In the early days of March, when orioles flew and grass grew green, the wounds of war on the southwestern front had not yet faded.
Past noon, the sky had, if anything, turned a little overcast. A day had passed since the battle at Wangyuan Bridge, and both sides were caught in an unprecedented, delicate atmosphere—the news of Wangyuan Bridge had struck the Jurchens like a basin of cold water poured over their heads, while the Huaxia Army watched to see whether that cold water would produce the effect they expected.
Too intense a shock can provoke unpredictable reactions in people. Dealing with a routed enemy calls for the decisiveness of pressing one’s advantage to the fullest; facing a cornered beast, a hunter must first step back and set a sturdier stance.
Fighting still raged in the vast mountains, but the Lion Ridge front was calm. Artillery shells had scorched the ground black, and the smell of blood still lingered. Along the line of confrontation, a party from each side came forward, setting up two simple chairs and a wooden table on open ground, with a small canopy erected above. Both sides carefully checked everything and the state of the surrounding ground.
Once Wanyan Zonghan’s reply arrived, it was already certain that this day would go down in the history books alongside Wangyuan Bridge. Although there were plenty on both sides urging caution—reminding Ning Yi or Zonghan to guard against some underhanded trick from the other, and arguing that such a meeting was hardly necessary at all—in truth, once Zonghan had sent his reply, the whole matter was already settled, with no room left to turn back.
“I put on a show and invited him to meet, and he said yes—so now I say never mind, I don’t dare go? Not a good look. I have pride too, I can’t afford to lose face like that.”
Within the Huaxia Army, Ning Yi brushed aside every word of caution with just such an easy grin. Something similar was likely happening within the Jurchen camp as well.
The meeting was set for the second quarter of the hour of Wei that afternoon. After the two guard details had checked the surrounding area, both sides agreed each would bring one companion to the talk. Ning Yi brought along Lin Qiu, a senior staff officer attached to the army—Hongti had at one point wanted to come along, but negotiations weren’t just a matter of trading tough words; high-level talks like this usually involved countless practical details to handle, so in the end it was Lin Qiu who came.
Since the Huaxia Army now held a slight upper hand, and given the possibility that the other side might be tempted toward some rash move against a commanding officer, both the secretarial staff and the security detail placed the responsibility squarely on Lin Qiu’s shoulders. This left the normally capable and composed Lin Qiu rather on edge; he even promised more than once that, should things turn dangerous, he would shield Ning Yi with his own life. But just before setting out, Ning Yi simply told him: “There won’t be any danger. Stay calm, and think ahead to the next stage of negotiations.”
By this point Ning Yi’s expression had already turned serious, giving everyone around him a sense of distance, yet carrying tremendous authority. Dressed in a mostly black military greatcoat, he walked out through the camp gate escorted by Hongti and the others. On the confrontation line, only the two guard details still remained near the center; Zonghan, in his general’s cloak, and Gao Qingyi also emerged from the camp on the other side.
On the Huaxia Army’s side, a tall wooden framework was being erected in the camp. Ning Yi and Lin Qiu walked past where the guards stood, then continued forward; the same happened on Zonghan’s side. When the four of them met beneath the canopy at the center, tens of thousands of troops from both armies watched from their positions across the field.
Ning Yi studied Zonghan and Gao Qingyi, and they studied him in turn. Wanyan Zonghan’s hair and beard were half-white; in his youth he must have had a stern, square-jawed face, with a killing intent about his brows, but in old age that killing intent had shifted, largely, into sheer authority. His frame carried the heavy build typical of northern men, imposing enough to inspire fear on sight. Gao Qingyi’s face, by contrast, was sinister, with extremely high cheekbones; a man accomplished in both letters and arms, he had killed without number in his lifetime, and was likewise an opponent whose name struck fear into enemies.
Compared to Zonghan and Gao Qingyi, both grizzled veterans of a lifetime of campaigning who looked like tigers and wolves, Ning Yi and Lin Qiu appeared far younger. Lin Qiu was a young officer of the Huaxia Army, one of the rising generation personally trained by Ning Yi; though a staff officer, a soldier’s bearing had sunk into his very bones—his stride was crisp, his hands clasped behind his back like a standing pine. Facing these two pillars of the Jin state who had ravaged the world, Lin Qiu’s eyes held wariness, but more than that, a resolve that would, if needed, throw itself at the enemy without a moment’s hesitation.
There was no smile on Ning Yi’s face, but he did not look tense either—he simply maintained a natural gravity. As he drew close, his gaze swept over the two men’s faces, and he spoke directly.
“Nianhan. Gao Qingyi. So we finally meet.” He walked up to the table and glanced at Zonghan. “Sit.”
Zonghan walked to the table with his hands behind his back and pulled out a chair. Ning Yi took out from his coat pocket a bamboo tube about two fingers long and pressed it down on the table with two fingers. Zonghan came over and sat, and only then did Ning Yi pull out his own chair and sit down.
“The war’s gone on for over four months now. It’s time we met.” Zonghan set both hands on the table, a weathered look in his eyes. “If I’d known of you more than ten years ago, I wouldn’t have besieged Taiyuan—I should have gone straight for Bianliang.”
Zonghan’s words came out slightly hoarse, but in this moment they sounded sincere. With the two nations’ war having reached this scale, involving the lives and deaths of a million people, and the fate of the realm at stake, verbal sparring meant little in itself. Which was precisely why his first words acknowledged the value of Ning Yi and the Huaxia Army: if he could go back more than ten years, killing him would have been the first priority.
Ning Yi’s gaze rested on Zonghan, shifted to Gao Qingyi, then returned to Zonghan, and he nodded. Gao Qingyi, for his part, gave a sinister little smile. “Before coming here I proposed that we should take this chance to kill you, and the matter of the southwest would be resolved. Historians in later ages would all say what a fool this Ning Butcher was—that at such a critical juncture, he insisted on riding out alone for a parley like some tale of chivalry. Dying here would be a disgrace.”
Ning Yi did not look at Gao Qingyi. He sat in silence for a moment, still looking at Zonghan. “…Riding a lucky streak for thirty smooth years, and now you’re old men. Lose that streak, and you’re done for as men… A year from now, thinking back on today, you’ll regret it—but not today. What you should be worried about is a coup back in the Huaxia Army, with rocket shells raining down on the four of our heads. Though I have taken precautions against that… let’s get to business.”
“I’d like to introduce you both to something. It’s called a water gun—a little bamboo tube.” Ning Yi picked up the small bamboo tube he’d set on the table earlier; behind it was a wooden piston that could be pulled. Both Zonghan and Gao Qingyi looked puzzled. “It’s a toy country children often play with. You put it in water, pull this piece of wood, and it sucks the water in, and then you push, and it squirts right in your face. That’s the basic principle.”
Ning Yi set the tube down on the table and pushed it forward, then looked at the two men. His face showed nothing but seriousness.
“Through the study of natural principles, swap the bamboo for something sturdier, change the driving force to gunpowder, and fire a projectile, and you get the fire-lance that already existed back in the Wu dynasty. The fire-lance was showy but useless—first, the gunpowder wasn’t strong enough; second, the barrel wasn’t sturdy enough; third, the projectile it fired flew wild. Compared to a bow and arrow, it was pointless, and could even burst and injure your own men.”
“So we swapped the barrel for thick cast iron, even folded, refined steel, strengthened the gunpowder’s power, added more of it, and used it to fire a shot—and that became the iron cannon you’ve all seen. The progress of this science is quite simple. First: the power of the gunpowder’s explosion—how much force the wood at the back of this little bamboo tube can provide—determines how strong the thing is. Second: whether the tube can withstand the gunpowder’s explosion and still fire the projectile out with greater force, farther, faster, and with more power to break through armor or even a shield.”
He paused briefly. Across from him Zonghan was turning the bamboo tube over, examining it, then spoke. “Ning Butcher… have you something to teach me?”
The exchange proceeded as if it were the most casual of conversations. Ning Yi went on: “Much of the research in natural science comes down to studying these two things. Gunpowder is the spear; the material that can withstand the gunpowder’s explosion is the shield. Combine the strongest spear with the sturdiest shield, and once the fire-lance’s range surpasses the bow’s, the bow has to leave the battlefield. Your Great Workshop researches iron cannons, and you’ll find that if you keep loading in gunpowder without limit, the cannon bursts—the quality of the steel determines how large a cannon you can build, and whether you can hold an advantage on the battlefield.”
“In the process of forging steel, we’ve discovered many patterns—some steel is more brittle; some steel, forged to look dense, actually has tiny air pockets inside that make it prone to bursting. When you push steel forging to one limit, you need hundreds, thousands of methods to break through it. Break through it, and maybe the fire-lance’s range increases by five zhang, ten zhang—and then you hit another limit.”
At this point, the corner of Ning Yi’s mouth twitched slightly, almost nervously, as if he were smiling—but it looked more like a snarl. “But unlike the bow—which hasn’t gained much range since it was invented—steelmaking, though it runs into one limit after another, can always break through them. It just takes an enormous amount of very meticulous work. Crossing each limit might take years, even a decade or more, but with every step, it grows a little sturdier.”
He paused.
“…From Xiaocang River up to today, what you’ve seen is only us being one step ahead of you in these ‘ingenious little tricks.’ A single step, and you could still catch up by sheer numbers. But once the hundred-zhang sniper rifle appeared, the gap became two steps. Neither you, nor even Xiyin, ever realized this. And now, at Wangyuan Bridge, it’s the third step.”
“You must have already noticed this by now, and you’re thinking that perhaps once you go back, you can build the same things yourselves, or find a way to counter them—that you’ll still have options. But I can tell you: between every step you’ve seen, there’s a gap of at least ten years. Even if you had Xiyin push his Great Workshop to its absolute limit, ten years from now, he still won’t be able to build these things.”
“We took these steps in an extremely difficult environment, relying on the meager manpower and resources of Liangshan. Now we hold the wealth of the southwest, and we’ve driven you back—our position will stabilize. Ten years from now, there will be no Jin state and no Jurchens left in this world.”
The sky was still overcast, and a wind had picked up in the mountains. When Ning Yi finished speaking, Zonghan set down the small bamboo tube, turned his head to look at Gao Qingyi, and Gao Qingyi looked back at him—then the two old Jin generals both began to laugh. Ning Yi, hands clasped on the table, felt the corners of his own mouth curve, and he too began laughing along. The three of them laughed on and on, while Lin Qiu, hands clasped behind his back, watched Zonghan and Gao Qingyi coldly off to one side.
“Ning Butcher says all this—does he think this commander…”
Wanyan Zonghan spoke amid his laughter. Ning Yi’s fingers tapped on the table, and he was laughing too. “Is the Grand Marshal laughing because he thinks I’m just talking big air? Hahahaha…”
“Haha, Ning Butcher’s empty threats are truly laughable!”
“Hahahaha—I’m going to kill your son later.”
“…”
Zonghan’s expression froze for an instant, then he continued laughing, but the laughter gradually took on a bloody, murderous edge. Ning Yi stared into his eyes, laughing all the while. After a long moment, his laughter finally stopped. His gaze still fixed on Zonghan, he pressed a finger down on the small bamboo tube on the table and pushed it forward a little. Speaking slowly, word by word.
“Over ten years, tens of millions of lives across the Central Plains—including all the blood on your hands from Xiaocang River up to now—you will pay it back, little by little, in the depths of despair…”
“I’m giving it to all of you, as a gift.”
Under the small canopy, in Ning Yi’s eyes now was a killing intent just as sharp and cold. Unlike Zonghan’s overpowering presence, Ning Yi’s murderous intent was strangely detached—in that instant, the very air seemed bleached pale by that detachment.
Beneath the canopy, in the gazes of the two men, the space seemed split into two poles: ice and fire.
Gao Qingyi shifted slightly.
Lin Qiu, watching Gao Qingyi, shifted slightly as well.
The standoff held for a moment. Clouds drifted across the sky above; the wind bent the grass below.