While the northwest fell into fierce full-scale war due to the Black Banner Army’s campaign, Fan Hongji had only recently crossed south over the Yellow River, now occupied with matters of even greater importance, and had temporarily set aside all thought of Little Cangriver.

Across the Central Plains, the flames of war spread on, the largest upheaval of all surging southward from the north.

Repeated clashes of hundreds of thousands, deaths in the millions, migrations of tens of millions — the chaos and grief of it defied brief description. From Yanmen Pass to Taiyuan, from Taiyuan to the Yellow River, from the Yellow River to Xuzhou, across the length of the Central Plains, the Jurchen armies rampaged unchecked, burning cities, seizing women, capturing slaves, killing captives.

Countless people died; those who lost their families and kin scattered and drifted apart. For them, the scars war had branded into their lives, the emptiness left in their souls by the sudden loss of loved ones, might never fade for the rest of their lives.

Resistance from the righteous armies had grown feeble ever since Zhou Yong fled south and Zong Ze passed away; force after force along both banks of the Yellow River had begun submitting to the Jurchens, while small-scale chaos grew ever more intense. Villagers and bandits who had fled into the mountains rather than submit, wandering knights and local strongmen in the marketplaces, resisted by every means available wherever they could reach.

Every day, isolated small groups of Jurchens fell prey to ambush and slaughter, but every day, more resisters were killed in these fierce clashes as well. The areas around cities captured by the Jurchens were often left nine-tenths empty; city walls were hung with the heads of troublemakers — massacre remained, at this point, the most efficient and least troublesome method of rule.

This was an age belonging to the Jurchens; to them, this was the heroic character revealed amid a world turned upside down, each charge, each swing of the blade proving their strength anew. And what had once been half of the flourishing, prosperous Wu Dynasty, the entire Central Plains, was crumbling and flaking away beneath this slaughter and trampling.

Over more than half a year, the city gates broken open by the Jurchens grew ever more numerous, those who submitted ever more numerous as well. Crowds of refugees jammed the roads not yet reached by the Jurchens; every day, people died of hunger, of plunder, of slaughter.

In this vast, sweeping age, Fan Hongji, too, had long since adapted to everything unfolding within this grand campaign of conquest. At Little Cangriver, due to his own mission, he had for a brief time felt surprised by Little Cangriver’s choice; but after leaving that place, making his way to the Zhengzhou camp to report the mission’s outcome to Wanyan Xiyin, he had then been assigned to the task of persuading Shi Bin’s righteous army to surrender — a small part within the vast overall strategy of the Central Plains campaign.

Even after he had recounted everything he had witnessed at Little Cangriver to Wanyan Xiyin as fully and honestly as he could manage, Wanyan Xiyin’s ultimate response toward that place had simply been to hold up Ning Liheng’s poem and shake his head admiringly: “Stern and unyielding, as if he still stood among us — who says the House of Han has truly perished… What a fine poem!” He did not look down on Little Cangriver, but within the current vast strategic picture, there was, in truth, no particular need to pay it much further attention.

Ning Liheng was, without question, a man of exceptional talent, but among the Jurchens’ current leadership, which of them was not also a formidable hero who looked down upon the world? Since the war began at the start of the year, Zonghan, Zongfu, Zongbi, Xiyin, Loushi, Yinshuke, Cibushi, Balishu and others had been taking cities and territory, sweeping through like an unstoppable force, almost without pause. Only in the northwest, with a famous general like Wanyan Loushi holding the line, could no one afford to underestimate the opposition. And across the Central Plains, the front line of the great war was now surging toward Xuzhou.

Since the Eastern Route Army had taken Yingtian and the Central Route Army had seized Bian Liang, the main artery of the Central Plains had already fallen into boiling slaughter and was tending toward complete subjugation. If the Jurchens intended to occupy and govern this vast region, this enormous Central Plains territory would take them a great deal of time yet to digest; and even if they intended to keep fighting, their southward supply lines had already been stretched thinner and thinner.

The key stronghold of Xuzhou was now the gateway from the Central Plains to Jiangnan. North of Xuzhou, many areas remained unpacified by the Jurchens, resistance still ongoing in various places; people had estimated the Jurchens would not move south for the time being. Yet Wanyan Zongbi of the Eastern Route Army, known for his aggressive tactics, had already brought his vanguard forces forward, first offering terms of surrender, then laying siege to and attacking Xuzhou.

A great number of refugees fleeing south had been trapped within Xuzhou city, awaiting the verdict of life or death. Prefect Wang Fu, having refused to surrender, sent men south to seek reinforcements while personally rushing about the walls each day, striving with all his strength to resist this Jurchen army.

This siege, not yet fierce in itself, marked the beginning of the Jurchens’ grand strategy of “combing the mountains and searching the seas.” Even as Jin Wushu led his forces in the attack on Xuzhou, the Central Route Army was also dispatching large numbers of persuaders like Fan Hongji, working hard to induce surrender and stabilize the rear areas, while large numbers of Jurchen forces occupying territory in the surrounding region were converging on Xuzhou like scattered sparks drawn to flame.

In September, Yinshuke arrived at Xuzhou, his chest burning with fury. At the same time, Jin Wushu’s great army launched its truly fiercest assault on Xuzhou; three days later, he led his forces into the blood-soaked city defenses, his blade spreading through this city where hundreds of thousands had gathered.

Meanwhile, outside the city, Yinshuke led his five thousand elite cavalry, breaking camp and heading south, their surging hooves racing at top speed toward Yangzhou.

Comb the mountains, search the seas — capture Zhou Yong!

The Eastern Route Army’s southward campaign had, from the very start, aimed not merely at smashing the Central Plains, but at hauling back to the northern lands every member of the Zhou family who dared call himself emperor.

That same September, in Qingzhou in the northwest, the life-and-death struggle between the two armies had reached a white-hot intensity; amid the fierce fighting, both sides had grown exhausted, men and horses alike, yet even in this state of exhaustion, the confrontation and slaughter between the two sides only grew ever more intense.

On the night of September 4th, near the area called Xuanjia Hollow, the two armies, still locked together relentlessly, maintained a brief calm across a not-too-great distance, though even in this calm, both sides remained poised, ready at any moment to spring at the other. The soldiers of the Fourth Regiment, after the sacrifice of commander Sun Ye, sharpened their blades in the night, preparing to launch a feint attack against the Jurchens that night — even if the feint turned into a real assault, it made no difference, so long as it kept the enemy from resting easy. At this point the ground was still muddy, starlight flowing like water.

That same night of September 4th, in the cellar of the ruined village of Xuanjia Hollow, a small unit of more than twenty men waited silently for the footsteps above to grow quiet, waited for the air to gradually grow thin. They planned to launch a surprise strike when the number of Jurchen soldiers nearby thinned out — but the air gave out first.

That night, they charged out, straight toward the first and highest-ranking Jurchen officer they saw.

That Jurchen officer and the soldiers around him saw them too.

The clash erupted in an instant!

Zhuo Yongqing, blade in his right hand, staggered out. His body was wrapped in bandages, his left hand still bleeding, blood froth at his mouth. He drew in a deep, near-greedy breath of the night air; starlight fell gently down, and he knew — this might be his last breath.

“Father, mother, your unfilial son…” Pain and exhaustion surged up again, his body weighed down as if by a thousand pounds — but in this moment, he wanted only to carry that weight, and press forward with all his strength.

“Charge—”

Hou Wu, Mao Yishan and the others closed their shields together; Luo Ye charged forward. “Jurchen curs! Your grandfather is here—”

The clash of blade against shield rose to a crescendo; a Jurchen guard swung a heavy mace, and the night rang out with a sound like an iron-skinned drum. Sparks flew through the night sky, blades flashed and crossed, blood sprayed, arms flew through the air, bodies flew through the air — in a brief span, shadowy figures clashed and grappled violently.

Dozens of figures surged together into a single mass of fighting. Zhuo Yongqing lunged at a Jurchen soldier’s blade; the hardened parts of his armor blocked the strike. The two rolled on the ground together; Zhuo Yongqing’s blade sliced open the man’s belly, thick entrails spilling out. Zhuo Yongqing let out a wild laugh, tried to rise, fell back down, then finally truly stood, staggering forward two steps. Ahead, Luo Ye, Mao Yishan and the others were locked in combat with that Jurchen officer; he saw the man was tall and lean, and his great spear swept out, driving back Luo Ye and Mao Yishan both at once.

Hou Wu, fighting a Jurchen nearby, was swept across the leg by that spear and sent tumbling to the ground; his comrades rushed to his aid. Luo Ye charged the Jurchen officer again; the officer’s spear thrust out, piercing straight through Luo Ye’s shoulder. Luo Ye screamed, “Kill him!” and reached out to try to pin the spear shaft against his own body, but the man had already withdrawn the spear; of the two soldiers who rushed forward, one was sent flying, the other run clean through the throat.

The Jurchen officer let out a roar, deep and heroic, and charged forward spear in hand. Luo Ye, shoulder already pierced through, staggered forward gritting his teeth; Mao Yishan charged in with his shield and blocked one thrust. A Black Banner soldier charging in was struck square on the head by that great spear, brains bursting as he toppled aside. Zhuo Yongqing was about to swing his blade in when a comrade behind him shouted, “Watch out!” and shoved him aside. Zhuo Yongqing fell to the ground; turning to look, he saw the soldier who had just pushed him clear had been run through the belly by that spear, the spear tip bursting out through his back, given a brutal twist before being withdrawn.

Flesh and blood seemed to burst and scatter through the air.

In the mutual slaughter of the night, people kept falling one after another; that Jurchen officer, spear whirling, seemed like a war god of the night itself, smashing, striking down, and taking lives among those around him in the blink of an eye. Mao Yishan, Luo Ye, Qu Qing and the others pressed forward fearlessly; in this brief span, their desperate, death-defying assault even managed to land a blow on him once, but it was turned aside cleanly by the iron armor on his body with a resounding clang, figures and blood surging violently.

Zhuo Yongqing pressed forward through the bloody haze; amid the crossing blades and flashing light, that Jurchen officer struck down yet another Black Banner soldier. Zhuo Yongqing had only his right hand to swing his blade with; he brought his long blade to bear with everything he had, charging into the melee. The Jurchen officer’s gaze suddenly turned toward him — in that gaze, Zhuo Yongqing saw a calm yet surging killing intent, the immense oppressive weight built up from countless kills accumulated over long years on the battlefield. The great spear swept down like a dragon’s tail, thunderous — in that instant, Zhuo Yongqing swung his blade in haste.

Unable to reach the man’s blade, it was flung aside; his foot slipped on the blood-slicked ground, skidding to one side, and the sweeping iron spear passed just over his head. Zhuo Yongqing fell to the ground, his hands landing in the thick, sticky blood and flesh of corpses all around him. He struggled up, ashamed of that instant of cowardice — and that shame drove him forward again, charging ahead once more. He knew he was about to be killed by this man, but he was not afraid at all.

Yet the spear tip never came. He charged forward and tackled the tall, lean Jurchen officer to the ground; the man reached out one hand to grab his collar and struggle, but Zhuo Yongqing seized a brick and slammed it down onto the man’s head again and again — thud, thud, thud — blood surging violently from the officer’s throat.

That slip of the foot, that instant of fear that had made him fling his blade aside — it had cut open the man’s throat.

Mao Yishan and the others charged up with their shields, forming a small defensive line. All around, Jurchen war horns had begun sounding; soldiers surged forward like a tide. They fought with everything they had, and died fighting with everything they had; in a moment, blood had dyed everything crimson, and corpses piled up all around.

At the same time, the Huaxia Army launched its charge into the night…

That September, when Xuzhou fell, the court at Yangzhou remained entirely unaware. On September 7th, word suddenly reached the palace — Yinshuke’s five thousand elite cavalry had already arrived at Tianshui Barracks. Zhou Yong, in the middle of his pleasures within the palace, was stunned senseless.

Tianshui Barracks was less than a day’s journey from Yangzhou; if the messenger had made it this far, the enemy force itself was surely already on the road, and might arrive at any moment.

Zhou Yong pulled on his trousers and ran. Along the way he sent a eunuch to notify his son and daughter, Jun Wu and Zhou Pei, then made his way at top speed to the docks of Yangzhou, boarding the large boat already prepared for escape. Before long, Zhou Pei and some of the officials had also arrived — but the eunuchs had not yet managed to find Jun Wu, who was surveying the terrain and studying the city’s defenses north of Yangzhou.

An hour later, Zhou Yong, in a state of anxious impatience, gave the order to set sail.

Yangzhou in September carried that particular grey, hazy color that comes after autumn’s end. That evening, Yinshuke’s army arrived at the city. By then, the officials and wealthy households in the city were already fleeing one after another; the defending troops showed almost no will to resist at all. Only after the five thousand elite cavalry entered the city and searched it did they learn that the emperor had already fled.

That night, the entire city of Yangzhou burst into raging flames — retaliatory burning and killing began.

Elsewhere, the army under Yue Fei’s command, together with Jun Wu, fled in a panic. Behind them, refugees and a portion of Jurchen cavalry, having learned that a young prince had failed to board a boat, gave chase. By this time, the boats along the nearby Yangtze had essentially all been claimed by others; Yue Fei finally found a small boat and sent several personal guards to escort Jun Wu across the river, while he himself, leading soldiers who had trained less than half a year, fought the Jurchen cavalry along the riverbank.

The small boat made its way toward the center of the Yangtze; on the shore, commoners kept being driven by the slaughter to leap into the river. The fighting continued; corpses rose to float on the river’s surface, blood gradually spreading across the Yangtze. Jun Wu, watching all of this from the small boat, wept and knelt down toward that shore.

People kept dying without end. Yangzhou burned for three days in the flames; half the city was reduced to ashes. For the land of Jiangnan, this was only the beginning of the calamity. After Xuzhou’s massacre concluded, the Jurchen Eastern Route Army would press on southward, and over the following months would complete an unstoppable campaign of burning and plunder across the whole of Jiangnan — since they had, in the end, failed to capture Zhou Yong, Wanyan Zongfu, Zongbi and the others began a chain of city-burnings and massacres.

Throughout the entire second year of the Jianshuo era, the Central Plains and the Jiangnan region of the Wu Dynasty sank into a sea of fire and blood; wherever the war reached, corpses filled the cities and mournful cries filled the land. In this feast of slaughter that swept through almost the entirety of the Wu Dynasty’s former glory, only this one thing — the news that came from the northwest in this September — delivered the Jurchen army a bitter pill hard to swallow. It very nearly broke the momentum of the Jurchens’ triumphant advance in their campaign to “comb the mountains and search the seas,” and also planted the roots of the terrible, sky-reaching retribution that the Jin state would later visit upon the northwest.

Yet war, it seems, never shows the slightest mercy for people’s weakness or retreat. On this stage, whether strong or weak, all could only press forward by any means necessary; it would not grant a single second’s respite for pleading, nor the faintest warmth for claims of innocence. Warmth comes only from the order that people build for themselves.

That order had already shattered. From this point on, there would remain only the stark trial of iron and blood, the courage to face the blade directly, the struggle and cry from the deepest reaches of the soul — these alone could let people barely stand unbowed amid this sea of rain and sky of wind, until one side was utterly spent, until the mountains grew old and the rivers ran dry — undying, unending.

On the sixth day of September in the second year of the Jianshuo era, Ning Yi received the news that had come through. In that instant, he knew: this place truly was about to become a pit of a million corpses.

“Well done indeed…” he said, and even smiled, a sound close to a groan escaping his throat.