Everything was in chaos, voices shouting on all sides. The man who charged out from the side and threw a punch at He Wen was Wei Shihong, once a disciple of Lin Nian and Lin Jingmei’s senior martial brother. Back when He Wen had been exposed and seized, Wei Shihong had likely been warned off by the others and had never come to make trouble for him — but now he could no longer hold himself back.
As Wei Shihong cursed him without restraint, others rushed over to hold him back, while still others tried to press forward to join the beating. These were all veterans of the Huaxia Army, and even those who still kept their wits about them looked ready to boil over with killing intent. Then another figure came charging out from the side — Lin Jingmei. She spread her arms wide, blocking the crowd. He Wen climbed up from the ground, spitting out blood and the teeth that had been knocked loose. His martial skill was formidable, and he had been through real battle; in single combat he feared no one. But facing this crowd, he felt not a shred of will to fight. He looked at them, looked at Lin Jingmei, and turned away in silence.
He Wen formally left Jishan two days later. The evening before, he had a long farewell talk with Lin Jingmei, telling her, “Find someone you like and marry him. The men of the Huaxia Army are all fine fellows.” Lin Jingmei said nothing in reply. He Wen went on about how the difference in their ages was too great, and then went to see Ning Yi. Ning Yi only said, “I’ll see that she marries a good man. As for you, get lost — better if you die.” Ning Liheng seemed composed on the surface, but he had been fierce and unyielding all his life; the fact that he had twice, in private, asked He Wen to stay showed plainly enough the paternal concern he felt for Lin Jingmei.
He Wen never spoke of his ideals again. Alone, with only his sword, he rode an old horse eastward, leaving Jishan behind. What followed was a rugged, desolate mountain road; here and there, far off among the peaks, he glimpsed Yi villages. Once he had left the great mountains behind, he came again into Wu Dynasty villages and towns, with refugees fleeing south along the roads. The journey wound on, long and circuitous, from west to east. Many of the great cities of the Wu Dynasty showed signs of real prosperity, and yet he never again saw anything resembling the atmosphere of the towns held by the Huaxia Army. Heden and Jishan had become like a strange, distant dream, left behind in the mountains of the southwest.
One day, he returned home to Suzhou. His father, his wife and children welcomed him back, and the household prepared several tables of food, loud and cheerful, to celebrate his return. Amid the festivities he laughed and talked with his family, fulfilling his duty as the eldest son. Looking back on these past years, the Huaxia Army truly felt like another world. But halfway through the meal, reality finally caught up with him.
Government troops arrived and slowly surrounded the He residence. “It’s fine. I’ll explain everything clearly,” he said, comforting his father, his wife and children. Then he straightened his robes and cap and walked out through the front gate…
After He Wen left Jishan alone, the matter of him gradually faded away. Fewer and fewer people mentioned him. For Lin Jingmei’s sake, Ning Yi and the others arranged several matchmaking meetings, which she never accepted, but before long, at least emotionally, she had climbed out of her sorrow. Ning Yi remarked shamelessly, “Who doesn’t go through a few heartbreaks when they’re young? That’s how you grow up.” Privately, though, he had Xiao Qi keep an eye on her.
Life went on being life. That spring, everything in the Huaxia Army still seemed ordinary; young people, between their training and studies, talked about lofty, intangible “ideals,” but what truly held the Huaxia Army together were its strict military discipline and its record of past victories. In April, a great storm began brewing far to the north, in Datong…
… Boom— A dull peal of thunder rolled across the sky. The clouds hung low and black, heavy with the promise of rain.
At the eastern market entrance by Meihua Inn in Datong, the crowd was dense. Passersby stared at the great platform not far off, from which came the sound of weeping, while a yamen clerk read a proclamation aloud. A little further away, high-ranking Jin officials in fine felted robes looked down on the scene from above, occasionally murmuring to one another. Nearby, a group of shamans chanting scripture waited.
This was an execution ground.
On the wooden platform, besides the surrounding Jin soldiers, stood a large group of Han men and women, old and young, dressed in Han clothing. Most were thin and weak, their eyes empty; many simply stood there, dull and unresponsive, while others, frightened, wept quietly. According to the official notice, there were a hundred Han people here, all to be beheaded.
Because of this execution, most of the crowd whispered among themselves. One man’s crime bringing collective punishment on a hundred was something rarely seen in recent years, all because…
“…In less than a month, he tried to assassinate Marshal Nian Han twice. That man is truly…” “…He killed viciously — that day he fought his way from Changshun Street all the way to near the East Gate. That man’s a Han demon, running across rooftops, cutting through street after street…” “…No one could stop him. All told, dozens died… he showed no mercy. That vicious bandit was covered in blood — I saw him run right past my own door. My neighbor Da, who used to be a soldier, came out to block him, and his wife was standing right there… right in front of his wife, one strike of the club shattered his face…” “…They just couldn’t stop him. The whole city was in an uproar, searched for half a month, but two days ago… Changshun Street again, he charged out to kill the Marshal, and somehow survived…” “…He’s an evil ghost from the Han side, can’t be killed. They’ll have to call in some high lamas to collect his soul. Look over there…” “…These Han dogs really ought to be killed off entirely… all the way south…”
From these fragments of chatter, one could piece together the cause and effect of it all — indeed, by now there were few people in Datong who didn’t know the story. On the twenty-third of March, a lone assassin had made a failed attempt on Marshal Nian Han’s life, then fought his way out in desperation, cutting straight through the busy markets and residential streets, throwing half the city into an uproar, and in the end somehow managing to escape. After that, Datong had remained under tight guard, and the covert manhunt for Han people had already claimed a hundred or so wrongful lives. The Datong authorities still hadn’t decided how to handle the matter fully, and were waiting for the Jurchen constables to catch the assassin — but then, on the twentieth of April, the assassin suddenly reappeared and struck at Nian Han again.
Such unyielding persistence alone wasn’t what frightened people; it was that in both attempts, the assassin had come away covered in wounds, and yet both times, using the complex terrain of Datong to his advantage, he had escaped by the narrowest of margins — there seemed no explanation for it other than the protection of gods or spirits. The impact of the affair had turned rather bad. It took the Jurchen soldiers two days to round up a hundred Han slaves within the city, who were now to be put to death first.
This execution was punishment for the first assassination attempt. Before long, another two hundred would be killed for the second.
There was, of course, no resistance. In the ten years since the Jingping Humiliation, the Jurchen had rounded up Han slaves and marched them north in wave after wave, numbering perhaps a million in total by now. There had been resistance before, but those who resisted had, for the most part, all died already; the most inhuman treatment had already been meted out among the slaves, and those who managed to survive until now had mostly lost both the strength and the will to resist. The first batch of ten was pushed forward, made to kneel before the crowd, and the executioner raised his blade and struck off their heads.
The reek of blood spread through the air. A woman in the crowd covered her eyes, muttering, “Oh dear,” and turned to push her way out. Some watched silently; others chatted and clapped, cursing the Han for not knowing what was good for them. This was Jurchen territory, after all, and in recent years the treatment of slaves had already been eased — it was even forbidden now to kill a slave without cause. What more could these Han people possibly want?
A second batch of ten was pushed forward and beheaded. This continued until the eighth batch, when a middle-aged woman from the crowd below came forward weeping. She was of middling looks, and might have become a prostitute somewhere in Datong; her clothes were worn, yet some trace of former charm could still be seen in her. Though she was weeping, no ordinary sound of crying came from her — she was a mute, without a tongue.
Her son was up on the platform. Ten years of Jin campaigns southward, a million people marched north — countless tragedies among them. Once people arrived here, they lost their freedom entirely; even mothers and sons, more often than not, could never be together again. Only later, as Jurchen policy toward the slaves loosened somewhat, did a rare few manage to find their own kin amid this bare survival. As the tongueless woman wept and pressed forward, a Jin soldier thrust his spear out and drove it into her belly. Up on the platform, a young man with a blank expression and one ear missing cried out, “Mother!” — and the executioner’s blade fell.
Mandu Dalu, chief constable of the Datong prefectural office, stood on a wooden tower not far off, quietly watching for any stir in the crowd, his hawk-like eyes fixed on anyone who seemed moved to sorrow by the scene, judging whether they might be suspect.
Mandu Dalu’s father had been among the earliest elite soldiers to follow Aguda when he first rose up, and had once been the finest hunter in the forests and snowfields of the northeast. Mandu Dalu had followed his father into the army from childhood, and later became one of the most elite scouts among the Jin forces. Whether in the northern campaigns or the southern campaign against the Wu Dynasty, he had won great distinction, and had even taken part in the three-year siege of Xiaocang River, where he was wounded and killed enemies of his own. Later, Shi Li’ai and others, valuing his abilities, transferred him to Datong, the political center of the Jin state’s western territories. He was cold and resolute by nature, with sharp eyes and keen instincts, and had killed or captured many formidably difficult enemies.
This time he had originally been overseeing other matters outside the city, and only after returning did he take on the heavy responsibility of hunting down the assassin. The first execution of a hundred was meant merely to prove that their side had the resolve to kill; the Han wandering swordsman from the Central Plains who had twice struck at the Marshal in broad daylight in the street was clearly acting out of righteous fury with no regard for his own life — so when the second execution of two hundred came, he would probably be forced to show himself. Even if the man proved endlessly patient, it made no difference; word had already gone out that if there were a third attempt, any Han slave who so much as caught sight of the assassin would be killed. By then, the man would have little room left for luck.
The last ten were pushed onto the platform, made to kneel, heads lowered… Mandu Dalu narrowed his eyes. “Ten years now, and these Han dogs gave up resisting long ago. Whether they see this Han swordsman as a savior or a bringer of disaster — who can say.”
His deputy gave a disdainful snort. “Han dogs are cowardly to the bone. If one served under me, I wouldn’t use him at all. I don’t even keep Han slaves in my own household.”
“They’ve had a nation for a long time, and their roots run deep. There will always be a few wandering swordsmen who trained in martial arts from childhood — don’t underestimate them, or you’ll suffer for it, just like with this assassin.”
“Chief, someone this formidable — could it be one of the Black Banner…”
The hundred had all been killed by now; baskets of severed heads lay piled below, and the shaman began to dance. When Mandu Dalu’s deputy mentioned the name Black Banner, his voice dropped a little. Mandu Dalu tilted his head back. “I’ve guessed at that too. The Black Banner does things differently — they wouldn’t be this reckless. I’ve had word from the south — the man behind this assassination attempt might be the chief bandit leader of Chifeng Mountain in the Central Plains, the one they call the Eight-Armed Dragon King. His uprising failed, his stronghold is gone, and he’s come here looking to die.”
“A regional lord?” “A bandit chief — a dog that’s lost its home. Just be careful of his skill.” Mandu Dalu said this calmly. He did not underestimate a man capable of fighting off a hundred, but such a man was still, in the end, a mere brute; killing him wouldn’t be the hardest thing in the world. It was simply that this business of assassinating the Marshal had caused such an uproar that it had to be dealt with. What truly worried him more was the case he’d been pursuing outside the city, one that seemed to bear some vague connection to a strange figure nicknamed “the Clown.”
Step by step, it would all be resolved. Mandu Dalu had once served in an invincible army; as a scout he had come and gone like a phantom, time and again bringing back crucial intelligence. The unstoppable sweep through the Central Plains had, after a while, begun to bore him. Then came the confrontation in the mountains around Xiaocang River with that formidable force known as the Black Banner Army. The million-strong host of the Great Qi, though uneven in quality, had surged forward like an overwhelming tide, and their fierce clash with the Black Banner Army had produced an extraordinarily perilous battlefield. In those mountains, Mandu Dalu had fled for his life more than once, and several times had nearly run headlong into the Black Banner’s elite.
As a scout, if he had been discovered among soldiers of that caliber, there would have been no chance of survival — yet he had lived through that crisis all the same. Relying on his superb skill at concealment and tracking, he had ambushed and killed three Black Banner scouts in secret, and, to his pride, had taken the scalps of the last two. Those scalps still sat in the main hall of his residence, kept as proof of his achievement.
He was later wounded and forced to flee in a subsequent battle, and after recovering, was never sent back to the front. But to Mandu Dalu’s mind, only encounters and hunts of that kind were truly a hero’s battlefield. Later, when the Black Banner was defeated in the northwest and word came that this Mister Ning had even died, Mandu Dalu became a chief constable, devoting himself to clashes with the most formidable and troublesome criminals. His family had been hunters for generations, and it was said there were Black Banner spies within Datong — which made the city his finest hunting ground, and its prey the finest quarry.
Still, dealing with the prey at hand might take some time yet. Mandu Dalu swept his gaze over the crowd again and again, and at last turned and led his men away. Overhead, thunder rumbled once more.
Not far off in the crowd, Tang Minjie, faintly excited, smiled as he watched the execution to its end, joined in a few shouts along with everyone else, and only then drifted off with the crowd, heading toward the Dazao Institute. Before long, the downpour began.
… The early-summer rain poured down in sheets, weaving a curtain of water beneath the eaves of the Marshal’s residence; the central courtyard was already awash. Wanyan Xiyin stood on the covered walkway outside the main hall, watching the downpour, the rain-lashed rockery and bronze cauldron. Inside the hall behind him, some had already arrived — the core members of Datong’s political leadership: Yinshuke, Balishu, Wanyan Shaba, Gao Qingyi, Han Qixian, Shi Li’ai, and others, some of whom came now and then to greet him.
Before long, Wanyan Zonghan came striding over with the gait of a dragon and the bearing of a tiger. This mighty hero, who could now be called second only to the throne itself within the Jin state, greeted Xiyin with a smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “They say in the south that the benevolent delight in mountains, and the wise delight in water. Gushen must be in fine spirits, out here admiring the scenery.”
Xiyin cupped his hands with a smile. “The Marshal seems in fine spirits too. Not worried about troubles ahead?” “I have nothing to hide and nothing to fear — what troubles could there be!” Zonghan waved a careless hand, then walked in arm in arm with Xiyin.
Once seated, someone spoke up about the matter at hand. “His Majesty is bedridden. On the Tianhui side, Zongfu and Zongbi wish to gather their forces—” “…to move against Jiangnan.”