In Jin territory, the rolling mountain ridges and valleys stretched on one after another, night having already fallen, stars scattered thick across the sky above the hilltops. Beside a large boulder atop the ridge, a campfire burned, a mountain rat skewered on a branch roasting over the flames, its scent of cooked meat rising into the air.
In a small iron pot nearby, a broth made from some of the rat meat had already finished cooking. Two figures sat beside the fire, one enormous, the other small, the difference between them stark. The smaller figure crumbled a bowl of hard, dry steamed bread into the broth pot.
After a moment, the crumbled bread had softened. The small figure took a knife and cut off some of the rat meat, then poured out two bowls of the meat broth, handing the larger bowl along with the larger portion of meat to the massive, Buddha-like figure beside him.
“Master, dinner’s ready.”
“Mm.” The mountain-like figure nodded and took the bowl, then set the rat meat down in front of the child instead. “The old-timers used to say — poverty breeds scholars, wealth breeds warriors. To practice martial arts properly, you need a well-fed household, or else you won’t have the strength to throw a punch. You’re still growing — eat more meat.”
“But… shouldn’t Master have some strength too? Master’s already so big…”
“Master ate on his own, earlier, when he stepped out.”
“Ate on your own…”
“I slipped away in secret during the day, somewhere you couldn’t see, and ate plenty. You wouldn’t know about that.”
The massive figure lifted his bowl, taking a sip as he spoke. The child beside him clearly looked confused, bowl in hand. “…Master’s lying to me, isn’t he?”
“You think Master wouldn’t sneak food behind your back?”
“Uh…”
Though the child was still young, he had endured much hardship, his face marked with numerous wind-cracked cuts and calluses; at this point, he hardly showed much of a blush. The massive figure patted his head.
“These past while, you’ve made real progress in combat, but in ordinary times, your heart’s still far too soft. The other day, those children you saved were clearly just tricking you for food, and yet you happily went looking for more food for them. Later, when they wanted to make you their leader, it was only because they wanted you to support them. And when you said you were leaving, they secretly plotted to steal from you behind your back — if this old master hadn’t come by in the middle of the night, they might well have bashed your skull in with a rock… You’re too kind-hearted. In the end, that’s bound to cost you.”
“…But Master isn’t like them.”
The child muttered this quietly.
“How much difference is there really between this old master and them? Ping’an, look at all this fat I’ve put on — you think I grew it eating dirt? The realm is in chaos, and it’s only going to get worse from here. When things get bad enough, forget master and disciple — even father and son might end up eating each other. This past year, you’ve seen all manner of things happen. This old master won’t eat you, but from now on, whoever you meet, don’t be naive about it — assume the worst of people’s hearts first, or you’ll suffer greatly for it.”
“Mm.”
The child stuffed the soup bowl against his mouth to silence himself, gulping down the broth. His face showed a trace of wounded feeling, but after a year or two making his way through the purgatory that was Jin territory, such small grievances hardly amounted to much anymore.
After finishing their meal, master and disciple walked circles around the great boulder atop the ridge, beginning to practice their forms as they walked. At first the movements were slow and gentle, but once warmed up, the stances gradually widened, and the force behind each strike grew steadily more dangerous. The massive figure’s hands moved like grindstones, his footwork like a plow; with each probing advance and retreat, his body seemed to spin like a dangerous vortex, blending the circular momentum principles of Taiji with insights accumulated over an entire lifetime — already among the very finest martial arts in the realm.
The child following behind, in his own advances and retreats, certainly could not yet match such formidable power, but his own stances churned like water stirred in a great river — deceptively slow yet swift, deceptively gentle yet forceful — every gesture and movement already carrying the bearing of a master’s most promising disciple. The foundation of internal martial arts required using technique to subtly adjust the flow of energy and blood throughout the entire body, and the years before adolescence were the most critical period for this. The child’s own foundation was, in truth, already nearing completion; by the time he reached his teenage and young adult years, there would be little standing between him and mastery formidable enough to hold his own across the realm.
But the massive figure known as Lin Zongwu harbored hopes for the child that went beyond merely holding his own across the realm. Once the forms were finished, actual sparring followed — the child charged at his massive master wielding a long blade, and under Lin Zongwu’s constant correction and provocation, the fighting grew ever more intense.
“This is all the martial skill you’ve shown after all this time under my teaching—”
“Think about how the Three Massacres North of the River humiliated you back in April! They killed the very people you were trying to save, forced you to eat filth! This old master stood right beside you and couldn’t be bothered to help—”
“This old master isn’t a good man either! If it truly came down to having nothing left to eat, you’d end up as my next meal too! Strike, strike, strike!… Not bad, that blade — look, you’re going for my throat…”
“You’re not exactly a decent person either—”
Amid this back-and-forth of shouted taunts, real anger began stirring in the exchange of blows. The child named Ping’an had killed no small number of people over the past year or two — some out of desperate necessity, others deliberately — and once true fury took hold of him, his eyes filled with the same bloodshot rage, and he charged with a great roar at the master before him, every strike aimed at a vital point.
Lin Zongwu roared with laughter. “That’s it! In a fight to the death, there’s no holding back! Think of the fury in your heart! Think of all those wretched scum you’ve seen! This old master told you long ago — my own martial skill draws its power from the seven emotions and six desires. The stronger the craving, the deadlier the power! Come, come! All men are filth! All men deserve death! One must let the fire of the Bright King’s great cause burn away this defiled world, to attain a land of true purity—”
Fierce winds howled between them; the distance separating Lin Zongwu from his disciple was simply too great, and no matter how furious or formidable Ping’an became, he could naturally do the man no real harm. Once the sparring session ended, the child, gasping for breath, his entire body nearly drained of strength, was told by Lin Zongwu to sit down, and using Manichaean techniques, helped steady the boy’s mind. Before long, the child sat cross-legged, entering a meditative rest, with Lin Zongwu settling down cross-legged beside him to rest as well.
As the stars shone down and the night deepened, a snake came rustling past nearby; Lin Zongwu crushed it silently without a sound and set it aside. After midnight, the massive figure suddenly rose without a trace of sound and made his way off into the distance.
Wang Nantuo rode his horse to the agreed-upon spot halfway up the mountainside and saw Lin Zongwu’s figure gradually emerge from among the jumbled rocks of the ridge; without much visible movement, he descended smoothly, like flowing clouds and water.
“Congratulations, Elder Brother — it’s been a long time, and your martial skill has advanced further still.”
Lin Zongwu’s gaze swept briefly over Wang Nantuo, then he simply smiled. “I’m growing old — an old man’s methods are what they are. Can’t really call it advancement anymore. Though lately, teaching the boy, watching him so young and frail, and putting myself in his shoes, I suppose I’ve gained a few insights of my own. You might try it yourself, Junior Brother.”
“I’m getting old too. Some things — I don’t have much heart left to pick back up again from the start. Let it be as it is.” Wang Nantuo’s long hair had turned half-white; ever since that night when Lin Chong had crippled his arm and very nearly killed him, his martial skill had been largely ruined, and he had little desire left to try to reclaim it. Perhaps it was also because, having lived through the chaos consuming the realm and come to understand the limits of human strength, he had instead grown resigned and disheartened.
But on the surface, with Lin Zongwu’s attention now focused on training his successor, the outward affairs of the Great Light Sect in Jin territory still fell to Wang Nantuo to manage. Every so often, the two of them would meet to exchange news and updates.
“Elder Brother, I take it you’re already aware of what’s happened with the Wu Dynasty?”
“Indeed.” Lin Zongwu nodded, letting out a sigh. “Zhou Yong abdicated far too late. Jiangning was always a dead end — I fear that new sovereign, too, is fated to die for his country there. The Wu Dynasty is finished, and once the Jurchens turn their full national strength toward the southwest, that demon-lord Ning’s situation will prove untenable to withstand alone as well. This realm that once belonged to the Wu Dynasty is, in the end, destined to be lost entirely.”
Though he sighed as he said this, his tone remained calm — some things, however difficult to accept once they actually happen, had long shown their signs plainly enough. Ever since abandoning the Manichaean cause to focus entirely on training his successor, Lin Zongwu had, in truth, been quietly waiting for this day to come all along.
The realm had fallen; after struggling on for so long, everyone had, in the end, proven powerless to turn back the tide.
“That demon-lord Ning’s reply to Xiyin was quite firm and unyielding, I hear.”
“Ning Liheng… whatever he says to anyone, it’s always firm and unyielding. Even those who look down on him most have to admit — the man who committed regicide in the golden hall is a singular figure of his generation. What a pity, though — the Wu Dynasty has fallen. Back in his day at Little Cangshui, facing the realm’s million-strong army, he still had to flee to the southwest in the end, clinging to survival there. Now that the realm has been settled, and the Jurchens don’t even regard the Han people as human beings — the standing armies south of the Yangtze alone number over two million, and with the Jurchens’ further conscription and plundering, driving a million, three million, five million… even ten million people westward into the southwest — I doubt they’ll count the cost at all…”
He sighed as he said this. “Tell me — how could the southwest possibly hold out against that? This isn’t the era of Little Cangshui anymore. The entire realm is coming down on him alone now — there’s nowhere left for him to hide.”
Wang Nantuo fell silent for a moment, then sighed as well. “…Still, that woman surnamed Lou has recently been mobilizing her followers, intending to strike back toward Gaizhou. She sent word to me about it, which is why I’ve come to discuss it with you, Elder Brother.”
“The Descended Mysterious Maiden…” Lin Zongwu nodded. “Let her do as she pleases. The Wu Dynasty is nearly finished; no telling when the Jurchens might turn their attention this way, and when they do, it’ll spell utter ruin. I imagine she’s grown desperate too… it won’t do any good. Junior Brother, I don’t understand military or political affairs — this has been a burden for you. There’s no need to stand against her on this. Let her have her way.”
Amid the chaos consuming the realm, Lin Zongwu had made several attempts over the years to seize some advantage for himself, but had ultimately come up short each time. By now, he had grown thoroughly disheartened, and Wang Nantuo could see this plainly as well. In truth, years earlier, Lin Zongwu had sought to join forces with Lou Shuwan’s own power to snatch some advantage from the chaos, giving rise to the figure of the “Descended Mysterious Maiden.” Before long, the “Mysterious Maiden” faction and the “Bright King” faction within the Great Light Sect had come to stand as rival factions vying for dominance, and by now, Lou Shuwan had come to be known among the faithful as the Mysterious Maiden, and among the common people as the Female Chancellor, a woman of great virtue and renown — the Bright King faction had, by and large, come under her command.
In present-day Jin territory, even if Lin Zongwu himself objected, should Lou Shuwan insist on acting regardless, there would be little he could do about it beyond attempting an outright assassination — and even attempting to assassinate Lou Shuwan was no simple matter, given that the Dragon King, Shi Jin, remained constantly at her side, a man Lin Zongwu could hardly kill on a whim.
The two fellow disciples walked along the mountain path for a while longer, when Wang Nantuo spoke again. “How is that disciple Ping’an coming along in his training these days?”
“He has talent, and perseverance — but his temperament still has a long way to go. In times as dangerous as these, he trusts people far too easily.”
“He’s still just a child, after all.”
“True enough. It’ll come, in time.” Lin Zongwu smiled faintly. “Besides, he’s been wanting to go back and search for his father.”
“Wasn’t it back to Wozhou that you searched for him, right after rescuing the boy?”
“We never did find him. Now that he’s picked up some martial skill, he wants to go retrace the search himself.”
“Wozhou is in absolute chaos right now…”
“All the more reason, really. Heaven, when it means to place great responsibility upon a man, first tests his resolve through suffering, wears down his body through hunger and hardship… I won’t stop him. Let him go his own way from here.” Lin Zongwu stood on the mountainside and drew a deep breath. “Look at all these stars scattered across the sky right now — in a few more years, they’ll likely all be gone. By then… you and I may not be around anymore either. It’ll be a new realm, a new dynasty… only he will still be alive, living on into that new age of chaos, living it out in style. As for those of us trying, like mantises, to hold back the wheels of this great tide — in the end, we’ll all be ground down and crushed by it, slowly, inevitably… Three hundred years of light, three hundred years of darkness — the Wu Dynasty has held this realm far too long. It’s time for this age of chaos to take its place…”
Wang Nantuo could find no words, his expression bitter.
Lin Zongwu sighed.
“In ages past there was the Rebellion of An Lushan and Shi Siming, the chaos of the Five Barbarians ravaging China… This age of chaos among the Han people may only just be beginning…”
That same night, in Fuzhou, in the northwest borderlands, an ill wind blew ominously across the open plains.
Firelight flared here and there, screams and the neighing of horses ringing out. Beneath the night sky, Mongol war banners and cavalry columns swept across the land.
Atop the stony ridge of Shishan, on the northern bank of the Yellow River, the easily defended, hard-to-attack city of Fuzhou now lay engulfed in scattered patches of raging fire.
The fighting had already ended that night, but the slaughter had not. In the square before the Zhe family estate, situated on the highest ground within Fuzhou, the direct descendants and soldiers of the Zhe family’s Western Army lay in pools of blood, their severed heads piled into a grim mound of trophies. Zhe Keqiu, half his body soaked in blood, had been bound to a post at the front of the square; around him, the severed heads of Zhe family relatives and children lay scattered across the ground one after another.
Amid the night wind, someone was laughing uproariously. “…So even you have a day like this coming, Zhe Keqiu! You betrayed the Wu Dynasty, you betrayed the northwest! Never imagined you’d taste this yourself someday, did you—”
The grief-stricken wailing of the Zhe family’s women could still be heard not far off. The middle-aged man laughing so uproariously at Zhe Keqiu stood in the square; he snatched up a severed head from the ground and kicked it hard into Zhe Keqiu’s face. Zhe Keqiu, his mouth full of blood, let out a low growl as he struggled against the post, though of course it accomplished nothing.
“…Take a good look at your youngest son’s head! How wonderful, hahaha— my own son’s head was severed by the Jurchens in just the same way! You traitor! You beast! You bastard! Now the Wu Dynasty is finished too! There’s no escaping it for you! Your entire Zhe family can’t escape it! Look at me! Want to kill me? Want to bite me to death? I feel exactly the same way about you! You slave who served three different masters, you old beast—”
The middle-aged man’s furious howling carried out on the wind, his excitement bordering on outright madness.
Ever since the Humiliation of Jingping, both Zhong Shidao and Zhong Shizhong had died fighting against the Jin, and once Zhou Yong ascended the throne and moved the court south, abandoning the Central Plains, the Zhe family’s own resolve to resist the Jin had never been particularly strong. Later, when the Battle of Little Cangshui broke out and the Jurchens came sweeping in with overwhelming force, the puppet-Qi regime having likewise mobilized several million troops, the Zhe family formally surrendered to the Jin.
Once the battle for the northwest concluded, the Huaxia Army and the surviving remnants of the Zhong family’s forces withdrew from the region, taking a portion of the population with them. In retaliation, the Jurchens turned the entire northwest into a barren wasteland of ash.
Having lost two founding generals in the northwest campaign, the Zhe family dared not provoke further trouble, withdrawing their strength into the original three prefectures of Lin, Fu, and Feng, seeking only to preserve themselves. By the time the northwestern populace had been all but wiped out, and a corpse-plague broke out on top of it, spreading even into these three remaining prefectures, whatever population of the northwest still remained came, from then on, entirely under the Zhe family’s banner.
Some felt fortunate simply to have survived that great catastrophe; others, naturally, harbored deep resentment — and now, with both the Jurchens and the Huaxia Army having departed, that resentment had, quite naturally, come to settle upon the Zhe family itself.
Through several years of recovery in the northwest, quiet resistance had persisted throughout, and having lost the legitimate backing of the Wu Dynasty, while also having cowered away during the region’s great catastrophe, the once-fierce men of the northwest had never truly reconciled themselves to the Zhe family’s rule. By the end of June this year, a great mounted host had come surging out from the direction of Hengshan; though the Western Army had put up resistance, it could do no more than keep the enemy circling outside the three prefectures’ walls. But by September, someone had finally made contact with the invaders outside, and coordinating with their assault, launched an uprising that succeeded in opening the gates of Fuzhou.
The leader of this resistance movement was none other than the middle-aged man before them now, named Chen Shiqun. He had originally served as a Wu Dynasty official stationed in the northwest; his family had been slaughtered when the Jurchens swept through the region, and after the Zhe family’s surrender, the resistance movement he led had clung to them like a curse ever since, impossible to shake off. And now, at last, that curse had finally erupted before Zhe Keqiu’s very eyes.
“AAAAAAHHHH— ghh, ghh, ghh, ghh, ghh…”
Zhe Keqiu struggled and roared, the sounds he made no longer distinguishable as fury or as bitter, mocking laughter. As the two men continued their furious standoff, a thunderous boom suddenly rang out, followed by five more explosive blasts in rapid succession. At the edge of the square, someone had lit the fuse of a cannon, firing shells toward the civilian houses within the city.
The wind roared, the flames blazed fierce, and amid the explosions, at the edge of the square, the conqueror threw open his arms, laughing as he reveled in the thunderous roar of destruction. His banner fluttered in the night, and strange Mongol words carried out on the wind.
“You had weapons like these, and still you lost! You people— you all deserve to die!”
Mongolia. The Thirteen Wings.
—Jamukha.