“Quick, quick, quick…”

“Careful…”

“Don’t block the wounded…”

“Move aside! Move aside—”

A chaotic din of voices mingled together. Soldiers pouring in through the city gate clogged the roads, and every kind of odor spread through the air—the smell of gunpowder smoke, the stench of scorched things, the reek of blood—weaving together, amid people’s shouts, the moans of the wounded, and the whinnying of injured warhorses, into a scene called war.

A squad of imperial guards in bright yellow armor came down from the city wall to help direct the roads and manage the crowds. Off to one side of the road, Lou Shuwan strode quickly up onto the wall, and looking out from the ramparts, saw the routed soldiers streaming back endlessly from the hills.

“Tell the grain convoy to turn around and go out through the southwest gate. This road can’t be used for now.”

“Going southwest means quite a detour…” said an accompanying official.

“Then let it detour.”

“Yes.”

The official took his orders and left, descending the wall to merge into the chaotic crowd below. Lou Shuwan headed down as well, trusted guards at her side, Shi Jin following along the whole way. As she descended the wall, she issued two more swift orders—first, to have the routed soldiers inside the city held and reorganized at fixed locations, not allowed to scatter throughout the whole city; second, hoping that Yu Yulin’s forces still out in the field could cut off any pursuers chasing the routed troops.

After the land of Jin split apart, the great clans led by Liao Yiren had thrown in their lot with the Jurchens, and the first thing he did upon submitting to them was to mobilize all his forces and march against Yu Yulin, Lou Shuwan, and the others who refused to surrender. The Prince of Jin’s faction, once capable of raising over a million troops, now first found itself facing internal strife, and behind the Han soldiers on the front line, Zonghan and Xiyin’s armies advanced relentlessly, bearing down on Weisheng like an overwhelming tide.

Of the five defensive lines built north of Weisheng using the terrain to advantage, four had already fallen. Yu Yulin was out fighting on the front, while Lou Shuwan, in Weisheng, worked on one hand to stabilize morale and internal administration, and on the other to relocate the army, the people, and supplies. Every day brought news of defeat and death; the bodies pulled daily from the wounded-soldiers’ camp piled up like mountains, and the stench of blood was clear even within the towering Tianji Palace.

“…There’s a stretch on the west side of the Zi River where the bridge collapsed last year—during the spring flood, carts won’t be able to cross easily. Send Li Hu with a pontoon bridge team to bridge the water when they reach it. This grain must reach its destination within three days, and they must rush back to bring the second shipment… Also, notify He Yi…”

The procession was passing through the streets, alongside a stream of routed soldiers heading the other way, when the woman in black, still speaking, suddenly froze, then quickly stepped sideways toward the front, moving in two strides at once. This caused the column of routed soldiers to falter slightly; some recognized who she was, and a ripple of unease passed through them. The woman walked up to a line of stretchers, examining the blood-streaked face on one of them.

The man on the stretcher had his eyes closed, his breath faint—whether from having fainted or from sheer exhaustion, it was hard to say. His lips parted slightly, trembling with pain. Lou Shuwan lifted the blood-stained white cloth covering him, and when she saw the state of what lay below his knees, her gaze flickered for a moment before she drew the cloth back over him.

“…Both legs gone. He might still live, my lady…”

Shi Jin stepped in close beside her, quietly gesturing toward a growing disturbance behind them caused by the slowing of the column. Lou Shuwan nodded and stepped back; the surging tide of people flowed forward, and before long the man on the stretcher had been carried off into the distance, out of sight. A trusted aide beside her asked, “My lady, shall I go find out where this man is being taken?”

Lou Shuwan paused, then nodded reflexively, before shaking her head instead. “No… never mind… I just recognized him…”

Recognized, but not close to him—perhaps it didn’t matter, either way.

The middle-aged man on the stretcher was named Zeng Yuhuai—the old-fashioned scholar who, before the war with the Jurchens broke out, had once confessed his feelings to her in that courtyard full of lantern flowers. When war came, he had gone to the front. She had never paid him much attention; she had assumed a man like him would end up serving some army as a clerk or scribe. Sometimes she thought that this pedantic scholar might well die somewhere without her ever knowing—that was simply what war was.

She had never imagined that this Zeng Yuhuai would still be alive today, in the midst of such chaos and slaughter, and she had certainly never imagined that between the two of them there would be this brief, fleeting glimpse. On the stretcher, Zeng Yuhuai’s legs, severed at the knee, were soon swallowed up by the surging tide of people moving forward.

Just like the countless others swallowed up by this tide of war…

She clenched her fists, and after a moment, drew a deep breath, forcing down the suffocating feeling that gripped her whole body, and walked on.

“…Notify—notify He Yi. As for the Wenshu Pavilion, I won’t have time to go there myself. All the books stored there must be loaded onto carts by tonight, without exception. The curios and antiques can be moved to the Tianji Palace a few days later. If the books haven’t left by tonight, I’ll deal with him under military law…”

The procession continued forward, and afterward came the carriage. By the time she returned to the Tianji Palace, columns of carts and horses were passing through the side gate into the palace grounds—some loaded with the rare curios and treasures collected over the years across the land of Jin, others with pine oil, timber, and similar materials. A palace attendant came to report that several officials were requesting an audience; upon hearing their names, Lou Shuwan paid no further attention.

She and Shi Jin and the others climbed up onto the walls of the Tianji Palace. In the sky, the setting sun was sinking, and the chaos within and beyond the city walls spread out before her eyes. Pine oil and antiques flowed into the palace; the legless Zeng Yuhuai had, by now, vanished somewhere unknown; countless people within the city sought to flee, yet there were also those still tilling and planting the newly reclaimed land outside the walls, hoping this blind conflagration would leave at least some of them a way to survive.

Below the wall, a noisy commotion arose. It was the elderly officials who had come earlier requesting an audience; venerable and highly respected, they climbed the wall and, coming before Lou Shuwan, began laying out the importance and preciousness of those rare curios and antiques.

“…I’ve moved them into the palace only to see them properly protected. These items were merely what the Tiger King collected in his day—the treasures held by each of your households I have not touched, not so much as a hair’s worth. None of you need worry…”

Lou Shuwan answered them with a set of practiced, formulaic phrases, but the crowd was unconvinced—some openly called out her lies on the spot, others earnestly recounted the preciousness of these antiques, urging her to spare some of the transport capacity to move the items out as well. Lou Shuwan simply watched them in silence.

“All you venerable elders are men of great learning and standing—do you know the story of King Goujian of Yue and King Helü of Wu?”

Her body was weary; she leaned against the wall for a moment, pausing, yet her eyes held a cold, clear light.

“The Grand Historian records: ‘In the first year, King Helü of Wu, hearing of the death of Yun Chang, raised an army to attack Yue. King Goujian of Yue sent condemned men to issue a challenge—they formed three ranks, advanced to the Wu battle line, and, shouting aloud, cut their own throats. The Wu army, watching this, was thrown into disorder, and Yue struck, seizing the moment to attack the Wu forces, defeating Wu at Zuili.’ I needn’t explain what this means, need I?”

As she told the story, the crowd’s expressions grew visibly uncertain. The meaning of the story was, of course, clear to everyone present—this was the very first battle after King Goujian’s ascension to the throne of Yue. King Helü of Wu, hearing of the death of King Yun Chang of Yue, raised an army to punish Goujian. Goujian selected a squad of men condemned to die, and before the battle began, these men stepped forward and, in full view of the Wu troops, drew their swords and cut their own throats, all of them, one after another. Seeing the men of Yue so utterly indifferent to death, the Wu soldiers’ morale broke, and they were finally crushed—King Helü of Wu himself was gravely wounded in that battle and died from it.

The setting sun burned a deep red, the vast evening clouds seeming to set the whole sky ablaze. Atop the wall, the woman in black, one hand braced against the stone, looked both slight and unshakably resolute. The evening wind stirred the hem of her robe and skirts, and yet, at this moment, the body beneath those garments seemed, somehow, made of steel—standing firm between heaven and earth, immovable.

She looked at the assembled officials, and for a while, everyone fell silent.

“If Zonghan comes here, I won’t leave him so much as a single roof tile… one of you may tell him that.”

The officials exchanged glances, visibly shaken. Then, one after another, they began declaring their resolve to resist the Jurchens.

Below the wall, the antiques and kindling continued flowing into the palace; only weapons and grain were sent out beyond the city walls.

This confrontation atop the wall ended, naturally, on an unhappy note; after the officials left the palace grounds and heard of Lou Shuwan’s attitude, in truth only a small number of them felt any real displeasure. Inside the palace, Lou Shuwan returned to her chambers and asked a palace attendant about Zhan Wu’s whereabouts; upon learning he was not currently within the city, she did not press further. “General Zhu Biao’s Black Banner Army—where are they now?”

“The latest word, from last night—they’ve already reached Daming Prefecture.”

“…” Lou Shuwan fell silent for a long while, silent enough that the room seemed almost to hum with the faint sound of it, before finally nodding. “…Oh.”

The evening glow swept across the sky, and all things, in the end, would be devoured by this raging tide. That year, in the fifth month, when Zonghan’s army broke through the gates of Weisheng, the entire city burned for three days in a raging fire, reduced entirely to ash. Just as Lou Shuwan had said—not even a single roof tile was left for the Jurchens.

In the southwest, the fourth month, the late-spring weather had begun to turn clear and bright. Across the Chengdu Plain, spring planting had already long since finished.

Zhuo Yongqing served as liaison officer between the Fifth Army and Headquarters, temporarily residing in Chen Village.

In the second month he had gotten engaged to He Xiuding, a lame woman from Jiading. Though it was called an engagement, the whole process had left even him somewhat bewildered. On the groom’s side, it had been handled entirely by elder brothers like Hou Wu and Qu Qing acting on his behalf; on the bride’s side, her older sister He Ying—who had once been quite critical of him—had, of all people, become the staunchest advocate for the match. This was perhaps out of consideration that her younger sister, being introverted and lame, was unlikely to find a better husband elsewhere.

Though most of the arrangements had been handled by others, Zhuo Yongqing himself had, of course, given the matter careful thought before nodding his consent to the match. The engagement ceremony had been personally presided over by Master Ning himself, which counted as a matter of considerable honor.

However, once the engagement was settled, Zhuo Yongqing found himself treated by his sister-in-law-to-be, He Ying, as free labor—she called on him to help with spring planting and farm work, no longer standing on ceremony. Even so, this elder sister was hardly lazy herself; when Zhuo Yongqing went out to plant rice seedlings, she went out and planted alongside him, and her pace was, if anything, no slower than that of this young man in the prime of his strength—something that made Zhuo Yongqing look at her with newfound respect. While the two of them worked, the younger sister, He Xiuding, would often watch from the edge of the field, bringing them food and water. Though the labor was demanding and left them little time to rest, it often gave Zhuo Yongqing a genuine sense of inner peace.

Yet the mood within Chen Village itself was far from relaxed.

The expansion of the Huaxia Army’s administrative system was part of the preparations for the Fifth Army’s deployment. Thousands of li away, both north of the Yellow River and near Xuzhou, great battles had already broken out one after another. Though the members of headquarters could not head north themselves, the daily flood of intelligence from across the realm never failed to stir a shared sense of hostility and resolve among them.

The death of the Prince of Jin had shocked everyone; the fierce, unyielding resolve shown by the forces of Zhu Biao, Wang Juyun, and Yu Yulin in their fighting had, meanwhile, been inspiring. When news of Shulisu’s defeat arrived, the entire headquarters had been alive with a festive kind of excitement—but before long, people also began to worry over the perilous situation that lay ahead.

In the third month, quite a few people at headquarters had privately raised concerns with Ning Yi and the senior staff officers, pointing out that the situation at Daming Prefecture was unsolvable, and hoping that Zhu Biao at the front might find some way to hold back rather than press forward into a hopeless deadlock. Zhuo Yongqing occasionally took part in these discussions himself, and could clearly see the bitterness and hesitation in everyone’s eyes.

Master Ning offered no opinion on these concerns. In the past, whenever Master Ning held an opinion, he would explain it to headquarters and settle the matter decisively. But on this one issue, and this one alone, his expression remained grave, and he never once spoke up—and in the end, no order or recommendation was ever sent out across those thousands of li.

On the third day of the fourth month, the battlefield decision made by the Huaxia Army under Zhu Biao’s command in the north—now designated the Seventeenth Army—was rushed to Chen Village by urgent courier. On the night of the twenty-sixth of the third month, the Seventeenth Army’s staff had made the decision and drawn up the plan to rescue Wang Shanyue’s Light and Might Army; by the time the news reached Chen Village, the entire battle had likely already come to its conclusion.

By the evening of the eighth day of the fourth month, Zhuo Yongqing came to report matters to Ning Yi. The two of them sat down together on the stone bench in the courtyard, and seven-year-old little Ning Ke brought over tea for them before wandering off to play in the courtyard. Halfway through the report, someone arrived with an urgent dispatch. Ning Yi opened it and read it over, then fell silent, saying nothing.

Little Ning Ke, ever attentive, sensed that something was wrong. She walked over and looked carefully at her father, who was still bowed over the dispatch, lost in thought. The courtyard fell quiet for a moment, and then Ning Ke spoke. “Papa, are you crying?”

Ning Yi reached out and pulled his daughter close against his leg. He was silent for a moment, then raised his head. “Where?”

When he had first arrived in this world, Ning Yi’s manner toward those around him had always been warm and approachable, yet underneath it he had, in truth, been steady and self-possessed, with a certain coldness lingering beneath the surface. By the time he had come to hold the fate of the entire Huaxia Army in his hands, in the eyes of people like Zhuo Yongqing, “Master Ning” appeared calm and composed in the face of everything—steady and unyielding as iron, in both spirit and manner. Only in this moment, seeing the way he had risen to his feet, did Zhuo Yongqing notice the faint tremor that passed through him.

There were, in fact, no tears in his eyes, as his daughter had said—he simply lowered his head and, slowly and solemnly, folded the dispatch in his hand once, and then folded it again. Zhuo Yongqing, without quite realizing it, had already drawn himself up into a stance of respectful stillness.