August 30th, the northwestern land.

The rain of late autumn fell without any sign of stopping, dense and continuous. Beneath the heavy rain lay barren mountains, stunted trees and withered grass, murmuring streams — and here and there, corpses lying fallen on the ground. Men and warhorses alike, in the mud or the underbrush, had drawn their last breath forever.

The chaotic battlefield of the previous night had stretched its trail of slaughter more than ten li from north to south, though in truth it amounted to no more than a clash between two or three thousand men. The fighting had pressed on relentlessly, and the bodies left scattered at the fringes of the battlefield had yet to be dealt with.

A group of forty-three, moving from south to north, picked up four wounded horses along the way, using them to carry four wounded men. Whenever they came across corpses, they sent people to search them for anything useful.

The relentless rain had long since soaked everyone through, the air bitterly cold, their boots sinking into the muddy road, requiring great effort to pull free each time. Zhuo Yongqing had long since slung his shoes around his neck; feeling the dull ache in his chest, he stuffed a small piece of marching ration into his mouth.

“Pfft… where are we even going now?”

The falling rain was the most bothersome thing of all — wiping the water from his face with one hand while walking only left his eyes blurred again the next moment. Walking beside him was his comrade Chen Side, fiddling with the crossbow on his back, which seemed to be broken.

“Wherever we came fighting from last night, let’s head back that way,” Chen Side said, glancing ahead. “By rights, there should still be people waiting there.”

“Would the Jin dogs post people waiting there too?”

“…Hard to say.” Chen Side hesitated, then gave the crossbow in his hands a hard pull; there was a snap, and it fell apart. Zhuo Yongqing said, “Go get a good one, then.” He crouched down to help pick through the mud for the metal fittings and pins — parts from the crossbow that would still be useful once they got back.

The others walked past them, some stepping unevenly, some supporting the wounded as they went. Suddenly a loud commotion came from behind — a figure fell from a horse’s back, splashing mud as it landed. The man leading the horse stopped; others ran over from behind. Zhuo Yongqing wiped the water from his eyes. “That’s Lu Shitou…”

By now everyone, front and back, had come to a stop, watching the comrade who was propping up the figure in the mud. That comrade froze for a moment, then turned halfway around. “He’s dead… Lu Shitou…”

Someone stirred; from the front of the group, Qu Qing stepped out. “…Take his things, and lay him by the roadside.”

“…Should we bury him?” someone asked in a low voice.

“No time.” Qu Qing paused after saying this, then reached back and pointed at the three horses behind them. “Find a place to treat the wounded first, and catch up with the main force. There’s us here, and there are Jurchens too — it’s not safe.”

Everyone did as he said. They took Lu Shitou’s blade, shield, and bow and crossbow, helped the more seriously wounded man onto a horse, covered him with a straw raincoat, and continued on.

The autumn rain remained grey and gloomy as the group of more than forty pressed on through the mud, about to round a rugged bend in the mountain road ahead. Under that same silvery-grey sky, on the other side of that mountain road, more than twenty northern men in Jurchen military uniforms were also coming down the path. Because of the rocks and earth blocking the view, neither side had yet seen the other.

“…Last night the main force shouldn’t have scattered yet. We fought too hard, too fast… I remember Lu Lifu died.”

“Lu Lifu… where?”

“Don’t remember. On the way here, the Jin dogs’ warhorse… knocked him flying. Hand that to me.”

As he spoke, Chen Side was still fiddling with the other crossbow in his hands. After taking a sip of water, he handed his woven canteen to Zhuo Yongqing, who took it and reflexively pressed a hand to his chest.

“Knocked flying doesn’t necessarily mean dead — my bones might’ve been broken too, and I didn’t die. So he might still be…”

Before he could finish, a commotion suddenly erupted from up the slope — the sound of people grappling, a crossbow firing. Two figures came tumbling and wrestling down from the hillside; one was one of the Black Banner Army’s three scouts, the other clearly a Jurchen spy. At the bend in the road ahead, someone suddenly shouted, “Contact!” Arrows flew past; the man at the head of the column had already raised his shield.

In that instant, Zhuo Yongqing froze; a shudder rose suddenly from the back of his neck and burst outward. He hesitated only that single instant before charging forward. He threw down his canteen, unslung his crossbow, and drew the bolt back onto the string; others had already rushed ahead of him even faster.

A few simple shields formed a loose line in an instant. Arrows from the other side struck the shields; Luo Ye, gripping his blade, shouted, “How many—”

“Twenty—”

“Kill them!”

Around the bend in the road, a horse suddenly charged forward, straight at the hastily formed shield wall ahead. A Huaxia soldier was knocked aside by the horse; the Jurchen rider tumbled into the mud, swinging his long blade in slashing arcs; another horse had already charged in as well. The Jurchens on that side surged forward, and the men on this side rushed to meet them.

Luo Ye, blade in one hand, walked through the mud, watching the charging Jurchen cavalryman bear down on him without slowing his own pace; his one-handed grip shifted to a two-handed hold, and just as horse and man crossed paths at close range, his footwork suddenly stopped, his body pivoting sideways as he let out a great shout and cut with his blade.

“Arrogant bastard—”

The horse, spraying blood, went tumbling and rolling away; before the Jurchen rider on its back could rise, he was run through with a spear by someone charging up from behind. By now the fighting had fully erupted; people clashed and killed each other across the muddy road and the treacherous slope. Zhuo Yongqing rushed forward; nearby was squad leader Mao Yishan, blade drawn, slashing at a Jurchen. Mud sprayed up as they ran; the Jurchen dodged Mao Yishan’s slash and struck back with his own blade. Zhuo Yongqing raised his shield and blocked the strike.

Mao Yishan swung past the shield with another cut; the Jurchen rolled again to dodge, and Zhuo Yongqing pressed forward, about to swing his blade down, when the Jurchen suddenly collapsed face-first into the mud, unmoving — a crossbow bolt lodged in his face. Zhuo Yongqing turned to look, but had no idea who had fired it. By then Mao Yishan was already shouting, “Group up—”

In the autumn rain, the perilous slaughter had, in the blink of an eye, become the sole subject of this mountain road. Zhuo Yongqing, Mao Yishan and the others had already gathered together; at some point their faces had become smeared with thick, sticky blood. Not far off, Luo Ye and a few others formed one small group, the most aggressive of them all. Hou Wu, Qu Qing, and others formed another group, the largest in number. In this sudden encounter, the Jurchens fought with extreme ferocity, but once the Huaxia soldiers banded together, the Jurchens’ savage hunting could no longer gain the upper hand. Within moments several men fell on each side, blood once again flowing across the slope.

A wounded soldier named Pan Xiaomao hid behind the horse carrying the seriously wounded, keeping seven or eight crossbows at hand, occasionally loosing surprise shots — sometimes hitting a horse, sometimes a man. One Jurchen soldier, shot in the calf, limped down the slope toward a mountain ravine cliff not far below; a soldier named Wang Yuan charged after him with his blade the whole way. As they reached the cliff’s edge, Luo Ye shouted, “Come back!” But it was already too late — the ground beneath them gave way, and he tumbled down along with the Jurchen soldier.

The fighting went on for some time. Two Jurchen soldiers escaped on horseback; once there were no more able-bodied Jurchen soldiers left nearby, Zhuo Yongqing suddenly sat down, gasping for breath. Mao Yishan patted his shoulder. “Good kill!” But Zhuo Yongqing had not actually killed anyone this time. He had exhausted his strength largely because his chest wound had drained him further.

“Count the men! Treat the wounded first!” Qu Qing shouted amid the crowd. Everyone rushed toward the wounded around them. Luo Ye ran all the way to the cliff’s edge and leaned over to look down, perhaps hoping for some small chance. Zhuo Yongqing, after catching his breath a few times, staggered to his feet to go check on the wounded. As he walked past toward the back, he found Chen Side already lying in a pool of blood — an arrow had pierced clean through his throat.

A ringing filled Zhuo Yongqing’s head. This was, of course, his first time on a battlefield, but over the preceding days, Chen Side had hardly been the first comrade and friend he had watched die. Witnessing such a death, what weighed on him was not so much sorrow as sheer weight. That had been a living, breathing person — the times they’d spent together, talked together… Chen Side had been skilled with his hands, always taking his crossbow apart and putting it back together, and could usually fix it himself when it broke. That woven canteen in the mud, lined inside with leather, exquisitely made, was said to have been woven by Chen Side’s mother when he joined the Huaxia Army. So many things, cut off so abruptly, seemed to press down all at once in this single instant — a weight difficult to simply swallow down.

And yet, no matter who you were, you had to swallow it down regardless. The dead weighed heavily, yet in this moment they were also, all of them, light. On the battlefield people were dying constantly; to dwell on the dead in the midst of battle would only delay something greater. This paradox of the unbearably light and the unbearably heavy pressed down together.

A sour ache churned in Zhuo Yongqing’s eyes, something threatening to spill out. He turned to look at the people around him — Luo the Madman stood at the cliff’s edge for a while, then turned and walked back; someone was on the ground trying to save a man, pressing repeatedly on his chest, the seemingly calm motions carrying a thread of frenzy; someone knelt beside a dead man for a moment, then, after a stunned pause, silently walked away. Hou Wu helped a wounded man up and shouted to those around him, “He’s still alive! Bring bandages — bring medicine—”

Zhuo Yongqing picked up the woven canteen from the ground, slung it over his shoulder, and went to help others nearby. After some commotion, they counted heads: thirty-four survivors remained, of whom ten were wounded — Zhuo Yongqing’s kind of injury, which didn’t stop him from fighting, wasn’t counted among them. As the group prepared to move on, Zhuo Yongqing found himself asking, almost without thinking, “Should we… bury them…”

He looked at the bodies laid by the roadside.

“…No time.” Luo Ye said this, then paused, and suddenly pointed downward. “Why don’t we just throw them down there instead.”

“Fine.” Qu Qing nodded, walking first toward the bodies. “Everyone hurry up.”

They threw the eight bodies by the roadside down into the deep ravine, then continued on. They had originally planned to retrace their path from the previous night, but considering the wounded, and the likelihood of encountering not only their own but also Jurchen forces along the way, they instead took a side path down, and after a few li, temporarily left the more lightly and seriously wounded in a relatively hidden hollow beneath a cliff, assigning two men to watch over them.

“You can’t go any further,” Qu Qing told them. “Even if we made it through, it’d be hard for you to face the Jurchens again as things stand. Either we find the main force and have the Zhong family’s men come get you, or, if we don’t find them, we’ll come back tonight.”

Leaving these twelve behind, Zhuo Yongqing and the remaining twenty-two headed toward last night’s engagement site. Along the way they encountered a Jurchen squad of five, killed them, lost one man of their own, and picked up five more along the way. When they reached the small grove on the hill where they had fought hastily the night before, the traces of the great battle were still visible, but the Huaxia Army’s main force had clearly already moved on, still pressing the Jurchens.

Twenty-six of them ventured cautiously into the grove, made contact with the enemy, and hastily withdrew. It was clear Jurchen stragglers were also passing through here — the Huaxia Army was stronger in formation and coordination, while these Jurchens, forged in the wilds of the white mountains and black rivers, were stronger in individual combat in open country and forest. Holding this position to wait for comrades might be one option, but far too passive. Qu Qing and the others deliberated and decided it was better to go back first to settle the wounded, then estimate where the Jurchens might be heading and pursue.

On the way back, in the same muddy rain, as they approached the hollow, they found a body lying by the road, pierced by nearly a dozen arrows. It was the soldier they had left to watch the wounded, a man named Zhang Gui. Everyone tensed at once and rushed cautiously toward the hollow.

It was already too late.

The hollow reeked of blood, corpses strewn everywhere — eleven bodies of Huaxia soldiers in all, each pierced by arrows. It was clear that when the Jurchens came, the wounded had set up their shields and fired back with crossbows in resistance, but had ultimately been shot down all the same. Deepest in the hollow, the four seriously wounded who could barely move had been killed by their own Huaxia comrades; the lightly wounded man who had killed them had then driven his own blade into his heart — his body still sat there, but without a head. The Jurchens had cut it off.

The daylight had already dimmed, and the rain continued. As everyone carefully examined the scene, someone remembered Zhang Gui, lying dead far off by the road, and murmured, “Zhang Gui must have tried to lure the Jurchens away…” Luo Ye and a few others went out with their blades in silence, clearly looking for traces of the Jurchens. After a while, Luo Ye’s roar echoed from the dim hills: “Come out—”

After a moment, another cry: “Come out—” But no response came. Not long after, Luo Ye returned; on the other side, someone had also carried Zhang Gui’s body back.

“We have a bit of time now,” Hou Wu said. “Let’s bury them.”

Luo Ye nodded. “Light a fire, cook something. We’ll rest here tonight.”

“The Jurchens might still be around.”

“Let them come!” Luo Ye said through gritted teeth. After a moment, Qu Qing said from the side, “Still, let’s light the fire — the clothes need drying.”

They dug graves and buried the twelve bodies, and that night, they rested by the burial mound. The soldiers ate some heated rations; those with wounds, like Zhuo Yongqing, took the chance to rebandage themselves properly. After a day like this — the rain, the mud, the fighting, the wounds — everyone was thoroughly exhausted. After drying their clothes, they put out the fire. Zhuo Yongqing, alternating between chills and fever, drifted in and out as he listened hazily to the others discussing where to head the next day.

“…Wanyan Loushi’s been circling around Yanzhou and Qingzhou these past few days — I think he’s waiting for reinforcements… The Zhong family’s army has already encircled the area, but who knows, the Zhe family might show up too, and whether the Jinning Army joins in is anyone’s guess. In a few more days, it’ll turn into a real mess around here. My guess is, if Wanyan Loushi decides to move, he’s most likely to head toward Xuanjia Hollow today…”

“…Wanyan Loushi isn’t afraid of fighting, he’s just cautious. He fights by the book — he won’t engage us head-on because he’s wary of our cannons, our balloons…”

“If that’s how it goes, maybe they’ll strike hard while it’s raining…”

“Could be tonight, even…”

“Yeah…”

“Either way, tomorrow we head toward Xuanjia Hollow?”

Zhuo Yongqing leaned against the grave mound, listening to Luo Ye and the others murmuring back and forth, until at some point he heard Qu Qing say, “Leaving the wounded back there — that was my mistake…”

“What mistake of yours? Stop taking everything on yourself!” Luo Ye’s voice rose. “The wounded couldn’t walk, and we had to head for the battlefield — there was no other way for anyone! It’s the Jurchens who deserve to die, and it’s the Jurchens we need to make pay!”

“Maybe we could send a few to find the main force, and the rest of us wait here.”

“That’s not an option!” Luo Ye said flatly. “Who are we fighting right now? Wanyan Loushi! The number one Jurchen! Right now it looks like we’re evenly matched with him — who knows when we might slip up and let them wipe us out! Since we’re fighting head-on anyway, we throw in everything we’ve got! There’s only twenty-odd of us, but who’s to say the front lines wouldn’t fall a little short without us? Send people to find the main force, have the main force send people back for us? Qu Qing, in war — what matters most in war? Master Ning said it — put your life on the line!”

Luo Ye paused. “Our lives, their lives… My own brothers — when they die, it hurts me, and I’d die in their place if I could. But in war, you can’t lose! War is about throwing your life on the line! Master Ning said it — use every means without limit, spend your own life, spend other people’s lives, push to the very limit! If it means sacrificing yourself, do it; if others can’t keep up, sacrifice them too! Stop thinking about all that other nonsense — it’s not your fault, the Jurchens deserve to die!”

“Thanks, Luo the Madman,” Qu Qing said. “Don’t worry, the fire in my heart isn’t any less than yours. I know exactly what to do with it.”

“Hmph, today, I didn’t see anyone here with less fire in them, if you ask me…”

The chill faded, and a wave of heat rose again. Zhuo Yongqing leaned against the grave mound, clenched his teeth, curled his fists, and before long, drifted hazily back to sleep. The next day, the rain still had not let up. Everyone ate a little food, said farewell to the grave, and set out once more toward Xuanjia Hollow.

More rain, more rugged roads — but on the battlefield, as long as a single breath remained, there was no room for complaint or self-pity…

There was nothing left but to press onward.