In Xuzhou, a fine drizzle fell from the sky, the air cold and dismally overcast.
Li Zhuohui, staff officer of the Third Division, Fifth Army of Huaxia, crossed the modest courtyard. Upon reaching the corridor, he took off the straw raincoat covering him and shook the water droplets from his body.
Walking through the corridor ahead, more than a dozen officers had already gathered in the courtyard, exchanging greetings with one another. This was the routine morning meeting, but due to what had happened the day before, its scope had been expanded.
Outside Xuzhou’s walls, the skeletal corpse of that Huaxia Army soldier still hung from a wooden pole. Though it was said that war always brought death, and that those sent outside the city already faced tremendous danger such that no special action would normally be taken over any one individual, today Li Zhuohui’s heart still held a somewhat different feeling.
Perhaps a certain moment had arrived. Yesterday Li Zhuohui had been responsible for verifying the identity of the corpse outside the city, and in the evening he had exchanged views with several officers in the army—some radical, some cautious. But by today, Li Zhuohui had decided he would bring the matter up at the meeting.
Before long, Division Commander Liu Chengzong arrived in the courtyard, and everyone filed into the room. The morning briefing usually covered several agenda items; Li Zhuohui began by reporting on the identity of the corpse outside the city.
The victim’s name was Fang Mu, twenty-nine years old this year—a veteran scout of the Huaxia Army. More than a decade earlier he had been a homeless orphan wandering the streets of the capital, taken in and trained by the Bamboo Society. He had lived through the defense of Bianliang, through the regicide and rebellion, and later through repeated great battles in the northwest, having also done undercover work for a time within the Bamboo Society.
He already had a wife and child in the mountains of Liangshan, and in principle he should not have been sent out of the city. But over these years, the Huaxia Army had fought through many great battles; men of valor were plentiful, but those who were both steady and tactful enough to be suited for spy work were scarce—at least within this division of some eight thousand men, such men were in short supply. Fang Mu had volunteered for this assignment outside the city. At the time, he had said he would go undercover among the starving mobs, where he wouldn’t have to face hard combat on the battlefield, and might have an easier chance of surviving.
“…’I still have a wife and child to look after at home, and I’m thin besides—outside the city, I’ll have an easier time staying alive…’ That’s what he said at the time. Who would have thought… he’d be discovered…”
Having finished speaking, Li Zhuohui sat back down. Liu Chengzong nodded, discussed the matter of Fang Mu for a while longer, and then moved on to other items on the agenda. Li Zhuohui was turning over in his mind when would be the right moment to raise his own thoughts for discussion, when, after a while, Luo Ye, commander of the special forces regiment seated to the side and slightly ahead, stood up.
“Division Commander Liu, everyone. I have an idea.”
“Go ahead,” said Liu Chengzong with a nod.
“I think it’s time we fought a battle,” Luo Ye said. “Strike the starving mobs. Kill Wang Shitong.”
The officers in the room exchanged glances. Liu Chengzong thought for a moment. “For Fang Mu’s sake?”
“Fang Mu can be a reason, but the main thing is that I believe the time has come.”
“Oh?”
“I say this for the following reasons.” Liu Chengzong looked at Luo Ye with a questioning gaze; Luo Ye met his eyes evenly and continued: “First, what is our purpose in coming to Xuzhou? Thirty thousand Jurchen troops against our eight thousand-odd men—holding Xuzhou by relying on the strength of its walls? We already dismissed that as unworkable in our military discussions last year. Holding the line, street fighting, withdrawal, harassment… even in the most optimistic scenario, we will eventually abandon Xuzhou city and shift into guerrilla warfare and harassment. So our real purpose is to buy time, to build a name for ourselves, and to give as much of a boost as possible to the resistance forces across the Central Plains and even the Yangtze River basin.”
“…Given that purpose, then, what do these hundreds of thousands of starving people outside the city mean to us? Spring is coming, and the Jurchens are about to descend on us. We could hope that these hundreds of thousands of starving people become a natural shield for us—in other words, we wait for the Jurchens to slaughter their way through hundreds of thousands of starving people before finally reaching the walls of Xuzhou… That looks like a fine strategy on the surface, but I think this choice is deeply passive.”
“…First, consider the fighting strength of these starving people. Hundreds of thousands of them, nearly starved to death—when it comes to harassing the Jurchens, even if I were Wanyan Zongfu, I’d find it troublesome. But if the thirty thousand regular Jurchen troops truly decide to treat the starving mobs as an enemy and are determined to strike through them, the mob’s resistance will, in fact, be quite limited. Watching hundreds of thousands of people be slaughtered right beneath our walls, and then having to hold the city afterward—that would deal a heavy blow to our morale as well.”
“…Second, the Jurchens outside the city have already begun a strategy of dividing and coopting the starving mobs. These starving people are formidable in their desperation, but… once faced with a split, once offered a way out, they simply cannot resist that temptation. So this shield of hundreds of thousands looks impressive, but in reality it wouldn’t hold up at all. And yet, the lives and deaths of these hundreds of thousands of people still weigh heavily on us…”
Luo Ye paused. “Over these past few months, we’ve watched from within Xuzhou as they starved to death outside. It wasn’t our fault, but it still leaves one with an indescribable sense of despair. But turning it around—if we now break up this mass of starving people gathered outside the city, what good would that do?”
He raised a hand. “First, it would obviously boost morale. Second, these starving people have gathered at Xuzhou because of Wang Shitong—once we kill Wang Shitong, these hundreds of thousands of survivors will scatter. The situation around them is dire, and the road south is difficult, but… a portion of them will survive. This is the only good deed within our power to do. Third, with hundreds of thousands of people scattering all at once, the people of Xuzhou might also be swept up in this larger tide, beginning to move south—and even all the residents south of Xuzhou might sense this mood and head south in search of their last chance at survival.”
“Division Commander, everyone.” Luo Ye took a breath and pointed toward the window. “Spring has already arrived, the snow will soon be gone, and this great battle is coming no matter what. Shall we let the hundreds of thousands of lives outside the city buy us ten days or half a month? Or shall we seize the initiative ourselves, and strike a preemptive blow before the Jurchens arrive? What we need is the strength and resolve of the entire resistance across the Central Plains. As Master Ning said, we need to play this show well—there’s no need to cower and wait for the Jurchens to make the first move. If Wang Shitong is truly turned by the Jurchens, we’ll only have gained a horde of new enemies, and it will become that much harder for us to withdraw from Xuzhou when the time comes.”
As Luo Ye spoke, Li Zhuohui raised his hand from the back: “I… I feel the same way…” Liu Chengzong, from the front, looked at Luo Ye: “Well said, but what’s the specific plan? What about our losses?”
I have a plan—Li Zhuohui thought to himself. But just then, Luo Ye, seated to the side and ahead, spoke again: “Last night I discussed this with several regiment commanders and drew up a plan overnight. Once the starving mob goes on the offensive, their endless numbers can be troublesome, but their capacity to resist an assault is limited. We’ve already planted a number of our own people among them—we only need to pinpoint Wang Shitong’s location and drive in at high speed with an elite force. Killing Wang Shitong won’t be difficult. Of course, we also need to plan for what happens after his death—we’ll need to activate the agents we’ve already planted among the starving mob to guide them into scattering southward. This part still needs further refinement and a few more days of coordination…”
Luo Ye handed the plan forward, explaining its steps as he did. Li Zhuohui and the others began nodding in agreement. After a while, Liu Chengzong at the front finally nodded. “Let’s discuss it further. Any objections?” He looked around the room.
After a moment, Liu Chengzong began to smile, and in that smile there was a trace of a commander’s earnest, ruthless resolve. His voice rang out in the room.
“…Pass the plan around, let everyone weigh in on it. Li Zhuohui, I can see you have thoughts on this too—refine it, and have the formal outcome ready by this afternoon. If there’s no clearer or more detailed objection, then, as you’ve said…”
He stood up and rapped his knuckles on the table.
“Spring has arrived… kill Wang Shitong as an offering to the banner!”
A thousand li northwest of Xuzhou, the flames and smoke of war had not yet cleared.
On the Linzhou battlefield, the fierce fighting was gradually subsiding as time passed.
It was hard to pinpoint exactly when the Jurchen army’s retreat had begun, but by the end of the hour of Si, around noon, a large-scale withdrawal had clearly become the trend. Wang Juyun led the Prince Ming army in a push toward the northeast, and felt the resistance along the way growing weaker.
The Jin soldiers were in full retreat. Some units, still led by their officers, continued to put up resistance against the Prince Ming army even as they withdrew; other routed Jin troops had lost all cohesion and fighting strength, and when they encountered the still-formidable Prince Ming army, they were hunted down and cut apart along the way. Wang Juyun rode on horseback, watching it all unfold.
Shulisu—along with Yinshuke and Balishu—had been one of the core generals under Wanyan Zonghan. After Aguda’s death, the Jin state had split into two power centers, east and west, and the army under Wanyan Zonghan’s command was even strong enough to outweigh the Jurchen imperial army controlled by Wuqimai. The Jurchen elite troops under Shulisu’s command were among the most formidable forces Wang Juyun had ever encountered—yet this time, facing the very core of Jurchen elite strength, was the one time he had won so easily.
He had not personally witnessed the events of the preceding hours, but everything he encountered along the way—the black-banner survivors he met, fought nearly to the point of collapse—spoke to just how brutal the mutual slaughter of the past several hours had been. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, Wang Juyun would have found it hard to believe that this army, still holding up its black banner, had had its ranks broken apart again and again in successive clashes, only to keep regrouping and re-engaging the Jurchens in repeated bloody combat.
Even now, having witnessed it himself, he still found it hard to believe. Ever since the Jurchens had swept across the realm, boasting that ten thousand of them were unbeatable, more than thirty thousand elite Jurchen troops, facing barely ten thousand men of the Black Banner Army, had this very morning been utterly and thoroughly routed.
Across the battlefield, among the routed and wounded soldiers, word spread that “Shulisu is dead,” though no one knew if it was true. At the same time, among the Jurchens and some of the scattered Han troops, rumors circulated of “Zhu Biao is dead” and even “Master Ning is dead” and other such chaotic nonsense—likewise, no one knew if any of it was true. The only certain thing was that even amid this swirl of rumor, both sides had fought this chaotic, drawn-out battle all the way to this point.
Around the quarter-hour before noon, Wang Juyun found Zhu Biao on the battlefield, directing every soldier still able to move in rescuing the wounded. Across the field, mud and blood mixed together, corpses sprawled endlessly in every direction, and the banners of the Huaxia Army and the Jurchens lay tangled together. The main Jurchen force had already withdrawn. Zhu Biao, drenched in blood from head to toe, swayed on his feet as he waved toward Wang Juyun: “Help save people!”
His voice was already hoarse. Wang Juyun had already led his men rushing over to help; the old man caught hold of Zhu Biao, who managed a smile and then waved his hand: “Look carefully! Look carefully—some of them aren’t dead…” He smiled. “They’re just spent, exhausted—hurry and help them up…”
Across the battlefield, many lay motionless among the piles of corpses, yet their eyes were still open. As the fighting ended, many had exhausted the last of their strength; they sat or lay down to rest, and once they rested, they often never woke again.
Some soldiers died at exactly this moment.
More people kept arriving from the distance. Scouts, utterly spent, relayed news from various fronts across the battlefield—contact had been made with Huyan Zhuo, with Qin Ming, with Shi Guang’en. Zhu Biao and Wang Juyun received these reports together; each time news came confirming someone had survived, Zhu Biao would smile: “So this fellow’s not dead yet, huh…” But there was also disheartening news.
Before long, word came of Guan Sheng and Li Jiakai—relayed by riders Wang Juyun himself had sent out—and following behind them, stretcher-bearers were already making their way over, bringing with them accounts of that harrowing assassination.
“Would you look at this dumpling…”
As the stretchers approached, Zhu Biao pointed at the man on one of them and burst out laughing without a shred of restraint, laughing until tears streamed down his face. Lu Junyi’s body lay wrapped tightly in bandages atop the stretcher, his face utterly pale, his breathing faint—he looked desperately pitiful.
“That wound to the chest is severe. Whether he’ll pull through… it’s hard to say.”
The army physician accompanying them spoke with difficulty. He already knew about Lu Junyi’s slaying of Shulisu and so was giving him especially close attention. On the stretcher beside him, another “dumpling” stirred slightly, his gaze shifting this way.
“Someone with martial skill as high as his won’t die that easily.”
This was Li Jiakai. He had led over a hundred men originally meant to draw Shulisu’s attention while waiting for Guan Sheng’s group to arrive. When he noticed the disturbance over in the woods and rushed over, he found Lu Junyi and the few companions with him already fighting with no way out. Lu Junyi had taken several more blade wounds; three of his companions were still alive at that point. By the time Li Jiakai arrived, Lu Junyi had already collapsed; not long after, Guan Sheng arrived with his men, and the Jurchen force, having lost its commander, began a large-scale withdrawal—the order for the rest of the units to retreat was likely also issued around then by whichever officer had taken over command.
Of Lu Junyi’s special-forces companions who had fought alongside him the whole way, one more had since died of his wounds despite treatment; of the two remaining, one looked over and said: “That last strike that killed Shulisu—his horse… it knocked Instructor Lu flying. If it hadn’t been for that, Instructor Lu probably wouldn’t have made it this far…”
Zhu Biao nodded. Wang Juyun, beside him, asked: “And Shulisu?”
“Unknown… the Jurchens didn’t leave the body behind…”
Wang Juyun nodded as well, cupping his hands in a gesture of respect. The medics then carried the wounded away. After a while, Guan Sheng and the others arrived as well, and a little later still, a figure made its way toward the medical corps—from a distance, it was Yan Qing, who had once been so active across the battlefield.
A cold wind blew across the vast, sprawling battlefield. Across this plain, woodland, valley, and hillside that had witnessed such fierce fighting, figures moved back and forth, tying up the last loose ends. Campfires were lit, tents raised, water boiled, and people continued searching through the piles of corpses for any trace of survivors. Many had died, and naturally many had also survived. Once the various reports had roughly taken shape, Zhu Biao sat down on the slope, while Wang Juyun looked toward the distance: “This battle will surely shake the world.”
Far off, someone beneath a tree was playing a tune on a leaf—utterly at odds with this atmosphere of war and iron, and yet it lent the surroundings a warm, quiet air.
“A pity that one battle can’t save the whole realm,” said Zhu Biao.
“There has to be a beginning somewhere.” Wang Juyun’s voice was always steady and composed. After a moment, he continued: “Over ten years ago, in Hangzhou, I crossed paths with that Master Ning a few times—though I can’t recall it clearly now… With this battle, the morale of the armies in Jin territory will rise, and the Jurchens can no longer boast of being unbeatable. General Zhu…”
He turned to Zhu Biao, seeming to want to say something more, but in the end said nothing of the sort. At last he only said: “After such a great battle, you should go rest. I’ll see to matters here in the aftermath. Take care of yourself, so you’ll be fit for the next great battle.”
Zhu Biao stood up. He knew that the old man before him was also a truly great figure—during the Yongle reign he had been Minister Wang Yin, both civil and martial, dignified and commanding, yet also ruthless when it came to it. After the fall of the Yongle dynasty, he had even personally betrayed Fang Baihua and others in exchange for another rising foundation of power. And now, facing the Jurchens who threatened to overturn the realm, the old man had once again thrown himself, without hesitation, onto the front line of resistance, casting his entire fortune—built up over years—into the tide of the war against the Jin with an almost cold resolve.
“I’m in your debt, Marshal Wang.” Zhu Biao bowed to him; Wang Juyun returned the gesture. Then Zhu Biao slowly walked toward the tents that had been set up. It was already afternoon; beneath the cold, overcast light, the campfires cast a warm glow, illuminating the busy figures moving about.
Wang Yin watched these retreating figures.
Far away, the Jurchen army was still gradually regrouping amid a bleak, sorrowful retreat; no one could quite believe the outcome before them. No one could believe that thirty thousand troops had suffered such a crushing defeat in open battle—something that had never once happened in twenty years of sweeping across the realm.
Across the whole of Jin territory, across the whole realm, few yet knew this firsthand news. In Weisheng city, Lou Shuwan raised her head in the bitter cold, murmuring calculations under her breath. She had not slept soundly in over half a month; during this time, she had been arranging various negotiations, promises, threats, and assassinations, all while, like a miser, calculating day after day the resources at her disposal, hoping to gain more strength amid the coming fragmentation.
Many times her head ached fit to split. Before long, news would arrive that would let her finally sleep soundly—and in her dreams, she would meet Ning Yi.
You Hongzhuo moved through the dim streets and alleys, the long blade at his side drawn from its sheath. In these days, Weisheng was fracturing; shameless men preached theories of surrender, forming factions and taking sides. You Hongzhuo had killed quite a few of them, and had taken some wounds himself.
In the Tianji Palace, Shi Jin, responsible for its defense, faced the towering city walls each day with a clear, undistracted mind. If the day ever came when this great tower fell, he would face the enemy outside and deliver one final, desperate strike. And it would also be not long after this that light would shine in from beyond the tower, and he would hear some familiar names, hear news concerning them.
At the Jurchen main camp, Wanyan Xiyin was likewise calculating the shifting fortunes of the war. The snow had melted, the ice dissolved; over two hundred thousand troops stood ready and waiting. Once the inevitable outcome from Linzhou arrived, his next move would begin to unfold in earnest…
South, in Xuzhou, three days later.
The Third Division of Huaxia’s Fifth Army, over eight thousand strong, seemed to have been set alight by something—gears locking into place, beginning to turn faster and faster. Certain pieces of information passed quietly beneath the calm surface, and the scent of war was already brewing rapidly in the air.
Li Anmao, the prefect of Xuzhou, had sensed some trace of this. These past two days he had come by more often, probing indirectly, trying to learn what was going on.
In the staff headquarters, the plan had already been completed, and the various groundwork and liaison efforts were drawing to a close. On the morning of February twelfth, hurried footsteps rang out in the courtyard of the staff headquarters—someone had brought urgent news.
“Outside Xuzhou city—something’s happened—”