The first month. The days were short, the nights long.

That spring of the tenth year of Jianshuo, the light over the Jin region always seemed dim. The rain and snow had stopped falling, yet clear skies were rarely seen either. The curtain of war had risen, then paused briefly, and everywhere lay the marks left by conflict.

Bleak and battered cities, refugees driven from their homes, armies numbering in the millions — chaos reigned everywhere one looked. Amid this chaos, traces of the New Year lingered here and there — people being what they are, even in the hardest of years, when the festival arrives, someone will always try to paste up couplets on the door, buy a pair of door-god prints, and hope for peace in the year ahead.

The sky was still dim. Near a small mountain village, soldiers had begun sharpening their blades; the pack horses, fed and watered, had their loads strapped onto their backs. A black banner fluttered at the edge of the camp. Before long, the soldiers gathered, their faces grim.

Then the army set out without a sound.

Near the small mountain village, the roads and hills lay under a thick blanket of snow. The army advanced through it, slowly but without complaint, and before long this army, like a long dragon, had vanished into the snow-covered mountains.

Their destination had long since been set, their rations already packed. That night, tens of thousands of soldiers rested among the snowy peaks without lighting a single fire, breaking camp again the next day to continue their advance.

In the Jurchen camps, too, there were signs of New Year cheer. At an encampment south of Wozhou, Jurchen soldiers donned their coats and felt hats, gathering amid shouts and calls before marching south out of the camp. Scouts had already been sent ahead; the next day, along the army’s line of advance, a small skirmish broke out, and the scouts hurried back to report.

Shuliesu rode his horse up a ridge and pulled out his telescope. On the far side of that snow-white range of mountains, an army was turning, and a moment later, a black banner rose.

The Jurchen army advanced straight toward the other side, forming battle lines. The opposing force halted; after a moment, the Jurchen army also slowed to a stop. The two armies faced each other for a time before the black banner slowly withdrew, and Shuliesu withdrew as well. Before long, both armies vanished back the way they had come, and it was nearly two hours before the scouts left behind to watch each other finally eased their tense standoff.

…

This was a minor incident in the war over the Jin region. Once it had passed, night fell and rose again, several times over; the snow-covered land showed no change in its appearance. A hundred li to the southwest, beyond range upon range of mountains, the white ground gave way to an endless expanse of small tents, rising and falling in gentle waves, seemingly without end.

This was a military camp of unknown size, soldiers moving among the tents. Our view swept forward, and a sound rose up — a drumbeat, followed by a voice, raised in the snowy field, old and resolute, its cadence rising and falling like a tide.

“…The wild grass, how boundless it stretches, the white poplars too, how they rustle and sigh!

“The bitter frost! In the ninth month! Sends me off — beyond the distant outskirts—”

The words being chanted were from Tao Yuanming’s elegy for the dead, traditionally sung at funerals. But its stirring, tragic cadence, sung in this white snow-covered sky, carried a bold, unflinching spirit that faced heaven and earth head-on. As the voice rose, the drums sounded again.

Ahead, on a vast white platform bristling with banners, the elegy continued. Beyond the platform stretched a great open field: first, row upon row of corpses wrapped in white cloth, and then ranks of soldiers extending endlessly into the distance. In the soldiers’ hands, crimson tassels gleamed like blood, while white mourning bands shone against their arms. At the very top of the platform stood the Prince of Jin, Tian Shi, clad in armor, a white cloth tied at his brow, his gaze fixed on the ranks below and the endless rows of the dead.

The elegy continued from the old man’s mouth at the front of the platform, on through the lines mourning how kin might grieve a while, while others soon return to their songs, and how, once dead, what more is there to say — the body given back to the mountain’s embrace. The drumbeat fell in time with the words, and then others chanted the offering, recounting the sacrifices these dead had made against the invading barbarians. Afterward, people lit torches, and in the heavy snow, the bodies were set ablaze, burning fiercely.

At Fenyang, a great memorial ceremony was underway.

…

Fifty li northwest of Wozhou, the main Jurchen encampment.

Regular Jurchen troops and supply columns that had marched out from Yanmen Pass, together with the surrendered Han troops that had joined them along the way, numbered in the hundreds of thousands — a gathering that already rivaled the largest cities of the age, and one that had developed its own distinct ecosystem within. Past countless rows of tents, in an open space near the central command, Wanyan Xiyin sat in a chair with a cup of tea, watching a bout of combat unfold before him. From time to time an aide would come to whisper something in his ear, or bring him a document to review; Xiyin’s gaze remained calm as he watched the match while dispatching each matter in a few brief words.

In the open space, two men were locked in combat, both tall and imposing. One was a Jurchen soldier; the other wore Han clothing, unarmored, and looked like an ordinary commoner. The Jurchen soldier was thickly built and strong as an ox, yet in this contest he was clearly no match for the Han commoner. This man looked like an ordinary civilian, but the calluses on his palms were thick, his reflexes quick, his strength considerable — in a short span of time he had sent the Jurchen soldier sprawling several times over.

That Jurchen soldier, fierce and hot-blooded by nature, had already spat blood after losing several rounds. He rose with a roar, seemingly overtaken by a killing fury. Xiyin, sitting there, clapped his hands. “Enough. Switch.”

He selected another Jurchen soldier, who removed his armor and weapon and stepped up again. Before long, this new fighter too had been felled, and Xiyin called a halt once more, preparing to switch again. That two proud Jurchen warriors had both been beaten by this Han man left the watching soldiers rather indignant; several men known in the camp for their skill volunteered eagerly, but Xiyin paid them no mind. After some thought, he instead selected a soldier of only middling skill to step forward.

This newly chosen Jurchen soldier, conscious of the honor now resting on his shoulders and aware of his own limitations, did not rush in recklessly this time, but tried instead to circle his opponent with clever footwork, hoping the three previous bouts had already worn the man down considerably. Yet the Han man fought with real spirit too, pressing forward again and again, his hands moving with fierce force, sending the Jurchen soldier stumbling and fleeing repeatedly.

The watching Jurchens cheered loudly, mixed with shouts of abuse. In the midst of the bout, a group of men approached from outside the ring; everyone turned to look and made to bow, but the man at the front waved them off, telling them not to disturb the match. He walked toward Xiyin — it was Wanyan Zonghan, the Jurchen marshal, returning from his daily rounds of the camp as usual. He glanced into the ring a few times. “Who is this? His skill is impressive.”

“He came out of the Huaxia Army,” Xiyin said, and this first sentence alone was enough to startle those listening. He continued, “He once served as a squad leader in the Huaxia Army, in command of more than thirty men.”

“Oh?” Zonghan raised his brows, and this time watched the bout with sharper attention. “With skill like that, he’d be worthy of a mouke’s rank in our own army. How did he come to leave?”

“He beat and cursed his own men,” Xiyin said. “I had someone look into it. It seems he habitually abused the soldiers under him and refused to change his ways after repeated warnings, and eventually clashed with his superiors.”

“That’s a case of offending the wrong people, then.” Zonghan chuckled. By now the bout in front of them had reached its conclusion; he stood and raised a hand, asking with a smile, “Warrior Gao, you served in the Black Banner Army before?”

The man called Gao Chuan cupped his hands and knelt. “I did.”

“Offended the wrong people, did you?”

Gao Chuan glanced at Xiyin, then at Zonghan, hesitated a moment, and finally said, “The Marshal sees clearly…”

Stories of offending the wrong people tend to sound much alike, and under Zonghan’s questioning, Gao Chuan recounted his own. Zonghan offered a few words of comfort. “If the Black Banner Army cannot make proper use of a warrior like you, that shows their moment of vigor won’t last long either. Stay in our army, serve faithfully, and glory will surely follow…” and so on.

Since Zonghan had already spoken, Xiyin said nothing further. The two men, both burdened with countless daily affairs, soon left together. Zonghan remarked, “You seemed a bit unconvinced by what I just said. I wonder why.”

“Marshal, what do you make of this force of some ten thousand men from the Huaxia Army in the north?”

“…If not for their small numbers, I would say they’re the one thing that truly worries me. Whether they can match that other force in the southwest, though, is still hard to say.”

“The victory over Li Xizhi came from coordinating with that Wang Shanyue. At Linzhou, it was Wang Juyun who launched the fierce assault at the front. Only at Linhe’ao did they truly show the full measure of their strength.” Xiyin spoke, then shook his head with a smile. “In all the realm today, if you ask who truly gives me pause, it’s that Master Ning in the southwest — first above all. In the northwest campaign, Loushi and Cibushi, men who strode unmatched across their era, still fell at his hand, and now, having chased him into the mountains of the southwest, with the fighting begun in the Central Plains, it’s still this black banner that people find most troublesome. A few days ago, when Shuliesu had that brief encounter with them, others said afterward that ‘against ten thousand, none can stand’ — and they no longer meant that of the Jurchens. Ha, ten years ago, who in this world would have dared say such a thing…”

“Ha ha, the age of the younger generation is coming.” Zonghan clapped Xiyin on the shoulder. “Let’s clear away these troubles for them before we take our leave. To stand as rivals to the heroes of this age — that alone makes a life worth living.”

Xiyin nodded, smiling as well. “My only regret is that I’ve never formally crossed swords with that Master Ning. It wasn’t until after the great battle in the northwest that I truly understood his skill — he trained up a man like Wanyan Qingjue. I had thought to test my own mettle further before turning my attention to him, but before I was ready, he was already captured… In that great battle in early the twelfth month, it was men of the Black Banner Army stationed at Weisheng — if they hadn’t stepped in, Tian Shi would already be dead. Ah, back and forth it goes — I cross swords with his disciples, he crosses swords with mine; win, and it’s nothing remarkable, lose, and it’s a great loss of face…”

He paused for a moment. “The Huaxia Army is famously strict in its discipline — that is Master Ning’s own doing. Their military code is fixed: senior officers are absolutely forbidden from beating or cursing their men in any manner that carries ‘insult’ or contempt. I have looked into this carefully. In training, on the battlefield, accidental injuries and rough shouting are treated as ordinary matters. But if an officer shows unequal regard for his soldiers, that is treated as a very grave matter indeed. To root this out, the Huaxia Army maintains dedicated military-law officers for exactly this purpose — light offenses bring a reprimand, serious ones bring dismissal. This man surnamed Gao, for all his martial skill and ruthlessness — a formidable soldier by any measure — was discharged for treating his men with contempt and abuse.”

“…Unequal?” Zonghan hesitated a moment before asking the question. It was a term he understood and did not understand at once. The people of the Jin state were themselves divided into ranks — Jurchens first, Bohai people second, Khitans third, Han people of the Liaodong region fourth, and only then the Han people of the south. And even outside the Jin state, the Wu Dynasty certainly had its own forms of “inequality” — would a scholar ever think to treat a mud-footed farmer as an equal? Among the poor, dull-witted men who took up soldiering merely to eat, plenty went a lifetime hardly speaking more than a few words; who would say it wasn’t perfectly ordinary for officers to beat and curse them as they pleased?

Given all this, Wanyan Zonghan naturally understood what “equality” meant in Xiyin’s words, and yet found it hard to truly grasp. After a pause, he asked again, and Xiyin finally nodded to confirm: “Yes. Unequal.”

“How could this possibly be achieved?”

“That’s exactly it — the Huaxia Army’s discipline is extremely strict, but if the men under someone fail to do their work, some beating and cursing is tolerated. It’s contempt in the heart that they truly will not allow — for that, they really will discharge a man. This fellow today — I questioned him repeatedly — was originally one of Zhu Biao’s own men… And that is precisely why this force of ten thousand cannot be underestimated.”

“Brothers-in-arms.” Hearing this, Zonghan’s smile faded. He clasped his hands behind his back and, brow furrowed, walked a distance before speaking again. “As for the matter of Tian Shi — you and I must not take it lightly.”

Xiyin stroked his beard and nodded. “Having crossed swords with them this time, I now see just how meticulous and careful the Huaxia Army is in its dealings. Still, even a man as careful as that Ning Liheng must have some oversight somewhere… Of course, that’s something we’ll only be able to confirm down in the south. Ten thousand-odd men, in the end, is still too few…”

…

The cold wind blew for a thousand li; the winter in the north was colder still. In Yunzhong Prefecture, water froze to ice the moment it fell. After the New Year, though the city carried a festive air, few were willing to venture outdoors.

Tang Minjie made his way through the alleys and met with Lu Mingfang in a warm room. News and intelligence from the south had just arrived, and Tang Minjie had also prepared word to send southward. The two men sat on the heated kang, and Lu Mingfang related the news to him in a low voice.

“…That upheaval at the end of the eleventh month appears to have been a plot Xiyin had prepared long in advance. It broke out suddenly after Tian Shi went missing, and nearly succeeded. But later Tian Shi made his way out of the snowfields and rejoined the main force; the situation stabilized within a few days, and after that, Xiyin’s window to strike again narrowed considerably…”

“…In that sense, Tian Shi’s side can be said to have scraped the poison from the bone — the internal losses were severe, but the Prince of Jin’s faction, most of whom used to sit on the fence, has been largely weeded out by now, and his grip on the army has actually strengthened as a result. And his resolve to resist the Jurchens is now beyond doubt, so some of those who were previously watching from the sidelines have already come over to his side. In the twelfth month, Zonghan concluded there wasn’t much point in a full assault, so he slowed his advance — likely waiting until spring, when the snow melts, to make his next move…”

As Lu Mingfang spoke, Tang Minjie tapped his fingers lightly on the table, running the whole situation through his mind. “They say a skilled commander values the element of surprise above all — with men as seasoned as Zonghan and Xiyin, might they strike before the thaw, to seize the advantage first…”

“That’s a matter for the front line — you and I aren’t really suited to judge it.” Lu Mingfang smiled. “Still, there’s something to what you say. The brothers heading north with news will set out after the New Year. Apparently that fellow Zhu Biao, taking advantage of the New Year festivities, slipped out on a raid to try to burn Shuliesu out of Wozhou and give the Jurchens a taste of humiliation — and Shuliesu had the very same idea, planning a surprise attack on the Tian family’s forces to the south. The two sides ran into each other on the road, stared each other down, and then each turned back. Shuliesu had brought out more than twenty thousand men that time and still didn’t dare move against Zhu Biao’s mere ten thousand — if that gets around, it’ll be a laughingstock.”

“Heh heh.” Tang Minjie offered a polite laugh, then said, “Wanting to strike by surprise and instead running head-on into the enemy, and not rashly attacking despite superior numbers — that shows Shuliesu commands his troops with real caution. All the more worrying, then.”

“Ha ha, it’s just a joke — but it’s not a bad thing to spread it that way, it does help with morale.”

“Mm.” Tang Minjie nodded, then pulled out a sheet of paper. “A few more names have turned up, ones not in the earlier roster. Pass them along and see if they’re of any use…”

He frowned, hesitated, then added, “I haven’t had much dealing with Xiyin before this, and I don’t understand his methods well enough. But I keep feeling — if I put myself in his position — that this whole campaign these past several months has actually been fought somewhat clumsily by Zonghan. Yes, there was that major move in the twelfth month, but… it still doesn’t feel like enough. If this were truly our teacher’s own hand at work, with the Prince of Jin’s faction sitting on the fence right under his nose for ten years, there’s no way he’d have so few contingencies in reserve.”

Hearing this, Lu Mingfang frowned as well. “There’s something to what you say. But from what we’ve found so far, Xiyin is a man whose strategic thinking runs broad and is strong on internal governance — but when it comes to outright scheming, heh, he’s probably no match for our teacher. Besides, the Prince of Jin’s faction set its course early on, and whatever you call what followed — scraping poison from the bone, or a warrior cutting off his own arm to survive — the price paid was enormous, and with our own side’s help besides. Whatever contingencies Xiyin might have planted beforehand, there’s a real chance many of them simply couldn’t be activated because of everything that’s happened.”

“I understand.” Tang Minjie nodded. “In truth, I may just be overthinking it. Back in the southwest, our teacher once told me that scheming needs imagination that ranges freely — but the greatest danger is empty, baseless speculation. I’ve been thinking too much, and that’s its own kind of harm.”

“You’re anxious for the south, everyone understands that. But… a war isn’t won by one or two people. For the sake of the south’s success, you and I have already done what we can, and that will have to be enough. Your health has never been good to begin with — our teacher warned you long ago that overthinking wears down the body. You should take a few days off, rest a while.”

“All right.” Tang Minjie nodded.

But Lu Mingfang knew he hadn’t taken the advice to heart, though there was nothing to be done about it. “I’ll get these names sent over as soon as I can. But, Brother Tang, there’s one more thing — I hear you’ve been in rather frequent contact with that person lately?”

“I haven’t imposed on her too much. It’s only that I’ve already come to think of Xiyin as an enemy, and there’s a great deal I need to understand. As for Xiyin’s contingencies in the Jin region, and his methods — I only hoped she might go over things with me once, since she understands Xiyin better than anyone… It’s possible she finds it distasteful. I’ll be careful, and won’t trouble her too much going forward.”

“Mm.” Hearing this, Lu Mingfang nodded. “She isn’t one of us, after all, and though her heart lies with the Han people, over these twenty or thirty years, Xiyin has become family to her all the same. This is her own sacrifice. Our teacher said we mustn’t take that lightly.”

“Understood.”

“…Take care of yourself.”

Tang Minjie tied on his felt hat, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the icy world beyond the door, his mind never once slowing. Against enemies like Zonghan and Xiyin, no amount of vigilance could ever be excessive; as for his health — once the enemy was dead, there would be plenty of time to rest…

…

At Fenzhou, the great memorial ceremony was drawing to its close.

As Tian Shi came down from the platform, he saw the leaders of the various factions who had gathered there. A memorial for the fallen soldiers could rouse morale, and it doubled as a proclamation reaffirming the cause of resistance against the Jurchens. More significant still, this occasion marked an alliance among factions that had each already shown their resolve to resist.

In the time before, the fighting across the Prince of Jin’s territory had been fierce, and everyone had lived through days that felt like years. In early the twelfth month, during the days when Tian Shi went missing, the many collaborators Xiyin had planted in advance had struck one after another — rebellion broke out in Linzhou, the defender of Huguan Pass, Wu Su, defected to the enemy, several great clans in Weisheng began quietly conspiring, and word that Tian Shi was dead spread everywhere else. It had seemed for a time that the entire Prince of Jin’s domain would collapse within a matter of days.

Fortunately, Lou Shuwan, together with the Huaxia Army’s Zhan Wu, had rushed about tirelessly and just barely managed to hold Weisheng steady. Zhu Biao’s Black Banner Army, sent by the Huaxia Army, had also arrived just in time at the Linzhou front — though before that, if Wang Juyun had not made the decisive call to press a fierce three-day assault on Linzhou with his own forces, even the arrival of the Black Banner might not have been enough to seize Linzhou before the army of the Jurchen Wanyan Shaba arrived.

Elsewhere, large and small struggles and clashes had continued without pause. By the middle of the twelfth month, Tian Shi finally led his party out of that heavy snow, and within a few days word that he was alive and safe had spread across the whole region. The entirety of the Prince of Jin’s domain had, in effect, walked once around the gates of ruin.

And it was precisely through this process that the faction led by Tian Shi, Yu Yulin, and Lou Shuwan finally gained a real measure of choice and capacity to act in the matter of resisting the Jurchens. Otherwise, what would explain a million-strong army under the Prince of Jin’s banner being defeated again and again as it marched north? Tian Shi, Yu Yulin, and the others had lived in constant fear of being stabbed in the back, and the soldiers themselves were every bit as anxious, ready to scatter at the first setback — though these were truths Tian Shi only came to understand, more brutally than any prior guess could have suggested, once he was actually on the battlefield.

By now, no one had the slightest doubt left about the Prince of Jin’s resolve to resist the Jurchens. Many soldiers had deserted, many had died — but those who remained could finally be relied upon. Wang Juyun had come to recognize the Prince of Jin’s resolve, and this resolve had won over some who had still been watching from the sidelines; in the great upheaval of the twelfth month, they too had contributed their strength. Those inclined to defect to the Jurchens, meanwhile — those who meant to act — had by this point largely been identified and cast out.

Over the following month, the Jurchens did not press a full assault. Wang Juyun’s forces had already been compressed within the Prince of Jin’s territory, and were even cooperating with Tian Shi’s faction on matters of consolidation and reorganization. Some bandits and volunteer militias north of the Yellow River, sensing this was their last chance to openly raise the banner of resistance against the Jurchens, finally came to pledge their allegiance. The vision Tian Shi had once spoken of — becoming the leading force of resistance in the Central Plains — was, after such a brutal price paid, beginning to take shape in reality.

On the day of the ceremony, the leader of the wandering armies, Wang Juyun, came leading his troops; Zhu Biao of the Black Banner arrived as well; the great bandit chief Ji Qingli of the west came; the leader of the Great Brightness Sect, Lin Zongwu, came; and besides these, there was Yu Yulin, along with representatives of a number of senior generals within the Prince of Jin’s own system, and representatives of folk militias such as Shi Jin, the Eight-Armed Dragon King. Nearly every large and small anti-Jurchen force in the region had sent someone to attend.

Some of these men had known each other before; some had even had prior conflicts; and some were meeting for the first time. Wang Juyun, leader of the wandering armies, carried a pair of swords slung across his back; his face was solemn, his hair entirely white, though a certain scholarly refinement lingered about him even so. He had originally been Wang Yin, a minister under Fang La during the Yongle regime. After the fall of that regime, he had at one point betrayed Fang Qifo, Fang Baihua, and others, and had even crossed swords remotely with Ning Yi and his people. He then vanished for several years, only to resurface building up an operation of his own amid the chaos south of Yanmen Pass.

Representing the Huaxia Army in person was Zhu Biao, who by now ranked among the finest fighters in the realm. Looking back, when Chen Fan had gone to the capital to seek aid over the matter of Fang Qifo, Zhu Biao had been involved in the whole affair as well. Though this Minister Wang’s own conduct in that matter had been elusive at the time, Ning Yi had, in the years since, come to sense certain things about his hidden role in it. At Linzhou, the two sides had fought side by side to take the city; Zhu Biao never brought up the old affair, but both men understood it silently — the small grudge of years past no longer mattered, and standing together now, they could still be counted reliable comrades in arms.

The other familiar face, Lin Zongwu, occupied a somewhat more awkward position. This “greatest under heaven” monk was not particularly well liked. Zhu Biao looked down on him, and Wang Yin seemed to have no intention of pursuing their own old grievances either. Though his followers numbered in the millions, they proved to have little real fighting strength when it came to actual combat.

During the first siege of Wozhou, Lin Zongwu had at least fought alongside the defenders and held out until the siege was lifted. After that, he had dragged his army toward the front lines, making a great deal of noise while accomplishing little — by his own reckoning, he’d been hoping to find some guaranteed victory to fight, or the right moment to strike a decisive blow and win great glory. But no such easy opportunity presented itself; eventually he ran into Wanyan Shaba, who had failed to take Linzhou, and had his own army scattered. Though he escaped outright massacre and later regrouped part of his forces, his position at this alliance meeting amounted to little more than an afterthought.

The recognition everyone showed toward Tian Shi looked, on the surface, like a moment of boundless glory — the very sort of thing that, imagined months earlier, would have seemed enough to fill a man with pride. But only by living through these several brushes with death could Tian Shi finally grasp the true difficulty and weight of it all. When the alliance meeting ended that day, word came from the northern border that the Jurchens were stirring — though it seemed likely to be only a feint.

Tian Shi then set off on the carriage ride back to Weisheng. Having been through several close brushes with death, he found himself longing for the wife and children waiting at home, and even for the father who had been kept under house arrest all this time — he wished he could go see him too. He only hoped Lou Shuwan would show mercy and hadn’t done away with him yet.

The carriage train made its slow way through the snow. He understood now that in this brief pause within the frozen world, he would soon have to set out on the road once more — and after this, perhaps no one would have any more chance to catch their breath.

The Jurchen main camp.

Wanyan Xiyin sat bent over his desk in his tent, working by the warm yellow lamplight, attending to the day’s business.

Suddenly, the wind blew through, carrying word from far away…