August. The sunlight often took on a magnificent hue, the golden autumn drawing near, and the temperature had dropped slightly. Li Pin walked among the crowd, leaning on a staff. His health was poor, his face sallow, his breath coming in ragged gasps. All around him were refugees—people moving forward with expressions of blankness, wariness, and dread, mixed with the crying of children, the ache of hunger, and exhaustion.

After two months traveling alongside these refugees, Li Pin no longer looked much different from any of them.

They were passing through the countryside near Zezhou, close to Gaoping County. This area had not yet seen large-scale warfare, but it had clearly been passed through by many fleeing refugees before—the fields lay bare and stripped, with nothing to eat anywhere nearby. After walking a while, a commotion arose at the front of the line—the local authorities had sent people to distribute porridge up ahead.

The crowd surged forward, and Li Pin pressed in among them, holding out his little clay pot to beg for some thin gruel. He was ravenous, and crouched by the roadside eating without any care for appearances. All along the road people gathered, and someone by the porridge stall shouted loudly: “The Jiuniu Mountain righteous army is recruiting! Give your life and you’ll eat! There’s steamed buns! Enlist now and get two right away! Plus settlement silver for your family! Fellow villagers, the Jurchen dogs run wild—Yingtian has fallen, General Chen is dead, General Ma is defeated. You’ve left your homes behind—where else can you flee to? We serve under Elder Zong Ze, resolved to resist the Jurchens. Give your life, and there’s food. Defeat the Jurchens, and there’s money and grain…”

People, eyeing those steamed buns hungrily, pushed forward in no small numbers. Some, dragging their families along, were pulled back by their wives, weeping loudly on the road. All along this journey, there had been many such recruitment stations, all dangling money and food as bait. Whether one would actually get enough to eat once inside was another matter entirely, but war, after all, didn’t necessarily mean death. With no other options left, people sold themselves into service, and when it came time to face the battlefield, if the chance arose to slip away, that wasn’t considered strange either.

Most people, though, simply watched on, numb and cautious. Generally speaking, refugees were thought prone to causing riots or destabilizing public order, but in truth this wasn’t often the case. Most of these people had been law-abiding farmers and villagers their whole lives, never having ventured beyond their own small patch of village and county from childhood on. Driven from their homes, most of them were gripped by fear—fear of unfamiliar places, and fear of an unfamiliar future, though in truth hardly anyone knew what that future would even look like.

The rare elder who had actually seen something of the world would only say: “Once we reach the south, the court will surely see to our resettlement.”

Others clung to the hope of hiding out in the south for a few years, until the fighting stopped, and then returning home to farm again.

Mothers held their children close, watching everything around them with wary unease, small clusters of families huddled together. Li Pin had nothing left on him by now. Over a month earlier, he had saved a child who was on the verge of starving to death during the flight—that very night, the child had stolen his bundle and run off, taking with it the three books Ning Yi had left for him, once belonging to Qin Siyuan.

He had already finished reading the books anyway, so their loss hardly mattered in that sense. It was only that he’d lost a keepsake. But losing them was, in a way, for the best—every time he’d looked at them before, they had felt like a kind of inner demon haunting his mind. Lately, running alongside these refugees, tormented and worn down by hunger, he found that his mental burdens had, if anything, grown somewhat lighter.

Out here, grand principles could be set aside; all that mattered was what lay within two or three miles and two or three days ahead—hunger, fear, and death. An old man lay dead by the roadside, no longer breathing; a child knelt beside a corpse with despair in his eyes; soldiers routed from the front fled past in waves, still carrying their blades and spears, turned now against the very refugees they were fleeing alongside.

One night, plunder and slaughter broke out. Li Pin escaped disaster by hiding in a dark corner, but the routed Wu Dynasty soldiers ahead killed several hundred civilians that night, looting their belongings, killing anyone they saw, raping women among the refugees, before fleeing in panic…

From north to south, the Jurchen army had shattered the hearts of the people.

After finishing his porridge, Li Pin still felt hungry, though hunger, in its way, brought him a kind of release. That evening, driven half-mad by hunger, he went to the recruitment tent, intending simply to enlist and earn a couple of buns—but his constitution was too poor, and they turned him away. Outside the tent, another man had come as well—one who had tried to enlist during the day and been turned away too. The next morning, Li Pin heard that man’s family weeping among the crowd.

The endless procession of refugees stretched southward without end, its numbers rising and falling, most people without any clear destination at all. Another dozen or so days passed, and as they traveled on, Li Pin saw waves of routed soldiers pouring in—Zezhou, Jiuniu Mountain, and several other righteous armies had all been defeated on the battlefield against the Jurchens.

The chaotic procession stretched on and on, with neither head nor tail in sight, seemingly endless to walk. Compared to the Wu Dynasty’s lands of just a few years before, it was like an entirely different world. Sometimes, in the midst of the crowd, Li Pin would raise his head, thinking back on the years past, on everything he had seen—and then, looking out at these fleeing refugees, he would feel, oddly, that it was the same world after all, the same people.

Ning Yi’s words came echoing back to him like an incantation. Survival of the fittest, natural selection. Heaven and earth had already begun turning cruel, the warmth of the world stripping away and shattering piece by piece. What, in the end, could people do—what should people do? When hunger loosened its grip a little, his head would start aching again instead. This day, arriving at the banks of the Yellow River, he found great numbers of refugees gathered there, with Wu Dynasty troops and righteous armies constantly recruiting men willing to fight, and more news pouring in from every direction.

It was said that the northwest, too, was now consumed by chaos and war. The Western Army, once considered the Wu Dynasty’s finest fighting force, had never recovered since the death of Zhong Shidao. Not long before, Wanyan Loushi had swept through the northwest, achieving a record of near-total invincibility, with countless Wu Dynasty forces fleeing in disarray, abandoning weapons and armor as they ran. Now the She family had surrendered to Jin, and Zhong Lie held out grimly at Yan Prefecture, though it seemed his position, too, was growing precarious.

It was said that after taking Yingtian, having failed to capture the already-fled Jianshuo Emperor, the Jurchen army had begun rampaging in every direction, and several Wu Dynasty armies arriving from the south had, for the most part, already been defeated.

It was said that Elder Zong Ze had fallen gravely ill…

Along the banks of the Yellow River, where countless people had gathered, the autumn rain fell in an unbroken drizzle, chaos and confusion beyond words—a panic that hung over the entire realm…

…

The city of Bianliang. The autumn rain fell soft as pastry crumbs, knocking yellowed leaves from the trees. Yue Fei arrived through the rain and walked into that courtyard.

Since taking Yingtian, the Jurchens had temporarily paused their advance southward, turning instead to expanding and consolidating the territory already under their control. Several divisions of the Jurchen army had begun sweeping through Shandong and the areas north of the Yellow River that had not yet submitted, and Zonghan’s forces had once again begun drawing near Bianliang.

Outside Bianliang, where Elder Zong Ze had reinforced the city’s defenses, Yue Fei’s forces had clashed several more times with small bands of Jurchen troops. Seeing that Yue Fei’s army maintained good order, the Jurchen cavalry would withdraw each time—Bianliang, no longer the capital, had lost much of its value as a target for direct assault in Jurchen eyes. As for restoring the city’s defenses, Zong Ze had proven himself remarkably capable; within a period of over half a year, he had restored roughly seventy to eighty percent of the defensive strength around Bianliang, and with a great number of righteous armies gathering under his command, this region remained, for the Jurchens, a genuinely tough nut to crack.

Only men like Yue Fei truly understood just how difficult this task had been. Zong Ze spent his days rushing back and forth, negotiating tirelessly among the leaders of the various righteous armies, using every means available to help them achieve real results in resisting the Jurchens. In truth, though, the resources actually at his disposal had dwindled to almost nothing, especially after the emperor’s flight south. All of this effort seemed to be waiting only for the day of eventual failure—and yet this elder statesman continued to hold his ground here, struggling on. Yue Fei never once heard him voice a single complaint.

Particularly telling was the time the Jurchens sent envoys to demand his surrender—perhaps Elder Zong alone, among all of them, had simply had the envoys dragged out and beheaded on the spot, as an offering to his banners. For Zong Ze, negotiation had never been a consideration at all; Bianliang was a desperate army fighting with its back against the wall—it simply could no longer see any hope of victory.

Having held on this long, the old man finally collapsed…

…

The city of Yan Prefecture.

Massive boulders arced across the sky, crashing brutally into the ancient city walls, sending debris flying in every direction. Arrows fell like rain; the sounds of bloodshed and battle cries rang out ceaselessly, up and down the city.

Siege towers slammed against the walls, only to be set ablaze by fire arrows shot from above and burning oil poured down; soldiers screamed and tumbled from the ramparts.

Zhong Lie swung his long blade, driving back a group of attackers who had scaled the walls with ladders. His hair and beard were disheveled, his robes soaked through with sweat, and he shouted commands as he fought, leading the sons of the Zhong family army in fierce combat. The walls, top to bottom, teemed with men—but the attackers were not Jurchens; they were the more than ninety thousand Han troops who had surrendered to Wanyan Loushi and were now tasked with leading the assault on Yan Prefecture.

Commanding the siege from below was Yan Zhenguo, once the Military Commissioner of Qinfeng Circuit, a Wu Dynasty general in his own right—when Wanyan Loushi’s forces struck, he had suffered a crushing defeat and surrendered to Jin. The siege had now dragged on for seven days.

The She family had surrendered five days earlier. She Kequ had refused to take part in the assault on Yan Prefecture himself, but had personally written a letter urging Zhong Lie to surrender, laying out at length the argument that circumstances now outweighed personal resolve, and that surrender had become unavoidable—also pointing to Xiaocang River’s refusal to join the fighting as further proof of the hopelessness of their position. Zhong Lie had torn the letter to shreds and continued fighting on to this day.

The Zhong family army was the strongest of the Western Army’s forces; from the several thousand elite troops remaining at the start, they had spent the past year and more gradually gathering back their old soldiers and recruiting new ones, until the fighting force now gathered at Yan Prefecture numbered around eighteen thousand—this core army, distinct from the thirty thousand men sent to Fengxiang, could still hold the city for now, though the fall of the northwest had become, at this point, only a matter of time.

Wanyan Loushi’s strongest Jurchen forces had, all this while, remained held in reserve, merely overseeing the battle from the rear. Zhong Lie knew the strength of his opponent; once Loushi had fully assessed the situation and unleashed his decisive strike, Yan Prefecture would very likely fall. And once it fell, there would be no more “northwest” to speak of.

And yet—the Zhong family had guarded the northwest for over a hundred years, striking such fear into the Western Xia that they scattered at the mere mention of the name. How could they possibly surrender to a foreign power!

He swung his blade, cleaving down through the skull of an enemy soldier charging at him, and roared: “Yan, you traitor! You dog who sold out your own country for glory—dare you face me in single combat—”

His voice rolled out like thunder, fierce and commanding, and the soldiers on the walls felt their spirits lift at the sound.

Amid the endless clash of assault and defense, Zhong Lie raised his head, hair already streaked with white.

The greatest regret of all was that he would never again see Qingjian…

…

In the Miao borderlands, Tie Tianying walked through mountains ablaze with golden autumn leaves, glancing back to see dense forest stretching across the wilderness in every direction.

A few small huts appeared at the end of the path, most of them fallen into disrepair. He walked over and knocked on the door of one; from within came the sound of a wary voice questioning him.

Tie Tianying spoke the coded phrases of the martial underworld. The other party opened the door and let him in.

Inside was an elderly Miao man with a lame leg, a saber strapped at his waist, clearly not one to be trifled with. After the two exchanged names, the man’s manner turned respectful, addressing Tie Tianying as “sir.” Tie Tianying asked after certain matters; the other man’s eyes flickered evasively, often taking a moment to think before answering. Tie Tianying merely smiled and produced a small pouch of silver from inside his robe.

“I hold an official post, but I know full well the customs of the martial underworld. Living out here can’t be easy for you—consider this silver payment for information, and something to help support your household. But, Lame Min, giving you this silver is my way of showing respect, and respect for a man of standing in these parts—but I haven’t been walking this road for the first time either, and I don’t miss much. What I’m asking about won’t bring you any harm. If you feel you can speak of it, then speak. If not, say so plainly, and I’ll simply go elsewhere. I say this up front, in good faith.”

Hearing this, the man nodded repeatedly, and after pocketing the silver, spoke more freely this time—though after a few words, he hesitated again.

Tie Tianying gave a cold snort. The man flinched, then raised his head.

“Lord Tie, this matter—I don’t think it’s far from here. Let me take you to see for yourself…”

With that, the two of them set off. Though the Miao man was lame in one leg, he moved swiftly through the mountains all the same, and Tie Tianying, being a first-rate martial master of the wider world, had no trouble keeping pace. The two crossed a mountain hollow ahead and climbed toward the summit. Upon reaching the top, Tie Tianying frowned. “Lame Min. Are you toying with me, or have you set someone up to ambush me here? If so, just say it plainly.”

“You misunderstand me, sir. It should… it should be right up ahead…” Lame Min pointed forward. Tie Tianying frowned but continued on. The view from this ridge was excellent, and at a certain moment his eyes suddenly narrowed, and he broke into a run. Lame Min glanced around, then hurried to keep up, pointing ahead. “That’s right, that should be them…”

Far off in the distance, dust rose from a crowd of people moving through the mountains.

As they ran along the ridge, the scene ahead gradually came into view—the tail end of a marching army, winding its way forward along the rugged mountain terrain.

After leaving the northwest, Tie Tianying had drifted through the martial world for a time; once the Jurchens marched south, he too had come south to take refuge, and it was around then that certain events from years before had resurfaced in his mind. Back in Hangzhou, Ning Yi and the Overlord Blade had once shared some manner of friendship, but later, during the clash over the transport of Fang Qifo to the capital, Ning Yi had beheaded Fang Qifo right in front of Liu Xigua—an act that had left the two of them locked in a feud with no room for reconciliation. But later, as he came to understand Ning Yi’s character more clearly, he had begun to sense something wasn’t quite right, and from Li Pin’s words he’d also inadvertently learned that there remained some manner of unresolved connection between Ning Yi and the Overlord Blade.

Though he was in the south, his information network remained sharp. Even as Zonghan and Zongfu’s two armies invaded from the south, the war god Wanyan Loushi was likewise wreaking havoc across the northwest—these three armies had brought the entire realm to its knees. Tie Tianying had grown curious about the goings-on at Xiaocang River—though in truth, Xiaocang River had shown no movement whatsoever thus far, and he himself hardly dared risk everything by going to war against the Jurchens either—yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that, given that man’s character, things couldn’t possibly be so simple.

He had made his way all the way to the Miao borderlands, inquiring after news of the Overlord Blade—news of what had transpired since the Overlord Blade had entrenched himself in Lanhuantong. Many people knew of these things, but reporting them to the authorities was of no use; the terrain of the Miao borderlands was treacherous, and the Miao people had always governed themselves. The authorities no longer had the strength to mount another campaign against what remained a small remnant of the Fang La rebellion’s old followers. So Tie Tianying had gone asking around on his own…

On the twentieth of August, up on the mountain, Tie Tianying witnessed a startling sight in the distance.

After all these years lying dormant and silent in this corner of the Miao borderlands, the last remaining band of rebels from Fang La’s uprising during the Yongle era had, at last, marched out from Lanhuantong.

An endless column of troops, stretching out like a great dragon before Tie Tianying’s eyes, was pressing forward across the ridges of the Miao borderlands.

…

The night of August 20th. Heavy rain.

Yue Fei and several other officials and generals stood in the courtyard, listening to Zong Ze, lying on his sickbed, speak at great length.

His words concerned the war against the Jurchens, but he also spoke of matters within the officialdom—how to seek favor from others, how to get things done through the proper channels, and so on. The old man’s own career in officialdom had never gone smoothly; stubborn and upright by nature his whole life, capable though he was, he had always eventually found himself hemmed in and thwarted the moment things reached a certain point. In earlier years, seeing much that could not be accomplished, he had resigned his post and left office—but when the court needed him again this time, he had stepped forward once more. Stubborn and upright as ever, even without much support from above, he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into restoring Bianliang’s defenses and order, sustaining the righteous armies and pushing them to resist the Jurchens. Even after the emperor fled south, when so many of his hopes had already turned to ash, the old man carried on his hopeless efforts without a single word of complaint.

Even now, the fighting in the north continued; across the lands north of the Yellow River, several righteous armies and court forces were still contesting territory with the Jurchens—an effort owing no small debt to this old man’s tireless contributions. Even amid repeated defeats, they were still, at this very moment, wearing down the strength of the Jurchen southern advance—though the old man had always hoped the court’s armies, rallied by the emperor’s resolve, might yet push north decisively. Now, all that remained was to hold the line.

And so he could only pass on his thoughts for the defense ahead.

In the afternoon, the old man drifted into unconsciousness for a time, and this state continued on into the evening. As night fell, the rain kept falling steadily, lending the courtyard a desolate, weathered air. Around eight in the evening, someone said the old man had woken, but he lay there with his eyes open, seemingly lost in thought, unresponsive. Yue Fei and the others went in to see him. A quarter past the hour, the old man on the bed suddenly stirred. His son, Zong Ying, leaned in close, and the old man gripped his hand, opened his mouth, and said something—faintly, it sounded like: “Cross the river.”

“What?” Zong Ying hadn’t caught it clearly.

“Cross the river.” The old man looked at him, then said it a third time: “Cross the river!”

His eyes stayed wide open, and then he stopped breathing.

Yue Fei felt a sharp ache behind his nose, and tears fell from his eyes. Countless voices rose in weeping all around.

In this final moment before he passed, the old man had confused hope with reality.

—The chance to cross the river had already been lost, long ago. It had vanished the instant the Jianshuo Emperor left Yingtian.

The autumn rain fell soft and steady, yellow leaves drifting down. In every age, there are lives that can truly be called great, and their passing reshapes the face of that age—some part of their spirit lives on, carried forward within others. After Qin Siyuan, Zong Ze too had failed to change the fate of the realm—but after his death, the righteous armies north of the Yellow River soon began to fracture and scatter, each going their own separate way.

When Bianliang finally fell, Yue Fei fled south, to face a new transformation—yet those two words, “cross the river,” he would never forget for the rest of his life. But that, of course, is a matter for later.

…

A tiny corner of the vast realm: Xiaocang River.

A quiet autumn.

As the yellow leaves fell, the valley lay eerily silent.

Unlike the restless anticipation of the year before, on the eve of the campaign against Western Xia, this time a kind of quiet clarity had settled over the hearts of many.

At dusk, Luo Ye straightened his uniform and made his way toward the small assembly hall halfway up the mountainside. Before long he ran into Hou Wu, and then several other officers; people filed in one after another and took their seats. Once the crowd had nearly filled the hall, after a further wait, Ning Yi entered.

Everyone sat up straight, hands resting on their knees, fists clenched.

Outside the window, the autumn night lay pleasant and still…