The setting sun sank into its afterglow, and the lights of Hedeng County began to come alight. Partway up the mountainside, the sound of voices moving between the courtyards gave the place a lively air.
Near the Huaxia Army’s General Political Department, a courtyard planted with two camellia trees was where Ning Yi habitually did his work — when business was pressing, days when he returned home early were rare. In the tenth month, after the Huaxia Army took Chengdu, it had entered a period of temporary rest and consolidation. On this particular day Han Jing had returned from the front; he had spent the day in meetings, and now in the evening he came to meet with Ning Yi.
Han Jing had originally been the most outstanding military leader among the chieftains of Green Wood Stockade; after joining the Huaxia Army, he now served as division commander of the First Division, Fifth Army. This visit, what he first brought up with Ning Yi was the matter of Ning Ji having fully settled into life within the army.
It was now the ninth year of Wujian, and it had already been more than a year since Ning Yi had reunited with his family and children. With the realm in chaos, children generally grew up through knocks and falls, without being coddled. In Ning Yi’s relatively easygoing manner of getting along with his family, the bonds between father and sons, father and daughters, had not broken despite the long separation.
His eldest son, Ning Xi, was now fourteen, nearly fifteen. Earlier that year Ning Yi had arranged a betrothal for him with Min Chuyi, and now, driven by a sense of responsibility, Ning Xi was studying the various subjects in mathematics and the humanities that his father had laid out for him — not that Ning Yi particularly cared about grooming him as a successor to carry on the family trade, but given the current mood and the boy’s own motivation, Ning Yi was happy enough to let him take up education in the sciences, history, and politics.
His eldest son gave him little cause for worry; his second son, Ning Ji, nearly twelve this year, was rather more of a headache. Ever since arriving in the Wu Dynasty, Ning Yi had set his heart on becoming a martial arts master, though his achievements so far had been limited. Little Ning Ji had been modest and courteous since childhood, more bookish in bearing than Ning Xi — yet unexpectedly, both his talent and his interest lay in the martial arts. Ning Yi himself had not trained from childhood, but Ning Ji had had teachers like Hongti, Xigua, and Du Sha instructing him from a young age, and by the time he passed ten, he had already laid down a solid foundation.
However, making real progress in the martial arts required more than just a good teacher — Hongti, Xigua, Du Sha, and even Chen Fan from the Miao regions, every one of them had been forged through repeated brushes with death, surviving by luck to reach their level. What parent could bear to send their own child into life-and-death combat? For Ning Yi, on one hand he hoped his children would all have the ability to protect themselves, and had them practice martial arts from young so that at the very least they’d be strong and healthy; on the other hand, he did not actually want them to truly pursue the martial path. By now, what to do about Ning Ji had become something of a dilemma.
Part of it, too, was his own doing — reunited with his children after long separation, he had gotten carried away, at first boasting that his martial arts were unmatched under heaven, that he’d sworn brotherhood with Zhou Tong, and dismissing Lin Zongwu with contempt. Later, roughhousing with Xigua, he had made up several sets of martial arts stories to spread the tale, which only reinforced little Ning Ji’s determination to inherit the title of “greatest under heaven.” By age eleven, he had laid the groundwork in internal cultivation, his bones gradually stabilizing — though slight in build, he had already begun to shoot up in height, and given a few more years to solidify, he looked set to surpass Yue Yun and Yue Yinping, two children of his generation Ning Yi had personally met.
Ning Ji was the child of Ning Yi and Xiao Chan, inheriting his mother’s delicate looks. Once his ambitions had settled, Ning Yi had wrestled with the decision for quite a while, but in the end chose to support him with as open a mind as he could manage. The martial spirit ran strong within the Huaxia Army, and even among the young it was common for them to spar and test themselves against each other. Ning Ji often took part in these matches — if his opponents held back, he’d never build real skill; if they didn’t hold back, he’d end up bruised and bloodied. Xiao Chan, who had always supported Ning Yi in this, had cried over it with him twice, nearly stepping in as his mother to oppose Ning Ji’s martial training outright. After much discussion with Hongti and Xigua, Ning Yi finally decided to place Ning Ji in the Huaxia Army’s medical corps to help out.
Martial arts, fine — but first, learn to treat wounds.
This, too, was a carefully considered decision by the parents involved. Martial arts inevitably meant facing life and death, and what one witnessed in the medical corps was, in its way, no less brutal than the battlefield itself — the suffering and helplessness there could sometimes be even worse. Ning Yi had more than once brought his children to help out at the medical corps, partly to instill in them an appreciation for the value of heroism, and partly to let them witness the harsh realities of the world early on. Even Ning Ke, the most tender-hearted and eager to help among them, had been reduced to tears every single time, and would have nightmares afterward.
During the period of rest and recuperation, the medical corps had not yet taken in many wounded. But once the Huaxia Army formally went to war with the Mangshan Yi tribes and then marched out from the Chengdu plain, what the medical corps witnessed became a true hell of carnage. In the clashes between armies numbering in the tens or even hundreds of thousands, even the most elite forces could not avoid casualties. Though victory followed victory at the front, what the army physicians faced was still an endless stream of bloodied, grievously wounded men. Split skulls, severed limbs, soldiers whose bodies had been torn open with entrails spilling out, wailing and struggling between life and death — the psychic shock this delivered was beyond words.
And yet, these were simply the heroes who had fought bravely.
Throwing an eleven-year-old child into such an environment was perhaps the cruelest possible way to raise him — but it was also the only relatively “gentle” alternative that could substitute for the trial of life and death itself. If he grew discouraged and backed away, that would be fine too. But if he endured it… well, to become a person above others, one had to swallow this bitterest of bitterness first. So — let him keep walking that road.
“…I understand your thinking on this kind of trial by fire, but being this harsh on a child — I don’t quite have the nerve for it myself… and my wife wouldn’t allow it either. Good thing your second boy has some real grit — only eleven, and already running around among a ward full of wounded men, kind to everyone. My own soldiers are all fond of him. The way I see it, keep this up, and the boy’s going to end up a general someday.”
Sitting down in the room, after some idle chat, the conversation turned to Ning Ji. Han Jing spoke of him with real admiration. Ning Yi poured him some tea, and as he sat down, let out a sigh.
“If there were any other way, who’d want to put a child through this? But there’s no choice. The world’s not at peace, and none of these kids come from the kind of family that gets spared hardship. Back in Bianliang, there were assassination attempts on me several times a month — now it’s even worse. You can’t just keep a bunch of kids shut up at home; you’ve got to let them see the world, got to give them the ability to look after themselves… There was a time I’d kill an emperor without a second thought. Now, thinking any one of my children might die young someday — it breaks my heart. I don’t even know how I’d explain it to their mothers…”
“…No need to think of it that way.”
“I’ve made my peace with it,” Ning Yi said after a pause, and then laughed. “Also my own big mouth’s fault — otherwise Ning Ji would never have wanted to become some kind of martial arts grandmaster in the first place. Even if he becomes a grandmaster, what good does that do — the future isn’t going to be an age of wandering swordsmen. Honestly, there never really was such an age to begin with. Setting aside the odds of dying young before even becoming a grandmaster — even if he becomes as great as Zhou Tong, so what? He’ll end up coaching sports, or going into opera, God help him…”
His words were harsh, and Han Jing couldn’t help laughing along. Ning Yi raised his teacup and clinked it against Han Jing’s as if toasting with wine. “Don’t go calling him ‘young master,’ Brother Han — spoiled, pampered kids die young. What matters most is resilience. When I first sent him to work with the medical corps, he had nightmares every night, couldn’t even eat. But he didn’t complain, not once — less than a month, and he pulled through. Then he went right back to training. A kid with that kind of grit, I can’t hold him back… Though, I did drop hints early on that the future belongs to firearms, that if he wanted to avoid getting hurt, he should study archery and marksmanship under Yuwen Feidu instead. But no — after spending so much time in the medical corps, he’s been pestering Xiao Hei nonstop to teach him some Thirteen Guardian Hard Qigong nonsense. Ugh — he used to be the most handsome of my kids, and now look what’s happening to him. I don’t even know how I’ll explain it to Xiao Chan.”
Han Jing laughed too. “Thirteen Guardian training does cultivate both inner and outer strength — well, it’s… not bad, really.”
“What inner-and-outer cultivation — have you seen the state Xiao Hei’s in? It’s a mess…” Ning Yi sighed idly, though there was still a note of relief in his smile at the thought of his son’s grit holding up. After a while, the two men’s conversation drifted from the medical corps to the front lines. Since taking Chengdu, the Huaxia Army was standing by to reorganize, maintaining wartime readiness throughout, though there was no plan in the near term to attack Zizhou.
“…Seal the borders, shore up the defensive lines, first get the household registers and supply counts sorted in the occupied territory — the law enforcement teams are already there, clearing up backlogged cases, cracking down first on the local bullies stirring up public resentment. Once we’ve held this for a while and people on both sides have adjusted to each other, we’ll ease up on movement of people and trade — that way, far fewer will end up fleeing… In the declaration we said we’re marching on to Zizhou, so we’re holding off on taking it for now, to keep the initiative in our military posture. The point is that there has to be proper justification for any move we make — as long as Zizhou’s still there, our campaign of advance isn’t finished yet, which makes it easier for us to respond to whatever moves they make… Pressure now, in hopes of forcing a negotiation later — if we can really squeeze out talks, that’s worth more than Zizhou itself.”
“I don’t understand much about the Wu court’s officials, but negotiation doesn’t seem too likely, does it?” Han Jing said.
“Not likely, no,” Ning Yi said, nodding with a smile. “But as long as Zizhou stays in their hands, it’ll keep generating huge stakes for a lot of interested parties — they’ll go pressure the court not to abandon the southwest, they’ll go point fingers at whoever’s blamed for losing it, and it’ll leave the big officials at court running themselves ragged. Once Zizhou changes hands and the matter’s settled, all that talk from those people won’t be worth anything anymore… So let’s hold off for now — things are chaotic enough as it is. Taking it next year won’t be too late.”
As he spoke, Ning Yi looked with Han Jing at the huge map of the Wu Dynasty on the side wall of the room. A vast web of information had been rendered into countless flags and arrows, densely packed across the map’s surface. The fighting in the southwest was just one corner of it — the truly complex fighting lay north of the Yangtze, north of the Yellow River. Near Daming Prefecture, the yellow flags representing the Jurchens were clustered together like a small forest — this was the battlefield weighing most heavily on Han Jing, who had come straight from the front.
Zongfu and Zongbi had begun their assault on Daming Prefecture in the ninth month; more than a month of fierce fighting had produced no decisive result, and now the main Jurchen force had begun moving south across the Yellow River. Wanyan Chang, in charge of logistics, was leading over thirty thousand elite Jurchen troops, together with more than two hundred thousand Han troops conscripted from Li Xizhi’s former territory, to continue the siege of Daming — clearly settling in for a long blockade.
The latest news, meanwhile, concerned the western front of the Central Plains, corresponding to the eastern theater: following Wang Juyun’s uprising, Prince Jin Tian Shi had personally led his army into the field, throwing everything into a do-or-die charge against Zonghan’s forces as they crossed Yanmen Pass — the most powerful and shocking act of resistance yet to erupt in the Central Plains. Han Jing, puzzled by this development, asked Ning Yi about it, and Ning Yi nodded in confirmation.
News from Prince Jin’s territory came by way of Zhan Wu, the shopkeeper of the Bamboo Records who handled liaison with Lou Shuwan. With Tian Shi’s departure, the forces mobilized under Prince Jin’s banner had swelled to as many as a million — the accumulated strength Tian Hu had built up over more than a decade.
And as the great army marched out, the political infighting within this territory had suddenly grown fierce as well. Though the slogans of resistance against the Jin were rousing, there were no small number of people unwilling to risk their lives under the Jurchens’ heel, and these people had begun to stir.
On the very day the army departed, Prince Jin’s entire territory was placed under martial law. The next day, Yuan Zhanxia — one of the elders who had originally supported Tian Shi’s coup — secretly sent an envoy north to try to make contact with Wanyan Xiyin of the eastern army.
That same day, Lou Shuwan, who had already prepared men in advance, led troops to storm the Yuan family estate. The entire clan, without exception, was thrown into prison, and by the third day, the Yuan family — young and old — had been executed to the last, right in the city of Weisheng. At the same time, countless people connected to the Yuan family within the court and the military system were also thrown into prison. In just a few days, the heads cut off within the city of Weisheng could have been piled into a mound as tall as a watchtower.
That such a merciless, brutal method should come from the hands of a woman shocked even Zhan Wu, a man who had seen much of the world. The Jurchen army had not yet even reached Taiyuan, and already all of Prince Jin’s territory had turned into a scene of grim slaughter.
This tense situation north of the Yellow River had deep roots of its own. Over more than a decade of recuperation, Prince Jin’s territory had managed to gather an army a million strong to mount its resistance — stirring though this was to many Han hearts, what they now faced was Wanyan Zonghan, the Jurchens’ god of war, who had once fought shoulder to shoulder with Wanyan Aguda and now ruled over half of the Jin state.
As for Prince Jin’s own territory — beyond its million-strong army, to the west lay a northwest already emptied of people by Jurchen slaughter; to the east, the resistance at Daming Prefecture, even counting Zhu Biao’s Black Banner forces, amounted to no more than fifty or sixty thousand men; to the south, crossing the Yellow River meant passing through Bianliang and nearly a thousand li of territory still effectively in Jurchen hands before reaching the Yangtze basin actually held by the Wu Dynasty. In truth, this million-strong army, facing Wanyan Zonghan, was nothing more than an isolated force a thousand li from any hope of reinforcement.
Everyone was staking their own life on their choices.
“…Back at Mount Lüliang, I once met this young lord of the Tian family. My first impression was that he was arrogant and shallow, and I paid him no more mind after that. Who would have thought — he too turned out to be a hero. And this Miss Lou as well — truly remarkable.”
Back when Tian Shi and Lou Shuwan had gone to Mount Lüliang, Han Jing and the others had still been preparing for the operation code-named “Beat Up the Kids.” Now, poring over the mass of reports arriving from the north, he couldn’t help but feel a certain admiration for them.
Among these dispatches was also a letter that Lou Shuwan had personally written and sent through Zhan Wu to the Huaxia Army. In it, Lou Shuwan, with clear logic and a calm tone, laid out for Ning Yi and the rest of the Huaxia Army leadership Prince Jin’s plans and the situation they faced, while also stating plainly the fact that Prince Jin’s forces were bound to fail. Following this calm account, she expressed her hope that the Huaxia Army, in the spirit of mutual aid among all the people of Han descent, would offer greater support to Prince Jin’s forces — and further, that the Huaxia Army, which had been resting in the southwest, would decisively send troops to swiftly open a route from the southwest to Xiangyang and Bianliang, or alternatively cut through the northwest from the southwest, to provide real support to Prince Jin’s forces.
Having the Black Banner Army mobilize now, cutting straight through the entire thousand-li breadth of the Central Plains and then squaring off against the Jurchen forces — this was, of course, an impossibility. And yet, in the face of her calm account and her willingness to stake everything on this fact, Han Jing found himself feeling, somewhat unexpectedly, a measure of admiration and even guilt. When he handed the letter back to Ning Yi, his expression complicated, Ning Yi was regarding him with something between a smile and a smirk. “How does it feel?”
“…Remarkable. And what she says is true, too.”
“Yes, remarkable.” Ning Yi smiled, and after a moment tossed the letter back onto the desk. “But this woman’s a lunatic. The only reason she wrote this letter was to get under our skin — don’t take it too seriously.”
“Uh…”
Han Jing didn’t quite understand; toward this seemingly ordinary letter, Ning Yi’s reaction was anything but ordinary. He was a man of decisive temperament, and had never regarded mediocre people as worth taking seriously. Back in the day in Hangzhou, Ning Yi had held not the slightest regard for this woman — even after wiping out her entire family, when they met again at Mount Lüliang, Ning Yi had not spared her a second thought. It was only through watching Lou Shuwan’s development over the years, through the methods by which she’d operated, that one could trace the path of her survival — and the brutal trials and struggles she must have endured along the way, caught between life and death.
The grudge between them ran too deep — and yet, even so, there was no denying it now: this woman had truly grown into someone real. Especially with this letter — she had made a choice that staked everything on the line, fully aware that the Huaxia Army could never, at this moment, march north to reclaim the Central Plains. Such willingness to set life and death aside was enough to earn genuine admiration — and even as the men of the Huaxia Army admired her for it, Ning Yi himself, naturally, found the whole thing disgusting.
This almost perverse sense of humor, in fact, left Ning Yi torn between laughter and exasperation — and out of that, a grudging measure of respect.
“Should’ve just finished her off back then… would’ve settled the whole thing once and for all.”
He chatted with Han Jing a while longer, and by the time he saw him out, the stars had already filled the sky outside. On a night like this, speaking of the situation in the north — that fierce and brutal conflict — was, in truth, also a conversation about one’s own future. Even here in the southwest, how much longer could this peace really last? The clash between the Black Banner and the Jurchens was bound to come, sooner or later.
Under the ordinary starlight, moving north and east, the marks of winter had already settled over the land. Some three thousand li to the east lay Lin’an, its nights a hundred times more resplendent than those of mountain-locked Hedeng.
As the beating heart of the Wu Dynasty, people from north and south converged here, and countless matters concerning the whole realm, great and small, were born and brewed within its walls. At present, the temporary protagonist of a story unfolding in the capital was a man named Long Qifei.
In the eighth month, the Huaxia Army had issued its declaration in the southwest, proclaiming it to the realm. Not long after, Long Qifei had set out from Zizhou back to the capital, traveling day and night by carriage and boat, and had now been back in Lin’an for over ten days.
Times of national peril tend also to be times when heroes emerge — and in this period, the scholars of the Wu Dynasty wrote poetry sharp and tragic in tone, sentiments of patriotism spread even among the wandering knights of the martial world, and men of both letters and arms flourished as never before in peacetime. Alongside this, various schools of thought and ideology were also on the rise; scholars gathered daily in the capital, peddling their proposals for saving the nation. Li Pin and others, inspired by Ning Yi, had also been steadily building up their schools and newspapers.
Since the Jurchens’ intentions to march south first became apparent, Crown Prince Jun Wu had left Lin’an, leading the various armies to the front and building an iron wall north of the Yangtze — and all eyes northward had become the scholars’ constant preoccupation. But as for the southwest, many still held a wary eye. Even before fighting broke out there, Confucian scholars had already been promoting the deeds of Long Qifei and his group; now, with the southwest in crisis and Long Qifei back in the capital, this circle immediately drew enormous attention.
There were, naturally, some who questioned whether these men had simply fled the battlefield — but given how far away it all was, and given that the times demanded heroes in this moment of crisis, most of the coverage of these men remained overwhelmingly positive. After Li Xiannong was seized and questioned in the southwest amid suspicion, the story of the Confucian scholars persuading the Mangshan Yi tribes to rise up against the Black Banner Army had, in the retelling by most, become largely credited to Long Qifei’s masterful strategizing. Facing so barbarous a demon-horde as the Black Banner Army, simply accomplishing what they had was no small feat — after all, the tragic sentiment of having the will to strike the enemy but lacking the power to succeed was something people could readily identify with.
Over this three-thousand-li journey, Long Qifei, worn thin by anxiety and the pace of travel, had grown gaunt; by the time he reached Lin’an, he was skeletal, the corners of his mouth covered in fever blisters. The first thing he did upon arriving in the capital was to kneel before every Confucian scholar he knew — the Black Banner Army was too powerful, he had failed in his mission, and could only return to the capital to report and beg for greater attention and aid for the southwest.
This spectacle of a great Confucian scholar, his heart bound up with the nation’s fate, kneeling before the crowd to confess his failure, instantly became the talk of the capital. In the days that followed, Long Qifei and his companions rushed back and forth, repeatedly petitioning at the mansions of court officials, and also seeking help from the many worthies of the capital. He laid out the importance of the southwest, described the Black Banner Army’s wolfish ambitions, and repeatedly warned the court, insisting that losing the southwest meant losing the realm entire. Within just over ten days, he had stirred up a great wave of patriotic fervor.
Numerous high officials of the capital came to invite him to banquets; even the stewards of the Grand Princess’s residence came to call on him, seeking to understand the situation in the southwest in detail. Poetry gatherings extended him invitation after invitation, and various renowned scholars called on him one after another without pause… During this time, he made a second visit to Privy Councillor Qin Hui — the very man who had originally urged him westward — but after the setback at court, Qin Hui no longer had the strength or the will to push further for a campaign against the southwest. And even though the many high officials and celebrities of the capital had all shown him the utmost respect and regard, when it came to the great matter of actually sending troops to the southwest, hardly any figure of real influence was willing to put in the effort.
That night, deep in Qingyi Lane, red lanterns hung high, and the pleasure houses, theaters, and teahouses along the lane still buzzed with warmth — this was one of the liveliest social quarters of Lin’an. In the main hall of an inn called the “Four Seas Society,” many scholars and men of letters who had come to this district were still gathered. In front of the Four Seas Society stood a pleasure house, and even from its upper windows, some patrons, listening to music, kept an eye on what was happening below.
At last, a carriage came in from the street entrance and stopped before the Four Seas Society. Long Qifei stepped down from it — gaunt in frame, his hair half turned white, his eyes bloodshot yet still burning with intensity. He was only just past forty, but a month and more of travel, weighed down by constant worry and anxiety, had turned half his hair white — and it was precisely this appearance that only made the crowd regard him with even greater respect. Stepping down from the carriage, he leaned on a wooden cane, struggling to steady himself, his dark red lips pressed tight, his face carrying an expression of anger. The crowd gathered around him, but he said not a word, only cupping his hands in greeting as he made his way into the inn.
Sending troops to the southwest was a complex decision that would determine the direction of an entire nation, and more than ten days without result told him that the momentum wasn’t yet great enough to move men like Qin Hui or the Grand Princess to a decision. But the scholars and men of insight in the capital were, in the end, on his side — and so that evening he went to call on Li Pin, styled Dexin, at the Bright Hall, with whom he had once had a single conversation.
Li Dexin’s newspaper now carried enormous influence in the capital, but throughout this period, regarding Long Qifei’s return, it had offered only bland, purely descriptive reporting. Long Qifei, displeased, thought perhaps he simply hadn’t shown the man enough respect, and so had come in person, hoping to make him understand the importance of the southwest and push him to do more to promote public sentiment in its defense.
But Li Dexin had refused his request.
Now back at the inn, as the crowd asked about the outcome of the meeting, Long Qifei simply walked further inside; only once he had crossed the main hall did he plant his cane on the ground and, after a moment, say: “Li Dexin… a man chasing fame under false pretenses…”
His words were bitter but rang out clearly. The crowd in the hall froze for a moment, then began murmuring among themselves; someone pressed forward to ask further questions, but Long Qifei said no more and retreated toward his room. Once back in his chambers, the famous courtesan Lu Guo’er, who had accompanied him to the capital, came to comfort him. He remained silent, saying nothing, his eyes reddening further.
“My lord, this is the list of calling cards delivered today from the officials… My lord, the affairs of the realm are difficult enough as they are — please don’t wear yourself down over these people…”
Lu Guo’er, too, was a woman who had seen much of the world; she spoke soothingly for a while before Long Qifei finally waved his hand. “You wouldn’t understand, you wouldn’t understand…”
There were things he would not say even to the woman beside him. In his conversation with Li Pin that day, Li Pin had spoken bluntly of the harsh realities, and some of what he’d said had struck Long Qifei to the core. Since his return to the capital, everyone had treated him as the leader the people had been waiting for — but this, too, was only because of the southwest’s dire situation. If the court truly proved unable to reclaim the southwest in any real sense, then what meaning would he, as this figurehead of opinion, actually hold?
Li Pin, chasing false fame — hadn’t he once talked on and on about how he shared an irreconcilable feud with Ning Yi, using that demon to elevate his own standing, and now he was putting on this hypocritical show of “taking things slowly”? And as for the high officials at court — none of them were worth anything either, including Qin Hui himself! It was he who had originally goaded them into going to the southwest, doing everything possible to move against the Huaxia Army — and now, after they had given everything, capturing the Huaxia Army’s envoys, stirring up the Mangshan Yi tribes, risking life after life… he couldn’t push through a nationwide campaign, and simply washed his hands of it and walked away. How could the rest of them just walk away too?
Those who feast on meat are shallow men. The sage’s words rang true. He listened to the faint sounds of indignant discussion still drifting in from outside… The gentlemen at court, mired in mediocrity and inaction, while only he and his companions had labored to the point of exhaustion for the sake of the nation… Turning this over in his mind for a while, he steadied himself and began sorting through the calling cards that had been sent to him. Coming across one in particular, he hesitated, set it down, then a moment later picked it back up again.
“…This one appears to be a disciple of Chancellor Zhao.” Lu Guo’er said quietly from beside him. Long Qifei pressed his finger against the name and tapped it.
After a moment, he said: “A gentleman associates without factionalism — there’s no such thing as whose disciple he is or isn’t.”
The name on the invitation card was Yan Huan — his official rank was not high, but he was a disciple of Left Chancellor Zhao Ding, and Zhao Ding, it was said, did not get along with Qin Hui.
“…I’ve read some of this Master Yan’s essays before — there’s real integrity in them… perhaps worth meeting.” Long Qifei said, sighing.
Outside the window, the sound of the night wind moaning could be heard.
This same wind, blowing northward for fifteen hundred li, swept over the walls of Daming Prefecture, fanning the flames of the night into a fierce blaze. At the northern wall, the relentless pounding of siege engines had blasted open a breach in the wall. Below the breach, bodies, rubble, and the earth continually hauled in by the attacking army during the assault had piled up into a sloping mound against the wall, and under the Jurchens’ urging, the soldiers outside the city surged toward the breach with a roar like a tidal wave.
Atop the wall, cannons that had been wheeled up opened fire on the ground below, shells tearing through the crowd, sending up sprays of flesh and blood; arrows, burning oil, rolling logs — every available means of defense converged fiercely in and around that breach. Outside, the siege engines kept firing, hurling massive stones against the towering wall.
“Bring the cannon over here… men! The city stands, we stand; the city falls, we fall with it—” Wang Shanyue, a white cloth wrapped around his head, roared hoarsely into the night. His body was already streaked with blood, and the men around him, shouting along with him, pressed forward toward the breach in the high wall.
Daming Prefecture was a fortress city built for garrison defense, its outer wall several zhang thick — thick enough that the still-primitive cannons of the age could do it little harm, though the siege engines had some effect, while the cannons firing down from atop the wall gave a tremendous defensive advantage. Even so, over more than a month, the enemy, having stormed the walls repeatedly, still had to pay for every attempt in massive numbers of lives, and Wang Shanyue himself had led charges at the very front several times…
That night, the fighting raged on with the same intensity. At some point, something cold began falling from the sky — the small ice pellets that herald a coming snowstorm — and before long, it came down in a rushing sheet, blanketing the entire land. Atop and below the walls, countless fires went out; a while later, the killing in the darkness finally ceased. The men atop the wall, having survived, began clearing the earthen mound while also reinforcing and raising the wall at the breach.
In the camp behind the siege lines, Wanyan Chang stood beneath a great canopy, watching all of this in the dark, his gaze equally cold. He did not send his elite troops to seize this hard-won breach; after calling off the assault, he had the craftsmen go repair the siege engines, and as he left, gave one final order.
“Don’t let up. Keep throwing the corpses in there.”
Tens of li to the south, a stretch of banners flying in an unbroken line marked an army numbering in the several hundreds of thousands, which had, over the past days, gradually begun crossing the Yellow River. Wuzhu led the vanguard across the river first; looking back north, the Yellow River’s waters surged on, and the smoke of Daming’s battle could no longer be seen — but he believed that before long, everything within that city would vanish beneath the relentless waves of assault from the hundreds of thousands of Han troops under Wanyan Chang’s command.
Ahead of the great army lay a stretch of land ravaged not long before by refugees, now reduced to ruin. Aside from corpses and plague, what now ran rampant across this land was a horde of drifters collectively known as “hungry ghosts.”
Even the Jurchen forces once stationed south of the Yellow River, or the troops of the puppet state of Qi, could now do no more than hold fast within their fortified cities. Most of the smaller towns had had their gates forced open by these drifting refugees; having lost everything, the people within had no choice but to sustain themselves through plunder and wandering. In many places even wild roots and tree bark had already been stripped bare; those who ate clay to survive lay dead in the open fields, skin stretched over bone, only their bellies swollen and distended.
These people, who had lost their homes, lost everything, and now survived only through plunder — their numbers south of the Yellow River had already swelled to several million. No words could adequately capture what they had endured.
Fortunately, winter had come. Beggars could not survive the winter — once the heavy snows fell, these several million refugees would, one by one, begin to die.