In the spring of the fourteenth year of Jinghan, mid-third month, a gloomy spring rain fell upon the dragon city of Taiyuan.
When lightning occasionally flashed across the sky, it revealed the ruined city’s collapsed, jagged silhouette beneath the night—even in the rain, its entire body remained scorched black throughout. Before this, the traces left by the Jurchen’s fires and massacre within the city had been so heavy they could never be washed away; to ensure that everyone within the city was found, the Jurchen, after their extensive looting and plunder, had still gone street by street, setting fire to the entire city. Amid the ruins, corpses lay piled everywhere the eye could see—the moat, the public squares, the markets, every well and every house, all bore the marks of miserable death. So many corpses had gathered together that even the water near Taiyuan had turned black.
An overwhelming stench of decay hung over the skies around Taiyuan.
If a sentimental poet or singer were here, he might say that this spring rain now falling was as though even heaven itself could no longer bear to watch, and had come to wash away the sins of this mortal world.
But in truth, it was nothing of the sort.
At Yanmen Pass, great numbers of ragged, wretched slaves, driven like pigs and dogs, were being marched through the pass. Now and then someone would collapse, only to be whipped and cursed by the nearby Jurchen soldiers, or simply cut down on the spot with a blade.
After ten days of unchecked plunder, Taiyuan had not yielded quite as many captives as expected from that ruined city. But it hardly mattered—from the moment the order had been given to sheathe no blade for ten days, Taiyuan, to Zonghan and Zongwang, had only ever been a tool for easing their troops’ morale. The Wu dynasty’s true state had already been thoroughly probed and understood; with Taiyuan now destroyed, there was no need to worry about a shortage of slaves the next time they came.
After ten days of massacre, barely one in ten of Taiyuan’s original surviving residents remained, yet there were still tens of thousands of them, and after enduring the most inhuman torment and abuse, they were now being driven north. Most of these were women—the young and beautiful had already suffered widespread violation while still within the city, and those with weaker constitutions had already died. Those who managed to hold on were either driven forward by soldiers on foot, or bound and tied to the carts and wagons heading north, subjected the entire way to the Jurchen soldiers’ wanton cruelty. Every day, the bodies of those who had suffered every possible degradation were left cast aside along the road.
Even those who managed, by some stroke of fortune, to survive as far as Yanmen Pass, found waiting for them only endless further torment and humiliation. Most of them died within the following year, and among those who left Yanmen Pass, almost none would ever again set foot on the soil of the Wu dynasty in this lifetime.
The rain kept falling.
To the south, in a small town called Tongfu, over a hundred li from Taiyuan, the sky was dim and overcast beneath a light drizzle.
The Jurchen’s arrival had brought plunder to many of the towns and cities around Taiyuan, but by the time they reached Tongfu, the intensity had lessened somewhat. When the great snows had sealed off the mountains, the residents of this small town had huddled inside, trembling through an entire winter. Now the weather had begun to warm, but traveling merchants moving north and south had still not returned. Since the townspeople still needed to go out to farm, gather firewood, and collect spring fruits from the hills to fill their bellies, the small town remained cautiously half-open, its handful of entry and exit points guarded by anxious soldiers.
With the Jurchen currently massacring Taiyuan, what everyone feared was that, unsatisfied even after wiping out Taiyuan, they might turn around and strike back—and then the suffering would truly know no end.
Amid the light rain, the soldiers guarding the town gate saw a few townsfolk hurrying in from outside, covering their noses and mouths as if fleeing from something. The startled soldier nearly moved to close the gates, but as the townspeople drew closer, he finally caught their words: “Over there… there’s a strange man…”
“No telling who he is, could be some outlaw from the greenwood…”
“Smells awful… carrying a corpse…”
Carrying a corpse through the rain? Must be a madman, the soldier thought with a shudder. But since it was only a single person approaching, he calmed himself somewhat, took up his spear, and waited. Before long, sure enough, a figure emerged from the rain.
The figure rode a horse at an unhurried pace. The man astride it wore a black cloak, his clothes tattered and torn, evidently wounded, a wooden staff in one hand and a large black bundle slung across his back, its contents unknown. Sniffing carefully, even through the light rain, there seemed to be a faint stench lingering in the air. The soldier couldn’t make out the man’s face clearly, only had the vague sense that he looked something like a ghost or demon. Steeling himself, he finally spoke.
“Who are you? Where have you come from!”
“A man of the greenwood, from Taiyuan.” The figure swayed slightly atop the horse, then cupped his hands together and spoke these words.
“T-Taiyuan?” The soldier’s heart jolted. “Taiyuan fell long ago—could you be a Jurchen spy—and, and what’s that on your back—”
“I am no spy… The Jurchen’s great army has withdrawn from Taiyuan. I… I’ve come bearing something…”
“What… wait, don’t come any closer!”
“Heads,” the man answered, somewhat weakly. Hearing the soldier’s sharp shout, he reined in his gaunt horse and dismounted. Standing there with the black bundle still on his back, he proved to be a head taller than the soldier, quite imposing in build, though his clothes hung in tatters, torn by the cutting edge of some weapon, and beneath them, dirty bandages could be seen wrapped around his body.
By now, quite a few people, both atop the wall and below it, had leaned out to get a look at him. Hearing him mention the word “heads,” they all gave a start. They lived in a border region the Jurchen might sweep into at any moment, and had long lived in fear and dread. As they watched, the man slowly set the bundle down.
“When the Jurchen sacked Taiyuan, these were hung above the city gates. As the Jurchen’s great army withdrew north, I retrieved them, and have been making my way south ever since. Though few Jurchen remained near Taiyuan, I was still discovered by several, and had to fight my way through the whole way here…”
Weak as he was, he offered this explanation only to account for his wounds—yet the moment the words left his mouth, an uproar broke out. Everyone strained to look off into the distance, and the soldier gripped his spear tighter, forcing the black-clad man back a step. He paused briefly, then gently set the bundle down.
“The Jurchen scouts have already been dealt with by my hand. If you’re afraid, I won’t enter the city—only, these people…”
He set down his staff and knelt on the ground, opening the bundle before him. Reaching in, he lifted out something coated not only in sticky fluid but filthy beyond recognition, and slowly set it down before the city gate. Then he lifted out another, and set it down gently as well.
These men had already been killed, their heads hung above the gates of Taiyuan, exposed to wind and sun, already beginning to decompose. His black bundle had provided some measure of protection, but once opened, the stench was unbearable—and yet the row of grim, disfigured heads laid out before them seemed to carry a strange, terrible power of their own. The soldier stepped back, at a complete loss for how to react.
“…These men all died defending Taiyuan, loyal and righteous souls, every one of them. My wounds are too severe to bring more. I must leave the rest to you, gentlemen. All I ask is that these loyal men’s fervent blood not be left to become… wandering ghosts with no home to return to.”
Having said this slowly, the man finally rose to his feet, cupped his hands in a bow, then took a few steps back, mounted his horse, and rode away.
Before the town of Tongfu, a flash of spring thunder lit the sky. Laid out before the gate were seven heads in all, their flesh so decayed from long exposure that the faces had rotted beyond recognition, most missing their eyes entirely. No one could tell any longer who any of them had been—only a row of hollow, ghastly eye sockets remained, facing the city gate, all turned toward the south.
It was a long while before someone, under orders from a superior, finally left the town to go find the righteous man who had delivered the heads.
…
At the army camp outside Bianliang. Overcast skies.
In one section of the camp, several hundred soldiers were drilling, blades slashing through the air in perfect unison, and accompanying that fierce, wind-cutting flash of steel came a rather unusual chant.
“…The beacon fires of war rise, and we gaze north toward our homeland! The dragon banner unfurls, horses neigh long and loud, our blades gleam cold as frost! My heart is as boundless as the roaring Yellow River! Twenty years across this land, who could ever stand against us…”
“…Rage burns to madness, our long blades pointing the way…”
Amid this unusual chant, Ning Yi stood before the wooden platform, watching the drill unfold with a calm gaze. Around the training grounds, a good number of soldiers had gathered to watch as well, many of them joining in with the song. Ning Yi hadn’t come by in quite some time, and everyone seemed rather excited to see him.
He himself had never expected such a song to spread through the camp like this, and hearing it now, his feelings were rather complicated.
Back at Xia Village, they had once considered finding a few rousing marching songs, and it had been Ning Yi’s own suggestion that led to this particular one being chosen. But naturally, such freely composed lyrics were something of a niche taste at the time; he had only shared it with a few people close to him. It had later somehow spread among the higher-ranking officers, and now, unexpectedly, this relatively accessible tune had made its way through the entire camp.
As the men sang and swung their blades in unison, when the song finally ended, each unit came to a perfectly synchronized halt, all eyes turning toward Ning Yi. Ning Yi gazed back at them quietly for a moment, until one of the junior officers among the watching ranks, unable to hold back any longer, raised his hand and called out, “Reporting! Master Ning, I have a question!”
Ning Yi glanced at him, thought it over briefly. “Ask, then.”
“Sir—has General Qin been framed by treacherous officials, unable to return to us!?”
The moment he asked this, a low murmur rippled through the assembled soldiers. Seeing that Ning Yi didn’t answer, someone else worked up the nerve to add, “Master Ning, is it because someone in the capital is deliberately obstructing things that we weren’t able to march to Taiyuan!”
Then someone else called out, “It must be that scoundrel Cai Jing…”
No one dared pick up on that particular remark, and everyone merely glanced at the man before someone else spoke up. “Master Ning, if there’s any difficulty, please, just tell us plainly!”
“That’s right, low as our station may be, we still want to know—”
“We’d rather die than stand alongside traitors—”
The camp was seething with unrest. Over this period, though the Wuchi Battalion had been confined to daily drills within camp and forbidden to leave, officers at every level, high, middle, and low, had been holding private meetings and passing word among themselves, discussing the news from the capital. Though the senior officers present felt this was unwise, they too simply stood there, upright and silent, not intervening. Ning Yi stood there without speaking for a very long time. Eventually the questions died down, and the atmosphere grew heavy and oppressive. Only then did Ning Yi wave someone over and hand him a sheet of paper.
“This is… news from Taiyuan. Read it aloud, so everyone can hear.”
The news of Taiyuan’s fall, and the massacre that followed, was already known throughout the capital, and of course the camp knew of it too. The man given the paper hesitated a moment, then stood there and began reading it aloud in a loud, clear voice, head bowed.
“On the twenty-fifth of the second month, Taiyuan’s walls fell. Zonghan ordered that no blade be sheathed within the city for ten days. Thereafter began a massacre of unspeakable cruelty. The Jurchen sealed the city’s gates on all four sides, and from all directions…”
The intelligence bureau’s reports were far more detailed than ordinary dispatches, and among them, the sequence of the massacre within Taiyuan, the various atrocities committed, had all been recorded as thoroughly as possible—how those who died had died, what had been done to the women who were violated, how people had been driven north like pigs, dogs, cattle, and sheep, what the scene had looked like after the slaughter—all of it recorded as calmly and dispassionately as possible. The soldiers stood there listening, their scalps crawling, some of them grinding their teeth audibly.
“How does that song go?” Ning Yi suddenly cut in. “The beacon fires of war rise, and we gaze north toward our homeland! The dragon banner unfurls, horses neigh long and loud, our blades gleam cold as frost! My heart is as boundless as the roaring Yellow River! Heh—twenty years across this land, who could ever stand against us—sing it!”
The men stood stunned for a moment, and then Ning Yi suddenly bellowed out: “Sing!” These were, after all, well-trained soldiers, and they began to sing: “The beacon fires of war rise—” only, the tone was noticeably lower this time, and by the time they reached the line about twenty years across this land, the sound had dropped even further. Ning Yi pressed a hand down. “Stop there.”
He drew a breath, turned, and stepped up onto the wooden platform normally reserved for officers reviewing the troops, reaching up to wipe his mouth and nose. “This song isn’t a proper one. When it first started circulating, honestly, I didn’t much care for it—I never expected all of you would take to it, though that’s a good thing in its own way. But a marching song needs a martial soul, and it needs to make sense too. Twenty years across this land, who could stand against us… heh, right now, only rage burning to madness suits where you all stand. But I want you to remember this feeling. I hope that twenty years from now, all of you will be able to sing this song standing tall and proud, with nothing to be ashamed of.”
Ning Yi paused. “As for General Qin—he won’t be coming back for the time being. Someone else will be taking over from you. I need to head back as well. These recent reports from Taiyuan have left me deeply unhappy, but seeing all of you today has been a real comfort.”
His gaze swept over the men before him, and then he stepped down, turning to leave. A stir immediately swept through the assembled ranks. One of the officers near Ning Yi called out, “Everyone, attention—” and the soldiers snapped upright. But as Ning Yi walked forward, more and more men gathered around, as though trying to block his path.
Someone shouted, “Is there a traitor at court!” Someone else called, “If treacherous officials hold sway, surely His Majesty must know!” “Master Ning, you can’t just abandon us!” “Bring General Qin back—” “Whoever’s obstructing this, let’s kill them—” The voices surged forward in a great wave. Ning Yi stopped walking, and suddenly shouted, “Enough—!”
The word carried on a surge of inner strength, and gradually, the surrounding din began to settle.
“I have my own affairs to attend to, and you have yours. Right now I’m going to go handle mine—you go handle yours.” He said this plainly. “That’s how it should be. Don’t act like frightened little girls here—now, all of you, step aside!”
Within the camp, the men slowly parted to let him through. As he reached the edge of the camp and caught sight, not far off, of that still-orderly formation and the woman standing to one side, he gave a slight nod in her direction.
Hongti nodded back.
The sky hung heavy, as though rain might fall at any moment.
With the news of the Jurchen’s withdrawal north from Taiyuan finally confirmed, sweeping changes began at last to unfold within Bianliang.
The following day, Tan Zhen’s protégé, the martial top-scorer Luo Shengzhou, formally took over Qin Shaoqian’s post, transferring to command the Wuchi Battalion—a small matter that went unnoticed by most. On that same day, Emperor Zhou Zhe issued a self-reproaching edict to the entire realm, and at the same time ordered a strict investigation and purge of the current bureaucracy. Throughout the capital, spirits rose in excitement.
To know one’s faults and correct them—this, they said, was the beginning of true renewal…