The fourteenth year of the Jinghan era, the ninth day of the fifth month, afternoon, around the hour of Wei. On the post road south of Zhuxian Town, carriages and a crowd of people were racing northward.
Running out in front was a sturdily built martial artist named Tian Donghan. Behind him came a mixture of old and young—the condemned official Qin Siyuan, along with his wife and concubine, had already boarded the carriage. Ji Kun, at the front of the carriage, cracked his whip while hauling a thirteen-year-old Qin family boy up onto the vehicle. The rest, running alongside in front and behind, included six or seven young members of the Qin family, as well as martial artists from the Bamboo Emporium and guards of the Qin household, all running together.
The two constables who had been escorting Qin Siyuan south were now practically being dragged along at the rear.
Along the post road, front and back, aside from the occasional scattered traveler, there was no one else in sight. Sunlight poured down from the sky; the surrounding fields lay empty, lending the scene a faint, eerie quality.
In the latter half of the previous year, when the Jurchens had come south to besiege Bianliang, the population of the area from north of Bianliang all the way to the Yellow River basin had been almost entirely evacuated—those who refused to leave had, for the most part, since been slaughtered. The region south of Bianliang had fared somewhat better, but even areas extending dozens of li outward had been affected; amid the scorched-earth defense, people had been displaced and villages burned. Later, Jurchen cavalry had ridden through this area as well, leaving the post roads and riverbeds considerably damaged.
After the Jurchens withdrew, everything lay in ruins awaiting rebuilding, and large numbers of merchants and travelers came south—but not every post road had yet been repaired. There were several roads running south from Zhuxian Town; separated by a river, the western route had not yet been cleared for travel. In accordance with the route set by the Ministry of Justice for the journey south, the condemned official was to take the path with the fewest travelers, to avoid friction or incidents with passersby—and so this western post road was the one the party was currently taking. But by the afternoon, urgent word arrived from the Bamboo Emporium’s informants: the wandering swordsmen intent on intercepting and killing the old chancellor had already gathered, and were now closing in from this direction. Leading them, quite possibly, was Lin Zongwu, Grand Master of the Great Radiance Sect.
On this leg of Qin Siyuan’s journey south, accompanying him were his wife, his concubine Yun Niang, Ji Kun, several young members of the Qin family, and seven Bamboo Emporium guards led by Tian Donghan. A carriage traveled with them as well, though before they had even left the capital’s jurisdiction, the two constables had kept a close watch—the old man’s chains had been removed, but any real easing of his conditions would have to wait until they were beyond the capital’s borders. Perhaps out of some lingering attachment to this stretch of the capital, the old man had not minded walking slowly—at his age, having left the circles of power, bound for Lingnan, there likely would not be much more to come for him.
When the news arrived, everyone realized just how exposed their position was. Tian Donghan and the others immediately forced the two constables to the ground, demanding to know if they were conspirators. The two men could only insist this was standard Ministry of Justice procedure—there was no time to interrogate them properly now. The one who had brought the warning had already released a carrier pigeon to the capital and now rode hard ahead to seek reinforcements. Tian Donghan and the others helped the old man into the carriage and raced back the way they’d come. Under the sunlight, everyone drew their blades, strung their crossbows, and watched warily for anyone who might appear in their field of view.
Before long, a rundown little post station came into view. They remembered passing it earlier and recalled two soldiers had been stationed inside.
At the doorway, Tian Donghan caught the reek of blood coming from within, and a flash of swordlight burst out from the shadows. Tian Donghan angled his blade aside as a great shout tore through the air: “Death to the traitor’s lackeys—” Figures leapt out from above and below. But from behind Tian Donghan, a fishing net flew out, snaring the swordsman, and then spears and sickle-hooks came in, crossbow bolts hissing through the air. The swordsman was highly skilled, charging into the crowd and spinning through it, dust flying as his blade traded blows with several Bamboo Emporium guards in turn—until his left foot was hooked, his body tilted, and his head was split open by a blade, blood scattering.
Head-on, one martial artist took a crossbow bolt to the head; another traded two blows with Tian Donghan before being cut open across the chest, then took a kick that sent him staggering back into the earthen wall behind him, where he crumpled to the ground.
The remaining assassins, frightened off, hid behind the walls and inside the building, shouting: “You won’t escape!” “Death to the corrupt official’s dogs!” but dared not come out again.
Tian Donghan stood with his blade lowered, watching for a moment, then said: “Move—” and began retreating in large strides, the others following suit. From behind the earthen wall, someone suddenly struck, hurling several throwing weapons and locust darts. Two crossbow bolts hissed back in response, and the one throwing the darts hastily ducked back; one of Tian Donghan’s men took a graze on the arm and called out repeatedly: “These bastards have some bite to them, everyone be careful! Some bite to them…”
The blazing sun scorched the earth. Within the capital, the incident had already begun to spread and ferment.
As the crowd from Ning Manor’s main residence rushed out at speed, the emergency response teams stationed throughout the capital were likewise alerted, several chief constables leading their men out one after another, fearing the matter would spiral out of control. And as Ning Yi and the others left the city, several other Bamboo Emporium residences inside and outside the capital also showed sudden activity, guards racing south.
Meanwhile, martial artists with good sources of information had already gotten wind of the unfolding events and began racing south themselves, either to join in the excitement or simply to watch the spectacle. By now, quite a number of martial artists from the wider world had already gathered around Zhuxian Town—some belonging to the Great Radiance Sect, some even belonging to certain great clans of the capital—all now stirred into motion. Amid all this, there were even several groups whose presence no one could have anticipated…
Northwest of the capital, the truly unforeseen turn of events was only now beginning to unfold.
The Wurui Battalion’s temporary encampment had settled beside what had once been a large village; with people now coming and going, the surrounding area had grown lively, and several crude taverns and teahouses had already sprung up nearby. This encampment was, at present, the most closely watched military presence near the capital. After the rewards for merit had been distributed—setting aside official rank, the sheer gold and silver handed out was enough for the soldiers within to squander for years to come. Merchants naturally followed the money, and even brothels had quietly begun operating, however modest the conditions—though the women there were not at all unattractive.
In the afternoon, on the cool, breezy second floor of a teahouse, though nothing extravagant, Li Bingwen had claimed the best seat, sitting across from a guest, sipping tea and chatting occasionally about small matters. His guest that day was named Han Jing; the two had been in frequent contact of late.
The Wurui Battalion, after the Jurchens’ withdrawal, now comprised two forces: on one side, over ten thousand original Wu Dynasty soldiers; on the other, nearly eighteen hundred men of the Lüliang Mountain righteous army. In name, the great general Li Bingwen held overall command, but in practice there was no shortage of trouble.
First, the more than ten thousand soldiers who made up the majority were themselves rather unruly. Before Li Bingwen took over, the Martial Top Scholar Luo Shengzhou had come by wanting to make a show of authority; he had won handily at boxing, but when it came to blades, both sides had come out battered, and he’d slunk away in defeat. Li Bingwen was more capable than Luo Shengzhou had been, and he had several dozen highly skilled personal guards backing him up as well—but in a single month, his grip on the army had not yet grown very deep.
This, of course, had something to do with the strategies of both Zhou Zhe and Tong Guan. Zhou Zhe, wanting to win the army’s loyalty, had made a great show of praising the mid-level officers during his inspections, hoping to win their hearts for his own use. Tong Guan, having commanded troops for many years, was more shrewd than anyone; this Prince of Guangyang understood the army’s underlying weaknesses all too well, and precisely because of this, he cared a great deal about what truly gave the Wurui Battalion its fighting strength—which indirectly meant Li Bingwen could not make sweeping changes to the army. For now, he could only watch and hold things steady. But this was already Prince Tong’s own private army; everything else could wait.
The Lüliang Mountain righteous army was even more troublesome.
On the surface, these over eighteen hundred men were under Li Bingwen’s command; in reality, actual control still lay with Han Jing and a woman named Lu Hongti. Since this force was entirely cavalry, including over a hundred heavily armored black-clad riders, word of them had spread through the capital by mouth until they’d been elevated to almost legendary status, even earning the nickname “Iron Pagoda.” Li Bingwen had no way to establish contact with that woman, and could only deal with Han Jing—but when Zhou Zhe inspected the Wurui Battalion, he’d bestowed all manner of titles upon Han Jing, and now, in theory, Han Jing carried the rank of Commander-in-Chief, putting him on entirely equal footing with Li Bingwen.
Fortunately, Han Jing was not difficult to deal with. Li Bingwen had spent considerable time cultivating their relationship, to the point where the two spoke frankly and called each other brothers. Though Han Jing was a military man, and a chieftain who had come down from Lüliang Mountain with something of a bandit’s roughness about him, once in the capital he had grown increasingly composed—he had no taste for drink, only for tea. Li Bingwen would invite him out from time to time, preparing fine tea to entertain him.
Past noon, the two men sat sipping tea, chatting at length about the Wu Dynasty’s military system, troop morale, and similar matters. In Li Bingwen’s view, Han Jing, coming from bandit origins, often said things that strayed from the true state of the Wu Dynasty—some of his ideas were rather shallow. But it did not matter; Li Bingwen simply listened, offering the occasional analysis, and Han Jing would nod along in sincere agreement. At some point, unnoticed, a soldier came galloping up on horseback below, dismounted at the entrance, and rushed upstairs—a Lüliang Mountain cavalryman.
The soldier’s expression was hurried and furious. He rushed over, handed Han Jing a slip of paper, and stood aside without a word.
Han Jing read the note over once, his brow furrowing, then slowly raised his head, his face gathering with anger. Li Bingwen asked: “Brother Han, what is it?”
“Summon all the brothers!” Han Jing said this to the soldier beside him, who replied, “Yes,” and hurried off at once. Li Bingwen’s heart lurched; he stood up: “Brother Han, is there some military matter!?” Across from him, Han Jing had also risen, slamming a hand on the table. A moment later, apparently thinking better of it, he cupped his hands and said gruffly, “General, this is a private matter of mine and Lüliang’s!”
“That won’t do,” Li Bingwen said hurriedly. “You are a soldier now—how can you have private matters…”
“There are still brawls and feuds within the army itself. We are merely a righteous militia—how could we not have private matters!”
“No, no, Brother Han, whatever private matter you have here in the capital, why not speak it plainly? Your brother here will surely find a way to handle it for you. With whom have you had friction? A matter like this—if you don’t speak of it, are you saying you don’t consider me one of your own, that Li here would somehow turn against you…”
Han Jing’s gaze eased somewhat, and he cupped his hands again: “General, your earnest goodwill is understood. But this matter does not require the whole Wurui Battalion to act.” He lowered his voice slightly, a flash of ferocity crossing his eyes. “Hmph, an old private grudge remains unsettled, and now that man dares show his face here in the capital—does he think we’ll simply let him go!”
“This enemy you speak of, Brother Han, who exactly is…”
“Around here, there is a Great Radiance Sect. Has the general heard of it?”
“The Great Radiance Sect…” Li Bingwen searched his memory.
“Hmph. This sect’s leader is named Lin Zongwu. He had old dealings with our chieftain—on Lüliang Mountain, he used underhanded means and wounded our chieftain, then fled while injured. General Li, I have no wish to trouble you, but this is something our chieftain can endure, and I cannot. Not one of the brothers below can endure it either! If he dares show his face, we will kill him! My apologies for putting you in this difficult position—I will come to beg forgiveness another day!”
“Brother Han, why say such things… wait, wait, Brother Han, what I mean is, this is simply a matter of vengeance—why does it require every one of your brothers to mobilize, Brother Han—”
His words grew more urgent as he spoke, a stern look crossing his face. But no matter how firm his tone or expression, by the time Han Jing had raced back with him to the nearby camp, eighteen hundred riders had already gathered on the drill grounds, these men down from Lüliang Mountain wearing looks of open ferocity, slapping their saddles with their blades. Han Jing swung up onto his horse: “All light cavalry—”
Around them, the officers and soldiers of the Wurui Battalion had gathered as well, asking one after another what was happening. Some brandished weapons, eager to charge along; once those who knew the men explained the purpose was simply revenge, the crowd began shouting: “Wipe him out!” “Let’s go together, let’s go together—”
Li Bingwen bellowed: “All of you, back to your posts!” No one paid him any heed.
Han Jing offered only a few words of reassurance to the Wurui officers, and then the camp gate was thrown open, warhorses surging out like a great dragon, faster and faster, the ground trembling and beginning to roar. The hooves of these nearly two thousand cavalry churned up dust as they swept around the city of Bianliang, sweeping southward—Li Bingwen stood dumbstruck, unable to find words. He had wanted to send a fast rider to warn the other garrisons and checkpoints to block this force, but there was simply no possibility of that. With the Jurchens gone, this cavalry’s charge outside the walls of Bianliang was, for the moment, something no one could stand against.
All he could do afterward was throw everything he had into suppressing the rest of the restless Wurui Battalion, while quickly sending word into the city, hurrying to report the matter to Tong Guan…
South of Bianliang, Ning Yi and the others were racing along at full speed; nearby, groups of Bamboo Emporium guards were also racing about, having received word and setting off in different directions on their own initiative. Martial artists from the wider world, each mounted on fine horses, likewise raced along, faces flushed with excitement, occasionally meeting companions and discussing whether to join in this great undertaking of wiping out the traitorous faction.
Several chief constables of the Ministry of Justice led their subordinate constables out of the city from different directions one after another. These constables were no ordinary patrolmen—most were themselves highly skilled martial artists, accustomed to handling cases involving the martial world and matters of life and death, not to be compared with the ordinary local constabulary. Several chief constables issued orders even as they rode.
“If you run into this crowd, first try to talk them down. If they truly dare to brawl recklessly, then move in and make arrests—this is the heart of the capital region, we cannot allow such lawless disorder here. All of you—keep a close eye on the Bamboo Emporium especially—let them know exactly who’s in charge in this capital!”
Past the hour of Shen, the killing had already begun.
On the roads and plains southwest of Zhuxian Town, occasional screams rang out—travelers nearby discovering corpses. Scattered patches of blood dotted and spread across the wild fields. At the edge of one such field, a group of men were racing along; the one in the lead was tall and broad, a monk. He stopped, examined the footprints and grass around him—there was blood in the wild grass.
A martial artist beside and behind him caught up and said: “Brother Tunyun, there seem to be tracks both ways—which direction?”
The monk called Tunyun curled the corner of his mouth into a smile: “Hmph. If you want fame, follow me—” With that, his body moved like the wind, racing off in one direction, the others hurrying to keep up.
On a hillock more than two li off the post road, the reek of blood spread through the air; a carriage had already stopped before a precipice atop the rise. Tian Donghan and the others held the rear, using the terrain to fend off several waves of pursuing assassins. Below, the gathering of martial artists from the wider world had grown larger, but after a few failed charges, they had also grown more cautious. They were waiting for more reinforcements to arrive.
“Hold the line!” Crouched behind a large boulder, Tian Donghan coughed up a mouthful of blood, but his gaze remained resolute. “Once the master arrives, they’re all dead men!”
The men nearby only gave a faint nod. Having once stood on the battlefield, they all wore that same resolute look.
But as the sun slanted westward, the first traces of dusk appearing on the horizon, Ning Yi and the others were racing down the post road at full speed, drawing near the site of the first clash at the small post station.
Below the hillock, a figure clad in a yellow monk’s robe appeared in Tian Donghan’s field of vision—tall, heavyset yet powerfully built, every part of his body seeming to hold gathered strength, like a manifestation of Maitreya himself.
“Amitabha.”
Under the sunlight, the Buddhist invocation rang out, rolling in like a tide.
Near and far, hundreds, even thousands of people had by now gathered upon this stretch of open plain, the faint sound of hoofbeats drawing steadily closer…