As the snow melted and the ice thawed, the great river surged forward once more. Across the Jiangnan region, the willow catkins had already fallen away entirely, countless bones scattered across the wild fields and roadsides along both banks of the Yangtze slowly decaying into the spring mud. Since the Jurchens’ arrival, the fires of war had never once rested—but by the time late spring gave way to early summer that year, the Jurchen army, having failed to capture Zhou Yong and the others as originally intended, was finally forced to withdraw its forces.

The Jurchens’ southern eastern army numbered roughly a hundred thousand in total, but the force that had crossed the Yangtze and rampaged through the region for months on end, led by Jin Wushu, was split into three columns totaling just over eighteen thousand men. Originally, Wushu had held the Wu Dynasty in open contempt, declaring: “Five thousand fierce troops would be more than enough to destroy them.” But because the Wu imperial family had fled with such decisive speed, the Jurchens had nonetheless deployed three separate columns south of the Yangtze, striking cities and seizing territory as they went.

In early April, the three columns began converging back toward Zhenjiang in preparation for their return north.

Over the past half year, the Jurchens had swept through the land with unstoppable force, both north and south of the Yangtze; whatever armies had managed to gather in resistance had, for the most part, proven no match for the Jurchens in direct confrontation. Eventually, terror of the Jurchen forces grew so widespread that many simply knelt in surrender the moment the enemy approached—no small number of cities opened their gates without a fight, only to suffer plunder and slaughter regardless. Now, as the Jurchens prepared to withdraw north, several armies had quietly begun gathering from the surrounding region.

Crown Prince Junwu had already slipped quietly into the area near Zhenjiang. Catching distant glimpses of Jurchen presence along the wilderness roads, even he could not entirely hide the fear and unease in his eyes.

But as the saying goes, a man’s duty is simply “to hold on until the end, no matter what.” This was a joke Ning Yi had once made, years earlier, in that teasing tone of his. Now, Junwu too had no choice but to hold on and see it through.

The Yangtze was at the height of its flood season, and every ferry crossing along its banks had already been destroyed and burned by Wu Dynasty forces under Han Shizhong’s command. The wooden boats that could be gathered had been extensively sabotaged at the point where the canal met the Yangtze, blocking the northward route entirely. Over the past half year, a million people had died across Jiangnan under the Jurchens’ rampage—and the one place they had failed was their attempt to send large ships out to sea in pursuit of Zhou Yong.

The northerners were poor at naval warfare—for the people of Wu, this was, at present, the only real weakness to be found.

Han Shizhong’s forces had already assembled and stood ready aboard more than a dozen great warships prepared in advance. Along the Yangtze’s banks, the remnants of Yue Fei’s forces, now expanded through further recruitment, along with several other units that had been quietly backed by Junwu, had also finished their preparations in secret nearby. Before long, the Battle of Zhenjiang began.

The great ships on the river blocked the Jurchen light-boat fleet from crossing, and the ambush laid around Zhenjiang caught the Jin forces momentarily off guard. Realizing they had fallen into a trap, Jin Wushu did not panic, but neither was he willing to engage the ambushing Wu forces in direct, head-on combat. His army and fleet fought and retreated by turns, suffering over two hundred casualties along the way, before withdrawing into the marshy wetlands near Jiankang.

This place was known as Huangtiandang—the Yellow Heaven Marsh.

To cross the river, the Jurchens could not afford to abandon their fleet, made up mostly of light boats, so they gathered together within this stretch of marshland. The great Wu warships, however, were unable to press in and attack there. Afterward, the southern forces sealed off the marsh’s exit, while on the northern stretch of river, the Wu fleet held the Yangtze firmly. The two sides clashed several times, but Wushu’s smaller vessels ultimately could not break through the blockade formed by the larger ships.

North of the Yangtze, in order to support Wushu’s return, Wanyan Chang ordered the eastern army, still stationed north of the river, to retake Yangzhou; failing that, they were to shift their attack toward Zhenzhou instead. After capturing the city, they attempted to cross the river, but were ultimately blocked once more by the assembled Wu naval forces on the water.

Wushu’s army remained trapped at Huangtiandang for more than forty days, provisions nearly exhausted. During this time, he made several attempts to persuade Han Shizhong to surrender, all of which were refused. It wasn’t until late May that the Jurchens finally received guidance from two Wu Dynasty defectors, who showed them how to dig through an old channel near Jiankang and, on a windless day, row their boats out to launch an attack. At the time, the great ships on the river depended on sail power to move, while the smaller boats could be rowed directly with oars; in the ensuing battle, fire arrows launched from the small boats set the larger ships ablaze one after another. The Wu forces suffered a crushing defeat, with countless men burned or drowned, and Han Shizhong managed to escape back to Zhenjiang with only a small remaining contingent.

Reed marshes stretched on and on, the river flowing endlessly. As bodies and wreckage drifted past on the water’s surface, Junwu sat by the riverbank at Zhenjiang, lost in a long, blank daze. Over the past forty-odd days, there had been a fleeting moment when he had almost believed he might be able to offer his late grandfather Kang Xian’s spirit some measure of comfort through a real victory—but in the end, it had all come to nothing after all.

Yet before long, morale and spirit began to rise once more in the south. The Jurchens’ bold declaration of “combing the mountains and searching the seas” had, in the end, failed to come to fruition through this half-year’s delay; and though the land the Jurchens had passed through had run rivers of blood, they had, in the end, failed to substantially occupy this territory. Before long, Zhou Yong would be able to return and take command once more—and after all these years of tragedy and humiliation, hadn’t the people, at long last, managed to hand the Jurchens one moment of genuine embarrassment, trapping them for over forty days?

The people of Wu, their spirits somewhat restored, began circulating proclamations throughout the realm, loudly promoting this so-called “Great Victory at Huangtiandang.” In Junwu’s heart, the grief remained hard to shake, but in truth, the crushing pressure that had loomed over Jiangnan, threatening the Wu Dynasty’s total destruction ever since the previous year, had finally, at this moment, found a moment’s respite. As for the future, it could only begin, from this point forward, starting anew.

Even as the south began energetically promoting the “Great Victory at Huangtiandang,” north of the Yangtze, vast columns of captured slaves and plundered gold and silver were still streaming steadily back into Jin territory. The turmoil in Jiangnan gradually subsided as the Jurchens withdrew, but across the Central Plains, the Jurchens’ grip was steadily tightening, closing in with dense, unrelenting pressure over the entire region.

Resistance still persisted, but the organized righteous armies had already begun to see their room to survive steadily squeezed by the growing number of surrendered forces now working against them. Small-scale resistance continued to flare up here and there, but as nearly a year of continuous suppression and slaughter wore on, the endless bloodshed and mounting death toll had gradually begun teaching people the harsh reality that circumstance now outweighed personal will.

That summer, Liu Yu, the prefect who had willingly betrayed Jinan, ascended the throne at Daming Prefecture, becoming, under the “legitimate” sanction granted by Zhou Ji, the emperor of the “Great Qi,” tasked with guarding the southern frontier on Jin’s behalf. All factions south of Yanmen Pass were now placed under his authority. Throughout the Central Plains, numerous powers—including Tian Hu—submitted formal declarations of allegiance to him.

As for the northwest—the region that had killed Loushi and defeated the Jurchen western army—beyond a few token statements from the Jurchen court, such as having Zhou Ji draft an edict of condemnation, little else was said on the matter. But across the Central Plains, day by day, the Jurchens’ grip over the region tightened, closing in relentlessly…

In the Central Plains, the Great Qi regime, backed by Jurchen support, launched continuous offensives to stamp out resistance within its territory. At the same time, operating under the ruthless principle of “better to kill a thousand wrongly than let one escape,” they hunted down every surviving member of the Wu imperial clan they could find. Mass conscription began in earnest, with a single decree from Liu Yu declaring every adult male within “Great Qi” territory liable for military service, while taxes several times higher than before were imposed at the same time. In pursuit of funds, the army, acting under Liu Yu’s direction, began systematically excavating the tombs of the Wu imperial clan on a massive scale—from Henan to Bianliang, the burial grounds and ancestral tombs of the Wu emperors and their forebears were all thoroughly plundered and emptied out…

In Jiangnan, the Wu Dynasty regime found itself granted a moment’s respite, and amid the north’s ongoing tyranny, threw everything it had into desperately stabilizing its own foothold.

Meanwhile, in the northwest, the peaceful interlude continued to hold. Spring gave way to summer, and summer, in turn, gradually gave way once more. In the Xiaocang River valley, one afternoon, Qu Qing stood before a classroom of young people, writing out the somewhat clumsy characters for “war” on the blackboard: “…To discuss war, we must first discuss what exactly this thing called ‘man’ really is!”

“Since ancient times, why has man been man, and how does he differ from the beasts? The difference lies in this: man is clever, man possesses wisdom. Man can till the soil, man can herd sheep, man can weave cloth—man can make the things he needs. But beasts cannot. A sheep, seeing grass, simply eats it; a tiger, seeing a sheep, simply hunts it down. And when there’s nothing left? There’s nothing to be done. That is the difference between man and beast—man can… create.”

“So what, then, is war? Two men, each holding a blade, staking their very lives, staking away decades of their future, all riding on a single stroke of that blade—kill or be killed. And the man who dies has, say, a steamed bun on him, or a sack of rice; the one who survives takes it. All for the sake of that one sack of rice, that one bun—killing a man. Plunder! In all of this, is there any creation at all?”

“Over these past two or three years, we’ve won several battles. Some people—young people—have grown quite proud of it, thinking that winning battles is the most impressive thing there is. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. But some of them have started measuring everything by war alone—speaking of the Jurchens as heroes, as men who deserve mutual respect, imagining themselves as heroes too, simply for having fought and won. Recently, Mr. Ning specifically brought this issue up—and let me tell you, you are gravely, deeply mistaken!”

“The Jurchens have slaughtered their way across this entire realm. In the Central Plains, in Jiangnan, they plunder everything they can lay their hands on, they kill people, they take people as slaves—in all of this, have they created anything at all? Have they farmed the land? Woven cloth? No. Others did those things, and they simply came and seized it by force. They’ve grown accustomed to the sharpness of blade and spear; they want to be able to plunder everything they see. And the day they’ve plundered the entire world, killed their way across the entire realm—what, in the end, will be left of this world at all?”

“The moment all they remember is the blade in their hand, they cease to be human at all. Fighting to the death to protect what we’ve created with our own hands—that is true heroism. But to create things, only to lack the strength to protect them—that’s like a man in the wilderness who runs into a tiger, unable to fight it off, telling heaven he’s a kind and virtuous man—that does him no good at all; such a death is entirely deserved. And as for those who know only how to kill others, to steal another’s steamed bun—those are beasts! Do you truly want to be counted among such beasts!?”

The sound of his voice occasionally carried a passionate, stirring edge out from the room. Qu Qing had originally come from a military background, later serving essentially as a staff officer and political instructor. In the battle at Xuanjia Hollow, he had lost three fingers on his left hand and taken a blade to the leg, leaving him with a slight limp when running; upon his return, he had been temporarily assigned to lead troops in instruction rather than participate in the more demanding physical training. Over this recent stretch of time, an ongoing program of ideological education—centered on the differences between Xiaocang River and the Jurchens—had been steadily underway, primarily directed at the younger soldiers and new recruits within the ranks.

Ning Yi’s own words carried, of course, the most stirring, rousing force of all, but after taking part in this work for some time now, Qu Qing too had grown quite proficient at it.

When the lesson ended, dusk had already settled in. He stepped out of the room; across the valley, some training exercises had just wrapped up, soldiers filling the hillsides and fields, the black banner with its star insignia fluttering not far off, cooking smoke already rising into the sky. As Qu Qing exchanged salutes and farewells with the soldiers, Mao Yishan and Zhuo Yongqing came walking over from not far off, waiting for him to finish his goodbyes with the others.

“You two done training? Go get something to eat,” Qu Qing said to them.

“Hou Wu sent us to come get you. His wife’s cooked up something good today—we’re eating over at his place,” Mao Yishan said with a grin. “Mad Luo’ll be over in a bit too.”

“Ha, sounds good.”

“So… how’d the lesson go today?” Mao Yishan glanced toward the classroom; he found this sort of thing a bit intimidating himself—rough men like him never took well to ideological instruction.

“Good enough. It’ll come along, slowly.”

“Actually, I think what Mr. Ning says makes a lot of sense,” said Zhuo Yongqing, who—having killed Wanyan Loushi—was now something of a war hero and had already risen to the rank of squad leader, though he still often seemed somewhat shy and reserved most of the time. “Right after I killed him, I actually thought—maybe men like the Jurchens really were true heroes, in their own way. But thinking it over carefully, in the end, it’s just not the same thing at all.”

“When they first rose up, sure, calling them heroes wasn’t wrong either. But now… if they dare come here, we kill them, plain and simple!” Qu Qing’s gaze turned cold. These days, the situation in the northwest had settled into an eerily quiet calm; all around Xiaocang River, as far as the eye could see, defensive fortifications were being constructed without pause, craftsmen worked ceaselessly forging weapons, and soldiers in training moved constantly through the area surrounding Xiaocang River, stretching all the way through the mountains toward the Lüliang range—everything was in preparation for the clash yet to come.

On the eve of darkness, many of the people in this isolated, cut-off corner of the world still carried a spirit of unbowed resolve, holding onto bold and lofty dreams. Chatting like this, they made their way toward Hou Wu’s home. Though, in truth, everyone in the valley was already considered brothers, the shared experience of Xuanjia Hollow had made these five men especially close friends; they would gather from time to time to share a meal and deepen their bond, and Luo Ye had even taken Hou Wu’s son, Hou Yuanyong, on as his own student, teaching him both letters and martial arts.

The light of the setting sun bathed the valley in a warm orange glow; soldiers moved about the valley in twos and threes, or in organized groups, each with their own bustle and chatter. On the hillside, Ning Yi made his way toward that familiar courtyard; the evening wind blew strong, rippling the bedsheets hung out to dry in the yard, and Yun Zhu, dressed in white, gathered the sheets while laughing along with little Ning Ji, who ran back and forth around her, their laughter carrying a warmth in the light of the setting sun.

Ever since defeating Wanyan Loushi the previous year, both Hongti and Jin’er had become pregnant in succession, and now nearly everyone lived together here—except for Xigua, who remained off managing affairs somewhere in her stronghold. With matters in the valley now proceeding smoothly and routinely, Ning Yi no longer found himself quite so occupied as before; he could return home often, spending time with his family and children, chatting idly, exchanging light conversation. That summer, on starlit nights, they would sometimes spread out mats along the mountainside, cooling off together while chatting and laughing leisurely into the night.

Ning Yi would often find himself thinking back to that small balcony on the bamboo tower in Jiangning. Tan’er had never experienced days like those—back then, she had always been busy, endlessly occupied managing the household’s business affairs, handling the delicate relationships with the second and third households. Those rare nights when she and Ning Yi could sit chatting idly in the courtyard had been her only real moments of rest. Hearing him speak of such things now, she couldn’t help but feel a small pang of envy, while Yun Zhu continued playing her zither softly for everyone nearby—though Jin’er, now pregnant, could no longer dance along as she once had.

The moonlight lay clear and pure. Beneath it, Yun Zhu’s zither music had grown even gentler and warmer than in years past, a sound that eased the heart and loosened the spirit. He talked with them about the past, about the future—much of it had already been said, in one form or another, before. Ever since news of Jiangning’s fall had arrived, those among them who shared that common memory couldn’t help but feel a certain wistful sorrow settle over them—a witness to one particular chapter of memory had, after all, finally passed into history. The world had changed beyond recognition, and their own lives along with it; even though they still remained together, for now… perhaps a parting of ways was not so far off after all.

Since becoming pregnant, Hongti would sometimes grow anxious. Ning Yi often took walks outside with her, talking about the old days in the Lüliang Mountains, about Grandpa Liang, about Fu Duanyun, about this memory and that. They spoke of how they’d first met in Jiangning, of how Hongti had been gravely wounded during her assassination attempt on that general. Speaking of that particular night, Ning Yi recalled how he had forcibly kept Hongti there, telling her: “Whatever it is you want, I’ll go get it for you, tie a bow around it, and put it right in your hands…”

“Before coming here, I’d meant to take things slow, bit by bit. But now it seems the road to peace across the realm is still going to be a very long one—and… Lüliang, most likely, is about to suffer for it too.”

“We’re husband and wife. Once we have our child, I’ll be able to stand by your side through it…”

“There’s still a turning point ahead. What I told you before… this time, I won’t go back on my word.”

Just as he had every other time facing a difficult situation, Ning Yi still felt tension, still felt worry—he simply understood, better than most, how to approach things with the most rational mindset and choices, striving to carve out some possible path forward. But he was no omnipotent god, after all.

Sometimes he would find himself thinking back to that floating city that had once seemed to be built upon the very water itself, thinking of Tang Mingyuan, his memory of him now gradually fading, thinking of Qingyi, A’Kang, Ruoping. Now, before him, stood far clearer faces—his family.

Tan’er would put on a brave, steady face before him, and in private, grit her teeth, trembling faintly.

Yun Zhu would bury her passionate love beneath a calm exterior, holding him close, smiling even as tears fell silently—that quiet expression of her worry.

Xiao Chan would clench her fists again and again, cheering him on relentlessly, tears in her eyes all the while.

Jin’er would cry openly and unreservedly before him, without restraint, until he felt that not returning to her would be an unforgivable sin.

Hongti would stay by his side, ready to face life and death together with him.

As for Xigua, far away, that still somewhat childlike round face of hers would probably break into a bold, carefree grin, saying something like: what joy is there in living, what suffering is there in dying?

And the children—when they asked him what war was, he would explain to them the difference between protecting and destroying, and amid their half-understanding nods, he would promise them inevitable victory…

He thought of those who had died—thought of Qian Xiwen, of old Qin, of Kang Xian, thought of those awakened, once-naive warriors who had given their lives in Bianliang, in the northwest. There had been a time when he cared nothing for anyone in this era—but having steeped himself so long in the dust of this mortal world, he had, in the end, come to carry its weight.

Ah, this era, indeed…

…

In Jiangnan, the new court was gradually establishing order. Batch after batch of capable, far-sighted men worked tirelessly to stabilize the situation south of the river, seizing the breathing room afforded by the Jurchens’ occupation of the Central Plains to push through painful, hard-won reforms. Great numbers of refugees continued pouring in from the Central Plains. In the second month after autumn’s arrival, Zhou Pei, Junwu, and the others received news from the Central Plains—news that could not be openly proclaimed.

On the seventh day of the eighth month, in the third year of Wu Jianshuo, the Great Qi state mustered an army of over two hundred thousand men, under the command of the general Ji Wenkang, and, driven forward by the Jurchens, advanced upon the Lüliang Mountains.

This was something every faction had long anticipated, and its final arrival stirred complicated feelings among all who watched from the sidelines. Yet what followed would come to truly shock, stun, astonish, and shake to the core every soul in the realm—events that, for years to come, would stir passionate emotion in anyone who spoke of them, and inspire an unshakable, unbearable grief as well…

On the night of August 10th that same year, before the two-hundred-thousand-strong army had even drawn near the edges of the Lüliang Mountains and Xiaocang River, a sudden and ferocious slaughter descended without warning. The Huaxia Black Banner Army, racing out from Xiaocang River, launched a surprise assault upon those two hundred thousand men. That night, Ji Wenkang’s camp erupted into chaos, the more than two hundred thousand men scattering in wild, headlong flight, hunted down relentlessly by the pursuing Huaxia Army. Over ten thousand enemy dead were left behind, their severed heads piled into towering mounds across the open fields beyond the mountains. This ferocious clash, taken to its utmost extreme, marked the opening movement of what would become a brutal, three-year-long siege and struggle around Xiaocang River…