi Battalion. Only once these two points are settled, with the Wuchi Battalion aiding in the relief of Taiyuan, can the north be preserved… As it stands now, everyone seems to be speaking evasively, and every day that passes, we lose a little more…”
“…Could it be that the various ministers at court have some other way to save Taiyuan?”
“In this war, Zongwang swept through the Central Plains, and even without any major move from Zonghan, he’s already cleared out the area beside Taiyuan. Once the two armies join forces, who could stand against them? The Wuchi Battalion is the only unit with any victories to its name—only by marching north with over a hundred thousand men, in coordination with the Taiyuan defense line, would there be even the slightest deterrent effect; otherwise it’s simply watching someone else carve up the meat with a knife. Chancellor Qin is lobbying His Majesty, but the Emperor’s own… attitude isn’t entirely clear either…”
In Bianliang, what Ning Yi was truly responsible for was still public opinion and propaganda, coordination among the mid- and lower ranks, and certain matters of liaison with the military. But even without being directly in charge, the attitude of the upper echelons of the Wu court at present was strange enough as it was.
Qin Siyuan, Jueming, Yao Zunian—these men were all shrewd and capable, with no lack of ability. And yet, after operating for so long, with Qin Siyuan having had audience with the Emperor multiple times, they still could get no clear answer on any front, which was enough to make anyone anxious. What exactly was the Emperor’s attitude toward the army? What exactly did everyone’s attitude toward Taiyuan amount to? Was there any chance the negotiations up ahead might stall on some crucial point? All these matters pressed forward like the turning of a wheel, and any hesitation would mean watching the opportunity slip away before their very eyes.
The negotiations outside the city should be settled within a few days. Ning Yi, too, found the silence and hesitation of the upper echelons somewhat strange. Just as he was coming out of Wenhui Tower, a voice suddenly rang out ahead of him.
“Damn it—it’s so cold out, hardly any dead bodies in the streets, I’m so bored… What the— Ning Yi! Hahahaha, Ning Yi!”
The voice was extremely brash—one could tell at once who it was. Ning Yi looked up, and sure enough, it was Gao Mu’en, the dissolute young troublemaker, bundled up like a panda, his appearance thoroughly disreputable. Seeing Ning Yi, his expression shifted several times, and then he put his hands on his hips.
“You damn well came back, hahahaha! Ning Yi, you actually dare come back… Your good days are numbered! Damn it, when the time comes I’m going to finish you off—”
He pointed a finger at Ning Yi, his mouth spouting these vague threats. Ning Yi tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing faintly. Just then, a sudden clatter rang out.
“Kill the traitor’s dog—!”
Someone on the street suddenly shouted, and a figure threw off the canvas cover on a nearby carriage. Snow flew everywhere, blades flashed, and hidden weapons took to the air. A peddler who had been setting up his stall on the long street overturned it in alarm. Not far from Ning Yi, a woman wearing a headscarf and carrying a basket suddenly raised her hand, and a pair of blades slashed down at him. Someone leapt down from a rooftop, and two assassins rushed past Gao Mu’en. In that instant, a killing formation of more than a dozen men suddenly unfolded on the street, converging on Ning Yi, dressed as he was in a scholar’s robes.
At the very same moment, figures burst out from around Ning Yi, blades flashing across the sky. From the side and rear, a spear shot out like a roaring dragon, sweeping through a wide arc. Battle cries erupted at the same instant, like the fierce spirit and smoke of a real battlefield, shaking the entire street in an instant, killing intent rising to the heavens.
Snow filled the sky, figures clashed, the clang of weapons and the sound of combat rang out, the sound of steel blades cutting into flesh followed—and then came the silhouettes of blood spraying everywhere.
This was a sudden, unexpected assassination attempt. Gao Mu’en had been standing there, his hand originally just pointed at Ning Yi, his eyes fixed on him too. In the blink of an eye, his vision blurred with the chaos of figures rushing forward—fierce men charging at Ning Yi. In that instant, Ning Yi’s own gaze suddenly changed color, but Gao Mu’en only caught that single moment before it was blocked from view by the surging figures. The burly man who charged at Ning Yi found his entire body curling up the next instant, sent flying with a boom to the side of the street, smashing into the goods on a cargo cart, crates flying everywhere. A swordsman using ground-level blade techniques tumbled past, his blade flashing like a blooming lotus, before being pierced through by a steel spear and rolling away trailing a deep red color. And ahead, amid the crossing flashes of blades, a severed head flew into the air, thick, warm blood splashing across Gao Mu’en’s face. A hunchbacked swordsman swung his long blade, cutting his way forward with a flow like running water, letting out a bloodcurdling shriek from his mouth.
“Waaah—!”
In an instant, blood and chaos filled everything ahead—
Gao Mu’en couldn’t make sense of anything before him. After a moment, he finally came to his senses and suddenly let out a scream: “Aaaaaah—blood! There are assassins, protect me, quick, I need to go tell my father—” He held his head and scrambled into the crowd of guards, plowing straight through them, slamming into a tree with a bang, clutching his nose and rolling on the ground.
Because of the war, the assassination attempts by the martial world against Ning Yi had ceased for a while, but even so, after this period of training on the battlefield, the guards around Ning Yi had only grown stronger—there was no chance of them being rusty. No matter how these assassins had learned of Ning Yi’s return to the city, the moment they made their move, they immediately ran into hardened fighters. On the long street, it turned into nothing short of a sudden massacre. A few assassins rushed into the tavern across the way, and afterward, whoever they ran into inside, some were cut down and thrown back out. Several of Ning Yi’s attendants soon charged in after them as well, and after a moment, someone could be heard shouting inside. The words carried out:
“The Prince of Guangyang is here—who dares disturb his presence—”
Then guards came charging out of that building as well.