The northwest, in the depths of summer’s hottest days — vast stretches of wheat fields, and out in the distance beyond them, a single tree.
Beneath that tree gathered a group of people in ragged clothes; Zheng Huixin was among them. She was eight years old this year, dressed in tattered clothing, her face streaked with sweat and grime, her hair cropped short and unkempt — no one would have guessed she was actually a girl. Her father, Zheng Laocheng, sat beside her, weak and exhausted like all the other refugees.
The Zheng family had once been a fairly well-off family of scholars in Yanzhou; Zheng Laocheng had run a private school, well respected by those in the area. When Yanzhou fell, the Western Xia forces had looted the city, seizing most of the Zheng family’s possessions — but because the family had a few hidden cellars that went undiscovered, once the Western Xia stabilized their control over the city, the Zheng family hadn’t been driven to complete destitution.
Yet it was precisely because of those hidden cellars that the family had been reluctant to leave, uncertain of where else they might go. Western Xia soldiers occasionally came calling, and the family was often mistreated — perhaps sensing that the Zheng household had grain hidden away, the Western Xia soldiers’ visits grew more and more frequent, until, half a month earlier, Zheng Huixin’s mother had died.
Zheng Laocheng never told her how her mother had died, but not long after, her father, now like a hollow shell of himself, shouldered a pack and led her out of the city, setting off toward some destination unknown to her. Along the road were many other refugees, just as ragged as they were. The Western Xia had occupied this whole region; in some places, one could still see the burnt remains of houses and village dwellings destroyed in the fighting, and wherever people still lived, there were also great stretches of wheat fields. Sometimes Zheng Huixin would notice the same look on the faces of fellow travelers as they stood beside her father staring at those fields — an emptiness so hollow it brought to mind sand scattered across the ground.
When the Western Xia had first come sweeping through, there had been plunder and massacre — but before long, things had, after all, settled back down again, and the survivors had resumed something like their former lives. No matter whose rule one lived under, there had to be subjects to govern. Unable to submit to the Wu Dynasty any longer, submitting to Western Xia instead ultimately amounted to the same kind of life.
But Zheng Laocheng was a scholar, and he understood clearly that even harder days, scenes as bleak as hell itself, still lay ahead. All the wheat people had planted this year, every bit of the harvest, no longer belonged to them at all — no matter how well this autumn’s wheat crop turned out, most people would find it nearly impossible to actually obtain any of the grain. Once the old stores ran out entirely, the northwest would face an even more unbearable famine through the winter, and most people would be left to starve to death outright — only those who became truly obedient subjects of Western Xia might survive by sheer luck. And even being such an obedient subject wasn’t easy to manage.
As harvest season approached, more and more people came to witness this scene, and in the eyes of those who stood along the road staring at the vast wheat fields, there was a truly desperate, ashen despair. They had planted these crops, and now the crops stood right before their eyes, grown so beautifully — yet already destined never to belong to them, with only the prospect of being starved to death, living and breathing, awaiting them instead. There could be nothing more despairing than this.
Along the road, they occasionally encountered Western Xia soldiers, threatening the group with bows and blades, strictly forbidding anyone from approaching those wheat fields — sometimes bodies could even be seen hanging near the fields’ edges. It was now midday, and the group had stopped to rest in the shade of the tree by the roadside. Zheng Laocheng, utterly exhausted, leaned against the road and soon fell into a light doze. Zheng Huixin sat nearby, hugging her knees, her lips parched with thirst; she also needed to relieve herself. The little girl stood up, glanced around, then walked toward a small earthen hollow not far off.
She crouched down in the hollow and undid her trousers. At some point, her father’s voice reached her faintly, carrying a note of anxiety. Zheng Huixin couldn’t see what was happening on the other side; she’d only just broken off two twigs from the ground when another sound reached her — the loud shouting of Western Xia soldiers, and her father’s voice, calling out anxiously: “Huixin — daughter — where are you—”
The Western Xia voices were still shouting when her father’s voice suddenly cut off. The little girl pulled up her trousers and ran out from where she’d been hiding. She saw two Western Xia soldiers — one drawing a bow, the other holding a blade — shouting loudly by the roadside, the people under the tree thrown into chaos. Her father’s body lay near the edge of the wheat field in the distance, an arrow buried in his chest, blood spreading across his front.
“Ah… ah-uh…”
The whole world seemed to grow chaotic and pale around her. She started walking toward him, but someone pulled her back…
Her memories after that were a blur.
Someone fed her, someone dragged her along, sometimes carried her on his back or in his arms. It was a middle-aged man in his thirties or forties, his clothes worn and tattered, a pack on his back, his arms strong. He would speak to her sometimes, but her mind was hazy, disoriented. Along the way it rained again; at some point, everyone else who’d been traveling with them had vanished. They passed through desolate mountains — the little girl, of course, had no idea where they were, only that there were trees, tall and short, all around, rugged mountain paths, and loose, unstable rocks.
That noon, the sun bright and clear again, they stopped in a small grove. Zheng Huixin had reached the point where she could eat mechanically now, holding a small chipped bowl and eating the fried rice inside. Suddenly, a voice rang out, sharp and eerie as a ghost’s cry.
“Yiii—yaaah—”
Zheng Huixin felt herself shoved to the side, a crashing sound erupting all around her, the fierce, rapid shouts of Western Xia soldiers filling her ears. In her tilting field of vision, figures crossed and clashed — the man who’d carried her all this way swung his blade, again and again, flashes of deep red light bursting into view. The little girl seemed to see him drive his blade straight through a Western Xia soldier, pinning him against a tree trunk; then the man’s face suddenly loomed large before her as he rushed toward her, scooping her up in one arm, sprinting through the forest at full speed.
The trees flew past in a blur behind them; those terrifying screams echoed in her ears as more Western Xia soldiers came pouring through the woods. The man fought his way through with one hand on his blade, clashing with the enemy the whole way. At one point, the little girl felt his body jolt — a blade from behind had struck him, and the smell of blood flooded into her nose.
In an instant, the light ahead widened, and the two of them burst free of the trees — the Western Xia pursuers still chasing after them. Before them lay a steep earthen slope, one side of the mountain leaning at a terrifying angle, loose rocks shifting underfoot. The two sides clashed as they ran, and then, wind roaring, the world spun violently around her.
A great rushing, crashing sound rose up. The man, still holding the little girl, forced the pursuing Western Xia soldier down the steep slope with him; their footing gave way beneath the momentum of their headlong plunge, earth and stone streaming past in her vision, raising a massive cloud of dust. Zheng Huixin felt the sky shrinking rapidly above her, and then — a heavy thud!
A long while later, Zheng Huixin felt her body shift slightly — it was the man holding her, struggling to rise from the ground. They had reached the bottom of the slope. Zheng Huixin managed, with effort, to turn her head, and saw the man’s one free hand braced against something — a human head, crushed and bloody, brains spilling out. From the hat and the braid, she could tell it was the Western Xia soldier. The two of them had plunged down that steep slope together, and this Western Xia man had ended up on the bottom, his skull shattered, his organs crushed. Huixin, sheltered in the man’s arms, had suffered the least injury of all; the man himself bore wounds of his own, covered in the enemy’s blood as well as his own, half his body now stained through.
“Are you all right.”
She heard him ask, his voice weak.
“Good, that’s good.”
The man set her down, and before her, unfastened the Western Xia soldier’s clothing, searching him, taking the man’s waist token and rations. The sun still blazed overhead, and the man, half his body stained with blood, one hand holding a blade, the other gripping the child’s hand, made his unsteady way toward the far side of the mountain.
That evening, they arrived at a certain place. Several days later, Zheng Huixin finally learned the man’s name from others — he was called Qu Qing, and the valley they’d come to was called Small Azure River.
…
Through the sixth month, in the river valley, the daily work of construction and military training never once let up.
Everything continued running smoothly as usual; once the day’s work was done, soldiers would go listen to storytelling or watch performances, or catch up on news and current affairs from outside, discussing it with friends nearby. But by this point, the power of Western Xia and Jurchen’s blockade of the outside world had begun to show its effect — news from beyond the mountains had grown noticeably sparser. Yet within this very atmosphere of blockade, sharper-eyed people often sensed all the more clearly the pressing crisis at hand, the mounting pressure demanding action, and so on.
Small Azure River’s contact with the outside world wasn’t limited to the agents they’d sent out themselves. Sometimes lost refugees would wander unwittingly into this stretch of wilderness — whether they were outside spies or not, no one could say for certain, but the defenders around the perimeter generally didn’t trouble them; sometimes they would even kindly offer up some of the valley’s already scarce rations before sending them on their way.
Among these exchanges with the outside world, there was one incident that stood out as the strangest and most intriguing of all. It had first happened at the end of the previous year — a group that appeared to be a grain-transport caravan, dozens of porters carrying loads on shoulder poles, had come into this stretch of mountains, seemingly lost. When Small Azure River’s people showed themselves, the group had panicked, dropped all their grain loads, and simply fled — leaving Small Azure River with what amounted to several dozen loads of grain delivered, as it were, right to their doorstep. A similar thing had happened again as spring was drawing to a close.
Few people in the valley knew the full story; Ning Yi had personally taken charge, sealing away nearly a hundred loads of grain and rice in the storehouse. The third such occurrence came at noon on the eleventh of the sixth month — several dozen loads of grain, carried by porters with some armed escorts, entered Small Azure River’s territory. But this time, they set down their loads and did not leave.
An elderly man, his hair entirely white yet dressed with dignified refinement, his gaze sharp, stood among the group. When the hidden sentries guarding the perimeter of Small Azure River approached, he had someone present a calling card.
The card bore only three characters: Zuo Duanyou.
Before long, Qin Shaoqian, dressed in full military uniform, came out from within the valley to receive him personally. Though he now stood as one of the rebels who had risen against the entire realm, this was one man toward whom he dared show no negligence.
…
Back in the days when the Wu Dynasty had still been reasonably prosperous, when Emperor Zhou Zhe of the Jinghan era had only just taken the throne, there had been three great Confucian scholars of renowned fame in the court, all holding high position and sharing similar aspirations. Together they had planned a great many things — the Secret Investigation Bureau had been one such undertaking; stirring up internal strife within the Liao and allowing the Jurchens to rise had been another. These three men were Qin Siyuan, Zuo Duanyou, and Wang Qisong.
In the course of carrying out these earth-shaking schemes, the three encountered no shortage of difficulties. Of the three, Wang Qisong was the most upright in both his principles and his methods; Qin Siyuan possessed profound Confucian scholarship but was comparatively more pragmatic and utilitarian in his approach; Zuo Duanyou’s temperament ran to extremes, though his family’s own inner resources ran deep. After working together on many undertakings, the three eventually went their separate ways over one matter or another. Zuo Duanyou retired from office and returned home; Wang Qisong, in the course of a political struggle, took the blame to protect Qin Siyuan’s position and departed as well. After that came the Black Water Pact, when the Liao forces swept south.
That time, Wang Qisong led his family in resisting the Liao troops, and nearly every male member of his household perished, leaving only Wang Shanyue as the sole surviving heir.
After the Black Water Pact, because of the Wang family’s tragedy, Qin and Zuo’s relationship broke down further still, and from then on the two had almost no further contact. It wasn’t until the later famine-relief affair in the north, when Zuo Houwen and Zuo Jilan of the Zuo family became implicated, that Qin Siyuan finally wrote to Zuo Duanyou. It was the first contact between the two men in many years — and, as it turned out, would also be their last.
By the time Qin Siyuan died, of the three men who had once, through their own maneuvering, shifted the course of the entire realm, only this last old man remained.
The Qin and Zuo families had been close many years before, and this wasn’t the first time Qin Shaoqian had met him. After so many years apart, the once-stern old man now bore a full head of white hair; the once spirited young man before him had likewise weathered much hardship, and lost an eye along the way. When the two met, there was little in the way of pleasantries exchanged — the old man studied the black eyepatch on Qin Shaoqian’s face with a slight frown. Qin Shaoqian led him into the valley, and that afternoon, the two of them together paid respects at the memorial tomb erected in the valley for Qin Siyuan’s robes and cap; they did not discuss much about the valley’s internal affairs. As for the grain he’d brought, it was set aside and sealed in the storehouse separately, just as with the previous two shipments.
That evening, Ning Yi, along with Su Tan’er and Ning Xi, joined the family banquet held to welcome the old man.
The next morning, Ning Yi personally took charge of showing the old man around the valley. Ning Yi held the old man in considerable respect; though the old man’s face remained stern, he too took the opportunity to study, again and again, this man who served as the mind behind the rebel forces. By the afternoon, when Ning Yi came to see him once more, he brought with him several bound copies of a newly printed book.
“This was something Old Qin was working on right up until his death — his commentaries on these texts. In the current climate, I doubt there’s anyone in the realm who’d dare read them openly for some time yet. I thought Lord Zuo might like to take them back with you and have a look.”
The Collected Commentaries on the Four Books, attributed to Qin Siyuan. Zuo Duanyou, having only just risen from his afternoon nap, ran a hand over the book’s cover, visibly moved. His stern expression softened slightly; he stroked the pages slowly, twice over, before finally speaking.
“In coming here today, I’ve also seen the state of your valley. On the matter of the grain shortage — my Zuo family can help.”
That the two of them, having made contact, would eventually arrive at this subject had been expected from the start. Sunlight poured in through the window, cicadas droning ceaselessly in the valley outside. In the room, the old man sat, waiting for Ning Yi’s nod, ready to resolve this whole small valley’s problem in one stroke. Ning Yi stood for a long, quiet moment before finally cupping his hands and speaking. “The matter of Small Azure River’s grain shortage already has a solution in hand — there’s no need to trouble Lord Zuo with it.”
Zuo Duanyou looked at him, his gaze sharp as lightning. “This old man says what he means, plainly, and I’ve never cared for beating around the bush or haggling over terms. I heard, before coming here, that the Inner Demon Ning Yi is a man of boundless cunning — but also not one to drag his feet or waver indecisively. If this little scheme of yours is meant to be used on me, isn’t that rather a poor read of the situation?”
Ning Yi cupped his hands, lowering his head. “Old sir, what I say is the truth.”
“You’d gamble with the lives of everyone here?”
“If the Zuo family were simply to provide grain without any further conditions attached, I would, of course, want to accept it. But I imagine it’s not quite so simple as that, is it?”
The old man’s brow furrowed. After a moment, he gave a cold snort. “Circumstances outweigh the individual. Let’s lay out plainly what each of us wants and needs — do you think the Zuo family is here to seek shelter under you? Young Master Ning, if it weren’t for the fact that your side is the last remaining branch of the Qin faction, I wouldn’t have come here at all — I believe you understand that much yourself. The Zuo family helping you does come with expectations, but we won’t try to constrain you too heavily. You’ve killed an emperor already — what is there left for you to fear?”
Many great matters in this world are sometimes decided through the tireless effort and negotiation of countless people, and sometimes through a decision made in the space of a few sentences. That a bond of friendship existed between Zuo Duanyou and Qin Siyuan was beyond question; his coming to Small Azure River, paying his respects to Qin Siyuan, and taking up his writings afterward — none of that emotion had been feigned. But such a friendship was one between gentlemen, and wouldn’t necessarily extend to matters of larger strategic consequence. Qin Shaoqian understood this too, which was why he’d had Ning Yi accompany Zuo Duanyou — because it was Ning Yi who held the real authority to decide such matters.
For a man of Zuo Duanyou’s standing to personally broach the subject of grain was already, in itself, a considerable show of respect toward Qin Siyuan’s memory. He simply hadn’t expected the other side to respond with an outright refusal. That refusal came in a single sentence, yet translated into real terms, it meant the imminent life-or-death fate of tens of thousands of people.
Ning Yi looked at him, his gaze calm as he spoke. “I understand Lord Zuo’s good intentions, but Small Azure River doesn’t accept constraints from those who don’t share our path. So, while I appreciate the kindness behind your offer, we won’t be accepting the grain. The grain Lord Zuo sent on the previous two occasions is still sealed in our storehouse as well — you’re welcome to take it all back with you when you return.”
The moment he finished speaking, Zuo Duanyou’s gaze hardened, genuine anger rising in him. He was just about to speak when someone came running in from outside. “Something’s happened!”
The one who’d come in was Chen Fan. He glanced at Zuo Duanyou. “Something’s happened to Ning Xi…”
This small, sudden mishap interrupted the standoff between the two men.
For some time now, gathering wild greens, catching fish, and foraging for food had become an everyday part of life for Small Azure River’s children whenever they had a spare moment. It was now the depths of summer heat, and the valley’s grain shortage remained a problem without a solution — yet under Ning Yi’s management, the people of the valley hadn’t fallen into disorder. But pressure, sometimes suppressed within the heart, could also surface in all sorts of visible ways. The children’s activities were a direct reflection of exactly this pressure.
Things from the mountains could be eaten. Things from the water could be eaten. Wild greens could be eaten. Tree bark could be eaten too — and according to what Min Chuyi said, apparently there was even a kind of clay that could be eaten. This made little Ning Xi feel rather optimistic about things. But optimism aside, with the children and some of the women all out gathering wild greens, the edible plants and roots near Small Azure River had, after all, grown scarce. The adults could still organize trips a bit farther out to hunt and dig, but the children were strictly forbidden from leaving the valley. Because of this, day after day spent in the valley, Ning Xi’s little basket rarely held much of a haul.
He simply assumed he wasn’t good enough at this, unable to match children like Min Chuyi who could endure real hardship. Many times, after a full day of searching, he’d look at his meager little basket and feel rather dejected. Min Chuyi’s basket often didn’t hold much either, but she’d occasionally share some of it with him anyway. Out of a certain childish vanity — wanting something to show off to his parents — he always ended up accepting it.
And so, every morning, he’d share half a wild-green cake with Min Chuyi in return — he could never finish it all anyway.
He’d never expected that this particular day, he’d stumble across a rabbit in the valley. When the fuzzy little creature with its two upright ears darted out of the grass, Ning Xi was actually a bit startled, standing there pointing at it, stammering as he called out to Min Chuyi: “This, this—”
The seven-year-old girl came dashing over instantly, and the rabbit spun around and bolted.
“Catch it, catch it! Ning Xi, catch it—”
“Aaaaaaah—”
The two children’s shouts rang out in a chaotic burst across the small hillside, the rabbit and the two of them racing madly. Ning Xi bravely charged across the little mountain path, leaping down from a high earthen hollow to cut off the rabbit’s escape route, while Min Chuyi circled around from below and, with a leap, seized the rabbit by the ears. Ning Xi tumbled across the ground a few times before scrambling back up, blinking, then pointing at Min Chuyi. “Ha ha ha, ha ha ha… uh—” He saw the rabbit clutched in the little girl’s hands — and then it slipped free and fell.
“Uh, grab it, grab it, it’s getting away, it’s getting away—” Ning Xi shouted, moving to chase after it again, but stopped after two steps, because Min Chuyi was staring at him with a strange, frightened look, and then tears began spilling from her eyes.
Ning Xi wiped at the spot she was staring at on his own forehead and found blood on his hand. He hadn’t even realized what had happened yet, still rueful over the rabbit disappearing further and further into the distance. The little girl burst into tears, and not far off, the female soldier assigned to watch over them came sprinting over at full speed…