A cool February breeze blew gently, still carrying a hint of winter chill, as the Huaxia Army’s columns passed along the riverbank near Wangyuan Bridge.

The direct fighting near Wangyuan Bridge had, by now, come to a complete stop.

Wave after wave of surrendered prisoners were being held in several triangular hollows along the riverbank; the Huaxia Army’s rifle formations guarded the openings facing outward, while a small force had also crossed to the far bank to prevent prisoners from swimming across and escaping. Across the wider battlefield, Jin banners lay toppled, baggage scattered in disarray; corpses lay thickest along the line where the two armies had clashed, the devastation spreading toward the riverside.

In the areas ravaged by the rocket shells, the fires had already gone out, leaving behind charred, horrifying corpses and soil scorched by explosion and fire. Wounded Jin soldiers still groaned in the wind, and on the faces of some of the soldiers being driven together under guard, tears could even be seen falling.

At the head of Wangyuan Bridge, the ground had turned into patch after patch of black.

The accuracy of “Dijiang” remained, for now, something in need of substantial improvement — and so, in order to seal off this nearly singular route of escape and push the Jin army’s thirty-thousand-strong losses as high as possible, the Huaxia Army had fired over sixty rocket shells at this bridgehead, front and back. Black scorch marks spread outward from the bridgehead in patch after patch; the small stone bridge had been blown apart on one side, leaving only a gap now wide enough for two men to walk through abreast.

Ning Yi rubbed at his own fist as he walked across the battlefield, the cool wind blowing past him.

Around him, everyone’s mood was one of excitement — even the veteran Huaxia Army soldiers standing nearby with rifles seemed somewhat astonished by the victory of this battle, their faces bright with joy. Only Ning Yi, gazing at the scenes unfolding around him, wore an expression that seemed somewhat distant.

“Wangyuan Bridge… how far is it from Zizhou?”

“Eleven li.”

“…I see.” Ning Yi nodded.

On September 21, 1860, in the Common Era, outside Beijing, at Baliqiao, over thirty thousand Qing troops faced eight thousand Anglo-French allied forces. After half a day of fierce fighting, the Qing army suffered over one thousand two hundred casualties, while the Anglo-French forces lost five dead and forty-seven wounded.

This was, in another strand of history, one of the most humiliating moments for the whole of China during the Second Opium War.

Of course, history is often like a little girl with no agency of her own — much like Han Shizhong’s “Great Victory at Huangtiandang” — and the record of the Battle of Baliqiao, too, is full of strange inconsistencies. In records from later ages, it was said that Prince Seng Senggerinchin, commanding over ten thousand Mongol cavalry alongside twenty thousand infantry, fought with fierce valor, resisting stubbornly, yet…

And yet, in the end, the Qing army’s one thousand two hundred casualties led to the collapse of an entire army of thirty thousand. Some French officers, upon returning home, made much of the Qing soldiers’ bravery in battle, saying things such as, “they held their ground under fire that was killing them in droves… preferring not to retreat a single step, bravely holding fast, dying to the last man where they stood,” and the like — though some parliamentarians also considered what happened at Baliqiao nothing more than a “ridiculous war.”

What was the truth of that history?

At this moment, it seemed like a trivial detail of little importance.

Would that stretch of history vanish simply because he himself had come to this world? He supposed it would not.

He walked around a scorched crater in the ground, letting out a soft sigh.

The generational gap in technology seemed like an insurmountable mountain, but to say it was utterly insurmountable would also not be entirely true. In that other history, the Chinese nation had endured humiliation and backwardness for over a hundred years, all the way up until the War to Resist America and Aid Korea, beginning in 1950 — even then, China remained deeply behind.

At a place called Sanggamryeong, the Americans bombarded a position of a mere 3.7 square kilometers for forty-three days straight with tens of thousands of shells and explosives daily — one million nine hundred thousand shells fired, over five thousand bombs dropped from aircraft — until the granite of the entire hillside had been ground down by two full meters.

And the volunteer soldiers, who lacked even explosives of their own, had dismantled unexploded American bombs to use in digging air-raid shelters.

At that time, it was the will of a Chinese people who had endured a century of humiliation, tempered in raging fire, that closed a far greater technological gap — winning several decades of breathing room for the China that followed.

And the realm of the Wu Dynasty had already endured over ten years of humiliation.

The wounded soldiers’ screams continued.

This was a Jurchen veteran who had been caught in the earlier fighting, sitting in a pool of blood, one foot already blown off. He had woken from unconsciousness, the immense pain making him cry out across the battlefield.

Ning Yi walked up to stand before him, silently, silently watching him.

His military coat swayed faintly in the wind. There was no pity in Ning Yi’s eyes; he simply, quietly, looked this legless veteran over. This kind of Jurchen soldier must surely have been through campaign after campaign; the number of enemies — and innocents — who had died at his hands was surely no small count either. Nearly everyone who had made it to this battlefield at Wangyuan Bridge today was of this same kind.

Under that gaze, the Jurchen veteran’s cries gradually trailed off; his teeth chattered, and he did not dare look at Ning Yi. Ning Yi, treading through the pools of blood, walked on toward the distance.

“Liheng… not happy?” Hongti, beside him, asked softly.

Ning Yi turned to glance back at the scene of the battlefield being cleared up, then shook his head.

“No.”

He said.

At this moment, news of the victory was already being sent out in every direction. Even within the Huaxia Army itself, a wave of shock was soon to follow…

…

In the Jurchen camp, the scene was an entirely different one.

People were waiting for the battlefield news to be confirmed. After Sheyema had shouted “This must be false…,” Zonghan, seated in his chair, had said nothing more of his own view. The scout was called in, and under the pressing questions of Sheyema and the others, began recounting in detail everything that had happened on the battlefield — but before he was even halfway through, Wanyan Sheyema kicked him violently and had him dragged out.

“This is a spy sent to unsettle our army’s morale!”

Sheyema declared flatly. Balishu, beside him, added, “It could well be true.”

In the gap while waiting for the second wave of intelligence to arrive, Zonghan paced the room, looking over the map of the Wangyuan Bridge area, and after a while said quietly, “Xiebao is careless on the surface but careful at heart. Even if Ning Yi had some trick and struck him by surprise, he should still have been able to handle it.”

Sheyema nodded. “Father is right.”

The tent fell silent for a long while afterward. Zonghan, sitting back down in his chair, said, “My only worry is that though Xiebao is clever, deep down he has always had a proud, unyielding streak. If the moment comes when he ought to retreat, and he cannot bring himself to decide, disaster may follow.”

Sheyema said nothing.

At the second quarter of the hour of Shen, more detailed intelligence arrived. A scout who had hidden near Wangyuan Bridge described in detail the chaos across the battlefield — some men had fled the field, but whether Xiebao was among them was still unknown; Yuyu had already gone forward to make contact. Zonghan listened to the scout’s account, his hand gripping the arm of his chair, already trembling slightly. He said to Sheyema, “Zhenzhu, go forward and take a look yourself.”

After Sheyema left, Zonghan let the scout continue his account. When the scout described King Baoshan leading the final charge forward, the command banner toppling, seemingly without breaking through, Zonghan rose from his chair; his right hand, gripping the armrest, snapped it with a crack. Zonghan flung it to the ground.

The scout was still describing that terrifying weapon’s bombardment of the Wangyuan Bridgehead — the spreading flames and explosions leaving countless soldiers who had run to the bridgehead unable to cross; some men, their bodies aflame, screamed as they ran through the crowd; some threw themselves into the still icy-cold river along the banks. Northerners were not, by and large, strong swimmers, and most of those who leapt into the river drowned there.

“Enough—”

Zonghan cut off the scout’s account. The scout knelt there, not daring to make a sound.

But after a moment, he heard Zonghan’s voice again: “You — go on. Tell me more about that weapon.”

Only then did the scout dare speak again.

Around the third quarter of the hour of Shen, from the accounts of soldiers gradually straggling back from the Wangyuan Bridge front, people learned bit by bit of Wanyan Xiebao’s valiant charge and his uncertain fate; a little later still, his capture was confirmed.

By this time, the fighting across the whole Shiling battlefield had already come to a halt on the orders of both sides — proof that both sides had already learned of the shocking outcome at Wangyuan Bridge.

Nearly everyone could also grasp the significance carried within that outcome.

Six thousand Huaxia Army soldiers, wielding a new type of weapon, had, within half an hour, routed head-on the thirty thousand Jin elite troops under Xiebao’s command. Several thousand soldiers were confirmed dead, over twenty thousand captured, with only a scattered few managing to escape. The Huaxia Army’s own casualties could be counted on one’s fingers.

For most of that time, in truth, both sides spent their time simply trying to confirm whether this scripture-like result was even real. On the Huaxia Army’s side, Yu Zhongdao had messengers confirm the source of the intelligence three separate times before he would accept it as reality; Qu Zhengyan sat on the ground holding the report, silent for a long while, before ordering yet another confirmation. As for the staff officer Chen Tian, upon receiving the news, he first burst out laughing: “Who’s playing a joke on me — this must be someone I once—” and then, catching himself, flew into a rage: “No matter what, you can’t joke about military intelligence like this!”

People, each in their own way, came to accept the news as it settled into reality.

Before the afternoon was over, Ning Yi had already linked up with Han Jing, and together, pulling along several carts loaded with “Dijiang” rocket shells and launch frames, headed toward the Shiling front. Riding along, Ning Yi discussed with Han Jing and several technicians and staff officers the problems that had surfaced on the battlefield.

“The strength of the rifle barrels has always been an issue — the first few volleys were fine, but after the third round, we noticed the rate of barrel bursts climbing…”

“After three rounds, the paper cartridges started jamming a bit…”

“We got lucky with the cavalry — the Jurchens originally meant to circle slowly around to the south, but we fired early, so they weren’t mentally prepared. By the time they tried to speed up, it was already too late… we noticed in the second volley that the cavalry’s leader got caught in the blast, and the remaining cavalry didn’t try to circle around again, choosing instead a straight charge — which happened to run right into our gun line… If the enemy comes prepared next time, cavalry speed could still pose a real threat to us.”

“The rocket shells actually held up better than expected in terms of consumption — they broke and ran after just one scare, so we can still fight a few more battles with what we have…”

Amid the chattering discussion, someone brought up how well the rocket shells had performed, and someone else remarked that the name “Dijiang” was both mighty and imposing — according to the Classic of Mountains and Seas, Dijiang was shaped like a yellow sack, red as vermilion fire, with wings but no face — and most importantly, it could dance. Naming this rocket shell after Dijiang really was a perfect match. Teacher Ning really did have a gift for names, so profound and fitting…

Han Jing drew closer, stammering somewhat: “Although… it’s a great and joyous occasion, but, that character ‘Di,’ meaning ‘Emperor’ — isn’t it a bit inappropriate? We killed an emperor, after all…” He made a sawing motion with his hand in the air, as if sawing off Zhou Zhe’s head, and did not go on.

Ning Yi tilted his head slightly. “Dijiang, well…”

“Right, Dijiang.”

“Jiang, as in a river…”

“River… it’s the character for river, isn’t it.” Han Jing chewed on this for a long while, urging his horse forward to catch up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

As the sun set, the Shiling front drew near.

Zizhou.

Li Shishi had also received the first battle report after Ning Yi’s departure. She sat in silence for a long while in her plainly furnished room, then covered her mouth and burst into tears. Within that weeping, there was laughter too…

For many years, she had wondered whether Ning Yi’s decision that day in the imperial hall, to kill Zhou Zhe, had truly been the rational one. Now, there was no longer any need to ask that question at all. At the most critical moment of this war — a war that would decide, almost singlehandedly, the survival of an entire people — on the sixth day after leading his troops out to strike, he had, with ease, annihilated Wanyan Xiebao, a force five times the size of his own.

The evening sun poured in through the window of the small room…