The smell of gunpowder smoke drifted through the air, the taste of blood filling the mouth and nose—the kind of discomfort a man could never grow used to, not in a lifetime.

Only after the shout of “The little bastards are pulling back” came through did Mao Yishan take up his shield and run toward the north side of the ridge. Fighting still raged on the mountainside over there, but before long, word came that the enemy had temporarily withdrawn.

“Search the bodies! Bring me every one of their fire-bombs you can find!”

Making his way toward the boulder that served as their high ground, Mao Yishan barked orders in a hoarse voice. “How many guns left?”

“Three small ones left.”

“Drag them north. If the enemy pushes forward, concentrate the fire-bombs and the long-stone guards on that gap! Don’t let them form up!”

“Save the fire-bombs for the south side as much as possible! Xiao Xue! Pick your spots carefully with the Jin dogs’ fire-bombs—they hit hard coming down from above. Everyone, tally up the grenades, see how many we’ve got left!”

“Every company, every platoon, get a head count on your people—”

“First aid—bandage them up first—”

Amid the shouting, he raised his field glasses and scanned down the mountainside. Jurchen troops filled the ravines and foothills nearby; a hot-air balloon rose into the sky. At the sight of it, Mao Yishan’s brow furrowed.

“Damn it—”

Since the war began, both sides had used hot-air balloons for observation—back when the front lines were more static, everyone put one up to keep watch on the surroundings. But once the fighting turned into this crisscrossing chaos, a balloon had become nothing but a glaring beacon; wherever one went up, it was bound to draw the attention of enemy scouts, and before long, a full assault as well.

That this Jurchen unit dared raise a balloon now meant, on one hand, that they were dead set on pinning down exactly where things stood and wiping out this squad on the mountain—and on the other, perhaps, that they had some other scheme in mind and no longer cared about the risk of exposing a balloon.

Either way, none of it boded well for his side.

Not long after, someone came up to report: three hundred and ninety-six men still fit to fight.

“…Also, the cliff on the east side is too steep to descend—no way to retreat that direction.”

“Forget the east. They’ve got a balloon up watching us.”

Mao Yishan glanced at the sky. It was barely past noon, and the idea of holding on until nightfall for an easier breakout already felt impossibly far off. The markings on the simple map also showed no reinforcements likely to arrive in time.

He recalled meeting with the General Staff’s signal officer before setting out the day before. The order given to him had been: “Reach White Tiger Trough by evening on the twenty-third of February, and if the tactical situation allows, join with the friendly First Division, Second Brigade in striking Balishu’s flank.” After giving the order, the staff officer had added, “Both Balishu’s and Dalai’s main forces are more or less settling into their planned positions right now. There’s a theory circulating at the General Staff that they may soon carry out a large-scale push to advance the front line. Once they cross the Leigang–Zongxi line, the open ground ahead favors them more—that’s where the Jurchens will regain their numerical advantage.”

“So if you do run into them, stay flexible. When they push, we pull back; when they tire, we harass; don’t force a fight you can’t win.”

He’d heard all this just yesterday, with the staff officer figuring it might still be a few days off—yet today, right in the middle of a routine advance, Mao Yishan had run straight into an unexpected mass of enemy troops.

Since killing Elili at Yushui Creek, Mao Yishan’s regiment had taken only a modest number of replacements—a few batches of new recruits came in, and after two months of fighting, their numbers had hovered stubbornly around four hundred. The Jurchen force ahead now might well number over two thousand. The instant scouts made contact, Mao Yishan pulled his men off to the side—only to find, in the middle of the retreat, that they’d been boxed in by another Jurchen force cutting diagonally across their path.

Judging by the enemy’s reaction, this might well have been a case of extreme coincidence—but either way, his four-hundred-odd men were soon surrounded on the mountain and pinned down in fighting for well over an hour. The enemy launched several waves of assaults, each one beaten back.

With this force of over four hundred now surrounded, the Jin troops below had grown rather excited—raising the balloon precisely to guard against any chance of escape. For Mao Yishan, this was simply the kind of thing that came with the territory, walking so often along the river’s edge that wet shoes were inevitable sooner or later.

Because of the loss of Huangming County at the start of the first lunar month, Mao Yishan had been swiftly recalled to the front right after the New Year, which meant he’d escaped the propaganda tour that had originally been planned for him. His unit had held on at Yushui Creek through late January before pulling back under cover of heavy fog, and then had gone on something of a pleasant streak, repeatedly picking off the enemy’s weaker units.

This was precise hunting of isolated Jin detachments, backed by a well-honed scout network. In the first half of February, Mao Yishan had fought four engagements—one an ambush, two won in the course of a charge, and in one of them Mao Yishan had personally killed a Han general, one of the increasingly rare ones left in the advancing Jurchen ranks. The last engagement had been a tail-tucked retreat, though not too grueling.

Now, on this fifth engagement, they’d found themselves boxed in.

“The enemy’s coming up again—”

A shout rang out.

“Damn it, ruined my new coat!”

Mao Yishan swore under his breath. The fine, light, warm military coat had been a gift from Ning Yi; he hadn’t worn it into the first assault, but when the second came in earnest, he’d gone in with knife and shield, and the coat had ended up half soaked crimson. Thinking of it now, he felt a pang of real regret—he took the coat off, laid it carefully on the ground, and picked up his weapon before moving on.

“Watch the situation—if we get a chance, we’ll try to break out south. I think the men down there are weaker.”

His battalion commander came up as Mao Yishan said this; the commander nodded, grinning. “Regiment Commander, if we do break out, let me wear your coat. You standing out like that draws too much attention—let me wear it, draw the Jin dogs’ eyes…”

“And you think I’m getting it back afterward?”

“Come on, Commander, that’s not very generous of you…”

“Get lost.”

The sound of battle was already surging up the slope.

The sun hanging overhead crept slowly westward, less noticeable than the thick smoke drifting over the ridge. The rocks had gradually turned red with blood, blooms of explosive smoke opening one after another; as afternoon wore into evening, the Huaxia Army troops atop the ridge attempted two breakouts, both unsuccessful. The charges they weathered numbered over ten in all.

Gritting his teeth, Mao Yishan crawled forward through the black smoke, a tearing pain radiating from his right arm and the right side of his face—though even that description wasn’t quite accurate; he had wounds in several places, all bleeding now, his ears ringing so badly he could hear nothing at all. When he reached a hand up to his face, he found half his ear had been reduced to a mess of blood and torn flesh.

“Aaah—”

He let out a beast-like howl, the sound reaching him as if from some distant ridge. Amid the smoke, other sounds mixed in—not far off, on a grassy slope, lay a Huaxia soldier, half his body blackened by an explosion, one leg already severed, blood pouring out. Half his body and half his face were a mass of scrapes and abrasions. Mao Yishan saw the man’s hand waving, and only then, as if from very far away, heard his agonized screams.

The charge the enemy had just launched, Mao Yishan’s men had driven back with a fierce counterattack, but the Jurchens’ fire-bombs had still done real damage. With the enemy having just withdrawn, others nearby were searching through the wreckage; Mao Yishan rushed to the wounded man and tried to lift him up—the man’s face was twisted almost beyond recognition.

Mao Yishan’s head was still ringing, the shouting sounding distant, shrill, and chaotic, though he knew it was the voice of the comrade before him. The man’s hand reached out and grabbed his clothes; Mao Yishan saw his eyes bulging bloodshot, his mouth full of red, the flesh of his shrapnel-torn face also stained crimson.

“Give me a quick end—”

Mao Yishan tried to pull him up, but after hearing it twice, he finally understood the words. The words drained the strength from him in an instant; he sank to the ground, raised his head, and gazed through the smoke toward the mountains for a moment. Then he swung a fist into his own head, and leaned in close to the wounded man.

“Anything else you want to say!?”

“Aaah—” the wounded man screamed.

“Anything else you want to say—”

“Commander, give me a quick end—”

“Alright—”

Mao Yishan shouted the word out. He looked at the wounded man, who, still screaming through the pain, ground his teeth and looked back at him, his whole body trembling. A second after their eyes met, Mao Yishan raised his blade and brought it down.

He rose afterward from the smoke and walked back. Someone caught up with him, and soon a medic from the unit arrived, checking Mao Yishan’s wounds and tending to his ear. Mao Yishan sat down on a large rock atop the ridge, watching the surroundings and trying to organize his thoughts, even as his body shook with pain.

“We’ve driven them back twelve times now—” His battalion commander ran over to report. Mao Yishan shivered as he looked at him; the commander froze for a moment, then shouted the words again, louder, and only then did Mao Yishan nod.

“There might not be reinforcements coming!”

“Hold out until night! There’s still—there’s still a chance something works out!”

“The little bastards might have recognized us!”

“What?”

“They know it was us who killed Elili—”

“…Oh.” The battalion commander thought it over. “Well then, Commander, tonight I’ll wear your coat…”

“Don’t even think about it—”

“Stingy—”

Both men were shouting.

The enemy’s thirteenth charge began.

The fierce fighting continued. The losses atop the ridge had, by now, passed the halfway mark, and most of those still standing were wounded as well. Mao Yishan understood clearly in his heart that reinforcements likely weren’t coming. This time, they’d probably run straight into the Jurchens’ large-scale advance—several divisions’ worth of main force, concentrating their initial counterattacks on a handful of key positions. The Jin dogs wanted ground, and this was the price his side would make them pay for it.

On his own side, scouts couldn’t get through, and whatever friendly reinforcements happened to be nearby likely wouldn’t be able to reach them either. Under yesterday’s orders, they should all have been heading toward White Tiger Trough by now—he’d simply had the bad luck to be caught here instead. Under normal circumstances, he should have been able to slip away on his own and rejoin the main force.

Every battle had its one or two unlucky souls like this.

He thought back to going home over the New Year to be with his wife and child—a privilege the rest of his men hadn’t had; they hadn’t even gotten the chance to say goodbye to their families. But perhaps it was better this way—perhaps it was precisely because of that trip home that he now felt, strangely, such reluctance to let go.

His eyes stung for a moment. He gritted his teeth, swallowed down the pain in his ear and head, and pressed forward, blade in hand.

The turning point, in the fiercest moment of this round of fighting, came suddenly—

On February 23, in the southwest, one of the forces that had pinned down Mao Yishan’s regiment along this nameless ridge was an elite unit made up of Han Chinese from Liaodong. Its commander was named Yin Han, with roughly fifteen hundred men under him.

On the other side of the mountain were two Jin columns numbering close to three thousand.

The resistance of the four hundred-odd Huaxia troops on the ridge had held remarkably firm, which came as no surprise to the attackers on either side. First, the terrain here was fairly narrow, making a breakthrough difficult for the moment; second, not long after the fighting began, the attackers had identified the unit designation of the Huaxia Army force on the ridge—other Jurchens might not have grasped the significance, but after the killing of Elili had been given a fair amount of publicity, some among the Jin troops recognized it.

This was a major prize, one that had to be taken.

Having decided as much, the attackers first sealed off every route around the ridge completely, then gradually escalated the intensity of their assault.

Over ten waves of attacks followed, one after another. On the thirteenth assault, Yin Han left himself exposed.

His exposed flank wasn’t facing the ridge.

……

On the other side of the mountain, Zheng Qiming, Ning Ji, and over twenty others had already been crouched in the brush for nearly half an hour.

They had started out with only a dozen or so men. From early that morning they’d run into an advancing Jurchen force, and this party, still carrying wounded, had spent the day slipping and dodging, playing hide-and-seek with Jurchen scouts; partway through they’d linked up with a seven-man scout unit, and it wasn’t until the afternoon that they’d discovered the fierce fighting on this ridge.

“What’s going on with the Jurchens?”

“Something big’s happening, isn’t it.”

“Why do we keep running into them today…”

“We’re too far forward…”

“The Jurchens are up to something…”

Discussion had gone back and forth along the way, but once they came upon the battle, they’d stopped to hold position. Taking a count of everyone with them, they knew this was an extremely risky gamble; some in the group had reservations about Ning Ji’s presence, but Ning Ji had insisted firmly on joining in.

“When it comes to killing, I won’t slow anyone down, will I? There’s so few of us as it is—one more person is one more chance. Look at the mountain up there—saving people matters most, doesn’t it?”

The opportunity came at the quarter-hour mark of the shen hour that day. Yin Han left his somewhat vulnerable back exposed to this small band.

“Let’s kill him.”

The group crept forward as one.

Even at its weakest point, the formation around Yin Han still outnumbered the small unit Ning Ji belonged to—but this was the best chance they’d get.

At that moment, neither Ning Ji down below nor Mao Yishan up on the ridge was thinking of anything but fighting with everything they had for the dozens, the hundreds of lives before them; hardly anyone yet realized that what was unfolding before their eyes was, in fact, the starting point of the greatest turning point in this entire southwestern campaign.

In Zizhou, around midday that same day, Ning Yi had already received word of major, sweeping movement among the Jurchen forces. The forward command center immediately concentrated its troops and moved to meet several of the enemy’s advancing lines.

Ning Yi offered no interference with this decision—some things he had sensed coming days before, and even earlier than that, he had known that a moment would eventually come when certain things would have to be set fully into motion. This day, he had already made his own preparations for what lay ahead.

Inside Zizhou, what limited troops remained were assembling, and equipment was being moved out of the armories.

The Leigang–Zongxi line marked an invisible boundary ahead of Zizhou. Past that line, the mountain forests thinned out, and terrain suited to large-scale troop maneuvers would begin to appear. The Jurchens would regain their numerical advantage there.

Past that line, they would be working their way back toward Jianmen Pass again—

—and that would be far more difficult still.

Ning Yi walked toward the assembly grounds where the troops were gathering.

……

Zheng Qiming and Ning Ji struck at the formation around Yin Han.

The crack of sniper fire rang out; at that same instant, the attempt to take the head began.

A moment later, someone atop the ridge noticed the shift in the formation to the south.

Someone ran to Mao Yishan, shouting. Mao Yishan raised his field glasses and took a look.

The battalion commander rushed past him. “Quick! Break out—”

“First Battalion…Third Battalion, all of you! To the south—charge!”

On the other side of the mountain, the soldiers manning the balloon had also spotted the disturbance; the Jurchen forces were massing in a frenzy.

“Second Company, Second Battalion! With me, rear guard!”

“Charge—”

Mao Yishan wasted no time. The soldiers atop the ridge surged forward like tigers unleashed from their cages, charging fiercely down the mountainside. Mao Yishan ran a short distance, then turned back: “Hey—”

Soldiers were still charging down around him; on the other side of the mountain, the Jurchen forces were massing in a frenzy to meet the charge. Up on the ridge, the battalion commander stood there, waving a hand at him—in his grip was the military coat Mao Yishan had forgotten to put on.

The commander looked at Mao Yishan, then put on that comfortable, handsome coat of his. And truth be told, once he had it on, he did look rather dashing.

“I’ll cover the rear.”

For the rest of his life, the battalion commander never gave that coat back.