Freshly cut branches crackled in the fire, blue smoke drifting up into the sky. In the darkness, tents dotted the hillside, each touched by the glow of a campfire.

On the night of the sixteenth of the ninth month, the forty-five thousand soldiers of the Wufeng Battalion were camped in the hills a hundred-some li west of Pingjiang, in a place called Liudaoliang.

It was late autumn, and the surrounding countryside still seemed peaceful enough, though a low, uneasy mood hung over the camp. The Wufeng Battalion was one of the weaker fighting forces within the Wu Dynasty’s army, originally stationed in Jiangxi and elsewhere with the basic task of farming garrisons and bandit suppression; many of its soldiers were, in fact, farmers by origin. After the reforms of the Jianshuo era, the military’s standing had risen, and the Wufeng Battalion strengthened its formal training; its elite troops had gradually gained enough standing to begin bullying the local peasantry—an inevitable byproduct of the power struggle between the military and the civil officials.

The growth of the army’s strength, combined with repeated frictions with the local gentry and officials near its garrison, laid the foundation for Yu Gusheng to become a local power in his own right. To be fair, in the Wu Dynasty’s more than two hundred years, the standing of military officers had steadily declined, and these past several years had been, for Yu Gusheng, the most comfortable stretch of his career.

By the time the Wu Dynasty collapsed, Yu Gusheng, understanding well enough that circumstances outweigh individual will, led his army rushing toward Jinghu South Circuit. In his heart, of course, he harbored the hope of carving out a path forward for himself amid this world-shattering upheaval—but the soldiers in his ranks were not necessarily so uplifted in spirit.

Some of the soldiers still could scarcely believe that the Wu Dynasty had fallen from power, that the Jurchens were now commanding their army. As for the fact that after the autumn harvest, most of the money and grain had gone to the Jurchens, and that they themselves were now being driven to fight the Black Banner Army, some felt uneasy, others afraid. Although discipline within the ranks had been tightened severely during this period—men had even been executed, mid-level officers replaced in no small number, to keep things under control—as the march continued, the daily whispers of discontent and confusion could not be entirely suppressed.

The sixteenth of the ninth month was just such a simple night. Pingjiang still lay a hundred-some li away; there were still a few days before the fighting itself would begin. Within the camp, the soldiers gathered in small clusters, murmuring, confused, sighing… Some spoke of the ferocity of the Black Banner Army, others of the wisdom said to belong to the legendary crown prince.

“Who knows… maybe His Majesty the Emperor will come charging back from somewhere…”

“In a few days we’ll be laying siege to that Black Banner Army—those are men who don’t care about dying, who’ll tear off a piece of their enemy even as they go down. If it really comes to that… everyone just look out for themselves…”

Not long after such talk, the camp entered its curfew and rest hours. Though everyone’s hearts were uneasy, each made his own private plans; but since the fighting was still some days off, there were still a few peaceful nights of sleep to be had.

On the seventeenth of the ninth month, in the deep of night, at the third quarter of the hour of Chou, the sky hung bright with moon and stars. The camp had fallen completely silent, save for the sentries at the watchtowers along the perimeter and the torches of patrolling soldiers drifting here and there. Beneath a roughly built watchtower on the southeastern slope of Liudaoliang, two figures crept silently up from within the camp.

Before long, the two sentries atop the tower fell, one after another.

At the same time, the thousand-man unit led by Chen Fan reached the woods east of Liudaoliang. He crouched in the underbrush, studying the outline of the camp ahead.

Yuwen Feidu, a long spear on his back, also lay in the grass, lowering his binoculars. “The men on the watchtower have been switched out.”

Chen Fan nodded, then looked up at the moon overhead. On the far side of this ridge, in the hills on the other flank of the camp, another force was likewise watching the moonlight in the darkness—a unit of over six thousand men, with Ji Qian’er and Zhuo Xiaofeng among the officers pressing the assault, calculating the passing minutes.

On the southeastern slope, Chen Fan led the first team quietly out from the tree line, moving along the hidden ridge toward the now-replaced watchtower. Ahead lay only a makeshift camp; although the placement of the watchtowers and lookout points was reasonably sound, only here, at this southeastern point, had the changeover of sentries created a blind spot in the road behind it.

As the hour of Yin drew near, Yuwen Feidu scaled the watchtower and seized the high ground. To the west, the six thousand Black Banner soldiers began advancing cautiously according to plan.

The night had reached its deepest point when a sudden cry of alarm rang out—no one knew who had shouted first in the darkness. Then a thunderous explosion shook the mountainside: a powder store behind the camp had been set alight, black smoke rising into the sky, the shockwave flinging tents into the air. Someone shouted, “Night raid—!”

“The Black Banner’s here—!”

The sentries on the watchtower raised their binoculars; in the darkness to the east and west, shadows came surging forward, and within the eastern camp, no one knew how many had already infiltrated—fires had caught the tents. Soldiers, jolted from sleep, stumbled in panic out of their tents, and saw the light of the flames leaping into the sky as a fire arrow soared up and struck the command banner at the center of camp, setting it ablaze.

The camp’s panic could no longer be contained.

The Battle of Jinghu had begun.

…

On the morning of the seventeenth of the ninth month, Zhuo Yongqing and Qu Qing led their unit toward Liudaoliang, spotting several groups of scattered, fleeing soldiers along the way. Questioning them made clear that the battle against the Wufeng Battalion had already concluded.

In the morning light, the smoke over Liudaoliang had cleared, though the smell of blood still lingered. The camp’s supplies and equipment remained largely intact; over six thousand prisoners had been taken in this battle, now held under guard in a hollow west of the camp.

By the time Zhuo Yongqing and Qu Qing arrived, several more units had already gathered, still trickling in one after another. The seven-thousand-strong force led by Chen Fan had suffered fewer than a hundred casualties in the previous night’s battle. Scouts had already been sent to Juling to have Zhu Jing dispatch men to gather the prisoners and transport the seized supplies.

The Huaxia Army soldiers gathered off to one side of the battlefield; though their expressions showed relief, their discipline remained strict, and every unit still held itself tense and alert—a sign that they were bracing for continued fighting.

Zhuo Yongqing and Qu Qing took part in the war council that followed. Besides Chen Fan, Ji Qian’er, Zhuo Xiaofeng, and other officers who properly belonged to the 29th Army, several team leaders who had originally come out from the southwest early in the year were present as well. Aside from information brokers like “the Honest Monk” Feng Zhen, still active out in the field, half of the units dispatched at the start of the year had now converged on Chen Fan’s position.

Chen Fan, nominally the deputy commander of the Huaxia 29th Army but in practice holding full authority over military affairs in the Miao frontier, was now a man in his late thirties. He showed few signs of aging in his features; usually there was even a certain relaxed, sunlit ease beneath his composure. But in this moment, right after the battle, the blood on his armor had not yet dried, and there was a fierce, cutting air about him. Anyone who had taken part in the old Yongle Rebellion might have noticed that, in this moment, Chen Fan bore a certain resemblance in spirit to Fang Qifo on the battlefield back then.

Having apparently just given his hands and face a quick wash, Chen Fan flicked the water from his hands, rubbing his palms together as he had someone spread a map out on a table taken from the enemy camp.

“…Last night when the camp broke into panic, most of them fled east. Yu Gusheng and his son took several thousand men and headed, we’ve confirmed, northeast. Yinshuke isn’t here yet, so Guo Baohuai is a hundred li out, with fifty thousand men under him—should be a somewhat tougher fight than Yu Gusheng was. Then there’s Li Touhe further southeast, the two together bringing a hundred thousand men.”

He tapped his finger several times against the map.

“…Before Yinshuke arrives, we crush them.”

…

Feng Zhen rode east on horseback all day, and by afternoon reached an abandoned village in the hills east of Pingxiang, where men and horses had already begun to gather.

He was a heavyset man, thick with flesh, and by the time he had ridden all this way, both he and his horse were exhausted. Nearing the abandoned village, he did not rush in recklessly; panting hard, he climbed the hill behind the village, where a middle-aged man, careworn and hard-bitten in appearance like an old farmer, was already waiting.

“Comrade Feng, you’ve worked hard.” The man’s face bore a look of deep sorrow, and his voice was quiet, though his manner of address, once he spoke, was quite formal. Feng Zhen bowed to him but did not dare treat him lightly—the Huaxia Army held no shortage of remarkable men, and among them were more than a few who were, without exaggeration, madmen. The man before him was one of them.

His name was Tian Song, originally a blacksmith from Bianliang, hardworking and honest by nature. After the humiliation of the fall of Bianliang, he had been taken captive to the north, and later rescued from the north by the Huaxia Army. Though his appearance now seemed sorrowful and simple, Feng Zhen knew just how ruthless this man’s methods could be when it came to killing the enemy.

The two exchanged a few words, then walked down toward the foot of the hill. At a hidden ridge halfway down, Tian Song sent away the guards stationed there and produced a small pair of binoculars, handing them to Feng Zhen. Feng Zhen looked down at the village below and saw that many of the people there were dressed in Jurchen armor.

Tian Song took a small sketchbook from inside his robe. “The armor’s no problem now. The ‘Young Prince’ has also been dealt with. This plan’s been in preparation for several years now—back when Wanyan Qingjue was mining in the mountains, Xiao He was already studying and copying him. This time, it looks like it should go smoothly. Comrade Feng, as for the 29th Army’s plan, if it’s already been decided…”

His voice was low, even somewhat listless, but only from the very depths of that tone could Feng Zhen catch the fervor hidden within it. He glanced toward the group below, where he could see the “Young Prince” issuing orders, and watched for a moment before speaking.

“Guo Baohuai’s side already has arrangements in place. In theory, we hit Guo Baohuai first, then Li Touhe. Commander Chen hopes you’ll act at your own discretion, whenever you have a good opening. For now, the thing to keep in mind is—although the Young Prince has been shadowed by old hero Fulu and the others ever since leaving Jiangzhou, there’s no telling for now how long they can keep him tied up. If you reach Li Touhe’s side first, and the Young Prince grows suspicious and sends men over, you’ll still be at real risk.”

“Mm, that’s true,” said Tian Song beside him, nodding.

Feng Zhen sighed inwardly. In his life of moving through the underworld, he had seen countless men risking their lives for a cause; the somewhat more ordinary ones would talk about “seeking wealth amid danger,” and the truly reckless ones would say it was “worth the gamble.” But men like Tian Song, who seemed so sincere and earnest, probably hadn’t even considered the risk he’d just described at all. He said, “Whatever you decide, act on your own judgment as the moment calls for it. But please, take care for your safety, and be as careful as you can.”

“Of course.” Tian Song nodded, a calm smile crossing his weathered face. “We’ll bring back Li Touhe’s head.”

With this business settled, evening was already drawing near. The man who looked like an old farmer, leader of this column, walked back toward the abandoned village; before long, this unit made up of the “Young Prince” and a band of skilled martial artists would set off southwest, toward Li Touhe.

Feng Zhen mounted his horse and continued on toward the northeast. Fulu, leading a band of outlaws from the martial world, was still keeping Wanyan Qingjue entangled; before Wanyan Qingjue realized something was wrong, Feng Zhen still had work to do, muddying the waters further still.

At that same moment, the fleeing remnants of Yu Gusheng and Yu Mingzhou’s routed force had already made contact with scouts sent out by Guo Baohuai.

Over the years, the various plans and hidden cards the Huaxia Army had been quietly weaving together were now, one by one, beginning to unfold.

In the ninth month of the eleventh year of the Jianshuo era, as the Zhou dynasty’s Wu court crumbled further, at a moment when so many people had not yet even had time to react, the Huaxia 29th Army, numbering barely over ten thousand men in total, charged out of Changsha under Chen Fan’s command with only half its strength, launching the opening act of the entire Battle of Jinghu.

By the end of September, an army of over a hundred thousand men collapsed at the first touch before Chen Fan’s seven thousand Huaxia Army soldiers, and the front line, under Chen Fan’s ferocious assault, cut straight into the heartland of Jiangnan West Circuit.