Spring arrived, and all things gradually awakened. The wild geese returning north crossed the vast plains and the rolling mountains and hills. On the white-capped ranges, the accumulated snow began to melt, and the great river, broad and mighty, surged toward the distant horizon.
Across the sprawling land, the cities and roads built by mankind dotted the landscape.
In the years of Jianshuo of the Wu Dynasty and Tianhui of the Jin state, the conflicts breaking out across this land shattered the peace that had held between Wu and Liao for several hundred years. The chaos was still brewing, and the age was gradually revealing its turbulent, magnificent face—stirring some people to fervent ambition, while filling others with anxiety and worry.
Yet time, as ever, did not bend to human will. In places people failed to notice, it pressed steadily forward without haste or delay. In the second year of Jianshuo of the Wu Dynasty, amid such a scene, spring had, after all, arrived on schedule.
Near Daming Prefecture, Yue Fei rode his horse up a hillside, watching the soldiers running through the ridges below. Then he and several attendants dismounted and walked down along the green slope. Along the way, as always, he let his gaze linger for a moment toward the distant village. Life was stirring everywhere; the nearby villagers had already begun turning the soil, preparing to sow their seeds.
He leapt onto a large boulder at the edge of the slope, watching the soldiers run past below, and shouted loudly: “Faster! Mind your breathing, mind the men beside you! Faster, faster, faster—do you see those villagers over there? Those are your parents. They feed and clothe you with their money and grain—think of how they looked when the Jurchen dogs slaughtered them! Anyone falling behind, catch up, now—”
The young commander stood tall, fists clenched, his features upright and proper, though his stern and rigid temperament did not make him seem particularly warm. This newly formed army of three thousand stationed near Daming Prefecture received, after its founding, treatment and training among the strictest of any comparable force in the Wu Dynasty. This young general Yue governed his troops with extreme severity, freely resorting to the rod and the whip against his subordinates, and repeatedly reminding them of the disasters visited upon them when the Jurchens swept south. Some of the men in his ranks were his own old followers; the rest, drawn in by the promise of regular meals and wages that were never withheld, gradually came to endure it.
Yet however strict he was toward the men under his command, when dealing with outsiders, this young general named Yue Pengju was reasonably accommodating. He had been sent by the court to recruit troops, with his unit’s registration falling under the Wusheng Army, receiving its money, grain, and weapons through that chain of command—though there was always something being skimmed off along the way. When Yue Fei was out dealing with others, he was not stingy with a smile or a few kind words. But military hierarchies were not easy to break into; sometimes people simply chose to make things difficult for him regardless of reason, and even after gifts and bribes had been given, they still refused to grant him an easy path. So since arriving here, aside from occasional social obligations, Yue Fei had come to blows twice, solidly.
The first time, he had shown some restraint. The second time was when the armor allotted to his own men had been intercepted by someone else. The officer on the other side had some backing within the Wusheng Army and was confident in his own martial skill. When Yue Fei found out, he led his men charging into the man’s camp, drew a line in the dirt, and challenged him outright. After a dozen or so exchanges, the officer, realizing he could not win, tried to claim a draw. A group of his personal guards, seeing things going badly, rushed in to intervene. Yue Fei’s ferocity was roused; with the help of a few of his own men, he held off more than ten opponents single-handedly, his eyebrow-level staff flashing up and down. Though wounded by four blades, he beat that officer to death right there, in front of everyone.
By that point the officer had already been knocked to the ground. The guards who rushed in first tried to save him; one by one, they too were beaten down by Yue Fei, soaked in blood. After that, the onlookers, watching the scene, went pale with fear, for Yue Fei, covered head to toe in blood, was reciting the Staff Manual taught to him by Zhou Tong, striking down blow after blow onto the corpse like rain. In the end his staff broke from the beating; the officer’s body, from head to toe, had not a single unbroken bone or intact patch of skin left—it had been beaten, quite literally, into a pulp of flesh.
The affair caused an uproar at first, but once it was suppressed, few in the Wusheng Army dared look for trouble with him in that fashion again. Still, Yue Fei never hoarded gains for himself alone—whatever benefits were due, he shared properly with others. After that duel, word got out that Yue Fei was a disciple of Zhou Tong, which conveniently opened the door to protection requests from local landlords and gentry. He took on the role of their protector, so long as things didn’t go too far, preventing them from bullying others while also making sure they weren’t bullied without cause—and in this way, he supplemented the portion of his military pay that was being withheld.
Many people, in his presence, brought up Zhou Tong. Yet Yue Fei knew in his heart that his master, a man of the most upright and unbending integrity his whole life, would certainly have beaten him soundly—perhaps even expelled him from his school—had he known of some of his conduct. And yet, whenever such thoughts crossed his mind, another figure would rise before his eyes.
That man, in Bianliang, in Xia Village—his conduct was far from upright; he was pragmatic, results-driven, and utterly calculating. And yet no one could fault his ultimate aims. When the army was defeated before the Jurchen horde, he had led his men back through near-certain death to burn the enemy’s grain stores. In Xia Village, he had used every means available to rally the people, ultimately defeating Guo Yaoshi’s Grievance Army. When Bianliang was finally pacified and political struggles threatened both the Right Chancellor’s household and himself, he had thrown himself, amid overwhelming difficulty, into securing a good outcome for everyone who had walked that road with him—and in the process, he had been hunted and targeted for assassination by men of the martial underworld. Yet Yue Fei believed he was, truly, a good man.
If not for the matter of regicide, Yue Fei would have gladly followed him, content to serve as a mere foot soldier within Bamboo Records.
Yue Fei had once commanded local militia and served as a leader of men before. Only after going through all that, and after having worked within Bamboo Records, could one understand just how fortunate it was to have such a leader above oneself—one who arranged matters and then, like a pair of sheltering wings, shielded those beneath him from unnecessary storms. Everyone within Bamboo Records needed only to bury themselves in the work at hand, without being troubled overmuch by other chaotic affairs.
Now, he too had to truly become such a person himself. The task was extremely difficult, but short of gritting his teeth and pushing through, what else could be done?
The column ran onward, and Yue Fei leapt down from the boulder, falling in behind the soldiers, following after them. His figure, full of strength and courage, soon surged forward like the wind, overtaking the entire column from the rear until he ran alongside the man at its head. At the next turn, he stamped his feet in place and his voice rose again: “Faster, faster, faster! Don’t run like women! In! Out! In! Out! In! Out! Even a child could outrun you! You’re too slow, too slow, too slow—move!”
That voice, stern and resounding, echoed through the mountains. Behind the young commander’s grim and fierce expression, few knew that this was the happiest moment of his day. Only at this time could he think so simply of running forward, without having to do the things he loathed deep in his heart—even though those things had to be done.
“One day you might achieve great things. Perhaps someone like you could be the one to resist the Jurchens. How about a bit of personal advice?”
Faintly, in his mind, a memory surfaced—the conversation from the last time he and that man had laid everything on the table.
“What is it?”
“Say, for instance, when you build your own army one day, you name it the Beiwei, how does that sound? Let me write it out for you to see…”
“…why that name?”
“Beiwei—being a soldier, the responsibilities you bear on your back are as heavy as mountains. Carrying a mountain as you walk—there’s power in that. I personally like the name. Though our paths differ, and after this we go our separate ways—still, we walked part of the road together. I’ll give it to you.”
He pulled himself back from that fleeting memory, reached out, grabbed the shoulder of the soldier running last, and shoved him forward with force.
He roared: “Move—”
—Beiwei: a mountain-ghost climbing upward, bearing the weight of mountains upon its back, a life already pledged to the nation—and so, this body becomes a ghost.
…
South, in Bianliang.
The city, ravaged by the Jurchens, had not yet recovered its vitality. The unending spring rain lent everything a gloomy pall. Before what had once been the Milefo Temple, in the city’s south, a great crowd of people had gathered, pressing together in the open space before the temple, jostling to kowtow before the temple’s Radiant Maitreya.
Lin Zongwu stood in a chamber atop the temple’s side pagoda, watching through the window as the faithful gathered below. A protector approached from the side to report on matters outside.
“…The mission was accomplished without disgrace. Several members of the Dong and Du families outside the city have already agreed to join our faith, taking on roles as guest advisors. Elder Zhong Shuying kept asking, again and again, whether our faith intends to resist the Jurchens, and what actions we plan to take—his daughter died when the Jurchens besieged the city. It’s said the court originally meant to hand his daughter over to the Jurchen camp, and to spare her that disgrace, he strangled her himself with his own hawk-claw hands. It’s clear he isn’t very willing to trust us.”
Lin Zongwu listened, then nodded. “To kill one’s own daughter with one’s own hands—there is no greater suffering in this world. It is understandable. Zhong Shuying’s hawk-claw skill is rare indeed; I will pay him a personal visit myself, and explain to him our faith’s actions in the north. A man like that, his whole being consumed by vengeance—if we can only win him over, he will be devoted to our faith to the end. He’s worth the effort.”
“Yes.” The protector nodded. A moment later, several waves of chanting rose from below. Lin Zongwu glanced to the side, and someone, understanding his meaning, brought over a nearby box. Lin Zongwu looked at it again.
“Come to think of it, Guo Jing was quite a talent, in his own way.” Inside the box, Guo Jing’s head, preserved in lime, lay with its eyes open, staring up at him. “A pity that the Jingping Emperor was such a fool. What Guo Jing wanted was fame and fortune, yet Jingping sent him to hold off the Jurchens instead. Guo Jing talked far too big a game—if he couldn’t deliver, he’d either be killed by the Jurchens or condemned by the Emperor. Others say his Six-Jia Divine Soldiers were nothing but a hoax—and in truth, Bianliang was broken by its own people. When you place your hopes in a man like that, if you all don’t die, how is he supposed to survive?”
His tone was calm, yet carried a faint note of contempt and something like a sigh.
A year earlier, Guo Jing had used his so-called Six-Jia Divine Soldiers to hold off the Jurchens in Bianliang, and in the end that led to the city’s fall. This came about because Guo Jing had claimed his Six-Jia Divine Soldiers were a heavenly power that no one was permitted to watch while he cast his spell—so when the moment came to open the gates, the defenders stationed above and below them were pulled away entirely. And as the Jurchens surged in, Guo Jing had already quietly slipped down from the wall and fled. People afterward cursed him bitterly, but few stopped to think that a swindler is, of all people, the most clear-eyed about his own situation—once the order came down to resist the Jurchens, Guo Jing’s only path to survival was to let the entire city die under the Jurchen blade.
Guo Jing had opened the gate on purpose.
Not long after, before the Milefo Temple, a great voice rolled out, resounding far and wide.
“…The heretic Guo Jing, who acted against heaven’s way and belonged to the demons of the nine earths, brought slaughter upon the people of an entire city. For this, our sect’s Patriarch, through divine power, received the wrath of the Bright King, and fought the heretic near Ezhou for three days, until the heretic was finally put to death! Now his head is here before you, proclaimed to all the world—”
Cheers and wails rose like a tide. On the lotus platform, Lin Zongwu opened his eyes, his gaze clear, showing neither anger nor joy.
Ever since the news of last year’s great battle in Western Xia had reached him, Lin Zongwu had often felt an unbearable emptiness in his heart. More and more, he found these fools before him utterly without meaning.
His martial skill had by now reached something close to invincibility. Yet every time he thought of that treacherous, mad man who defied the entire world, a faint sense of shame stirred and brewed in his heart.
Sooner or later, he would have to kill that man with his own hands, to set his mind fully at ease.
Such was the thought in his heart. And yet, thinking of that great battle in the northwest, he still kept a level head about whether he ought to go there now. Much as he disliked that madman, he had to admit the man had gone beyond the realm of one who could defeat ten or a hundred—his was a power that could sweep across the world. Even if he himself was unmatched under heaven, to rush there rashly and rely solely on his own strength would leave him, like Zhou Tong, dead with not even his bones remaining.
That man calculated everything down to the smallest detail; against an enemy like himself, he would surely have made preparations long in advance. Should he appear in the northwest, there would be little hope of surviving unscathed.
He could only gather his strength and bide his time.
Such thoughts passed through his mind. At a certain moment, facing the crowd, he slowly raised his hand. A resounding voice of doctrine burst forth, carried on that world-shaking internal force, audible far and wide, filling hearts with an intoxicating calm.
Not long after, the devoted followers kowtowed without end, their cheers rising ever more fervent and turbulent…
…
Xiaocang River.
As the snow melted and the ice thawed, one caravan after another moved along the newly built mountain road, coming and going. Here and there in the mountains, one could see villagers busy clearing paths for places like Xiaocang River and Qingmu Stronghold—bustling with activity, full of life.
Over the past winter, some people had starved to death in the northwest. After the Zhong family army took Qing and Yan prefectures, and the She family army occupied Qingjian and other places, the grain reserves were already insufficient to begin with. To stabilize the situation and restore production, they had also needed to stay on good terms with the local gentry and great clans. Once the middle tiers had been stabilized, the grain shortage hadn’t sparked any major unrest locally, but amid all the smaller frictions, quite a few people had starved, and some ugly incidents had occurred. At such a time, Xiaocang River became an outlet for many.
Xiaocang River, tucked away in the mountains, didn’t have a great abundance of grain either—there was certainly no way it could relieve the entire northwest. For people to receive aid, there were two paths: join the Black Banner Army, or come to Xiaocang River to work. The Black Banner Army’s recruitment standards were fairly strict, though they had loosened them somewhat for the time being. As for work, there wasn’t a great deal to be done in winter, but once several batches of raw materials arrived from outside, Ning Yi arranged for several new workshops to be built both inside and outside the valley. He was also willing to distribute raw silk and other materials to people outside, letting them weave cloth at home, or come to the valley to help with weaving, printing, gunpowder production, hollowing out stone shot, and the like. In this way, while providing a minimal standard of living, another wave of people was saved.
As spring approached, though the snow and ice were melting, the grain problem had only grown more severe. Once outdoor work became possible again, road repair was put on the agenda, and large numbers of northwestern men came here to take on a share of the work. Recruitment into the Black Banner Army often unfolded among these very people as well—the strongest, the most hardworking, the most obedient, the most talented, all now being drawn in one by one.
The Zhong and She families had no objections to any of this. To begin with, Ning Yi had already taken a considerable loss by ceding the benefits of two cities—even though, in the end, the She family gained relatively little, they still retained no small amount of power in places like Yan Prefecture. So even with open recruitment underway, neither Zhong Lie nor She Kequ would move to stop it in the short term. As for recruiting people to work, that suited them even better—they were at their wit’s end trying to feed everyone, and Ning Yi’s actions solved a great headache for them. Each side got what it needed, and everyone was pleased.
Though spring had not yet brought warmth, the flowers had already begun to bloom. In the Xiaocang River valley, training for new recruits was in full swing. In a small courtyard halfway up the mountainside, Ning Yi, along with Tan’er, Xiao Chan, and the others, were packing their things, preparing to travel to Qingmu Stronghold to handle some matters and to visit Su Yu and the others who lived there.
In a sense, this was, for them, a “visit back to the wife’s family home.”