Night fell over the land south of Zhuxian Town. By the riverbank, nearby constables had gathered; in the light of their torches, a red tinge could be seen drifting down from upstream, and then, one after another, corpses.
Along the road not far off, scattered locals and travelers, seeing this scene, mostly fell into panic.
By this hour, few yet knew what had truly happened to the north—only that toward evening, some had glimpsed blood-soaked figures riding past on horseback. The constables from the nearby small settlements, upon seeing the sight in the water, felt their hearts pound with unease.
In this region at the heart of the capital, the only time such a scene had been witnessed before was not so long ago. Last autumn, when the Jurchens had come, this same waterway had likewise run red—but the Jurchens had only just withdrawn… could they have returned to kill again?
A small wave of unrest rippled through the area at once.
…
On the horizon, the last embers of the sunset had faded entirely, and across the wild fields, the reek of blood hung thick. Amid the black silhouettes, occasional groans could be heard. Chen Jianyu, dazed, pushed himself up from the ground, his hand coming away sticky with something oozing from a nearby corpse—some portion of entrails, he could not tell which.
Sharp pain shot into his skull; his body trembled, and he made two sounds, “heh, heh”—not laughter, but suppressed weeping.
Corpses lay scattered all around.
Even a seasoned hero of the martial world, one who had walked through countless killings, might never have witnessed a scene like this. He had heard of something similar before—when the Jurchens came, the battlefield had truly become a slaughterhouse from hell. He had built a considerable reputation in the martial world, had seen his share of deadly formations and dead men, but never anything like this. When he’d heard tell of the scenes on the battlefield against the Jurchens, he’d never quite been able to picture it—but now, he could roughly imagine it.
Martial artists of the wider world had their own paths—some sold their skills to the throne, others avoided entanglement with officialdom entirely. However formidable a single man might be, he could not stand against an army. This was common knowledge even among ordinary people—but knowing you could not stand against an army, and truly facing one for the first time, were two entirely different things.
Seeing that pale-faced man atop the hillock earlier, Chen Jianyu had even considered finding some pretext to challenge him first. That great monk was said to be the greatest under heaven—his skill was perhaps truly formidable, but Chen Jianyu had never feared anyone since he’d made his name. To walk a narrow path, to make a name for himself, one had to gamble fiercely—and besides, a man of that one’s standing surely wouldn’t do anything too drastic to him.
Then a thousand cavalry had burst forth, their spearpoints surging forward like a great wave.
Even the greatest under heaven had been forced to flee amid the crowd. The rest were swallowed, one after another, into that tide of slaughter. In that instant, even the night wind seemed to thicken in the air! More and more people were dragged in from behind, screams tearing through the dusk; some, seeing there was no escape, turned to make a stand, but before they could finish their words they were sent flying by the charging horses. Even those who had only just arrived, drawn by the signal flare, stood frozen for a moment in shock before being swept up into the fleeing crowd themselves.
He himself had been sent flying by a charging horse, then knocked senseless by its hooves. The cavalry had only trampled him twice, both blows landing on his left thigh—the bone was now shattered, the flesh beneath his hand a mangled ruin. He understood he was crippled for life, and let out a sob, struggling to straighten his ruined leg. Not far off, he could faintly hear more weeping.
Those who had come tonight were all men of the martial world—men who did not shed tears easily. Only when pain, grief, and helplessness had reached their utmost extreme would such sounds be heard.
For the violence of the martial world, even the dangers of the sparring ring, they had all long since prepared themselves mentally for whatever might happen. But today alone, they had truly been swept up into something beyond them. In a clash like this between factions of the wider world, put simply, they were mere bystanders; put more deeply, those among them seeking fame hadn’t even had time to act. If the Grand Master of the Great Radiance Sect brought his followers forward and the other side blocked them, and the two sides brawled, then so be it—at most it would touch on them too, and they could join in and make a show of it themselves.
And yet nothing of the sort had happened. So many people, and there had simply been no way out alive.
For that Grand Master of the Great Radiance Sect, perhaps it had been much the same—this truly wasn’t a game at their level. Facing a force like that, even the greatest under heaven could only turn and flee at the first instant. Thinking back on that pale-faced young man, and then on the provocation delivered to his door just days before, Chen Jianyu felt no small measure of regret. But he could not understand it—it was, after all, only such a matter as this. He and the others had come to the capital merely to earn some reputation and standing. Even if they had briefly provoked someone, why should it come to an outcome like this…
A spark of light flickered nearby; someone weeping, struggling to rise, waved open a fire-striker, and the glow slowly brightened, illuminating a blood-soaked face and casting a faint circle of light around him. Chen Jianyu, watching that glow from where he lay, was about to speak when he heard a soft thud—an arrow had struck the chest of the figure within that circle of light. The man collapsed; the fire-striker fell to the ground, flickering on and off several times before finally going dark.
In the distance, a horse’s silhouette moved a few soundless steps through the darkness. The mounted scout named Yuwen Feidu watched that light extinguish, then reached back over his shoulder, drew another arrow, and nocked it to his bowstring.
In the darkness, figures still lingered quietly, waiting to shoot down any survivors, or anyone who came to collect the bodies.
To the north, the main body of cavalry had already withdrawn far along the road back to camp. A party of men dragged a crude cart past Zhuxian Town; Ning Yi walked among them, the old man’s corpse lying upon the cart.
The stars overhead hung dim and faint. Looking around, the surrounding land was Bianliang’s own territory. Several chief constables hurried back toward the city of Bianliang; nearby, another party of men followed along as well. None of it mattered anymore.
Across the fields and hillocks around them, figures lay hidden in the shadows, watching from afar, or occasionally trailing along for a stretch before slipping back into the darkness once more.
Within the city of Bianliang, all manner of news was pouring in; the mood among the upper echelons had already grown taut as a bowstring—a storm was gathering, ready to break at any moment.
…
Within his residence, Tong Guan had, most unusually, already lost his temper twice. When the servants came rushing in the third time, they braced themselves for a third outburst—but this time, no such thing occurred.
“Qin… Qin Siyuan has already… already died.”
Even a servant with a military background found it took some effort to get the words out. Tong Guan, holding a pair of iron balls in his hand, stopped their rotation, blinking. He had clearly anticipated something like this might happen, yet now that it was confirmed, he still found himself frozen for a moment.
Then he let out a breath, his voice low. “Dead? Killed by that Lin Zongwu?”
“Reporting to Your Highness, no. He, along with his wife and concubine, took poison and killed themselves.”
“Suicide.” Tong Guan repeated the word. After a moment, he asked, “And his son—what of Qin Shaoqian?”
The servant answered the question. Hearing the answer, Tong Guan slowly nodded, walked to one side, and sat down in a chair. “Old Qin, eh. This man was truly…” he trailed off. “Always so full of momentum, right up until the end, and then… he went along with it, without the slightest resistance…”
Yet in his heart he knew this was because Qin Siyuan, through a series of extreme actions, had sealed off his own path of retreat. Just as he was about to sigh a few words more, another servant rushed in hurriedly.
“Report! General Han Jing has entered the city!”
“Oh? Entered the city. And his troops?”
“They say… on the way back to camp.”
Tong Guan pressed his lips together, brow furrowing. “…He still dares to return to the city.” Then he let out a soft sigh, his expression growing more complicated.
“General Han went straight to the palace, it’s said—to personally beg forgiveness before His Majesty.”
“Understood.” Tong Guan set down the two iron balls in his hand and stood up, murmuring as if to himself, “Coming back… truly… does he think His Majesty cannot kill him…”
When he’d first heard news of the Lüliang righteous army’s mobilization, Tong Guan’s reaction had been the angriest of all. He was, after all, a military man, and after years of commanding troops, he often lost his temper—but some of that anger was false. This time, it had been real. Yet hearing now that this cavalry force had returned, his tone had visibly grown more complicated. At this moment, with Tan Zhen, Li Bingwen, and the others already at the palace, and himself no longer nominally in command of the army, he went out after a moment to walk in the garden, his expression complicated, no one quite sure what was on his mind.
Within the palace, Zhou Zhe raised his eyes from behind his desk, looking at Han Jing kneeling below.
“Do you think this court cannot kill you?”
“This subject knows his crime deserves death. I beg Your Majesty to pronounce judgment and grant me death.”
Zhou Zhe frowned and stood up. He had strode in from outside the hall moments before, sat down behind his desk to attend to a memorial, and only then began to speak. Now he came out from behind the desk again, pointing at Han Jing, his eyes full of fury, his finger trembling, his mouth opening twice.
He had not expected the man to offer not a single word of defense. To kill, or not to kill—that was the question.
“You.” He reined in his tone. “Tell this court everything, from beginning to end!”
“This subject knows his crime, and has failed Your Majesty. This matter concerns military law; Han Jing has no wish to become one who makes excuses and shifts blame. This matter concerns only Han Jing alone. I beg Your Majesty, in consideration of the Lüliang cavalry’s merit in defending the city, to grant death to Han Jing alone!”
“How bold you are!” Zhou Zhe then roared. “Merit in defending the city—are you using that merit to threaten this court? Speak! Whether to kill you or not is this court’s affair. This court wishes to know now—what happened!”
Han Jing knelt in silence for a long moment. “We men of Lüliang left the camp this time only to kill for a private grudge.”
“Very well, that alone is a capital offense!” Zhou Zhe said.
“We went to kill that Grand Master of the Great Radiance Sect, Lin Zongwu.”
“Hmph.” Zhou Zhe gave a light snort. “This court has heard of the man. What manner of feud do you have with him, that all of you had to charge out to kill him!?”
Han Jing fell silent again, and after a moment, finally spoke. “Does Your Majesty know what sort of days we men of Lüliang once lived?”
“…Deep mountains, barren land, little to reap from what we sowed. We lived near Yanmen Pass, right on the border. Every year the Liao raiders came to pillage, and every time, people died—not only that, but what little grain we had, not even enough to feed ourselves, was seized from us as well. From childhood on, year after year, all I ever saw was those around me freezing to death, starving to death, killed by others. Your Majesty, in my decades of life, Han Jing has done every manner of evil. I have killed men. When starving, I have eaten human flesh. The people of Lüliang Mountain were not only killed by outsiders—we killed each other too, because with so little grain, if no one died, there would be no way to feed the rest. Outside they say: happy and content by the Fen River banks, scraping by in southeastern Jin, weeping and wailing on Lüliang Mountain, and death itself no worse than Yanmen Pass. Your Majesty, my own mother starved to death. When a person is truly close to starving, they can no longer even manage to cry…”
“Enough.” Hearing Han Jing’s slow account, Zhou Zhe frowned and waved a hand. “What has this to do with your leaving camp without leave to seek revenge!”
Han Jing paused. “Lüliang Mountain only began to improve after our chieftain took charge. Our chieftain, a mere woman, worked tirelessly to keep us all alive, persuading us to unite and trade with those around us, and in the end brought the stronghold back to life. Your Majesty, put simply, that’s all there is to it—but the hardship and difficulty behind it, only we truly know. What our chieftain endured was more than simply risking her life time and again. Han Jing will not hide it from Your Majesty—in the hardest of times, our stronghold did engage in unlawful dealings. We traded with the Liao, moving out porcelain and paintings to sell, just for a little grain…”
“Iron weapons too, I’d wager,” Zhou Zhe said.
“There was little iron in the mountains. What we had, we kept for our own protection—that was the foundation of our survival. Without it, even with grain, we could not have lived. And besides, what we hated most were the Liao. Every year they came to pillage, countless companions of ours died at their hands. Our chieftain’s own master died attempting to assassinate a Liao general. This is also why, when Your Majesty later led the campaign against Liao, everyone in the stronghold applauded, and we welcomed being brought under the court’s banner—it also made trading for grain with the outside world easier. But we have never for a moment forgotten these things. Later, when we heard the Jurchens were coming south, with the support of our stronghold’s elders, we too marched south together.”
“…You have not had it easy.” Zhou Zhe nodded and said this much.
“In that desolate, remote wilderness, survival was never easy. Our chieftain’s kindness is something every person of Qingmu Stronghold carries in their heart. Though she is a woman, to us, it would not be an exaggeration to say she is as a mother and father to us. A few years back, that Lin Zongwu came to the mountains, saying he wished to trade with us. We welcomed him, naturally—but later he sought to seize control of Lüliang Mountain for himself. Relying on his formidable skill, he demanded to duel our chieftain. In truth, living as we do in the wilderness, drawing blades on the battlefield to survive is nothing unusual to us—if a life is lost, it is simply fate. But now that our days had grown easier, how could we let our chieftain risk her life for us again?”
Zhou Zhe said, “Your thinking there was sound enough. And then?”
“We tried to dissuade her, but our chieftain, wanting the matter settled peaceably so the rest of us would not be pressed too hard, decided to fight him herself.” Han Jing knelt there, drew a deep breath. “That monk used underhanded methods, wounding our chieftain until she spat blood, and then fled. Your Majesty, to Qingmu Stronghold, this was a matter of utter disgrace. And so, when he appeared today, we had to kill him. But this subject knows well that a military force leaving camp without authorization is a grave crime. I do not regret going to kill that monk—I only regret having failed Your Majesty. I beg Your Majesty to pronounce judgment.”
The imperial study fell silent. Zhou Zhe stood with his hands clasped behind his back, thoughts flickering behind his eyes. After a moment of silence, he turned his head again, looking at Han Jing.
Then, abruptly, he asked: “These words… did that Ning Yi, Ning Liheng, teach you to say them?”