The sky had already darkened; a bonfire burned by the distant river bend, and the occasional laughter of children and women’s voices drifted over. Led by Ning Yi, Song Yongping walked slowly forward, and when Ning Yi asked after his father’s condition, Song Yongping glanced at him.

“Father’s health is still quite sturdy, actually. After leaving office, he’s had far fewer worldly matters to deal with, and these past two years he’s grown even more comfortably plump.”

“Uncle Song Mao left office right after I killed Zhou Zhe, didn’t he?”

“…Yes.”

The two of them spoke of matters that would have seemed harrowing to anyone else, yet their tone remained calm and unhurried. Ning Yi said, “Things happened in such a rush back then — there was no way to look after the Song family too, and it wouldn’t have been right to ask you to come along with us anyway. Later, once Zhou Yong took the throne, with Zhou Pei and her brother above him, things didn’t turn out too badly for you all — that put my mind at ease. Over the years, Tan’er and Wenfang and the others have mentioned you now and then — among all our relatives by marriage, your scholarship was always the finest. I’m afraid it may have cost you your official career, but then again, I’ve always thought a man ought to walk some crooked roads while he’s young — the more one goes through before thirty, the smoother the road tends to be afterward.”

He paused and smiled. “Of course, it was I who cost you and Uncle Song Mao your posts — coming from me, that sentiment sounds a bit twisted. If you want to say I’m being smug about it after the fact, I couldn’t really argue against that either.”

Hearing Ning Yi bring this up, Song Yongping laughed too, his gaze calm. “Actually, it’s not wrong. When things go smoothly in one’s youth, one always thinks oneself a great talent destined for greatness — it’s only later that one comes to understand one’s own limitations. During those years after losing my post, with family coming and going, I finally came to taste the full range of what this world has to offer — my perspective back then really was far too narrow…”

He shook his head with a smile. “As a child, I studied the teachings of Laozi and Confucius and Mencius under my elders, could recite the old classics and scriptures backward and forward, could write page after page of moral treatise with ease. But looking back these past couple of years, what strikes me most deeply are actually the opening lines of the Book of Changes… ‘Heaven’s movement is ever vigorous; thus the gentleman ceaselessly strengthens himself.’ It’s taken me thirty years to gradually come to understand even a little of that.”

More than a decade ago, when they’d first met, Little Four Song had been in his early twenties, full of spirited ambition; now he was thirty, an official with a beard, having weathered his share of hardship. If their earlier exchanges had been calm because he was holding himself in check, this was the first moment that calm came truly from the heart.

Ning Yi nodded. Song Yongping paused for a moment. “To say I’ve held no resentment at all toward my cousin and her husband over these matters would be a lie. But even resentment, in the end, doesn’t amount to much. Master Ning, who commands such power over the realm — would he really stop what he’s doing just because someone resents him?”

Ning Yi laughed heartily and patted Song Yongping on the shoulder, gesturing for him to walk on together. “There are many truths in this world, but I hold to just one — back when the Jurchens came south, watching hundreds of thousands of people slaughtered and utterly routed, with Chancellor Qin and the others trying desperately to turn the tide, only to end up with their families destroyed and themselves ruined… If I hadn’t killed the emperor, those deaths would have been meaningless. I understood the consequences of killing him, of course — but in this world, one can’t have it both ways; one can only choose the lesser of two evils. Before I killed him, I already understood your family’s position — but once I’d weighed it and decided, I had to go through with it. It’s the same when serving as a magistrate. There are people you feel sympathy for in your heart, and yet all you can do is give them thirty strokes of the cane. Why? Because it makes things a little bit better, that’s all.”

“But brother-in-law, in all these years — have you truly never doubted yourself?”

“All the time, more than you’d think. But… weighing it all, this path still comes out a little bit better.” Ning Yi said. “I know why you’ve come — you’re hoping to find some crack in my reasoning, something that might persuade me to withdraw my troops, or soften my stance, and give the Wu Dynasty a graceful way out. That’s fine. Honestly, the situation in the realm is clear enough — you’re a clever man, look around a bit and you’ll understand it yourself. I won’t hide anything from you. But first, let me introduce you to the children.”

As they spoke, they drew closer to the bonfire. Ning Yi led Song Yongping over and introduced this distant uncle to Ning Xi and the others; before long, Tan’er also came over to greet Song Yongping, and the two of them spoke of Song Mao, and of the late Su Yu — a perfectly ordinary scene of family reunion.

While Su Tan’er spoke with Song Yongping, Ning Yi led a group of children over to the fire to roast fish. Ning Ji, along with the children of Du Sha, Fang Shuchang, and others, had finished their dinner and, after a brief rest, set up a small sparring ring to take turns testing each other. All being children of accomplished masters, the matches were quite fierce; Wenwen, Ning Ke, and the other little girls either cheered their brothers on from the edge of the ring or ran over to pester Ning Yi instead. After a while, having thoroughly burned the fish and lost considerable face over it, Ning Yi walked over to the sparring ring and wrote out a prize couplet for the winner — the first line read “Fists strike Canton eggs,” the second “Feet kick pineapple bread.” Once finished, he had Song Yongping come over to critique and correct it, then had him write a companion piece of calligraphy as well.

The playful commotion by the small river left Song Yongping with a stirring of feeling in his heart — but he was, after all, here as an emissary. The tales in old legends, of some brilliant strategist swaying a warlord’s mind with a single speech, weren’t entirely exaggerated even in these times. In a feudal world where knowledge was not widely spread, even a regional lord might lack a broad perspective — during the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods, it was hardly surprising for the itinerant persuaders, with an exaggerated laugh and a bold proposition, to have a lord bow before them in submission. Li Xiannong, persuading the barbarian king deep in the Mangshan mountains, had likely walked a similar path. But here, with this brother-in-law of his, neither dire warnings nor impassioned speeches delivered with total disregard for one’s own life would be enough to change his mind — without the most rigorous and airtight analysis, anything else would amount to nothing more than idle chat and jokes.

Having now met Ning Yi face to face, this understanding had only grown clearer in his mind. Recalling Cheng Zhouhai’s attitude before he’d set out — the man had surely understood this all too well himself. Turning it over in his mind for a long while, once Ning Yi went off to rest, Song Yongping followed after him, deciding to turn the question back on him first.

“Brother-in-law, is there truly no way to resolve the matter of the southwest properly?”

“For the Wu Dynasty, it’s probably very difficult.”

Ning Yi, holding a tree branch, sat resting on a stone by the riverbank and answered offhandedly.

“The Jurchens are coming, and the realm is falling into ruin — what good does any of this do?”

“The Wu Dynasty is the realm, the Jurchens are the realm, the Huaxia Army is also the realm — whose realm, exactly, is falling into ruin?” He glanced at Song Yongping, tapping the branch against a nearby rock. “Sit.”

“The damp here isn’t good for one’s health,” Song Yongping said, but sat down anyway.

“How many children do you have?”

“Three — two daughters, one son.”

“As their very learned uncle, what do you make of Ning Xi and the others?”

“Good. Xi’er has been raised well,” Song Yongping said. “Ning Ji’s martial skill also seems remarkably strong for his age.”

“Watched over closely since birth. Next we’re taking them to Chengdu, to look around a bit — though it’s hard for them to mingle in crowds and join in the ordinary bustle the way normal children can. No telling when some accident might befall them. Fighting for the realm — we call it saving the realm — this is part of the price. If an accident happens, dying would be the mercy. Living worse than death is also a possibility.”

Ahead of them the little river flowed on; Ning Yi’s expression was hidden in the darkness, and though his words were calm, their meaning was anything but. Song Yongping didn’t quite understand why he was telling him all this.

“The fighting north of the Yellow River has already begun. Around Taiyuan, several million people are holding off tens of thousands of Wanyan Zonghan’s troops. It’s snowing heavily there now — men are dying on the battlefield, but even more are freezing to death in the snow. At Daming Prefecture, Wang Shanyue is holding the city with fewer than fifty thousand men — the siege has been going on for nearly two months now. Wanyan Zongfu and Wanyan Zongbi led the main force in an assault lasting nearly a month, then crossed the Yellow River — no telling how many defenders are still left in the city…”

Ning Yi spoke on in the darkness: “…Now Wanyan Chang is besieging the city with thirty thousand elite Jurchen troops and more than two hundred thousand Han conscripts. Ahead of the Han troops march civilians being driven forward as human shields; every day they catapult the corpses into the city. It’s fortunate this is winter — plague hasn’t had the chance to take hold yet… Zhu Biao led over ten thousand Huaxia Army troops trying to break through Wanyan Chang’s defensive lines. They couldn’t manage it.”

“…Further south, several million starving refugees — who knows how many have already died. I sent eight thousand men to Xuzhou to block Wanyan Zongfu’s path south; the main body of these starving masses is now converging on Xuzhou as well. What’ll happen when Zongfu’s army collides with them, no one knows. Further south still is where the Crown Prince has positioned his forces — a million-strong army, and whether that battle is won or lost will decide everything. And then, after all that, there’s this front here… already tens of thousands dead. Yongping, you’ve come here for the Wu Dynasty’s sake, and that’s not a bad thing in itself — but if you were in my place, would you choose to leave them a way out, or not?”

“Perhaps there’s a better path…” Song Yongping said.

“Perhaps there is, perhaps… There’s probably someone out there in this world capable of sparing the Wu Dynasty, letting its people live well, while also strengthening himself and saving the entire realm at the same time. Yongping, I’m not joking — if you have that kind of vision, it would be well worth striving for.”

“…”

“But I can’t do it. It’s been over a decade since the Jurchens first came south, and the Wu Dynasty has made a little progress — about this much.” He raised his hand and gestured a distance roughly the size of a grain of rice. “We know the Wu Dynasty faces many troubles, that its problems are complicated, and that even a little progress under such circumstances isn’t easy to come by. Seeing how hard it’s been for them, wanting to reward them with something better — say, letting them live a bit longer — we could even write an essay praising this kind of striving as a rare gleam of human decency. But is that really enough? You’re fond of the Wu Dynasty, so you think it deserves to survive — and if it can’t survive, do you want me to… show mercy?”

Ning Yi shook his head.

“…If they can’t hold the line, then there’s nothing left. That declaration of war — I wrote it to force the Wu Dynasty into negotiating with me. Once we negotiate, the Huaxia Army and the Wu Dynasty become powers on equal footing. If the Wu Dynasty wants to join forces with me against the Jurchens, fine — that buys them more time to catch their breath. If they want to play games in the meantime, go through the motions without really committing — fine too, it’s all a game of chess, that’s how it’s played… But look — passionate speeches are one’s own business; victory and defeat are decided by heaven and earth. In a world like this, everyone is sharpening their claws and fangs, and on the battlefield, no one gets the luxury of relying on luck. The Wu Dynasty’s problems, Confucianism’s problems — these can’t be fixed by a reform here, a hero there, once or twice. If the Jurchens were rapidly decaying from within, there might be some hope in that — but because the Huaxia Army exists, their decay isn’t happening nearly as fast as it might. They can still fight…”

Ning Yi tapped the branch against the ground three times. “The Jurchens, the Huaxia, the Wu Dynasty — never mind the immediate moment, but in the end, two of these three will be eliminated. Yongping, even if I told you something today to make things ‘easier’ for the Wu Dynasty, that would only be paving the way for its eventual elimination. If you want the Huaxia Army to stop advancing, the solution is simple — if the people of the Wu Dynasty could unite as one, if the court and every great clan within it showed the resolve to shatter like jade rather than survive intact, and turned that resolve against my Huaxia Army, I would stop and apologize on the spot… But the Wu Dynasty can’t do that. Right now they think things are hard — but honestly, even if they lose the southwest entirely, they still probably won’t negotiate with me. Everyone would rather swallow the loss in silence than be the one to bear the blame for negotiating, so I’ll just go ahead and take the southwest for myself. Without real strength, does the Wu Dynasty think losing face is humiliating? It’s worse than that — next they’ll have to kneel. Without strength, the day will come when they’re forced to eat far worse than that.”

“With the southwest campaign finished, they sent you to me — and honestly, that’s not even a foolish move. When you’re caught up in something that large, what method wouldn’t people try? Qin Sizhuan, back in his day, was just the same — patching things up, papering over the cracks, forming factions, currying favor with gifts and banquets, and when it came time to kneel, the old man was more than willing to kneel too. Some people might be moved by family sentiment, might loosen their grip a little — but Yongping, this is a grip I don’t dare loosen. Once this war is won, what follows is the growth of our strength — every bit more we can gain, we take. There’s no room for personal favor to soften that. Even where I do show leniency, it’s only because I have no other choice. Because I can’t afford to leave anything to chance…”

His voice remained calm, mingling in the darkness with the murmur of the flowing water. Ning Yi raised the branch and pointed it toward the firelight across the riverbank, toward where the children were playing.

“In the north, Tian Hu’s whole faction has thrown a million-strong army against Zonghan — if they lose, they die, that’s all. Wang Shanyue is holding Daming; I’m hoping Zhu Biao can save as many people as possible, but it’s entirely possible Zhu Biao himself ends up sacrificed there too. The starving refugees, several million of them — this winter, whoever’s meant to die will die, and there’s nothing to be done about it. Yongping — Ning Xi, Ning Ji, Wenwen, Xiaoke — they’re my children. If someone told me there was such a thing as luck in this world, I’d kowtow a thousand times a day to whatever gods there are, praying they’d live happier lives than I have… But there’s no such thing as luck in this world. Not a shred of it. So I don’t kowtow. If there’s a way to make the Huaxia Army’s strength even one degree stronger, I won’t dare let it be one degree weaker instead.”

The voice fell silent for a long while after that.

…

“…These past two years, reading through books, I’ve come across a line that struck me deeply too. In the ‘Nineteen Ancient Poems,’ there’s a line: ‘Life between heaven and earth is fleeting as a traveler passing through.’ This world was never ours to begin with — we simply happen to arrive here, and pass through a few decades of time, that’s all. So when it comes to the affairs of this world, I always tread carefully, never daring to grow arrogant… The most useful truth of all, you already said yourself earlier — ‘Heaven’s movement is ever vigorous; thus the gentleman ceaselessly strengthens himself.’ Only self-strengthening is of any real use. Pleading on the Wu Dynasty’s behalf — there’s really no need for it at all.”

…

Laughter drifted from the small river bend. In the days that followed, Ning Yi’s whole family traveled to Chengdu, to see that prosperous ancient city for themselves. The children — all except Ning Xi — were seeing such a bustling city for the first time, utterly unlike anything in the mountains, and were overjoyed. Walking the streets of that ancient city with Tan’er, Yun Zhu, and the others, Ning Yi occasionally spoke of old times in Jiangning and Bianliang, stories now more than a decade gone.

Song Yongping accompanied them throughout, and like Zuo Duanyou once had, came to understand Ning Yi’s thinking, engaging him in discussion day after day. Sometimes the two argued, sometimes they parted on poor terms — and this continued for quite some time.

Not long after, Ning Ji set out with the medical corps’s physicians on a tour of nearby counties and villages to treat the sick, while household registration officials likewise made their rounds through the region, extending their reach into every corner of the newly occupied territory. Ning Xi, meanwhile, stayed with Chen Tuozi at the command center, taking charge of security arrangements and coordination, learning further skills along the way.

Winter had deepened. South of the Yellow River, on this day, a fierce blizzard suddenly swept in. The Jurchen army marching south had by now traveled a considerable distance from the river crossing; the further south they went, the more desolate and wretched the road became — one small town after another lay breached and burned, like a realm of ghosts, corpses of the starved scattered everywhere along the way. This round of “fortifying the walls and clearing the fields” had been carried out even more thoroughly than a decade before.

Amid the heavy snow, a small Jurchen supply convoy found itself stranded on the road. The blizzard howled for more than an hour; the centurion leading the group had them halt to take shelter from the storm. At some point, something began drawing slowly closer from ahead.

Rustling, swaying unsteadily, the thing gradually came into view through the driving snow — it was the figure of a person. The figure swayed, gaunt and skeletal, enough to make one’s scalp crawl at first sight, and seemed to be clutching a motionless bundle in its arms — this was a woman, starved down to skin and bone. No one could have said how she had made it this far.

The “skeleton” stood frozen for a moment, staring at the wagons and cargo nearby, then swayed, opened her mouth, and let out sounds without clear meaning, tears seeming to glisten in her eyes.

She began running toward them.

The centurion dragged his long blade over and, with a single stroke, cut the woman down where she stood. The bundle tumbled loose from her arms — there was no longer any “infant” inside it, so there was no need for a second strike.

“Kill anything like this on sight, no exceptions.”

The centurion was already aware that starving wretches still wandered this region. Having killed the woman, he turned to head back, when more figures appeared approaching through the blizzard.

More starving wretches — one after another. Catching sight of the supply convoy, these figures, scarcely human anymore, froze for a moment, then, after only the briefest hesitation, came running forward with cries. They had no strength left; many collapsed in the snow even as they ran, their cries reduced to hoarse rasping. The centurion cut down two more, slapped his armor with the flat of his blade, and shouted for his men to form a defensive line.

More figures came running, one after another…

Life between heaven and earth is fleeting as a traveler passing through.

Bodies frozen through, tears wrung dry, voices reduced to hoarse cries…

That was the last running these people would ever do, in this cold and bitter world.

Amid the wind and snow, endless waves of the starving surged forward—