Amid the rolling thunder of cannon fire, savage soldiers cut through the city, flame and blood having long since swallowed everything.

In the midst of prolonged struggle and screaming, Zhe Keqiu, already gravely wounded, finally let his head droop and moved no more. Chen Shiqun’s booming laughter gradually turned hoarse. Looking back, he saw a group of Mongols driving prisoners up onto the high walls of Fuzhou, then pushing them down in rows.

The entire city seemed to be collapsing and falling in that roar of thunder and fire.

For several years now, he had struggled and maneuvered with Zhe Keqiu and his Western Army in this region. The scenery nearby, the people living here—these had long since dissolved into his heart, become part of his memory. Only now did he finally understand: from this point on, all of it, every bit of it, would exist no more.

Just like his dead wife and daughter, his family.

Just like this fallen Central Plains, this fallen Wu Dynasty.

He already knew that Emperor Zhou Yong had fled, that the Wu Dynasty had finally collapsed. Sometimes, when people are caught in the tides of such a world-shattering upheaval, they cannot quite believe the sheer number of changes taking place. But now, seeing the massacre of the city’s people before him, after the daze had passed, he finally understood.

The upheaval of heaven and earth rolled on, vast and unstoppable—how could a small place like Fuzhou possibly escape it?

In that gale of fire, a khan named Jamukha approached from that direction, his laughter heavy and heroic. Tears stood in Chen Shiqun’s eyes. Facing the approaching figure, he raised both hands high and knelt down.

Behind him, his family destroyed, his clan scattered, the small northwest already reduced to scorched earth, the Wu Dynasty’s vast realm crumbling in blood and fire, the Jurchen beasts running rampant across the realm. History moves ever forward and never looks back; at this moment, all he could do was submit to the change and make the last choice a man of Han blood could make.

—To offer up this realm to the conquerors who had come from the grasslands.

While this insignificant man named Chen Shiqun made his terrible choice in an unwatched corner of the northwest, the newly enthroned Crown Prince of the Wu Dynasty was staking the last of the fortune of this more-than-two-hundred-year-old dynasty on a desperate counterattack in Jiangning that would shock the entire realm.

Outside Jiangning on the seventh day of the ninth month, as more than a hundred thousand defending troops charged out of the city, mutiny spread through the crowd like a plague, erupting across a vast expanse of land stretching tens of miles in every direction.

Through more than two months of siege, the million surrendered troops had lived under the pitiless cruelty of the Jurchens, under the constant threat of being sent to the battlefield to die. As more and more of the Wu Dynasty’s territory collapsed and surrendered, the surrendered soldiers at Jiangning had no way to rebel, nowhere to flee, and could only wait each day in agony for fate’s verdict.

The Wu Dynasty had a new emperor now, but he could not save them from the fire and flood. Yet as the white mourning banners for the deceased Zhou Yong were lowered and the banner of a fight to the death rose on the seventh day, this was the signal of a last chance, one that flickered through every heart.

Naturally, this was not a chance to fight the Jiangning garrison. The encampment of a million men was vast and sprawling; if it truly came to battle, many would still be milling about the periphery a full day and night later. And yet, as the signal of war appeared, all manner of rumors swept across the entire battlefield within half an hour, and then, driven by the impulses of “flee while we can” or “fight them to the death,” it transformed into an uncontrollable riot that erupted across the field.

Soldiers, not even fully armed, burst out through the wooden walls that had confined them, rushing off in every direction driven by all manner of intentions, and before long they were swept up by the surging tide of humanity, running helplessly along with it.

The soldiers charging out from Jiangning caught up with the fringes of the surrendered army, shouting and howling as they drove them westward. For that one day, the million-strong crowd behaved more like a flock of sheep—some lost all sense of direction, while others, urged on by officers who still had some fighting spirit left in them, kept pressing steadily west.

The first wave of surrendered soldiers who drew near the Jurchen camp had only meant to flee, and were promptly and mercilessly crushed by Zonghu’s forces. But before long, the main force of the Zhenhai Army, led by Jun Wu and Han Shizhong, surged forward wave after wave. Zonghu, furious, dug in and held his ground, but by past noon, more and more of the surrendered Wu Dynasty troops threw themselves recklessly at the Jurchen camp’s flanks and rear.

This was the last flare of fighting spirit the Wu Dynasty’s soldiers could summon, swept along in a tide like ocean waves, wavering and being annihilated again and again under Jurchen cannon fire. But on the front line, the Zhenhai Army clashed repeatedly with the Jurchen vanguard, and under Jun Wu’s encouragement the Zhenhai Army even seemed to gain the upper hand, pushing the Jurchen forces steadily back.

South of Jiangning, the Beiwei Army led by Yue Fei was like a starving wolf, tearing through the relatively loyal Han Central Plains troops fighting for the Jurchens with an almost frenzied assault, while its cavalry drove the surrendered Wu Dynasty troops forward against Wanyan Zongfu. By three quarters past the hour of Wei that afternoon, the Beiwei Army had cut through the tidal front line and extended its fiercest attack right up to Wanyan Zongfu himself.

At this, Wanyan Zongfu’s flank defenses collapsed, and more than a hundred thousand Jurchen troops finally began to withdraw in formation to the west and south. Blood soaked the sky over the battlefield; no one knew how many Han lives were lost in this vast battle…

…

The autumn wind blew crisp and cold south of Jiangzhou. As word of the great battle just fought reached him, Xiyin’s hand trembled slightly around the paper he held. His lips pressed tightly together, and his gaze turned sharp.

Beside him, cartload after cartload of grain and supplies were entering the city; the grain convoys coming from the south, under armed guard, seemed to stretch on almost without end.

Wanyan Qingjue, who had come to pay his respects, waited behind him. This young lord of the Jin state had distinguished himself greatly in the recent great battle, shedding his old image as a pampered scion coasting on family connections, and was now about to head toward Changsha, tasked with persuading and inciting various local powers to surrender in the region while an army was dispatched against Changsha.

Xiyin slowly read out the message on the intelligence report.

“…In the end of this battle, Zongfu’s army withdrew more than forty li, and Yue Fei, Han Shizhong, and the others pursued and slaughtered them relentlessly until deep in the night, with close to thirty thousand dead, wounded, or missing… useless.” Xiyin slowly folded the paper. “I warned him about Jiangning long ago—do not treat the surrendered Han as less than human, or sooner or later it will backfire. The third one seems obedient enough, but he’s a fool through and through. He herded a million men onto the battlefield thinking he was humiliating those Han, going on about melting Jiangning into molten iron… If he hadn’t done something so stupid, Jiangning would already be finished.”

Xiyin spoke each word slowly and deliberately, and Wanyan Qingjue could tell his master was in a towering rage. He weighed his words for a moment. “If that’s so, then that new Wu Dynasty ruler has broken the crisis at Jiangning—might he rise to something again? Should Master go back to… help those two?”

“He can’t rise to anything anymore.” Xiyin shook his head. “Throughout Jiangnan, those who have surrendered have already declared themselves one after another. The Wu Dynasty’s decline is set—it’s like an avalanche now. Even in places that might want to switch back, given how few troops Jiangning has, it’s doubtful they could even hold it…”

“But that army of a million Wu Dynasty troops…”

“Rabble, not worth mentioning. Not to speak of whether their own side would even dare take them back—the autumn harvest is in, and most of Jiangnan’s military grain is in our hands now. That new ruler held Jiangning for three months; whether he can even feed his people is already in question. No need to worry about this. Once Zongfu and Zongbi regroup, Jiangning will not hold in the end. That new ruler’s only chance is to leave Jiangnan and lead Zongfu and Zongbi on a chase all over the map. If he tries to dig in and defend some fixed spot, he won’t get another chance like this one, where he burned his boats behind him.” Xiyin paused, a few strands of white hair fluttering in the mountain wind. “What makes this old man sigh is that our Jurchen fighting strength has declined, no longer what it once was—that fact has finally been exposed by those spendthrift fools. Just watch: that fellow in the southwest is skilled at propaganda. The story of a hundred and twenty thousand Han troops breaking a million Jurchens will be spreading before long.”

Wanyan Qingjue said, “But by now, I believe such talk can no longer turn the tide. Still, Master… the Wu Dynasty’s Han troops have no fighting spirit left at all. Even if several million soldiers are sent for this campaign against the southwest, I fear it will do little against the Black Banner Army. Your disciple is troubled…”

“Drive the donkey, train the hawk—each method suits its purpose.” Xiyin shook his head. “This old man has already spoken of Zongfu’s folly—would I be so foolish as to follow his example? Jiangnan’s land is vast; once the Wu Dynasty falls, everyone will look to save themselves. In the future, when our Great Jin sits in the far north, our reach will be limited there. Rather than expend great effort forcing them all to their deaths, better to let the various warlords carve up the territory and let them kill each other off. As for the war in the southwest, I will be fair, rewarding and punishing justly. As long as they serve some purpose on the battlefield, I will not be stingy with rewards. And you—do not go about with your nose in the air just because you are nobility of the Great Jin. Remember: an obedient dog is far more useful than one that resents you.”

Wanyan Qingjue bowed. “This disciple takes his teacher’s instruction to heart, and will never forget it.”

Xiyin waved his hand. “Good, off you go. This time, going to Changsha, be careful in everything—I hear several batches of Huaxia Army people have already headed that way. You are of noble standing; take care to protect yourself as you act.”

“Master need not worry. These past few years, I have held no trace of contempt or arrogance toward the Huaxia Army. This time, I will not fail my orders… As for those several batches of Huaxia Army people, I have already prepared to meet them!”

Having said this, he took his leave under Xiyin’s watchful gaze before long. Leading a cavalry column of over a thousand men, he departed Jiangzhou and set out on his journey. Not long after, on the far side of the mountains, he caught sight of Yinshuke leading his army in transit—across those rolling hills, the endless column of troops and banners stretched on like a surging torrent of iron.

This was the boldness of the Jurchens on their rise, swallowing the realm whole. Wanyan Qingjue gazed at it from afar, his heart stirred with pride. He knew that the older generation would gradually pass, and before long, the weight of protecting this nation would fall upon their own shoulders. In this moment, he felt proud to still be able to witness this magnificent scene.

The surging army pressed onward toward the west.

…

Several hundred li west of Chengdu lay the towering, sprawling Qinghai-Tibet Plateau, now called Tubo.

Tubo had a long history; its various pastoral tribes had warred and fought without end since ancient times. Since the Tang dynasty, under the hands of a few rulers such as Songtsen Gampo, there had been a brief period of unification, but before long it fell back into fragmentation, and the warlords of the plateau carved up the land, fighting, splitting, and reuniting, never regaining the glory of the late Tang.

Dayang, a mid-sized tribe at the southern edge of Tubo, had once had its prosperous days too, but over the past century it had gradually declined. Decades ago, a man in pursuit of the ultimate way of the blade once traveled the plateau, forging a deep friendship with the chieftain of Dayang at that time. That man was Liu Dabiao, master of the Overlord Blade Manor.

Dayang controlled a large stretch of open-pit iron mines, and afterward maintained close ties with the Overlord Blade Manor, at one point establishing a very reliable smuggling route. Later, when Fang La rose in rebellion, no small number of weapons were secretly transported in from Tubo. But after the failure of the Yongle uprising, the Overlord Blade Manor’s strength fell into a slump, and Dayang, out on the Tubo plateau, was invaded by several neighboring tribes. Within a few years, it was nearly wiped out and annexed.

On the eve of the great battle at Xiaocang River, Ning Yi redeployed the Overlord Blade Manor’s forces a thousand li to Dayang to stabilize the situation. Later, when the Huaxia Army withdrew south, some of its elite troops were also sent by Ning Yi to Dayang—partly to protect the precious iron mines there, and partly to further train troops in that isolated environment. In time, more than twenty thousand strong-bodied, iron-willed soldiers gradually entered the region. They first crushed several nearby Tubo tribes and then settled permanently on the plateau.

In the years before this, the Dayang tribe had suffered attack and conquest from all sides, and its able-bodied men had nearly all been killed or wounded. But the plateau’s people were a hardy folk—until the men of the tribe were entirely wiped out, no one so much as thought of surrender. When the Huaxia Army arrived, what they found of Dayang was mostly women and children. For the sake of the tribe’s survival, and because the young Huaxia Army soldiers also wished to start families, the two sides intermarried. And so, over time, the Huaxia Army’s soldiers replaced most of the male population of Dayang, and the two peoples gradually merged.

Over the years, the soldiers of the Huaxia Army honed their bodies and their wills upon the plateau. They rode across the open plains, patrolled the snowy peaks, and one batch after another were made to cooperate and survive under the harshest conditions. What tempered their spirits was the ceaseless retelling of the Battle of Xiaocang River, the tragedy of the northern and central-plains Han people, the humiliation brought by the Jurchen rampage across the realm, and the glory of breaking out of the Chengdu Plain through Heden’s three counties.

Compared to Heden’s three counties, which focused heavily on training administrative personnel, this force on the plateau, the Black Banner Army led by Qin Shaoqian, concentrated more single-mindedly on tempering everything in its soldiers meant for battle, forging their bodies and wills into the fiercest, most lethal steel, day after day.

Amid all this, what brought them comfort was, first, the warmth their wives and children gave to those soldiers who had already started families, and second, the towering black memorial monument on the Dayang Huaxia Army plaza, which held the ashes of ten thousand heroes fallen at the Battle of Xiaocang River. Every day, that black monument stood silent watch over them all, a constant reminder of that tragic past and the mission they carried.

On this day, the low, deep sound of horns rose across the plateau.

Soldiers came down from the high snowy peaks, back from the training fields, tears in their eyes as they embraced their wives and children at home. They began to gather on the parade ground of the camp, and before the great monument they laid down objects carrying memories of that bygone year: the bloodstained clothes of fallen brothers, bandages, armor plates they had once worn, broken blade-edges…

This was what the army had asked of every one of them upon their arrival on the plateau: each soldier was to bring one object, to remember Xiaocang River, to remember that once-bloody battle.

“…The day you set these things down, we will walk out of here, and go to those enemies to collect the full debt of blood owed.”

Object after object was laid down. A hawk soared high across the sky, and beneath it, row upon row of grim, silent ranks formed. Their upright figures were nearly identical, straight and rigid as steel.

Qin Shaoqian mounted the high platform.

“…The Jurchens have destroyed the Wu Dynasty and will move on Chengdu… Nianhan is coming!” His voice carried far across the plateau, echoing beneath the sky. Clouds seemed to gather in that low sky at the sound of his voice. But no one paid it any mind; only the sound of a man’s voice spreading across the earth.

“Comrades!” the voice rang out again, “the time…”

“—has come!”

As those words fell, a rumbling boom that shook the earth rose across the plateau, like a jade dragon that had lain frozen for a thousand years beginning to break apart.

On this day, the Huaxia Seventh Army began its leap out of the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau.

…

Over a hundred li from the Huaxia Army’s encampment, Guo Yaoshi received word of the unusual movements at Dayang.

All around him was hushed and silent; the low-oxygen environment of the plateau seemed to press down on him. The vast wasteland stretched out endlessly, and above, low, heavy clouds hung silently in the sky.

A shiver of unease began at the base of his spine and slowly crept upward.

He knew that a great storm having nothing to do with the plateau was about to break loose…