Autumn came, and the leaves slowly began to turn yellow.

In the ninth year of Tianhui, under the diligent rule of Wanyan Wuqimai, the second emperor of the Jin state, Jin’s national strength continued to rise, and as the mightiest power in the realm, it stood supreme over the world.

Xijing Datong. At this time, it served as the Jin state’s military center in the southwest, and the headquarters of Wanyan Zonghan’s marshal’s office stood here.

Even so, though Wanyan Zonghan held an exalted and formidable position within the Jin state, after the death of the former Second Prince, Wanyan Zongwang, few among Aguda’s direct sons remained who could truly stand against him on equal terms, and rumors of a court divided north and south often circulated among outsiders. Yet in reality, no great friction had ever emerged between the Jurchen court and the marshal’s office — the reason being that the court still held many founding ministers of the Jin state, figures whose presence alone was enough to steady the balance of power.

Above all, there was the emperor who, under Aguda, had once shown dazzling brilliance on the battlefield, yet who, upon ascending the throne, had reined in his fierce temperament, remaining gentle toward his own people while projecting strength outward — Wanyan Wuqimai, still, even now, the brightest of all the stars in that firmament. This was an emperor who, on the battlefield, could stand against a hundred men and wrestle tigers and bears with his bare hands, and yet who, among his own people, was in truth mild-mannered; early in his reign, having once been caught drinking fine wine in secret, he had been dragged down and given twenty strokes of the rod by a group of forceful ministers, and he had never once resisted.

Since ascending the throne, though the Jurchen armies had continued their campaigns southward without pause, the governance within Jin’s own territory had, in truth, remained steady and measured. Wuqimai, on one hand, encouraged agriculture, while on the other, reformed the state’s institutions, making numerous efforts to move away from slavery and to perfect the economic system. During the third campaign against Wu, he had already begun implementing a system allowing slaves to buy back their freedom, offering a degree of protection to their lives, and had begun instituting policies to curb the concentration of landholding. Though the fighting abroad had been fierce and unrelenting, within Jin’s own borders during this time, things had remained genuinely peaceful and stable — as a ruler devoted to consolidation, Wuqimai had proven himself worthy of the throne he held.

With him firmly at the helm, the Jurchens’ advance proceeded steadily; even a man as proud and unyielding as Zonghan held him in sufficient respect and awe.

And yet, even as the nation had settled into stability over these years, one shining Jurchen hero after another had, in the course of continued campaigning, fallen one by one.

The once-legendary war god of the Jurchens, the Second Prince Zongwang, had died of illness during the third Jurchen campaign against Wu.

The god of war, Wanyan Loushi, had fallen four years earlier in the great battle for control of the northwest.

In the eighth year of Tianhui, the Heir Apparent under the Jurchen boji lie system — and also the birth brother of both Aguda and Wuqimai — Wanyan Xiye, had also died of illness. Though Xiye lacked the fame of Zonghan or the near-unbroken record of victories that Loushi had achieved, his steady temperament had made him, too, a general held in high regard by all, a man of exalted standing. In the Jin state’s first two campaigns against Wu, though Zonghan and Zongwang had each commanded their own armies, it was in fact Xiye who had held the position of overall commander in the field. Had he not died, he would surely have become the next emperor of Jin.

That same year, the general Cibushi had been captured through a ruse during the great battle at Yanzhou in the northwest and beheaded.

Generals fall after a hundred battles, and warriors return home after ten years of struggle — one shining star after another had fallen, and yet none of it slowed the Jurchens’ forward march. On the northern front, along the Mongolian steppe, Shuliesu, leading several thousand cavalry, had suffered a minor setback in his campaign against the rising Mongol tribes, just as an army returning from the southern campaign arrived home in triumph.

They entered through the southern gate, presenting their spoils of war to their commander. This time, however, the army had returned with little in the way of plunder — the scale of this campaign was, after all, nothing compared to the war against Wu. Still, this four-year campaign, which had tied down the Jurchens’ advance and, in the course of the fighting, claimed the lives of two of Jin’s finest generals, had certainly drawn the attention of many an interested observer.

That regicide from the southern lands, that demon who had entrenched himself in the northwest, along with his formidable Black Banner Army — at last, they too had been crushed beneath the Jurchens’ iron campaign.

A tattered, blood-stained battle banner was presented as a war trophy before Zonghan’s seat, and the generals of the marshal’s office announced that the bandit Ning had been beheaded on the field, the Black Banner Army wiped out entirely. Cheers rang out through the surrounding streets and squares. Among the Jurchens who knew the inner details of that campaign, feelings toward that army were rather complicated — on one hand, with two of Jin’s great generals, Loushi and Cibushi, having died in the northwest, some were willing to acknowledge the man’s formidable strength; on the other hand, some Jurchens felt that such a record of battle showed that something had gone wrong within the Jin state, that it was no longer the unstoppable force it had once been. Either way, once the Black Banner Army had been destroyed, both views were, for the moment, set aside.

Chen Wenjun watched the returning army’s procession for a while amid the crowd, the city alive with festivity. Back at the estate, Xiyin sat in his study practicing calligraphy; seeing her come in, he set down his brush and smiled. “Went to watch the army return? It was rather dull, really.”

Chen Wenjun shook her head, her gaze drifting to the most prominent spot in the study. Xiyin’s study was filled mostly with famous paintings and calligraphy brought back from the south, but hanging now in the very center was a piece of calligraphy not yet counted among the works of famous masters.

A minister bends the knee before his lord, one son alone grieves in sorrow. He is gone now, west to Sichuan’s affairs, a hero indeed, king of the northern land. He gave his life to repay the fallen ancestor, scratching his head, weeping toward the heavens. Awe-inspiring, as if the man still lived — who dares say the Han have truly fallen!

This piece, written by Ning Yi, had hung in Xiyin’s study ever since he had returned to the north — at first tucked away in a corner, but as the war in the northwest unfolded, it had been moved closer and closer to the center; after Cibushi’s death in battle, Xiyin had once taken it down entirely, but in the end had hung it back up, closer to the middle than ever. And now, today, it had finally been moved to the very center of the room.

“Awe-inspiring, as if the man still lived…” Chen Wenjun looked up at the calligraphy and read the line softly aloud. She had come to look at it before, on other days, but looking at it again now, the complexity in her heart was something she could no longer put into words for anyone else.

Xiyin came closer. “Indeed — awe-inspiring, as if the man still lived… Ning Liheng — before the Wu Dynasty’s regicide, he was already a close friend of Qin Siyuan’s. Thinking back on it all now, Qin Siyuan’s scholarly lineage ran deep — his eldest son died at Taiyuan, and Qin Siyuan himself, after being exiled, died at the hands of treacherous men; his second son, together with Ning Liheng, rose up in rebellion. These three years in the northwest were more than worthy of that line. I underestimated him, I confess — what a pity, that I never had the chance to meet him while he still lived.”

Xiyin spoke with a touch of wistfulness, and Chen Wenjun understood the deeper meaning behind his words better than most. Those three years in the northwest, with the Jurchens holding back while the false-Qi army led the charge, had been Xiyin’s own idea — the reasoning being that, since the Black Banner Army’s firearms were so formidable and the Jurchens had yet to find a good way to counter them, they would use the false-Qi army as the vanguard to test the cannons first, while the Jin state itself continued perfecting its own artillery in step with the fighting.

Who could have known the war would drag on so endlessly. Last year, Cibushi had been beheaded atop the walls of Yanzhou, and Xiyin had felt deeply guilty over it ever since. After that, the Jurchen army had intensified its offensive; though by now they, too, had mastered artillery technology and had developed powerful crossbows specifically designed to shoot down the hot-air balloons, when it came to Cibushi’s death and the vast manpower and resources the Jin state had poured into these three years of war, Xiyin still felt he bore some share of the responsibility.

Chen Wenjun fell silent for a moment, then turned her head slightly. “I’ve heard people say that Ning Yi was full of endless tricks — that this time, he may have faked his own death to escape. Has my lord seen his head himself?”

Her face betrayed no particular emotion. Xiyin looked at her for a moment, then gave a complicated smile. “There are indeed people who think this way. In truth, a head is not exactly reliable evidence — things taken from the battlefield can easily be misidentified when presented for confirmation. Fan Hongji, who had dealings with him, did confirm it was indeed Ning Yi’s head, but mistakes do happen.”

He shook his head, gazing at the calligraphy before him, and let out a sigh. “The withdrawal of troops from court is not so simple a matter as it might seem. In truth, the Black Banner Army has not been wiped out entirely…”

Xiyin paused there, and seeing a flicker of light pass through Chen Wenjun’s eyes — he had always known of her sympathy for the south, her softness toward the Black Banner Army, and Chen Wenjun had never bothered to hide it either — he looked at her and smiled as well. “The war in the northwest was fought in utter chaos. Liu Yu is useless and deserves death. Many things are only now becoming clear. Part of the Black Banner Army did escape from the northwest — they may even have pulled off something even more remarkable, which we’re still investigating. The remnants of the Black Banner Army have now turned toward the southwest. Ning Yi slipping away like a cicada shedding its shell was very likely arranged in advance as well — and yet, things never go entirely according to plan.”

“What?” Chen Wenjun turned to look at him.

“The battlefield changes in an instant. He led his army in and out of that death trap more than once — it’s entirely possible… that a faked death became a real one. Just like with Loushi. A sudden accident, something no one could have foreseen.” Complicated feelings crossed Wanyan Xiyin’s face as he spoke of the matter, a note of regret in his sigh. “Within the Black Banner Army itself, they can no longer find him now… If this hadn’t been confirmed, why would I ever have allowed the withdrawal of troops, even with the fighting still ongoing on the northern front? With him gone, the Black Banner Army, even with a hundred thousand men still under arms, is nothing more than a memory now. Let them go, then, let them go…”

Chen Wenjun was stunned for a moment, but after that brief pause, she let out a faint, bitter smile.

“So… this more remarkable thing my lord mentioned — what is it?”

“That, too, was my own miscalculation, in a way. If Ning Liheng were still alive, it would be rather troublesome. But… if he’s truly dead, then let it be Liu Yu and the others down south who have to deal with the headache — this is news that’s only just come to light recently…”

Xiyin glanced once more at the calligraphy hanging on the wall, and continued chatting idly with his wife…

…

To the south, news of the Black Banner Army’s destruction and the beheading of the regicidal rebel Ning Liheng was gradually spreading across the whole realm.

In the Central Plains, though the fighting had come to a halt, the bitter fruit borne of that great war remained difficult to swallow.

Some pieces of news, emerging only gradually in the aftermath of the war’s chaos, grew into an even greater confusion once they reached certain ears.

Within the imperial palace at Daming Prefecture, in the autumn following the war’s end, Liu Yu had grown increasingly paranoid, living in constant terror. Over the past several days, he had already had more than ten palace guards executed.

Rumors, spreading up from the lowest ranks, now passed from mouth to mouth among the people, growing ever larger.

It was said that, over the course of the three-year war in the northwest, the Black Banner Army had forced a great many prisoners to surrender — and that this was no ordinary act of persuasion. According to the rumor, even before the northwest war had begun — after the Black Banner Army had killed Loushi — that demon Ning Yi had already begun laying his plans, sending large numbers of Black Banner soldiers to scatter themselves throughout the Central Plains, into every gathering place and crowded town.

When the war in the northwest broke out and the Jurchens forced the great Qi state to send troops, Liu Yu’s forced conscription had spread into these very places. By this point, the Central Plains had already endured three great wars, and the old order had long since collapsed; officials could no longer tell from household registers who was a law-abiding subject and who was a local resident at all. In this desperate, indiscriminate conscription, nearly every single Black Banner soldier had, by now, managed to infiltrate the great Qi’s own armies.

They had, after all, already been soldiers themselves, and naturally excelled once within the ranks, rising quickly through promotion. These men then drew in those around them, selecting the physically strong and those already sympathetic to the Black Banner cause, surrendering to the Black Banner Army on the battlefield, passing along intelligence during every engagement. In that great war, countless men simply vanished, without a trace, on the battlefield, becoming, in silence, fuel for the Black Banner Army’s growth.

And that was not even the most terrifying part.

The most terrifying part was that, even now, no one knew just how many might still be hidden within the great Qi’s own army — some already risen to high command, some still working to recruit new members for the Black Banner Army, and some, perhaps, even promoted, against all odds, into Liu Yu’s own personal palace guard.

These days, every soldier Liu Yu laid eyes on seemed, to him, like a hidden Black Banner agent.

Day after day, his mind grew ever more frayed.

The night wind blew, stirring the leaves; beneath the eaves, water seemed to be dripping.

Drip, drip, drip… a faint, fragmented sound.

Liu Yu jolted awake from his sleep, his back drenched in cold sweat. He thought he saw a shadow by the bed — and then, there really was a shadow by the bed.

The dark figure leaned in close, one hand clamping over his mouth like an iron vise, those eyes staring straight into his own, face to face.

“Emperor…”

The voice spoke. The figure drew out a dagger, brought it up to his throat, held it there a moment, then began to move the tip slowly toward his eye instead.

“…Time to kill another emperor…”

Liu Yu thrashed, but the hand only tightened further, the bones of his cheeks creaking under the pressure; beneath the blankets, a warm, wet feeling spread — he had already soiled himself in terror, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

The hand clamped over his mouth suddenly released, and then a heavy blow struck him down, and Liu Yu passed out.

The next morning, when he woke, the red mark still lingered on his face, and enormous chaos had already broken out within the palace.

Rumors of demons and of the Black Banner began circulating among the common people…

…

The effects rippled onward. In Jiangnan, news of Ning Yi’s death and the destruction of the Black Banner Army had already passed through the mouths of the people once over. Aside from a handful of scholars who held mourning rites for the late Zhou Zhe, sighing over how order had at last been restored, this time, the voices of public discussion remained, for the most part, unusually quiet.

South of Jiangning city, a great stretch of estates had been built amid what had once been scenic, verdant hills, with the troops of the Wulie camp stationed nearby as well. This was the private estate where Crown Prince Jun Wu now conducted his research into natural principles; the great elm-wood cannons and iron cannons now being distributed to armies across the land were manufactured here, and the Crown Prince himself often took up residence here in person.

Late autumn. A man with a severed hand knocked at the wooden gate of one such estate. He was tall and sturdily built, standing with a soldier’s steady bearing, his face marked with several old scars from blades — clearly a veteran who had seen a great deal of battle. After giving a certain password, the man who came out to receive him was Lu Agui, the current chief steward of the Crown Prince’s household. This old soldier had brought back news concerning Xiaocang River, concerning the three-year war in the northwest — he was an informant Lu Agui himself had personally planted within the army at Xiaocang River, years before.

This man’s name was Lin Guanglie. Over several years at Xiaocang River, he had joined the Black Banner Army and fought valiantly, rising at one point to serve close by that rebel leader, Ning Liheng himself. He had been captured during the last chaotic engagements of the northwest war and subjected to inhuman torture; while in captivity, he and several other Black Banner soldiers had broken free, and he had, with his own hand, severed his own arm in the escape, surviving against overwhelming odds before finally making his way south to report what he knew.

Naturally, he was received as something of a hero. After hearing the more critical parts of his report, Lu Agui had him settled comfortably, while sending word to the Crown Prince, who was still in the capital at the time.

Lin Guanglie was given lodging in the finest residence available and treated with the greatest care. One day, he went out into Jiangning to walk the streets, slipping away from the two guards assigned to protect him. Once outside the city, he took a small path, and after walking some distance, saw Lu Agui waiting ahead with a squad of soldiers.

Lu Agui’s eyes were full of doubt — the man before him was someone he had personally, carefully selected, a man of formidable skill and unwavering loyalty, whose mother still lived in the south, and whom he himself had once saved from death. On the mountain path that day, Lin Guanglie knelt down, bowed his head in apology, and then told him of what had truly happened to him in those final days in the northwest.

Through the three years of great war in the northwest, the enemy had come in endless waves; though Ning Yi had made countless preparations in advance, the fighting had still been brutal beyond measure to endure. In the final year, as the Jurchens’ offensive intensified, everyone scattered in every direction. Ning Yi himself, leading his personal forces, had joined the fighting directly, and Lin Guanglie, by then, was already part of that very unit.

On the battlefield, blades show no mercy, and though he had the protection of those around him, Ning Yi himself had been wounded several times. In that hopeless, desperate environment, he had fought and charged alongside everyone else, and had once said that he, too, might one day meet the same end as Wanyan Loushi. During that time, Ning Yi liked to talk with the men, sharing many of his thoughts openly, without holding back — talking about his views on the war, on the state of the world. Most of the men couldn’t fully grasp what he meant, but over time, they came to understand the depth of sincerity behind his words.

“…The battle in which I was captured — it was one of the last engagements. The day before it began, I remember, it was very hot; we were all hiding in the mountains, and as evening approached, we sat by the mountainside to cool off. I remember the sun was red as blood. Mister Ning had gone to check on the wounded and came back, telling us who had died…” Lin Guanglie, by now, had risen to his feet. “He sat with us for a while, and then he said something — I’ll remember it for the rest of my life…”

“He said… I keep going on and on at you all the time, and some of you have said, right to my face, that it’s exhausting — I know that. He said, actually, I’m someone who’s afraid to die, I don’t want to die and I don’t want to suffer, none of it feels good… He said, today I won’t say why we have to die, why we have to suffer this pain, but being able to fight alongside all of you, to charge forward together — I count that as an honor, because you are people who carry something noble, something dignified within you, not some worthless rabble. You’ve given everything you have for the best of causes… so, if something ever does happen to me one day, I won’t feel like I came into this world for nothing…”

The man stood there, tears already welling in his eyes.

“After I was captured, it wasn’t long before they told me Mister Ning was dead, and that’s the only reason I wasn’t killed. That night, I broke my own hand, killed three men, and fought my way out with the others. I don’t know if Mister Ning is really dead or not. But when he said those words to us, I truly felt — I was a man, no lesser than anyone, not even lesser than an emperor…”

“Insolence!” Hearing him say this, Lu Agui’s eyes went cold, and he shouted the word aloud; the squad of soldiers beside him drew their blades at once, and in an instant, cold steel flashed along the mountain path. Lin Guanglie drew a breath and, with his one remaining hand, drew the saber at his waist.

“Steward Lu, I am grateful for the life you once saved, and I respect you as well. Having lost my hand, I only thought that, even if it meant dying, I wanted to give this life of mine back to you. I’ve brought you news of Xiaocang River. Xiaocang River acted with honor — there’s nothing there we can’t speak of openly! But now that I’ve delivered my report, Steward Lu, I intend to give this life of mine back to the Huaxia Army. If you mean to stop me, you may take my life here today. But there’s one thing I want everyone to understand clearly — three years of fighting on that battlefield, and even with only one hand left, I can still kill. You’d best be careful.”

He lowered his stance slightly, the blade held sideways before him, his eyes narrowing. At this distance, alone as he was, if he charged, he would likely be shot down on the spot — and yet, even so, the pressure he exuded in that moment had not diminished in the slightest. This was a tiger returned from the very depths of the northwest’s hell.

Lu Agui was silent for a moment. “If… Ning Liheng really is dead, what good does it do you to go back?”

“Mister Ning said those words to us…” Lin Guanglie said. “If he really is dead, the Huaxia Army will carry his memory forward. Steward Lu, you people cannot save this world.”

The autumn leaves had turned deep gold, falling in the wind toward the trees below. High above, wild geese flew south in formation. On the mountain path, in that standoff between the two sides, Lu Agui raised his head and let out a silent sigh.

This place, too, had once been that scholar’s hometown.

Now the wild geese had returned, but so many others never would. Some, because their bodies were gone; others, because their hearts were gone…

…

Southwest, in Dali — a land where Buddhism flourished, a peaceful and tranquil kingdom.

The daughter of Marquis Duan Baosheng, Duan Xiaoqing, was thirteen this year. Though not yet of the age for her hairpin ceremony, she had, since childhood, been well-read in poetry and classics, skilled in needlework and music, and had already become a well-known talented young woman throughout the city of Dali. These past two years, suitors seeking her hand had practically worn a path to the marquis’s gate, bringing great honor to his household.

Having such an accomplished daughter was, naturally, a great source of pride for Duan Baosheng, though he knew perfectly well that the reason his daughter had drawn so much attention was not only her natural beauty from childhood, but also the tutor he had found for her some years before — a female scholar named Wang Jingmei, who was not only deeply learned and skilled in needlework and music, but who, most importantly, was also well-versed in Buddhist teachings. She had been introduced through the recommendation of Master Jingxin of Tianlong Temple and had finally come to teach within the marquis’s household. Duan Baosheng had always felt a deep sense of gratitude for this.

As for this female scholar — a woman of striking appearance, refined bearing, and impressive learning — Duan Baosheng had long harbored feelings of admiration for her. He had once considered taking her in as a concubine within his household and had even sent someone to formally propose, but she had politely declined, and there the matter had ended. Buddhism flourished in Dali, and though Duan Baosheng was fond of her, he was not the sort of man to force a marriage upon someone unwilling. To show his continued goodwill, he had always kept a careful distance; over the years, apart from the occasional chance encounter while she was tutoring his daughter, he and this Miss Wang rarely crossed paths at all.

These past years, the outside world had been thrown into upheaval — the Wu Dynasty had fallen suddenly from its once-lofty position as the Central Kingdom, the Central Plains and the northwest locked in endless slaughter, and even Dali had gradually begun to feel the tension. On this particular day, Duan Baosheng was seeing off a guest from one of the reception courtyards when, along the way, he crossed paths with Wang Jingmei, who was walking with his daughter through the garden.

His eyes lingered on the beautiful woman, his pace slowing as he continued speaking. The scholar Wang did not look his way at first, but at some point she turned her head toward him, and it was only then that Duan Baosheng saw that her face had gone utterly pale.

Something was wrong…

Duan Baosheng did not understand what.

On this day, the woman once known as Li Shishi, now living under the assumed name Wang Jingmei, heard of Ning Yi’s death, out here in this corner of the southwest.

Not long before this, that small mountain valley where she had once lived — its army had stood directly against the savage Jurchens, holding them at bay, fighting a war that had lasted a full three years…

She had once believed that this fight might go on without end, and yet, even so, this grief now surging through her, overwhelming and unstoppable, was something she had never imagined she would feel.

So many memories came flooding back all at once — that figure, simple fragments from childhood, that reunion in Jiangning, how she had always misunderstood him. That man had killed tens of thousands at Liangshan, had chased profit and manipulated human nature amid the disaster relief efforts; when the Jurchens came, he had resisted them outside the city walls; when the Right Chancellor’s household had fallen, he had rushed about tirelessly; he had killed the emperor, had taken her captive into the mountains of the northwest, made her organize his documents there.

At some point, she found herself remembering him, remembering that she had once liked him — and yet, after he had killed the emperor, she could no longer bring herself to like him. In their arguments, he had never once yielded to her, not deliberately. And then, she had gone south, while he had stood guard in the north…

A man so hard, so stubborn, so unyielding — she had very nearly… forgotten him entirely…

That day, Duan Xiaoqing saw her wise, beautiful tutor lose her composure for reasons she could not understand. Wang Jingmei hid away in the small side room off her own chambers and wept for a very, very long time.

The next day, she asked Duan Baosheng for leave to depart.

…

The wild geese, returning south, flew on across the skies of the Wu Dynasty.

In the Central Plains, Liu Yu’s regime began preparing to move its capital to Bianliang.

Yue Fei led his army onward toward the northern front, and after routing two enemy forces and reclaiming one prefecture, he was once again reprimanded by the capital. With the Black Banner Army gone, the Jurchens no longer faced any real obstacle to a southern advance — there could be no more provoking the border.

Crown Prince Jun Wu returned to Jiangning, and after hearing Lu Agui recount Lin Guanglie’s story in full, let out a soft sigh. Outside, the workshops continued turning out iron cannons and gunpowder; work on improving all manner of firearms pressed forward without pause.

To the south, Li Shishi cut her hair and left Dali, beginning her journey north.

Lin Guanglie walked the road westward, retracing, in reverse, the same journey he had once made heading south, passing once more through those towering, treacherous mountain passes.

In the Western Xia, following the defeat at Xiaocang River and the fall of the Huaxia Army, Li Qianshun had begun rebuilding the trade routes, preparing to make a great push forward once spring arrived. And then, spring came…

Black-armored cavalry swept in like a whirlwind, and amid this ferocious, storm-like offensive, they crushed the vast plains of Heishui in Western Xia, and before long, pressed into the line of the Helan Mountains. Beacon fires burned across the land — the beginning of something no one had yet foreseen.

— Mongolia. Genghis Khan, Temujin, had stepped onto the great stage of history.

To the south of Tibet, in a small, unremarkable settlement known as Dayang, a place that had, by now, begun to take on the look of a Han Chinese enclave, a force that had once shaken the world was gathering here, waiting. Waiting for the right moment, waiting for the return of someone in particular…

The mountains gathered like a crowd, the waves roared like fury. The time for the great contest had come.