Among the various departments of the Huaxia Army, Hou Yuanyong worked for General Intelligence, and was, as a matter of course, well informed. That night’s gossip, after covering Luo Ye, inevitably turned to the recent situation of Qu Qing and Zhuo Yongqing, currently stationed in Changsha.

Birds of a feather flock together, and people naturally sort themselves into groups. Although the Huaxia Army as a whole operated as one body, and the general atmosphere both within and outside the ranks remained fairly good, people being people, small circles inevitably formed, drawn together by closer bonds and stronger mutual recognition for one reason or another.

Over more than a decade, small groups had occasionally formed within the Huaxia Army, sometimes with political overtones and sometimes without, and every soldier had, for various reasons, grown closer to certain people than to others. But given the almost indescribable brutality of the years they had lived through, a small circle like the one formed by Mao Yishan, Hou Wu, Luo Ye, Qu Qing, and Zhuo Yongqing — men who had survived the killing of Loushi together and grown as close as family — with every single one of them still alive today, had become an exceedingly rare thing.

“If you think about it — of the brothers who fought the Jurchens together back in the Wurui Camp, held Xiacun together, then rose up together afterward — I doubt even three thousand of them are still alive now.”

By this point the conversation had gone deep into the night. Mao Yishan leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed, while beside him Hou Wu shook his head.

“Forget three thousand — I doubt there’s even two thousand. Never mind the three years at Xiaocang River, just think how many died at Dongzhiyuan alone.”

“Fight for ten more years, all the way into Jin territory,” Mao Yishan said. “You think we’ll still be around by then?”

“I think you probably won’t be. You’re always out in front.” Hou Wu looked down at his own somewhat crippled hand, then tossed another stick of firewood into the fire. “I’m different — I’ve been in the rear this whole time. Don’t worry, if you die, I’ll help raise Shitou and Chen Xia for you — or Qu Qing could help raise them, for that matter. You know, that fellow told me once that he likes women with a big backside.”

“Ah, with Chen Xia’s temper, you couldn’t handle her, and Qu Qing couldn’t either — and besides, Brother Wu, your old bones are already about to fall apart. Put you together with Chen Xia and she’d wear you straight into your grave, and then the two of us would be meeting up early.” Mao Yishan chewed on a thin twig, tasting its faint bitterness, and laughed. “Yuanyong, talk some sense into your father.”

Hou Yuanyong just laughed by the fire, not taking the bait.

“Speaking of which, who Luo Ye and Qu Qing end up with is going to be a real question down the line.”

“You just said Qu Qing likes big backsides.”

“I heard he’s got something going with Scholar Yong’s sister.”

“Oh? Who’s that?”

“You know, Scholar Yong — Yong Jinnian’s sister, her name’s Yong Jinrou. She was married, now a widow, teaching at a school in Hedeng.”

“Oh, big backside?”

“Heh heh, let me tell you, it’s not just about the backside — two words: alluring charm.”

For the men in that room, the subject of life and death was no longer a hypothetical matter. More than a decade of time had long since taught them how to treat it as something ordinary.

The conversation drifted a few more turns through crude jokes, and in the flickering firelight, everyone dissolved into laughter.

How much longer one might live, whether one would make it to the end — these were questions tinged with a certain sadness, but come the next morning, when the bugle calls and the sounds of morning drills rang out, Mao Yishan and Hou Wu put the matter entirely out of mind.

There is never the slightest tenderness in the killing of a battlefield, and if a battlefield cannot strip a man of his illusions, then the tragedy of massacre after massacre will eventually shape him toward the same end regardless.

Living through such years was more like enduring a fierce gale on the Gobi, or a blizzard in the depths of a bitter winter — winds that could slice open a man’s skin like a blade, and tear open his very soul. It was precisely because of this that the soldiers and armies who marched to meet such winds and blizzards took on a bearing every bit as fierce as the elements themselves. Without that, no one could have survived at all.

Wounds and all, Mao Yishan joined the others for a few laps around the crowded, makeshift drill ground. After breakfast, he said his goodbyes to Hou Wu and his son, set out on the mountain road, and headed toward Zizhou.

The weather had turned overcast again that day. Though the mountain road was fairly busy with travelers, Mao Yishan moved briskly, and by the afternoon he had overtaken several columns escorting prisoners, arriving at the ancient walls of Zizhou. It was only the hour of Wei, and clouds were already gathering overhead — it looked as if it might start raining again before long. Mao Yishan frowned slightly at the sky, then went to report at the command post.

Before long, someone came to lead him in to see Ning Yi.

The command post was busy, people coming and going, voices raised in discussion. In the small courtyard out back, when he found Ning Yi, several staff officers were still there reporting matters. Ning Yi poured Mao Yishan a cup of tea, dismissed the officers, and only then came over smiling to chat with him.

“How’s the injury?” Ning Yi asked, getting straight to the point.

The two of them were no strangers to each other. Back when Loushi had been killed, Zhuo Yongqing had been the central figure, but Mao Yishan had fought fiercely as well, and later, during the great battle at Xiaocang River, he’d had plenty of contact with Ning Yi. After being promoted to regimental commander, as the assault spearhead of the Fifth Division, Mao Yishan — known for his steady, methodical fighting style, along with Luo Ye and others — often met with Ning Yi as well. During this period Qu Qing was serving at general staff, and although Hou Wu had gone to the rear, he too remained a trusted officer. In truth, all five men who had killed Loushi were regarded by Ning Yi as elite talent.

After a brief exchange, Ning Yi asked a bit about the battle at Eagle Beak Cliff, and then, without much further formality, said: “Your injuries aren’t fully healed yet, and I know your leave isn’t long, so I won’t keep you here. Your wife Chen Xia is currently handling business in Chengdu — New Year is almost here anyway, so go join her, and spend some time with the children. I’ve had some New Year provisions prepared for you, and arranged a carriage heading that way to Chengdu. Oh, and there’s a coat here too — your clothes are a bit thin, so this coat is yours now.”

Ning Yi picked up his own new coat from the room and handed it to Mao Yishan. Mao Yishan tried to decline several times, but eventually gave in to Ning Yi’s insistence and put the army coat on. He glanced outside and said, “If it rains, the Jurchens might attack again. There are so many prisoners at the front — Mr. Ning, I really could go back to the front line, my men are all still out there after all.”

Ning Yi shook his head. “There’s no shortage of decisive men among the Jurchens, and it’s possible one of them might take a desperate gamble right after a defeat — but this time the odds of that are low. The tension at the command post is just standard procedure; the front is already on high alert, and they won’t miss you specifically. Go on — the propaganda people will still come find you, it’s just a chance to pass New Year along the way, don’t think it means you’re off duty entirely. At the latest, they’ll call you back by the third day of the new year.”

Mao Yishan hesitated slightly. “Mr. Ning, I’m not sure I really understand propaganda work…”

Ning Yi laughed and nodded. “Don’t worry. Zhuo Yongqing had good looks back in the day and was well suited for that kind of thing, which is why he was always the one being called on to cooperate with this and that. You’re a fierce warrior on the battlefield — I’m not going to have you running around all day making small talk with people. But overall, this whole southwestern campaign, including Qu Zhengyan’s operation this time, has cost us dearly too. Your killing of Elili is a real morale booster, and it’s good for recruitment, so just cooperate where it makes sense — no need to feel any resistance to it.”

Plain, honest men made up a large share of the Huaxia Army — and in truth, for most people of this era, casually boasting in private was one thing, but the moment “propaganda” and matters of that scale entered the picture, it was entirely normal to feel a bit lost. Ning Yi had a great deal of experience putting people at ease. Reassured by his promise, Mao Yishan finally relaxed.

Afterward, someone led him outside to catch a ride — a carriage that had originally been scheduled to deliver goods to the post station south of Zizhou. It would deliver its cargo to the station that evening, then carry Mao Yishan on to Chengdu the next morning. The driver, initially somewhat anxious about the weather, grew warm and chatty once he learned that Mao Yishan was the hero who had killed Elili. Under the cold, overcast sky, the carriage sped swiftly out of the city.

Seeing Mao Yishan off, Ning Yi stood at the entrance of the command post and watched this regimental commander, his own age, for a good while.

Mao Yishan’s face was plain and honest, covered with countless small, fine scars on his hands and face — scars that recorded the long road he had walked over the years.

Warfare in this era, unlike the firearms-based wars of later ages, involved blades that were not as instantly lethal as a gun, and so tended to leave more marks on veteran soldiers who had survived many battles. There were many such veterans in the Huaxia Army, especially in the later stages of the three-year war at Xiaocang River. Ning Yi himself had gone back and forth across many battlefields and carried plenty of scars of his own, but he had also always had people looking out to protect him. What truly struck the heart were the soldiers who had fought a hundred battles — on summer nights, stripping off their shirts to count their scars, the one with the most wearing a simple, honest smile that said “I won,” and yet somehow that was what made a person’s soul tremble.

Even those among them who did not die young would likely suffer greatly for the rest of their lives.

Of course, many of them were already dead by now.

Back in those days, Ning Yi had liked talking to these men about the future of the Huaxia Army — or, more accurately, about the future of “natural science,” when he would describe scenes of the “modern” world. Airplanes, cars, films, music, buildings dozens of stories tall, elevators — all sorts of enviable ways of living. Back then, facing encirclement by an army a million strong, with the Jurchens pressing relentlessly, the men had run back and forth through the mountains, often having to go hungry just to conserve food. Speaking to these soldiers, most of them with little education, Ning Yi had held nothing back.

Sometimes he would speak bluntly about the injuries these men carried: “All right, all right, with this many wounds, even if you don’t die now, you’ll be in pain later — rheumatism, it’ll ache right down into your bones, you know that? Don’t think it’s some kind of blessing. In the future we’ll build more hospitals to take you all in…”

The soldiers who heard this would just laugh it off without much concern — if they could really make it to “the future,” that alone would already be more than good enough.

“But there’s no other way,” he would often say, by way of cheering everyone on. “If we lose, everyone here has already seen what the Jurchens would do to the whole world.”

Many of those men never had a future at all. Even now, no one knew how many of them would live to see it.

Mao Yishan might have been one of the soldiers who had once listened to Ning Yi describe such a future. Ning Yi vaguely remembered that, back then in the mountains, they had sat together at some point — though he could no longer recall the specifics.

As Mao Yishan’s carriage left Zizhou, a small convoy was speeding toward the city from the opposite direction. Toward evening, Ning Yi stepped out of the bustling command post and, at a side gate, met Tan’er, who had traveled all the way from Chengdu to Zizhou.

For this New Year in the eleventh year of Jianshuo, Ning Yi had originally planned to make a trip to Zhang Village before the Lesser New Year — partly to discuss matters the rear needed to pay attention to with those staying behind, and partly to visit his wife and children while he was at it. But because of the breakthrough achieved at the Battle of Yushui Creek, Ning Yi found himself instead needing to stay on guard against a sudden, all-or-nothing gamble from Zonghan’s side — and so, instead of him going, it became Tan’er who came to him.

Ostensibly, it was simply a brief meeting.

Once they met, Ning Yi opened his arms and embraced her, saying, “I found a place — I want to take you to see it.”

“Oh?” Tan’er blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Over the past decade or so, she had been managing a great many affairs of her own, and had grown accustomed to maintaining a stern, dignified bearing. Though she was smiling now, seeing her husband, her expression still carried a fairly formal air, and her confusion looked earnestly serious.

A faint breeze still stirred in the air, lending a cold edge to the atmosphere of the city. Carrying a bundle, Ning Yi led her through Zizhou, climbing over a wall in a rather clumsy fashion to enter an empty, eerie villa. Ning Yi led the way through several courtyards, with Su Tan’er following behind. Though she had handled plenty of major affairs over the years, some instinct in her as a woman still made this kind of setting a little unsettling — though what showed on her face was more a look of exasperated amusement. “What’s this about?”

“It’s Li Weixuan’s old villa. He’s gone now, and I found this place — it’s actually quite nice.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to climb over the wall to get in.”

“If too many people came through, it wouldn’t feel the same.”

A cold wind blew past, carrying with it the faint, musty smell of long disuse. Tan’er’s brow furrowed slightly. After a while, the two of them finally reached a small building deep within the villa grounds, and Ning Yi led her up to the second-floor corridor. The daylight had already begun to fade, and the wind moaned along the eaves. Ning Yi set down the bundle and said, “Wait for me a moment,” before heading back downstairs alone.

Tan’er crossed her arms over her chest and turned to look around the empty, ghost-house-like little building.