In the second year of Jingping, in the small hours of the thirteenth day of the sixth month, brief chaos appeared in the valley of the Little Cang River.
The sun had not yet risen; the night air still held a faint chill. Not long after the warm yellow lamps came on one by one, a low buzz of discussion rose among the barracks scattered across the valley floor. This was the hour when the soldiers of the Little Cang River received their daily assignments. Once the buzzing quieted, columns of soldiers gathered on the open ground around them and set off along the valley road for their daily run. Only after that came the rooster’s crow heralding the dawn.
Zuo Duanyou was already up. The old man was advanced in years and had long been used to rising early; even in this new place, he saw no reason to change the habit. He dressed, went outside, and ran through a set of boxing forms, his mind still turning over last night’s conversation with Ning Yi. The mountain wind blew past, pleasantly cool. Not far below, on the mountain path, running soldiers called cadence, forming a long line that wound over the ridge and out of sight in both directions.
These were fine soldiers—fierce, yet disciplined. In these two days Zuo Duanyou had already seen as much.
Afterward, Qin Shaoqian, in full uniform, came to pay his respects and see to the morning meal. After breakfast, the old man sat in his room, thinking things over. The Little Cang River lay in a remote place; the slopes on either side lacked any lively green, and under the sunlight showed only a patchwork of yellow and green—calm, all the same, and the training chants that occasionally rose outside had a way of settling the mind.
The Jin state was rising, the Wu Dynasty declining. Ever since Bian Liang fell to the Jurchen, everything north of the Yellow River existed in name only. For the Little Cang River, this world was a cage—the Jin to the north, the Western Xia to the west, the Wu Dynasty to the south, provisions running out, no way forward. But was it not the same for the Zuo Family? This was a change of dynasties. The Zuo Family’s holdings were larger, and the Jurchen were still stabilizing their own affairs, not yet truly taking over the lands north of the Yellow River, so perhaps they could hold out a little longer—but what was bound to happen would happen someday.
Just as that Ning Liheng had said—one day the Jurchen would come south, and the Zuo Family would face a choice. That was not scaremongering; it was an inevitability. As for Zuo Duanyou himself, he had never liked the court, and he had long since grown disillusioned with this world—but on one point there was nothing to consider: he would never, under any circumstance, consider surrendering to the Jurchen.
Wang Qisong had lost every male in his family resisting the Liao’s southward push; Qin Siyuan, striving to revive the Wu Dynasty, had in the end been ruined and killed by petty men. The three old friends had come to differ in method and had long since parted ways over it, but that was only a difference in tactics—on the great way of the gentleman, on the great way of Confucian principle, some things never changed. On that greater way, the three of them had never truly disagreed.
The old family estate in Jinzhou was quiet too, but ever since last year, the old man’s life had lost its peace. He could certainly go to his death with dignity, but the children of the Zuo Family could not be left without a path forward. Nor did he wish for these children, should the Jurchen truly come, to grovel before them if they surrendered to the Jin state. Living in that old courtyard, day after day, his heart had been consumed with anxiety. Faced with all this, he felt, honestly… he was simply too old for it.
Coming to the Little Cang River had, of course, been meant as a way of quietly laying down a line of contingency. But now that the talks had broken down, in this unfamiliar place, watching unfamiliar affairs, listening to unfamiliar chants, he found himself, if anything, more at ease. In idle moments he sometimes found himself recalling the choice Qin Siyuan had made back then—when it came to facing so many things, that man surnamed Qin had been the most clear-headed and rational of them all.
Outside the window, white clouds drifted lazily; it was shaping up to be a fine morning. He wanted to put the matter of Ning Liheng out of his mind when a steward of the Zuo Family who had accompanied him came hurrying up outside.
“My lord, something seems to be happening.”
“Hm? What is it?”
“Come and see for yourself. There’s activity in the valley’s army.”
Zuo Duanyou pushed himself up with his cane and walked out of the room.
Out of respect for the old man, the lodgings arranged for him sat on the upper part of the mountainside, giving a view down over the whole valley. The sun had not been up long; the temperature was pleasant, and clusters of white clouds drifted across the sky. The valley below looked full of life and vigor, but on closer inspection, everything seemed somehow different today.
The settlement at the center of the valley spread outward from a small plaza; houses were still being built outward day by day, and every day large numbers of single-wheeled carts and soldiers hauling supplies moved through the streets, filling the settlement, inside and out, with bustle. Farther out, on the riverbanks, open ground, and hillsides, soldiers trained with no less vigor.
But looking down now, the whole settlement seemed diluted—apart from a few units maintaining order, all that remained were ordinary residents going about the valley and some children at play. And spreading out from the settlement in every direction—across every riverbank, every open field, every stretch beside the river—soldiers were training.
Zuo Duanyou compared this to what he had seen the previous two days. “Are they all in training today?”
“I’ve already asked around,” the steward reported in a low voice. “The army here trains once every three days and does labor the rest of the time—this has gone on for more than half a year. But today…” he paused, “that pattern has stopped.”
The pleasant mountain wind blew past; the old man frowned and gripped his cane tighter.
…
By midday, an unusual quiet had settled over the mess hall of the Little Cang River.
The soldiers coming and going seemed subdued, though there was no trace of low spirits in that silence. At the tables, people murmured to their neighbors, chewing their food in large mouthfuls, some deliberately grinding their teeth, glancing around with strange expressions on their faces. Many others wore the same odd look.
Occasionally some loud, boisterous voice would burst out: “It’s got to be an attack—” Then, catching the eyes turned his way, he’d give a couple of smug little snorts. Not far off, a squad leader barked, “Don’t talk nonsense!”
Someone else picked up a piece of meat with his chopsticks: “Bigger cut of meat than usual.” The man across from him gave a knowing chuckle and kept eating.
There was no discussion louder than a murmur, because that morning a gag order had been issued over the very thing everyone was curious and puzzled about—the sudden change in the day’s schedule had apparently startled everyone so badly that when the squads and platoons assembled, there had been a spell of whispering and chatter in nearly every unit, which had nearly universally provoked the officers’ tempers and earned the men extra laps. Unable to discuss it openly, the whole scene had settled into its current hushed state.
Hou Wu came over with his tray and sat down beside Mao Yishan, who leaned in eagerly. “Fifth Brother, did you go see Brother Qu?”
Hou Wu nodded.
“What did he say?”
The corner of Hou Wu’s mouth curved into a smile. “He wants to come out.”
“Ah, but Brother Qu is still injured—”
“Heh.” Hou Wu lowered his voice. “He just said the time had come. A matter this big, he can’t afford to miss it.”
“Did Brother Qu really say that? Did he say anything else?”
“He didn’t spell it out, but he did mention one thing…” Hou Wu lowered his voice even further—by now the whole table was leaning in, heads down, eavesdropping in the most conspicuous way. “He said… the wheat harvest in the northwest should already have started.”
A soldier across the table leaned over to point out: “The wheat’s not fully ripe yet, give it another two days…”
“The Western Xia occupied that land, of course they’d harvest early…”
Before the other man could finish, their company commander, Pang Liu’an, walked over. “What are you all whispering about! Didn’t you all run enough this morning?”
Pang Liu’an was decent enough that the men weren’t especially afraid of him. A young soldier stood up. “Reporting, Commander! I could still run another ten li!”
Another stood up too. “Reporting, boss, we’ve finished eating, we were about to go train!”
“Us too.” Several others, Mao Yishan among them, stood as well—they had indeed finished their meal.
“Train what! You just finished eating, wash your bowls and get some rest!”
The one who’d claimed he was going to train blinked. “Er… yes! We’ll go rest.”
The group at the table hurried off—they couldn’t talk here, but back in the barracks, they could always find a moment to speak. Hou Wu, who’d been delayed bringing food to Qu Qing, watched the table suddenly empty and pulled a face. “Wait for me, you bunch of bastards!” Then he hurriedly bent his head and shoveled down his food.
…
Away from these mountains, in the northwest, the wheat harvest had indeed already begun.
The Western Xia army forced the people of the conquered territory into the harvest, which had been underway for several days already. The people of the northwest were famously fierce and unyielding, and once the wheat, harvested in great swaths, was carried away, leaving them only meager rations, scattered pockets of resistance began to appear again and again.
Near Yanzhou, an entire village was wiped out for resisting. Outside Qingjian city, all manner of rumors began to spread about the ghost of old Master Zhong appearing; in the villages outside the walls, people burned their own wheat fields under cover of darkness—and in response, Western Xia soldiers carried out massacres in reprisal. Roving bandits grew bolder; mountain outlaws tried to seize grain from the Western Xia, but the Xia counterattacks were merciless, and within a few short days many mountain strongholds were hunted down, broken, and slaughtered.
Around Huanzhou, Zhong Lie led the last few thousand men of the Zhong family army in a sortie, hoping to use this moment to rally more followers. But along the Huan River they ran into the main force of the Xia’s Iron Kite Cavalry and were routed once more.
Speckled bloodstains and great swaths of gold were blooming across this land in step with the Western Xia’s harvest.
…
The army’s training continued until the fading dusk swallowed the brilliant sunset. Lights came alive across the Little Cang River, and in the small plaza at the settlement’s center, word of the Western Xia’s grain harvest had already spread. As night fell, all manner of talk passed through the barracks scattered across the settlement; on the soldiers’ faces after a full day’s training still lingered an excitement they could barely contain. Some went to ask Luo Ye whether they were about to march out, but for now, the higher command remained tight-lipped about the whole affair, and everyone’s speculation amounted to nothing more than private daydreaming.
The entire Little Cang River camp seemed, on this rare night, to simmer over a low flame.
Deep in the night, that tension and excitement still had not settled. Halfway up the mountainside, Ning Yi walked out of his small courtyard, as he did every night, and looked out over the lights below from a distance.
On one flank of the mountain, a figure moved slowly, slipping away silently through the darkness, and before long crossed over the ridge.
That figure followed the rugged mountain path, then cautiously descended a slope. Moonlight lay like water, and suddenly, in that light, he stopped.
Footsteps carrying a rush of wind swept past from a distance; ahead, another figure was slowly approaching, the gleam of a spear beginning to show.
“Old Li Six, where are you off to?”
A young man’s face appeared in the moonlight. The figure called Old Li Six straightened slowly and drew the two blades at his waist. “Zhu Biao… and Yuwen Feidu.”
Before the words had finished, he lunged forward with his blades! Ahead of him, the shadow of a spear surged up like a wildfire sweeping across a field, engulfing him—
Farther off in the darkness, the young man named Yuwen Feidu revealed himself, drawing his bow and nocking an arrow…
“Today, you won’t be leaving…”
…
On the fourteenth of the sixth month, a great rain fell; black clouds seemed set to blot out the sky entirely, rain lashing everything, lightning flashing and thunder rolling. Training within the Little Cang River had to stop; every soldier spent the whole day cooped up indoors. Toward evening, the downpour finally let up, and while the sun had not yet set, the sky was clear and bright as new. By the fifteenth, training resumed.
That evening, in the small courtyard halfway up the mountain, Su Tan’er came home and, unusually, ate a second bowl of rice—her work was nearing its end. Little Ning Xi, bandaged around the head, was complaining about not being able to attend lessons these past two days, and wondering aloud whether Min Chuyi had been keeping up with her reading.
They ate dinner in the fading summer heat, and afterward Ning Yi went out to enjoy the cool evening air. A little while later Jin’er joined him and mentioned that the little girl named Min Chuyi had come for lessons that day—perhaps because she’d been keeping Ning Xi company when she got hurt, the Min family’s parents had beaten her, possibly even slapped her across the face.
Chatting on about such small matters, and about the training and rumors in the valley these past two days, Jin’er recalled a question Ning Yi had asked a month earlier and brought it up again. Ning Yi looked down at the valley below and slowly answered, smiling.
“What does the Little Cang River look like? The old man of the Zuo Family says it’s like an egg balanced on a cliff’s edge. You said it’s like a sack—all of those comparisons have their merit, of course. I only asked that question on a whim, out of nowhere. As for me, I think… hm?”
As he spoke, Tan’er came over as well. Ning Yi was sitting on a tree stump with grass beside it, and Su Tan’er, smiling, asked, “What are you two talking about?” and sat down on the grass nearby.
Ning Yi repeated the question he’d once posed to Jin’er. Tan’er gazed down at the valley below, arms wrapped around her knees, chin resting on them, and answered softly, “It’s like a blade.”
Yes—it was like a blade…
Ning Yi nodded.
…
In the valley, Company Commander Pang Liu’an walked down the street, frowning as he shooed away a few young men nearby—he was nearly at the end of his patience, having been pestered with sly questions again and again these past few days, and now here was someone else asking whether they were about to go raid some rich household.
“Attack, attack, attack—even if we do attack, it won’t be as small-time as what you’re all thinking. Think bigger—”
He let slip a hint, his mind drifting back to the meeting three nights earlier.
…
“…Ever since we arrived here at the Little Cang River last autumn, our original plan was to attach ourselves to the Green Wood Stockade, using our surrounding geographic advantages to open a trade route—or even a trade network—connecting various parties, to solve our present difficulties. At that time the Western Xia had not yet made any major moves, and Zhong Shidao of the Western Army was still alive; we judged the goal difficult, but not impossible…”
“…But after news of Zhong Shidao’s death arrived last December, we completely abandoned that plan…”
“…After the Western Xia’s arrival, the northwest fell into chaos. In the foreseeable future, the Jurchen will gradually swallow up everything north of the Yellow River, and we will surely be isolated. Under these circumstances, opening a trade route has been confirmed impossible. So we have only one other path left. If we announced this path outright and gave everyone a day or two to mull it over, it would only shatter army morale and collapse the foundation we’ve already built. That is why, once the decision was made, we carried out… everything we’ve done up to this point…”
“…For nearly a year now, the entire core of our work at the Little Cang River has been to awaken the soldiers’ own initiative in the valley—to let them feel the pressure, while also letting them believe this pressure need not be theirs alone to solve. Through extensive division of labor and cooperation, we’ve raised their sense of mutual identity, passed along news from the outside world, let them understand reality, and let them feel, firsthand, everything they needed to feel. By today, they’ve developed a sense of identity with themselves; they can identify with the comrades around them, with this collective—and once that happens, they will no longer fear this pressure, because they all know this is something they must, going forward, overcome…”
“And they can overcome it…”
…
After nearly a year of forging, what stood in the Little Cang River valley now was a blade.
It was hard, coarse to the extreme; because of the enormous problems within it, any chaos it encountered could shatter it entirely. Any society is a complex whole, but this society, precisely because it was too singular, had problems and flaws that were equally singular—it had gone to an extreme.
What held up this valley was the conviction forged over this past year—and only that conviction. This made it astonishingly fragile, liable to snap at the first strain—but that same conviction was also fanatical and fearless, having reached nearly the highest point it could reach.
It was like a high-carbon steel blade riddled with internal flaws—swing it with full force, and it might well shatter.
But the question was, going forward, who could withstand that single full-force strike…
On the sixteenth of the sixth month, in the second year of Jingping, chaos continued to spread across the northwestern land outside these mountains. Deep in the mountains, a group of people were watching the small valley as their imagined enemy, eyes gleaming with intent. To the north, at the Green Wood Stockade, the mood was equally grim, wary of the threat of Jurchen soldiers who honored no truce. In this valley, the mustering horn sounded—
Lightning wandered, splitting the thundercloud. Beneath the northwestern sky, a storm was gathering. No one knew what kind of thunder and rain was about to arrive.
That day, black banners stretched unbroken, leaping out from the Little Cang River. An army of more than nine thousand turned west, surging out of the mountains without a moment’s hesitation, charging straight for the Western Xia’s defensive line!