Dusk hung heavy and overcast.
The Central Plains.
All under heaven.
In the winter of the first year of Jingping, as the north wind raged beneath a low, hanging sky, the northern half of the Wu Dynasty’s territory—which had once flourished for over two hundred years of peace, prosperous almost as heaven itself—had already withered like a fleeting flower. With the Jurchens’ southern advance, tremendous chaos was brewing. North of Bianliang, vast stretches of land, though not yet directly struck by the ravages of war, had already begun to see their basic order crumble.
Routed soldiers scattered in every direction, commerce ground to a halt, urban order fell into deadlock. Over two hundred years of Wu Dynasty rule had left the civilizing influence of the throne deeply rooted; before this, no one had ever imagined that one day their homeland might suddenly find itself ruled by an emperor of some other, barbarian people. Yet in this moment, at least, a small number of people could perhaps already glimpse the outline of some dark shape approaching, even if they did not yet know how deep that darkness would run.
If one were to record how this collapse began, over these several years, there were surely a handful of events that must be set down. The Wu Dynasty’s alliance with the Jin against the Liao, the calamity of Fang La’s rebellion, the utterly fruitless northern campaign, the ransoming of cities to claim false credit—in the winter of the thirteenth year of Jinghan, the Jurchens’ first southern advance; a year later, their second southern advance, breaching the walls of Bianliang. Amid all this, the regicide of the fourteenth year of Jinghan might not yet even qualify for a place among the great events of the age.
As for this particular winter, when Bianliang fell, one more piece of the puzzle—forming the prologue to the entire realm’s collapse—unfolded in a place most people knew nothing about.
The northwest.
Along the border between the Wu Dynasty and Western Xia, the two-hundred-li stretch of the Hengshan region, sparsely populated.
This had, since ancient times, been a land contested from every direction. From the Tang dynasty onward, through several centuries to the present Wu Dynasty, the folk of the northwest had grown fierce and hardened, war never far away. In the Tang dynasty there had been a line of poetry: “Pitiful, the bones scattered by the Wuding River’s banks, still men of some maiden’s dreams in her chamber deep”—the Wuding River in that verse was precisely the river running through this Hengshan region. This lay along the northern edge of the Loess Plateau, the land barren, vegetation sparse, and so the river’s course often shifted, hence its name, “Wuding,” meaning “unfixed.” It was also because the land here held little value, and few people lived on it, that it had become the border dividing the two nations.
At the same time, the two-hundred-li Hengshan region also served as the natural barrier between the Wu Dynasty and Western Xia—whichever direction one crossed it.
A hundred years earlier, the Tangut chieftain Li Deming had founded the state of Western Xia, which had, over the intervening years, engaged in disputes both large and small with Liao, Wu, and Tibet alike. Over this century-plus of conflict, Western Xia’s existence had given rise, in the Wu Dynasty’s northwest, to the single most formidably skilled army in the entire realm—one also most feared and distrusted by the throne itself: the Western Army. Through a hundred years of intermittent warfare, though most people within the Wu Dynasty never knew it, through the efforts of the Western Army’s Zhong, Yang, and She clans and countless soldiers and officers, by the middle years of the Jinghan reign, the Western Army had pushed the front line across the entirety of the Hengshan region.
Had it not been for the rise and southern advance of the Jin, given a few more years, the Wu Dynasty’s forces might well have driven west, leaving all of Western Xia utterly without any defensible ground to hold.
Of course, this could only ever remain a hindsight lament, an “if only.”
In the first year of Jingping, as the Jurchens launched their second campaign against the Wu Dynasty, in the largely unnoticed region north of Hengshan, on this particular day in the eleventh month, the shadows of an army appeared across this desolate land. The great banners of the Western Xia Li clan rose high; thousands upon thousands of infantry and crossbowmen appeared along the horizon, stretching across the mountains, raising clouds of dust into the air. Most striking of all was the three thousand cavalry advancing slowly near the main body of the army. This was Western Xia’s most formidable force, renowned across the realm—the heavy cavalry known as the “Iron Kite,” now mobilized in full.
At the center of this force, guarded by the Iron Kite, flew the Western Xia royal banner, snapping fiercely in the north wind. In the war against the Zhong brothers, several years prior, having lost control of the Hengshan region, the Western Xia king Li Qianshun had at last mustered his forces to march south once more, bearing down upon Sui and Yan prefectures!
Beyond the great currents of the realm’s fate, there were also smaller matters that briefly intersected with those great currents before parting ways again.
Clop, clop, clop.
The sky had already grown dark; along a winding mountain path not far from the Hengshan region, a mounted column was making its way forward. Night travel through the mountains was difficult, but the men both front and rear of the column each carried weapons—blades, crossbows, and the like—and some of the horses and mules bore boxes and cloth sacks upon their backs. The man at the very front of the column was missing one hand, a single blade slung across his back; yet as he rode his fine steed forward, he carried about him an air of leisure and ease, this leisureliness mingled with a certain sharp edge, blending with the cold winter wind—this was none other than Du Sha, the “Heaven-Piercing Blade,” renowned throughout the realm as one of the notorious rebels of Overlord Blade Manor.
Behind him rode the column—Chen Fan and his wife, already counted among Overlord Blade Manor’s grandmasters, along with the Bamboo Emporium’s Zhu Biao, Chen Tuozi, and others. This party numbered no more than a hundred or so in total, yet most among them were masters of the martial world, seasoned in battle formations, skilled in coordinated combat—capable of standing against even several hundred, or even a thousand-strong military column, without giving ground. The reason for this was simple: at the center of this column rode the man now recognized as the common enemy of the entire realm.
Xigua rode alongside the scholar named Ning Yi, side by side, at the very center of the column. The mountainous terrain of the northwest, with its low, coarse vegetation, appeared rugged and somewhat desolate to a southerner’s eyes; the sky had already darkened, and the north wind had grown bitterly cold. She, however, paid this little mind—though along the journey, she had been carrying some private worry of her own, and her expression had grown somewhat sour because of it.
“…A place like this, hard to get into, hard to get out of. Six or seven thousand people, and if we have to fight, we’ll need meat to eat—sooner or later we’ll go hungry. And you’re so picky about food too—let’s see what you’ll do then.”
Preoccupied with her own thoughts, she continued to grumble and pick at things as she rode, her outward appearance still that of a young girl. Most of those around them were seasoned masters; though her voice was not loud, everyone could still hear it clearly, and each kept their expression carefully neutral, not daring to laugh too openly. Having traveled together for nearly half a year now, even those in the column not affiliated with the Overlord Blade Camp had already come to understand: this woman was not one to be trifled with.
This formidable reputation of hers didn’t manifest in too many arenas, of course—having managed Overlord Blade Manor for years, even as a woman, with certain unconventional behaviors of her own, she had long since cultivated the composure not to let her emotions show, and the discipline not to take out small grievances on others. But in front of Ning Yi alone, none of that composure held any power. Some among the group knew the reason and kept quiet about it; those who didn’t know dared not press further either.
Since first meeting Ning Yi in Hangzhou, up until now, Xigua had reached the age of twenty-three. In principle, she had once been married, had even shared a “wedding chamber” with Ning Yi—yet through the subsequent chain of events, that marriage had remained in name only, hollow and unfulfilled, because of the fallout from the destruction of Hangzhou and the killing of Fang Qifo; the tangled grievances between them had proven genuinely difficult to untangle.
Half a year ago, when Ning Yi had summoned the whole of Overlord Blade Manor to the capital to kill the emperor and raise rebellion, Xigua had led her people there. After the great upheaval in the capital, the group had rallied and moved west, then north, wandering in search of a place to settle, resting for a time on Lüliang Mountain. In that earliest stretch of time, the relationship between her and Ning Yi had always carried a certain small, awkward distance—wanting to draw close, yet unable to.
The killing of Fang Qifo had been too great a matter; even in hindsight, she could now understand why Ning Yi had done what he did—but Xigua was a girl who cared deeply about face, and though her heart had already stirred with feeling, she feared others would say she’d let private feeling override public duty, feared the whispers and pointed fingers behind her back. Carrying these thoughts, whenever she saw Ning Yi, she would always insist on drawing a clear line, distancing herself from him deliberately.
Seen through the eyes of those already married, like Chen Fan and Ji Qian’er, all this was, of course, rather amusing. But no one dared show it in front of Xigua—doing so would earn them her wrath instantly. During that period, Ning Yi had had a great many matters on his plate as well; having so abruptly killed the emperor, the whole realm had been shaken to its core. But what came next—where to go, what path to take, whether there was any future in it—all manner of questions needed answering, short-term, mid-term, and long-term goals all needed to be established, and in a way that would inspire genuine confidence in others.
Meanwhile, Ning Yi also had family to look after—Tan’er and the others—leaving little real time for the two of them to truly speak with one another. More often than not, Ning Yi would simply come by to greet her, exchange a word or two. Xigua, giving him a cold look, but afraid he might just walk off, would usually have to give a couple of disdainful “hmphs” to signal her contempt for him. Everyone found this rather funny to watch, but Ning Yi never took offense—he had long since grown accustomed to Xigua’s thin-skinned pride.
Fortunately, there were still stretches of time spent together without needing to speak. After the killing of the emperor, the court was bound to pursue Ning Yi with every resource at its disposal, and so wherever he went, he needed at least one or two formidable masters accompanying him—whether Hongti, or Xigua, or figures like Chen Fan and Zhu Biao. Since returning to Lüliang, Hongti had had matters of her own to attend to, and so it was Xigua who ended up accompanying him most often.
Having trained in martial arts under her father since childhood, and later followed Fang La’s rebellion, Xigua found the constant busyness and shifting circumstances neither tiring nor tedious. As leader of Overlord Blade Manor, she was rough in some ways yet careful in others—though she was not the type of woman who could organize every fine detail with precision; for that, Overlord Blade Manor still owed much to its steward, Liu Tiannan. In the days that followed, traveling and working alongside Ning Yi, Xigua—who had always admired talent in others—would sometimes sit nearby, or perch on a rooftop with her chin in her hands, listening with great interest whenever Ning Yi discussed matters or made arrangements with others, or laid out future plans before a group of officers.
After more than two months had passed, and once she noticed that others no longer seemed to pay much mind to the nature of her relationship with Ning Yi, Xigua finally began speaking with him again in earnest. From the move from Lüliang to Xiaocangshui, and through the planning of matters going forward—during which time Ning Yi twice left the mountain to attend to business—their idle conversations, whether over meals, by the campfire, or along the road, mostly touched on matters related to the rebellion and plans for the future. Even so, each of these moments of shared company and conversation left her feeling deeply, quietly content.
Her dissatisfaction stemmed from something else entirely.
For the great upheaval in the capital, Overlord Blade Manor had gradually sent up some two thousand men in total; once the matter was accomplished, they had returned home in batches, about a thousand of them. Now, with winter deepening, though Liu Tiannan held the fort in the south, after the regicide there would inevitably be crackdowns from the orthodox martial world, as well as questions of a growing reputation, distant strangers coming to seek refuge, and unrest among the stronghold’s own ranks. As manor lord, though no one had said so outright, she knew that, one way or another, she would have to return home for a visit.
As for the news she’d gathered on this trip, and the various troubles she’d encountered—those hardly amounted to much in comparison.
The sky had already darkened; torches were lit at the front of the column, and somewhere in the distance, the howling of wolves could be heard. Occasionally, the woman beside him would grumble a complaint or two; Ning Yi rarely argued back, and when Xigua fell quiet, he would often find some idle excuse to chat with her instead. By now they were not far from their destination; the riverbed of the Xiaocangshui had come into view, stretching upstream along the watercourse, and in the distance, the mouth of the mountain pass had already begun to glow faintly with firelight.
And the sentries posted at a distance had already spotted the light of their approach.
The mounted column advanced, passing through the mountain pass from which the Xiaocangshui flowed, just as evening mealtime arrived. In the first tier of the valley they entered, the glow of campfires stretched across the open ground between the eastern riverbed and the mountainside; among the more than seven thousand people gathered here, the scattered firelight spread out across the terrain in patches of light and shadow. Compared to the scene when they’d left the mountains over ten days before, the valley now held considerably more structures, though it still appeared somewhat desolate. Even so, the figures of children could already be seen among the crowd.
The great mess-hall shed, built earlier to serve as a communal dining area, now saw soldiers filing in and out in orderly lines; the outline of the stables took shape further off in the distance—since arriving from Bianliang, aside from the horses Lüliang already possessed, the two thousand fine steeds seized along the way had become the most important asset this mountain settlement now held, and so these structures had been the first to be built. Beyond this, before Ning Yi had left, a blacksmith’s workshop and an earthen furnace had already been established halfway up the mountainside at Xiaocangshui Village—manned by craftsmen brought from Lüliang Mountain, meant to forge construction tools locally. If large-scale production were needed, and raw materials permitting, they would still have to be transported from Qingmu Stronghold.
Along the mountainside, cave dwellings meant for winter shelter and storing supplies were still under construction, though more than a dozen were already complete—though not yet occupied, and perhaps not entirely finished inside either. The wooden cabins on one side of the valley had already grown numerous, and looked reasonably sturdy—with a bit more patching up, they could serve well enough for the winter. But this particular winter, at least half the people here would likely still have to make do with felt tents.
Fortunately, the Su family had originally been cloth merchants, and after the smuggling operations through Lüliang Mountain, Ning Yi had come to hold a virtual monopoly over this trade, with a substantial stockpile already accumulated. Before killing Zhou Zhe, Ning Yi had also spent over a month planning ahead—so even in the rush of events, these supplies were not yet in short supply.
Standing at the mouth of the pass, watching for a moment as the mounted column entered, the crowd within the valley turned to look their way; though no one shouted or cried out, everyone’s mood seemed noticeably lifted. Ning Yi guessed that the first batch of Wurui Battalion families had likely already arrived, accounting for the crowd’s high spirits. In the firelight over there, someone had already come forward to meet them—the officer Sun Ye. Ning Yi dismounted, and the two exchanged greetings. “How many came in total? Everyone settled in? Enough space for them all?”
“Seven hundred thirty-six arrived. Of these, one hundred ninety-three were originally Wurui Battalion soldiers who hadn’t come with us before; the rest are their families. All settled in.” Sun Ye spoke, then lowered his voice. “Some had been given instructions by the court beforehand, and they’ve been honest with us about it privately. Among these…”
Ning Yi listened, nodded, and then smiled. “No wonder morale’s suddenly so high.”
“The morale… is actually because of something else.”
“Oh?”
“It’s because Bianliang has fallen…”
As they walked, Sun Ye spoke in a low voice; in the torchlight, Ning Yi’s expression froze for a moment, and he stopped walking. He tilted his head back and drew a breath, the night wind carrying its chill.
Ever since arriving in this Wu Dynasty—from his initial indifference, to gradually forming attachments, to doing what he could, to eventually staking nearly everything on holding that city, all of it had been meant to prevent precisely this outcome. When he’d decided to kill Zhou Zhe, he had known this outcome was already sealed—though at the time, perhaps, he hadn’t quite let himself dwell on it in full. Now, at last, it had become entirely clear.
After going round and round for so long, everything had finally been forced right up before his eyes. Heaven and earth were collapsing, and the small points of light scattered through this valley—no one could yet say what future awaited them.
But whatever the case, at least now he understood why morale in the valley had risen so high.
He let out a sigh, and walked forward.
Ahead of the valley, further on, the river and the winding road stretched onward; in several cave dwellings along the mountain’s base, light shone out. The garrison stationed in this area formed its own separate unit; in one such room, a woman sat with brush in hand, going over accounts, tallying supplies. A female soldier of Qingmu Stronghold entered and murmured something in her ear; the woman looked up, pausing the brush she had been writing with. She said something to the soldier, who then went out, and the woman named Su Tan’er gently smoothed the hair at her temples, settled her thoughts, and returned to reviewing the entries on the page before her, marking a small black dot beside one of them.
The wolves’ howling stretched on, long and mournful; the night wind was cold, and the scattered points of light spread across the mountains. The gathering of people together was, in this uncertain world where the future remained unknown, the only warmth to be found…
Volume 8: The Old Cangchuan