At dusk, the evening glow shifted and changed over Jiumu Ridge. In the mountains in the distance, lush thick woods were slowly being swallowed by the dark. As birds startled up out of the trees, Lin Chong, standing on the mountain path, turned and headed back.

Jiumu Ridge was as it had always been, a small hill range, the country around it barren and forbidding. A handful of houses, one inn—all of them had lately been taken up by refugees newly arrived. Lin Chong and his wife Xu Jinhua had already lived here for more than a year now, and ordinarily nothing much happened, except that these last few days there had gradually been more and more people passing through by chance while fleeing the war.

“Someone’s coming.”

Back inside the inn, Lin Chong said this quietly. Two families were already in the main hall, neither of them particularly well-off, their clothes old and patched, but with children in tow they had come to buy food and hot water at the inn, and fortunately the couple who ran the place did not charge them much. As soon as Lin Chong spoke, both families fell silent, wariness showing on their faces.

“Don’t light the lamps,” Lin Chong said again, low, walking toward the small room to the side. In the room, his wife Xu Jinhua was packing up their bags; the bed was covered with things. When Lin Chong told her the news of people coming from across the way, the woman showed a touch of alarm. “Are… are we leaving, then?”

“No need. I’ll go take a look.” He turned and picked up the wooden staff in the corner, clearly unused for a long while and somewhat warped in shape, then handed his wife a knife. “You be careful…” His eyes gestured toward the outside.

“I know, I know… They don’t look like bad people either, and they have children with them.”

Xu Jinhua took the knife, then set it aside without a thought. Lin Chong could in fact tell already that the two families outside were not likely to be bad people; he nodded, took up his staff, and went out. Just before stepping through the door, he glanced back at his wife’s belly—Xu Jinhua was, at this time, already with child.

The sky grew darker and darker. He went knocking on the doors of the other few households on Jiumu Ridge, telling those still there not to light any lamps either, then crossed the road and went on ahead. From a bend in the rocky path, looking out over ground where the path could hardly be called a path at all, a group of people came filing out one after another—some twenty-odd deserters, it seemed, carrying torches and slinging swords and spears over their shoulders, trudging forward listlessly.

Snatches of conversation drifted over now and then—nothing but talk of where they were headed, how they could barely walk anymore, finding somewhere to rest, and so on.

Lin Chong had no idea how the fighting was going up ahead, but from the refugees who had passed through these last two days he’d learned that the war had already broken out there, that well over a hundred thousand scattered soldiers was no small number, and he had no idea whether any fresh court army would go out to meet the enemy—though even if one did, it was bound to lose regardless.

After the Jurchen’s second southward invasion, roving bandits had risen up in swarms north of the Yellow River, each commanding anywhere from tens of thousands to well over a hundred thousand men, carving out land and calling themselves kings. Compared to the days of Liangshan in Shandong, the scale of it now was almost unbelievable, and with the court’s authority weakened, all these forces could be offered pacification—there was no longer any strength left to suppress them by force. Many of these mountain strongholds thus came to exist in a way that felt entirely legitimate. Living as he did in this small hill range, Lin Chong, on the rare occasions he and his wife visited a nearby village or town, had come to know a good many names:

The great bandit chief Wang Shan, said to command seven hundred thousand men and horses; “Hornless Ox” Yang Jin; “Prince of Jin” Tian Hu; Wang Yan of the Eight-Character Army; Wang Zaixing, Li Gui, Wang Dalang, the various heroes gathered at Wuma Mountain; and beyond these, countless smaller strongholds—even his own former sworn brother Shi Jin, who had now gathered followers once more under the name “Eight-Armed Dragon King” of Chifeng Mountain, raising his banner to support the Han and resist the Jin.

As for these twenty-odd men who had escaped the battlefield with their lives by sheer luck, they meant to head south all the way to go and join Prince of Jin Tian Hu—not because, as deserters, they wished to escape punishment for it, but because Tian Hu’s territory lay mostly among towering, treacherous mountains, and even if the Jurchen came south, they would surely start by using conciliatory methods there first. So long as this Tiger King did not, in some fit of rashness, try to stand like a mantis before a chariot, these men could count on some good days yet to come.

Looking back on how things had been in Bianliang once, they had still been good days of song, dance, and peace. In these recent years the times had grown ever more chaotic, until it was hard for anyone to see clearly anymore. But Lin Chong’s heart had long since gone numb; he could no longer stir up either a sigh over the world’s disorder or any secret gladness at the misfortunes of others.

Listening to these men’s talk, and watching them pass straight on ahead, Lin Chong made sure they had no intention of climbing up onto Jiumu Ridge before he quietly turned and made his way back.

His wife packed up their things, while whatever could not be carried away from the inn had already been dragged by Lin Chong into the woods on the hillside and buried there. That night passed without incident, and the next morning Xu Jinhua rose early, steamed some cornbread, and prepared dry provisions, and the two of them set out together with the other two families from the inn—all of them bound south of the Yangtze to seek refuge, where, it was said, no fighting would reach.

Looking back once more at the shabby little inn on Jiumu Ridge, the couple both felt a pang of reluctance to leave. It was certainly no fine place, only that they had almost grown used to living there.

Along the way they talked of what life to the south might be like. At midday they came across yet another family of refugees, and by afternoon, once they reached the main highway, the crowds grew still larger—families dragging children along, cattle, horses, and carts, all pressing and jostling, with soldiers mixed in among them too, shoving roughly ahead.

Being with child, Xu Jinhua could not walk fast, and by noon she and Lin Chong had parted ways with the other two families. In the afternoon she remembered a piece of jewelry she’d been fond of back on the ridge and had forgotten to bring, and searched for it for a while, her expression distracted. Lin Chong helped her search their bundles for a moment before finally digging it out—the ornament was nothing more than a fine-looking stone, polished smooth. Now that she had found it, Xu Jinhua did not seem especially pleased after all.

Now and then a government officer would pass through the crowd, and every time this happened Xu Jinhua would tighten her hold on Lin Chong’s arm all the more, pulling his body down until he was nearly stooping—for though the tattooed characters once marked on Lin Chong’s face had been broken up by knife scars, anyone truly suspicious might still make out some trace of them.

That evening the couple rested on a hillside, crouching on the earthen slope, chewing on cornbread that had long gone cold, watching the refugees who filled the hills and the road, their eyes both somewhat lost. At one point Xu Jinhua spoke. “Really, if we go south, there’s no one for us to turn to there either.”

Lin Chong said nothing.

“So many people heading south, with no land, no grain—how will they all be fed? We’d go there just to beg…”

The fear in the woman’s eyes deepened further. Lin Chong took a bite of the cornbread. “It’ll be better for the child…”

“So many people are still staying in the north, too. Even if the Jurchen come killing through, surely they can’t slaughter every last person on every mountain.”

Lin Chong was silent a moment. “We could hide… of course we could. But…”

“Carrying this child, walking so far—whether I can keep it safe, I don’t even know. I… I can’t bear to leave Jiumu Ridge, can’t bear to leave our little inn.”

Xu Jinhua reached up and touched the scar on Lin Chong’s face. Lin Chong stuffed the rest of the cornbread into his mouth, and after a long while reached out and drew the woman beside him into his arms.

“Then let’s go back,” he said. “Then we won’t leave, after all…”

The two of them, their figures merging into the sea of refugees, passed a small, unremarkable warmth back and forth between them, and in the end decided after all not to leave.

With the Jurchen coming south, some chose to stay and some chose to leave. And far more people still had already had their lives changed, long before this. In Hedong, the great bandit Wang Shan’s forces already claimed seven hundred thousand men, with war chariots said to number in the tens of thousands; “Hornless Ox” Yang Jin held three hundred thousand troops; “Prince of Jin” Tian Hu declared to the world a force of five hundred thousand; the “Eight-Character Army” numbered a hundred and eighty thousand; the heroes united at Wuma Mountain had gathered over two hundred thousand—and these numbers combined already came to a staggering nearly two million men. Beyond this, the court’s own many armies, amid frantic expansion and confrontation, had likewise grown north of the Yellow River to over a million strong. Yet that land north of the Yellow River had, from the start, already belonged to these very armies—and the fact that even after such swelling growth they still could not check the soaring numbers of these “righteous armies” spoke to a simple, plain truth.

—Yet none of that amounted to a damn thing.

People were only each seeking to survive, in their own way.

And a few among them were, each in their own way, doing what they believed they ought to do.

In Bianliang, an elderly official named Zong Ze, who had been called into service in this hour of crisis, was throwing himself entirely into his work. In the half year since taking up the task, he had restored order to the region around Bianliang and rebuilt a defensive line near the city, while at the same time working tirelessly to reach out to the various righteous armies north of the Yellow River, offering them recognition and legitimate standing.

But as the Jurchen truly bore down from the south, the pressure building within these “righteous armies” only kept increasing as well. The leaders of army after army—Wang Shan, Yang Jin, Tian Hu, Wang Zaixing, Li Gui among them—all gathered toward the court, demanding vast stores of grain, weapons, and even genuine recognition of their territories, titles, and standing. Just as with the reason Guo Jing had opened the gates of Bianliang of his own accord—it is the swindler himself who sees most clearly—these leaders understood, better than anyone, exactly how much real strength lay behind the several hundred thousand or million men under their banners. Not a few among them did in fact wish to fight the Jurchen, but going on as things were, that wish itself meant nothing at all.

Facing this helpless and powerless state of affairs, Zong Ze spent his days placating these various factions, while constantly petitioning Yingtian Prefecture, hoping that Zhou Yong might return to Bianliang to take his seat there and steady the righteous armies’ morale, firming their resolve to resist.

This year, sixty-eight years old, Zong Ze’s hair and beard had already turned entirely white. Yue Fei, who had been training troops at Daming, had been summoned here from the very moment the Jurchen came south, and had been serving under this old man ever since. Yue Fei could see how efficiently the old man worked at restoring order in Bianliang, but toward the righteous armies of the north, the old man too was powerless—he could grant them recognition, but to supply provisions and equipment enough for a million men was a fool’s dream. The old man’s standing in office amounted to some reputation at best; in terms of real backing, he was worlds apart from men like Qin Siyuan of years past—let alone supporting a million men, even ten thousand would be hard to sustain.

And yet, though it seemed to Yue Fei like effort wasted for nothing, the old man carried on with great resolve—almost fiercely so—promising Wang Shan and the others that a turn for the better would surely come, and sending petition after petition to Yingtian. One time, when Zong Ze privately summoned him to give orders, Yue Fei finally asked the question outright.

“Sir, even with a million men in the north, even with full provisions and equipment, meeting the Jurchen in battle would still likely be a fight they simply cannot win. I don’t understand—it seems you truly place your hopes in them… even if His Majesty really does return to make Bianliang the capital again, what good would that do?”

The old man glanced at him—his temper had grown somewhat fiery of late—and said bluntly, “Then tell me, when they meet the Jurchen, how are they supposed to fight at all!”

Yue Fei froze, wanting to say something more, but the white-haired, white-bearded old man waved a hand. “That this million cannot fight—do you think this old man doesn’t know that already? But in this whole realm, how many, faced with the Jurchen, would even dare say they can fight! I have no confidence in how to defeat the Jurchen, but this old man knows one thing: if there is truly to be any possibility of defeating them, then throughout this whole Han court, there must be a resolve willing to stake everything on death! For His Majesty to return the capital to Bianliang—that itself is that resolve. If His Majesty holds such resolve, then these several million men will dare to truly fight the Jurchen. And only if they dare to fight them can heroes and men of true purpose possibly rise up out of those several million and find the way to defeat the Jurchen! If it cannot be this way, then it really will be a hundred deaths and not one chance at life!”

“This old man has only seen this much, and does what needs doing, nothing more.”

Yue Fei was silent for a long while before finally cupping his hands in salute and taking his leave. In that moment, he seemed to see once more a certain old man he had known before, doing, amid the surging currents of a world in upheaval, a thing that perhaps offered only the faintest hope. And his own teacher, Zhou Tong, had truly been just the same.

It was not that doing this would guarantee success—only that if one wished to accomplish anything at all, this was the only way left to try.

Yingtian Prefecture.

Fierce debates broke out in the golden hall every day, though Zong Ze’s petitions had long since been buried beneath a mountain of other memorials. Even Li Gang, a firm hardliner for war, did not agree with Zong Ze’s constant proposal that the Emperor return to Bianliang.

That ruined city, already trampled once by the Jurchen, truly should not be returned to.

“…The true opening for us to work with lies within the Jin itself!”

“…Although the Jin armies have been nearly unbeatable since Aguda first rose up, by now the Jin state itself is no longer a single solid block. According to merchants from the north, for some years now the Jin court has had two separate Bureaus of Military Affairs, east and west—Wanyan Zongwang holding military and political power in the east, Wanyan Zonghan holding the court in the west. It’s said that within the Jin, only the eastern court truly lies under Wuqimai’s control. And Wanyan Zonghan has long harbored disloyal ambitions—there are even rumors that during Zonghan’s first southern campaign, Zongwang urged him on while Zonghan held his troops back at Taiyuan and refused to move…”

“…By last year, Liu Yanzong, the Military Affairs Commissioner of the Eastern Bureau, had died of illness, and Wanyan Zongwang himself had fallen gravely ill from years of campaigning, so that the Jurchen’s Eastern Bureau of Military Affairs had become a name without substance, and Wanyan Zonghan now stood on equal footing in influence with Wuqimai himself. This southern campaign of the Jurchen carries within it, in part, a struggle for power. In the east, imperial princes such as Wanyan Zongfu and Zongbi wish to establish their own authority and prestige, and Zonghan has no choice but to go along with it—only, his having Wanyan Loushi campaign in the west, and reportedly meaning to pacify the land north of the Yellow River as well, proves his true intent precisely: he means to expand his own private domain…”

“…As I see it, there is ample room here for schemes of division to be devised!”

The officials of the court argued back and forth in a great clamor, each pressing his own view. Aside from military matters, all the scholars had to offer was the accumulated political and diplomatic wisdom of a thousand years and more. Before long, an old Confucian scholar from Chenzhou, Ou Hongxi, came out of retirement and volunteered himself as envoy, to go before the camp of the Jurchen prince Zongfu and lay out the stakes plainly, in hope of halting the army. Everyone at court praised the loftiness of his cause.

Prince Kang, Zhou Yong, had never had much wisdom to begin with, and simply let them all do as they pleased while he spent his days in the inner palace, dallying with a newly taken consort. Not long after, when word of this got out, the scholar Ouyang Che put up placards across the city denouncing him for it…

At Xiaocang River, this was a quiet season. With spring gone and summer arrived, the valley had already ceased its frequent contact with the outside world, and only the scouts sent out brought word back from time to time of what was happening beyond. And in that summer of the second year of Jianshuo, the whole realm had turned pale as ash.

If the death of Emperor Jinghan and the capture of Emperor Jingping had marked the sunset of the Han court, then now, with the Jurchen’s third invasion from the south, night had finally fallen upon it at last…