The fact that Ning Yi and Hongti hadn’t come home all night was teased about by those who heard of it over the following two days, though not to any great extent.
Just as every era has its own customs and norms, the emotional entanglements that occasionally left Ning Yi uneasy were, in this particular age, handled as a matter of course. Having lived this way for so long, Ning Yi and the others had gradually settled into the most natural way of getting along with one another.
In a household like this, with one husband and multiple wives, differences in closeness and distance were naturally unavoidable, but on the whole, everyone got along fairly harmoniously. Su Tan’er, gentle on the surface but resolute within, was indispensable to Ning Yi and to the importance of this household—something everyone could plainly see. Back when they’d first come to Xiaocang River, in order to cover for Ning Yi’s plunge into the river, she had grown thin enough during that period to worry anyone who saw her, from all the affairs of the valley she had to manage. Only once Western Xia was defeated did she finally emerge from that gauntness of that stretch of time, and after a period of recuperation, regain her figure and beauty.
During this period, her recovery owed no small debt to Yun Zhu’s care. Though their first meeting years earlier had been anything but pleasant, over the years since, the bond between them had remained strong. In a sense, the two of them were women whose lives revolved around one man—Yun Zhu’s concern and care for Tan’er certainly stemmed in part from an awareness of how important Tan’er was to Ning Yi, while Tan’er, for her part, carried herself with the bearing of the lady of the house. But after years of actually living together, the affection between family members had, in the end, become genuine.
Amid all this, Xiao Chan and Jin’er were somewhat more freewheeling. The once-young, innocent little maid was now a young married woman of twenty-five; though she had a child, her looks had changed little. She still handled most of the household’s daily affairs, and toward Ning Yi and Tan’er’s occasional less-than-ideal habits, she would still nag at them in a low but persistent voice, just as she had as a young maid. When arranging things, she liked to count them off on her fingers, and when anxious, she’d clench her fists. Sometimes, listening to her nag, Ning Yi couldn’t help wanting to reach out and tug at the braid that used to bounce on her head—except the braid was long gone now.
Little Yuanbao—that is, Jin’er—had wanted a child for quite some time now, for years, in fact. But whether because of some issue with the body she’d transmigrated into, or because of the author’s arrangement, though things were fine in bed, Ning Yi hadn’t caused the women around him to fall pregnant one after another, and this sometimes left Jin’er rather disheartened. Fortunately, she had an optimistic temperament—teaching and looking after the children, occasionally chatting with Yun Zhu and a few of the people from Bamboo Records in charge of theatrical performances about singing and dancing—she didn’t find life dull, all things considered.
Hongti, who spent most of her time at Qingmu Stronghold, was the eldest among all the women and the most respected and beloved by everyone. When Tan’er occasionally faced difficulties, she would confide in Hongti, in part because among the group, Hongti had probably suffered the most hardship of all, and yet her temperament remained soft and gentle. Sometimes when Tan’er spoke earnestly to her about matters, Hongti herself would feel uneasy inside, unsure of how to handle complicated affairs, worried she might let Tan’er down or say the wrong thing and cause trouble. At times she’d bring this up with Ning Yi, who would simply smile in response.
At twenty-six, Tan’er was, by the standards of a later age, barely old enough to have adjusted to society. She was beautiful, and after all she had been through, carried herself with a confident, composed air. But in truth, Ning Yi understood better than anyone that whether one was twenty, thirty, or even forty, no one truly faced things without any confusion at all. Children in their teens or twenties, watching adults handle matters with such apparent ease, assume they’ve become entirely different kinds of people. But in reality, at any age, what everyone faces is, more often than not, something new—the only thing adults have more of than the young is a keener awareness that they themselves have no one to rely on, and no way back.
And in Tan’er’s own heart, she too, perhaps, faced everything ahead with a certain unfamiliar, anxious state of mind.
For Ning Yi, it was likely no different.
He had once thought only of finding a quiet corner to settle into, living out a carefree, peaceful life to its end—and step by step, he had ended up here instead. Nine years, from warm and tranquil days to a world of clashing blades, and then to mountains of corpses and seas of blood—there was much, in all of it, to sigh over, whether by chance or by necessity, all of it stirring deep feeling. Honestly speaking, whether Jiangning, Hangzhou, or Bianliang, the prosperity and intoxicating splendor of those places far outstripped anything Xiaocang River or Qingmu Stronghold had to offer.
Sometimes, looking out at the barren, impoverished mountain terrain around him, watching people live and die, Ning Yi would sigh too, uncertain whether he’d ever have the chance to return, in peace, to a world like that one day.
Of course, the harmony with which the family got along at this point in time was perhaps also owed, in part, to all the storms and dangers they had weathered along the way. Without such tension and pressure, they wouldn’t necessarily have needed to work so closely together, huddling for warmth, in quite the way they did.
And compared to other households, Ning Yi’s respect for everyone, and his occasional pangs of guilt, were naturally part of the reason as well. Sometimes, when the family held small gatherings or picnics on the slopes of Xiaocang River, Ning Yi, when particularly tired, would talk to them about his worries and thoughts for the future. He would ramble on, and Tan’er and the others mostly couldn’t follow much of it, nor did they necessarily care to. But amid Ning Yi’s worries, everyone would naturally sense the weight of it all the same—whether under a bright starry sky or the clear moon of the nine provinces, the weight and pressure beneath the night sky felt different each time. They were, after all, nothing more than a small family banding together to push forward through this treacherous world.
The third day after arriving at Qingmu Stronghold was the eighth of February. Only a few days after the Awakening of Insects, the spring rain began falling in a steady drizzle, and looking down from the mountain, the entire vast valley was shrouded in a mist-like haze of rain. On the northern slope stood row upon row of houses, interspersed with sprawling shanties; on the southern slope lay rows of cave dwellings. On the mountain, both above and below, were fields, ponds, streams, and great stretches of forest—a settlement of nearly twenty thousand people, which, in this spring rain, seemed strangely at peace.
Several workshops were scattered across the mountainside, including for gunpowder, stonework, ironsmelting, weaving, oil-pressing, porcelain-making, and more, some with their workshop lights still burning. Near the market at the foot of the mountain, the great theater was decked out in festive lanterns and colors, preparing for that night’s performance. On one side of the valley, in the housing cluster where the Su family lived, Su Tan’er sat beneath the eaves of the courtyard, leisurely weaving cloth. Old Patriarch Su Yu sat in a chair beside her, occasionally exchanging a few words with her. In the small courtyard, more than ten young people and children, including Xiao Qi, sat listening nearby, though occasionally some child, unable to bear the quiet, would start roughhousing in the back.
These children were, of course, all young members of the Su family. As for Ning Yi’s rebellion, aside from those who had followed him from early on—Su Wending, Su Wenfang, Su Wenyu, Su Yanping—almost no one else in the family truly understood it. But by this point, whether they understood it or not had become largely irrelevant. Over nearly two years now, confined to Qingmu Stronghold with no way to leave, and with news of Ning Yi’s army crushing the Western Xia forces having reached them, some had begun hinting that perhaps their own children might be allowed to follow Ning Yi’s side to work, to receive an education—following Ning Yi meant joining the rebellion. But regardless, simply by bearing the Su surname, their fate had already been sealed; in truth, they had little choice in the matter anyway.
Su Yu occasionally asked about matters at Xiaocang River, about Ning Yi’s affairs, about the family back home. Tan’er, working her loom, answered one question after another, while the old man mostly just listened. Back when Tan’er had still been young, grandfather and granddaughter had shared such moments many times before—she would tell him things, and he would explain and discuss them with her, hoping to raise her into someone who might one day take over the weaving family’s business. But by this point, he could no longer easily grasp or weigh the matters Tan’er was now involved in, and so he stopped offering his opinions.
The children beside them, on the other hand, occasionally listening to Tan’er describe events at Xiaocang River—the details of the victory over Western Xia—marveled endlessly, exclaiming in astonishment. The old man simply sat with his eyes closed, listening. Only when Tan’er brought up household matters did he speak up, telling her to manage the family well, to keep good relations with the concubines, and not to let Ning Yi be distracted by too many worries. Tan’er would nod and agree.
Two days earlier, when Su Yu and Ning Yi had met, there had, by contrast, been little to say between them. Ning Yi’s rebellion was something Su Yu simply could not understand, while Ning Yi’s defeat of the Western Xia army, saving an entire region of common people, weighed on his heart with an importance too great to put into words. He no longer felt able to pass judgment on the matter, so he simply kept Ning Yi for a family meal, then let him leave to “go about his own affairs.” As for what he’d told Tan’er about “taking care of the family,” he never mentioned it to Ning Yi.
That evening, a play adapted from the story of Hongti’s assassination of Song Xian—titled Slaying the Tiger—was performed at the great theater by the market at Qingmu Stronghold. Though the template was drawn from Hongti, Song Xian, and the others, the names had been changed for the stage: the female protagonist was renamed Lu Qing, and Song Xian became Huang Hu. The play mainly depicted the hardships of Qingmu Stronghold in years past—how the Liao people raided the fields year after year, and how a Wu military officer named Huang Hu had come to the Lüliang Mountains under the pretense of recruiting soldiers, but had in fact set a trap, killing some of the local Lüliang people to pass off as Liao soldiers in order to claim credit, later rising to the rank of great general.
And the female knight-errant Lu Qing, raised amid great hardship and suffering in the Lüliang Mountains, traveled south to Jiangning to avenge her village, enduring numerous trials and tribulations along the way—encountering bandits, a tiger, whom she killed single-handedly with her sword. Arriving in Jiangning, she fell into Huang Hu’s trap, surviving through a hair’s breadth of danger time and again, and finally, with the help of a Jiangning scholar named Lü Dichen, succeeded in avenging her wrongs.
Afterward, the female knight-errant Lu Qing returned to the Lüliang Mountains, but the villagers she cared for were still suffering endlessly under the twin pressures of hunger, cold, and oppression from north and south alike. To save the Lüliang Mountains, she finally donned the blood-red mask, transforming into the Blood Bodhisattva, and thereafter fought for the Lüliang Mountains ever since…
The changes to this story had involved Ning Yi’s own input; to achieve the desired effect, quite a few symbolic elements had been added. Names like Lu Qing, Huang Hu, and Lü Dichen, along with the whole talented-scholar-and-beautiful-lady trope, were all part of the design. As for plot elements like killing a tiger, those had been added purely to make the story more entertaining and appealing to the crowd.
As a modern man used to watching mainstream films, Ning Yi himself had no particular fondness for theater of this era, but some of the additions he’d insisted on had greatly improved the show’s watchability. For instance, he’d had the people of Bamboo Records craft remarkably lifelike props and stage backdrops depicting the city of Jiangning, maximizing the audience’s sense of immersion. That night, the great theater was filled with gasps of astonishment throughout—even people like Han Jing, who had once witnessed the grand splendor of Bianliang firsthand, watched with rapt attention. Ning Yi sat there with his chin propped on his hand, silently cursing this bunch of country bumpkins in his heart.
Sitting beside him, equally a country bumpkin herself, Hongti watched with her mouth agape in astonishment. For a while, she seemed to entirely forget that the heroine Lu Qing on stage, played by Yuan Jin’er in costume, was actually meant to be herself, and she watched the entirely fabricated tiger-slaying scene with great relish all the same. Most of the audience that night were old-timers from Qingmu Stronghold; at the crucial moments, some grew sorrowful, some indignant, some cheered—and watching it all, Ning Yi thought to himself that the purpose behind writing this play had, it seemed, been achieved.
Over the following two days, Slaying the Tiger continued to run at the theater, and each time it played, Hongti, Tan’er, Yun Zhu, Xiao Chan, and the others would go together to watch. For Xiao Chan and the others, the general impression was something like “Miss Lu is so amazing”; but for Hongti, what truly moved her, perhaps, were the veiled references to certain people in the play—such as the now-deceased Liang Bingfu and Fu Duanyun—and each time those moments came, her eyes would redden, and she’d murmur afterward, “It really wasn’t like that at all.”
Ning Yi’s time to relax at Qingmu Stronghold was, after all, limited. Over these few days, besides the new play’s performances, the soldiers on both sides had also held a series of sparring matches. Ning Yi arranged for a number of his intelligence personnel to head north—during the period when the Black Banner Army was engaged against Western Xia, a team led by Lu Yannian, one of the heads of Bamboo Records’ intelligence network, had successfully opened a secret channel within the Jin state for buying back Wu Dynasty prisoners. Since then, various pieces of intelligence had been coming through, including confirmation, already fully verified some time earlier, that the Jurchens had begun researching cannon technology.
Based on the intelligence gathered, the Jurchen army had shown no sign of decline following Aguda’s death; even now, they remained in a period of rapid ascent, and this rising vigor was reflected in their absorption of new technologies and their constant progress.
When the Jurchens first rose to power, taking the Liao upper capital in half a day, those unfamiliar with the details might assume the Jurchens had mastered formidable siege techniques. But in reality, this was not so—at the time, the Jurchen army hadn’t even possessed systematic siege tactics. What carried them through the capture of that formidable city was pure ferocity and a reckless disregard for death. The Jurchens’ siege tactics developed gradually, through the course of conquering the entire Liao state and later invading the Wu Dynasty—even sieges like the one at Taiyuan, or the assault on Bianliang, effectively served as training exercises for them as well.
After the fall of Bianliang, the Jurchens had carried off a great number of craftsmen to the north. By now, the Jurchen forces stationed in Yunzhong Prefecture were continually intensifying their research into all manner of war machinery, gunpowder weapons included. In this regard, Wanyan Zonghan had indeed proven himself a man of extraordinary talent and vision, and the existence of such a constantly advancing enemy left Ning Yi, upon receiving all this intelligence, frequently feeling a chill creep up the back of his neck.
Alongside this incoming intelligence, news of Jurchen troop movements north of Yanmen Pass also occasionally trickled through. Under the policy of rest and recovery pursued by the Jin Emperor Wuqimai, most areas within Jin territory had already resumed commerce and the free movement of people, making it impossible for any large-scale troop movement to escape the notice of those paying attention. This time, the Jin army’s mobilization was proceeding calmly and quietly, but within that calm lay a stillness and gravity capable of crushing everything in its path.
In the first half of the previous year, after the Jurchens withdrew their troops from Bianliang, they had installed Zhang Bangchang on the throne, changing the era name to Da Chu. Once the Jurchens departed, Zhang Bangchang immediately abdicated, prompting the Jurchens to send envoys to lodge a protest. And later, when Prince Kang ascended the throne, the Jurchens protested once again. Naturally, the Wu Dynasty had no intention of halting the enthronement of a new emperor simply because of the Jurchens’ protests, nor did the Jurchens, for their part, resort to any tantrums or make any dire threats over it.
Yet to those who paid close attention, beneath the Jurchens’ year of rest and silence, a suffocating atmosphere had steadily been accumulating and fermenting all the same. Even holed up in the mountains of the far northwest, whenever Ning Yi turned his mind to these matters, he never once found a moment’s ease.
Having dispatched this new batch of personnel north, on the twelfth of February, Ning Yi and the others bid farewell to Su Yu and set out on the road back to Xiaocang River. Spring had not yet brought its full warmth. It had now been nine years since Ning Yi had first arrived in this era—banners fluttered along the northern frontier, the Yellow River surged once more, and in the south, Jiangnan still enjoyed a spring of song and dance and prosperity. Across every corner of this world, people carried on, each fulfilling their own role, marching toward an unknown fate.
In Yunzhong Prefecture, with the gathering and movement of troops, the mood of the city had once again turned grim and severe—though for the Jurchens, who had grown up amid the clash of arms, such an atmosphere hardly seemed out of place. Business went on as usual in the markets, feasts continued to be held in the brothels and taverns as always; whether what lay ahead was war or something else, to them, it was simply another opportunity.
Chen Wenjun, chasing after her child through the estate’s garden, caught sight of her husband walking in, speaking quietly with the captain of his personal guard. She walked over, carrying the child, and Wanyan Xiyin waved his hand at the guard captain: “Be careful. Go on, then.”
“You’re back? How did things go today? Anything troubling you?”
A maidservant took the cloak Wanyan Xiyin had removed. Xiyin smiled and shook his head: “Nothing but small matters. Time to deal with them.”
“What news from General Loushi?”
“Depends on what His Majesty intends. Zongfu is honest and upright by nature; Zongbi, on the other hand, sees only what’s in front of him. If Wu won’t fall in line, all they can think of is killing that Prince Kang—but a war between nations can’t be conducted on impulse…” He paused there, glanced at his wife, then put an arm around her as they walked inside. “You… really shouldn’t be troubling yourself with these things…”
Chen Wenjun looked at him calmly, with a helpless smile: “I always end up worrying about them anyway.”
“That’s true enough…” Xiyin blinked, faintly surprised, then nodded. “In any case, the Wu Dynasty’s fortunes are all but spent. We’ve marched south again and again, plundering some people, some goods each time, and returning—ultimately, that’s foolish. Wenjun, the only way to bring true peace to the world, to spare the common people further suffering, is for us to pacify this southern court as quickly as possible…”
As he spoke, he walked with his wife further inside. Crossing the threshold into the courtyard, Chen Wenjun turned her head slightly, and in that idle glance, caught sight of the guard captain hurrying out with several men from the estate in tow.
On one side of the market in Yunzhong Prefecture, a man in fine robes was once more meeting in secret, in a certain courtyard, with the local Jurchen fixer known as Seventh Master. The two exchanged pleasantries for a while, then that “Seventh Master,” smiling without warmth in his eyes, fell silent for a moment. “To be honest, this time round, old Seven here has something rather awkward to bring up.”
“Oh? Seventh Master, please, speak freely.”
“Word is there’s going to be a war. Things are tense out there. This shipment’s going to be harder to handle—the price needs to go up.”
“Seventh Master… that’s not what we agreed on before. And besides, where did you hear about this coming war?”
Seventh Master’s mouth twisted into a faint smirk: “A man’s got a pair of eyes and a pair of ears—see and hear enough, and things become clear eventually. To be honest, after doing business with you gentlemen a few times now, I still haven’t quite figured out where any of you really stand. This time, I’d rather not go into it blindly. Gentlemen…”
He spoke slowly, unhurried. Behind the man in fine robes, a middle-aged guard edged forward slightly, brow furrowed: “Something’s off…”
The fine-robed man’s brow darkened; in an instant he threw open his robe and drew his blade. Across from him, Seventh Master, who had been speaking so leisurely a moment before, blanched and leapt back a full ten feet.
“He’s stalling for time!”
“Move—”
The group turned to leave, but Seventh Master, with several men beside him, moved to encircle them. A young man, always smiling, who had been standing behind the fine-robed man, took two steps before suddenly whirling around and lunging straight at old Seventh; the middle-aged guard leapt forward at the very same instant.
“Turning on your own kind, is it! Not very sporting! Grab him, use him as a hostage!”
“Go first!”
Blades flashed. From the side of the courtyard, more men leapt down. One of Seventh’s men was cut down by the young man in a single stroke, the reek of blood spreading through the air. Seventh backed away several steps, drew his blade, and shouted: “This has nothing to do with me!”
The fine-robed young master led his men bursting out through the gate; at the street corner opposite, Jurchen soldiers were already closing in to surround them…
That day, a small-scale disturbance broke out within the city of Yunzhong—a band of assailants fled through the streets, clashing with patrolling soldiers, and before long the unrest was suppressed. At the same time, north of Yanmen Pass, the campaign to root out southern spies who had infiltrated the region began in full force that very day; the border was sealed off, the atmosphere turning grim to the utmost degree.
Wanyan Xiyin, the “Valley Spirit,” dealt swiftly and decisively with the many factions lurking in the shadows—a single stroke of his blade, cast down without hesitation.
To the south, in Jinan Prefecture, a newly appointed prefect named Liu Yu arrived to take up his post. Not long before, he had sought a position through connections in Yingtian, and after working his way through the household of Zhang Que, the Palace Attendant of the Central Secretariat—a cautious, honest man—he had secured the actual post of Prefect of Jinan. However, Shandong was a region known for its fierce local temperament and frequent banditry, and Liu Yu had petitioned the new emperor once more, hoping to be reassigned somewhere in Jiangnan instead. This had earned him a stern rebuke. Still, having a post was better than having none, so he grudgingly set off to take up his position after all.
Not long after, this official would go on to step onto the stage of history, leaving a heavy mark upon it.
Outside Yingtian Prefecture, on grassy green plains, Junwu was out riding at a gallop. A few days earlier, with the help of Lu Agui and others, he had gone toe-to-toe against a number of old bureaucrats, managing to pry loose a batch of weapons and supplies from the jaws of the Ministry of War and the Ministry of Revenue, along with a number of improved elm-wood cannons, and had them sent off to the troops he supported. Whether this could really be counted a victory was hard to say, but for a young man, it was, in any case, a satisfying feeling. That afternoon he’d gone outside the city to test a new hot-air balloon, which, as usual, failed once again—but he still rode his horse afterward, letting himself gallop freely for a while.
His horse came to a stop on a hillside bathed in the setting sun, the walls of Yingtian spreading out far in the distance. Sitting astride his horse, gazing at that expanse of light, Junwu thought to himself that becoming crown prince wasn’t such a bad thing after all. He let out a long breath, and, with a few lines of poetry rising to mind, recited them aloud: “Dark clouds over the Kokonor stretch long, hiding the snow-capped mountains; from this lonely city we gaze far toward Yumen Pass. Yellow sand and a hundred battles have worn through our golden armor; we shall not return until Loulan is destroyed…”
He was, after all, a young man, and there were times he wished he too could ride into battle, sword in hand, galloping across boundless fields of blood and war, saving the common people from suffering. But of course, for now, there was a role better suited to him.
He stood there, in that magnificent light, for a long, long while.
Northward, at Yanmen Pass.
The thick, ancient city walls stood weathered and imposing. The damage from the great battles against the Jurchens in years past had never been repaired, and on this still-chilly spring day, it looked lonely and quiet. Birds flew in on the wind, landing on the crumbling battlements; at either end of the wall stretched long, solitary roads.
Once that countdown, now measured only in days, came to its end, the sky-darkening banners, the endless sea of spears and blades, the earth-shaking thunder of hooves and war drums, would once again descend upon this place—