The shattered half of a head was placed in a bamboo basket and sent to the negotiating table at the front.

Gao Qingyi’s roaring ceased. It was said that upon seeing Xiebao’s head, he fell silent for a long while, then said to Lin Qiu, “To humiliate a man to this degree — don’t you people fear there will be consequences?”

Lin Qiu answered, “For more than ten years, you’ve done countless things just like this. Seeing what became of him, this is when you ought to start being afraid.”

The negotiations broke off for over an hour.

The sky gradually darkened, torches were lit, every unit at the front stood in solemn readiness, and scouting parties went out in waves through the night.

Before long, Gao Qingyi returned to the negotiating table and demanded that the Chinese Army return Wanyan Xiebao’s body. Lin Qiu once again refused: “Mr. Ning only instructed me to negotiate with General Gao on the matter of prisoner exchange. I have no authority to discuss anything beyond that. Or does General Gao intend to keep wasting precious time on a corpse?”

“Then…” Gao Qingyi’s eyes turned cold, but in the end he gritted his teeth and said, “When your people go back to report, please pass this request along as well, to Mr. Ning.”

The entire negotiation proceeded from that point on in an atmosphere of gritted teeth. More than an hour later, a messenger brought back Ning Yi’s decision regarding Xiebao’s body: “If the prisoner exchange proceeds smoothly, Xiebao’s body will be returned as a gift after the exchange, to console Grand Marshal Nianhan in the grief of losing his son.”

Gao Qingyi expressed his thanks.

……

The night was quiet.

Beneath the seemingly peaceful atmosphere of negotiation before Lion Ridge, far more clashing and killing was taking place in the dark mountain forests.

Before the hour of the Pig arrived, several miles southwest of Lion Ridge, two medium-scale skirmishes had already broken out among the hills. Scouting parties encountered each other in the woods and engaged in the most reckless, most lethal kind of mutual slaughter in the darkness. The veteran Jurchen commander Yuyu personally went to the front line, leading his men out to fight.

At the first quarter of the hour of the Pig, the light of the “Diyi” rose in the distant darkness, visible even faintly from Lion Ridge — rocket shells struck five times at the hillside where Yuyu’s forces had gathered, flames lighting up the forest as Du Sha led his scout unit in a large-scale surprise attack on the Jurchen scouts.

The attempted breakthrough and rescue effort toward Wangyuan Bridge was repelled once more, and the negotiation process at Lion Ridge subsequently entered a phase of mutual accusation and blame-shifting.

Within the Jurchen camp, Wanyan Sheyema, Balisu, and others were simultaneously organizing further rescue and breakthrough plans.

As midnight approached, in the camp of the Han army unit under Li Rulai in the mountains to the northeast, the light was dim and subdued — only a bean-sized flame flickered within the great tent. Li Rulai had already received word from the Chinese Army and was waiting for the arrival of their negotiator.

Suddenly fire and chaos erupted in the camp outside the tent. Someone shouted loudly, “Catch the spy!” Amid the fierce wind and flame, countless Jurchen voices mixed in as well. He lifted the tent flap and went out, and his deputy came running: “Wanyan Saba has arrived…”

“Over there…” Li Rulai frowned, looking toward the chaos. The deputy said, “A spy infiltrated — fortunately he was discovered, which caused the commotion. It seems the spy escaped in the confusion.”

“Escaped?”

“…Escaped.”

“Seal the camp and search thoroughly — I want this matter fully investigated!”

He frowned and looked over; Wanyan Saba’s cavalry torches had already drawn near. When the group came to a halt before him, he saw Wanyan Saba, wrapped in a great cloak, dismount from his horse: “General Li, the Grand Marshal is about to launch a large-scale offensive toward Lion Ridge and Wangyuan Bridge. The Black Banner army has already begun to show fear. Our scouts report that tonight the enemy will show major signs of movement. The Grand Marshal has sent me to assist General Li in the attack.”

The Han general knelt in salute: “Li Rulai obeys the order!”

Listening closely, the sounds of slaughter in the darkness rose and fell like a low growl carried on the wind.

Wangyuan Bridge. The wind moaned as it passed.

In the small hours before dawn, Pusan Hun felt the cold.

He no longer knew what time it was. He had dozed off, and when he woke, the sky was full of stars, and he sensed the man beside him shivering. His own hands were trembling too.

He had not felt cold like this in years.

The coldest place in the world was the winters of the northern lands, where great snows howled on for months at a time, and families huddled together around the hearth fire. Food in winter was often scarce; in his boyhood, many, many people had frozen and starved to death in winters just like this one.

Since joining the army, such days had become rare.

Pusan Hun had enlisted near the end of the pacification of Liao, when he was already in his early twenties. He had missed the first great wave of military merit, but being Jurchen and bold enough to fight, he had still become a backbone of the army after enlisting, fighting in many battles, killing many men, and reaping no small amount of gain along the way.

In the eleventh year of Tianhui, he entered Yanshan Guard as an elite soldier and was promoted to mouke. Jurchens were few in number within the Jin state, and any ordinary Jurchen warrior with a clear head could rise through the ranks quickly. But Pusan Hun’s mouke unit was different from others in the army — under his command were mostly elite soldiers with Jurchens as the backbone. This was the elite fighting force that existed to uphold the Jurchen reputation of “ten thousand cannot be matched.” Placed within an ordinary Jin army unit, he could have commanded a thousand men; before a Han army, he would have been the equivalent of a general commanding ten thousand.

At that time, although Yanshan Guard had suffered a major setback with the death of Loushi, the quality of its soldiers remained extremely high. Zonghan, Xiyin, and the others had laid the groundwork early for the southwestern campaign, personally placing Xiebao in command of this army, building it up as an elite force second only to Tushan Guard, showing tremendous emphasis on it. As a backbone officer in such an army, Pusan Hun naturally received no small amount of favor as well.

Glory and riches, fiefs and mansions, beautiful women and gold — for the Jurchens of this moment, such pleasures were nothing out of the ordinary. Pusan Hun, now in his thirties, had not lost himself in all this. In fact, much like many first-generation founders who had clawed their way up through hardship, their success had been tested through real trials — through slaughter, through life and death. What truly captivated them was that sense of power, of having risen over more than ten years from a state of not even having clothes to wear, to becoming men above other men.

Having killed countless people, money and women naturally followed; having fought battle after battle, the flattery and respect of others naturally followed as a matter of course. Pusan Hun loved the feeling of battle, loved the honor of being “ten thousand cannot be matched” — it would bring him everything good, and solve every problem.

After joining Yanshan Guard, which bore the “stain” of a defeat, the army had been preparing continuously for the campaign against the Black Banner, with the upper echelons calling loudly for revenge for Loushi. Pusan Hun had not felt much about this one way or another. An occasional defeat did not mean much — Grand Marshal Loushi had died in an ambush by the Black Banner army, which did not mean there was anything wrong with the army itself. At the time, Yanshan Guard, under Xiebao’s command, had pacified a few small rebellions and had also fought against a cunning enemy force on the steppe — which had fled at the mere sight of them — and every battle had been an overwhelming victory. The Jurchens remained ten thousand strong and unmatched.

Among the veterans of Yanshan Guard who had experienced the northwestern campaign, some occasionally spoke of the enemy they had encountered in that battle, and in rare cases, some soldiers thought the Black Banner’s fighting strength was formidable. Pusan Hun scoffed at such talk. So what if the enemy was strong? Even against an evenly matched opponent, you simply crushed them head-on! Had Great Jin’s rise come about only because its enemies happened to be too weak?

Lose a battle, then fight another. Incur a blood debt, then collect it from the enemy. The Jurchens had seized control of their own fate amid the flash of blade and sword, and over these years, Pusan Hun had always felt that same sense of strength.

With the start of the fourth southern campaign, for Pusan Hun it had felt more like the beginning of a grand sightseeing tour. The western army marched steadily southward, pausing in Jin territory and at Xiangyang, encountering a few opponents along the way in battle — but for an elite force like Yanshan Guard, whether the enemy was stubborn or fragile, the final outcome was much the same. Pusan Hun savored the feeling after each victorious battle; during this time he had killed some people, seized some rare treasures and curiosities, used some women — but these were merely incidental diversions amid the fighting.

Even after their advance slowed past Jiange, and the Chinese Army’s resistance grew fierce and stubborn, Pusan Hun, following along with Yanshan Guard, had maintained his high fighting spirit and resolve throughout.

All of this — until Wangyuan Bridge.

When the thirty-thousand-strong army charged out of the mountains, he learned that the one waiting ahead was that Mr. Ning of the southwest. There were many accounts of this man; even within the Great Jin army, it was often acknowledged that he was a formidable opponent, the madman who had killed the Han emperor and stood against the whole world.

That this man would meet thirty thousand troops with a mere few thousand could only be explained, in the minds of the army, by some scheme or trick of his — an ambush, perhaps, or land mines, or some so-called desperate last stand. Of course, there had been little time to think it through, and no clear conclusion had been reached. With the war having reached this point, the Chinese Army’s total numbers were no more than fifty or sixty thousand; even granting some ambush or surprise force, thirty thousand men of Yanshan Guard should have been more than a match for it.

No one had imagined it would turn out to be a battle like this.

In less than two hours, a mere few thousand Black Banner soldiers had utterly crushed thirty thousand Yanshan Guard troops whose fighting spirit and resolve had been at their peak.

Several thousand men died on the battlefield; more than twenty thousand were taken prisoner. At that moment, on the mudflats near the river by Wangyuan Bridge, as far as the eye could see there were dark figures crowded together, small boats with lanterns lit patrolling back and forth along the riverbed. As his arms trembled, what rose in Pusan Hun’s mind were the scenes from years past, when some of Yanshan Guard’s soldiers had spoken of the Black Banner and the great battle in the northwest.

The Black Banner is strong…

They fight without regard for their lives…

That Ning Yi is especially skilled at fighting his way out of hopeless situations…

Who could have imagined that, years later, the Black Banner’s strength would turn out to be strength like this?

Since the defeat the previous afternoon, none of the prisoners had eaten. Even veteran soldiers could exhaust their strength after half an hour of fierce combat, and in the hours following the defeat, the prisoners had been driven and divided up amid the chaos — partly because they could not accept the reality of defeat, partly because they were terrified by what had happened on the battlefield, some even believing they had encountered sorcery. By the first day of the month, hunger gradually returned, and along with it, reason gradually crept back as well.

What had happened…

What would become of the realm…

What would become of Great Jin…

Some began to think: the Black Banner has sorcery — when will the Valley Spirit and the shamans come? Does the Grand Marshal have any way to deal with this?

And even… how to resist?

The Chinese Army had confiscated all weapons and supplies, and the prisoners had been divided up on the open ground beside the river. Throughout that entire first day of the month, Pusan Hun kept gazing at the nearby stream. Yanshan Guard was made up mostly of northerners, few of whom could swim, but the river was not wide after all — if one dared risk the water, might there be a chance of escaping to the other bank? Or of drifting downstream, escaping pursuit?

Even on the far bank of the river, this was still territory controlled by the Chinese Army; cavalry patrolled the plains, and escapees had little real chance. But a small chance was still better than none at all.

On the night of the defeat, everyone had been gripped by terror, and most had not slept. Throughout the daylight hours of the first, Pusan Hun’s thoughts churned endlessly, his stomach empty, his nerves taut the whole time. What rose in his mind were the treasures and valuables plundered and gathered along the way. When the Jin army had been winning battle after battle, he had not thought much of these things — but now, thinking of them, what surfaced in his heart was the realization that he might never bring these fine things home.

And then there were the women and children back home — he did not know if he would ever see them again either.

These thoughts gradually hardened into a final flicker of courage; he wanted to do something. This went on until deep into the night, when, without meaning to, he dozed off. When he woke, it was already this hour before dawn. His gaze turned toward the riverbed, and he felt his arms trembling — a trembling born of hunger, of cold, and of fear as well.

Just as he was about to act, suddenly, a sharp sound rang out in the night!

In the early hours of the second day of the third month, even as the fighting along the Lion Ridge–Xiukou line grew fierce, chaos also began to erupt near Wangyuan Bridge.

This was an unexpected turn of events, one that in the time that followed spiraled into an uncontrollable tragedy.

……

At the second quarter of the hour of the Ox, deep in the still of night, Jurchen scouts hidden in the hills several miles north of Wangyuan Bridge saw light rising into the night sky. Toward Wangyuan Bridge, the flames of an explosion shone with startling brilliance against the darkness.

The scouts sprinted forward, and from the best vantage point, confirmed through their telescopes the chaos unfolding on the far bank of the river: a massacre was breaking out before their eyes. At the far end of Wangyuan Bridge, rioting prisoners were trying to storm the Chinese Army’s positions or flee into the river in an attempt to escape. The Chinese Army first met them with lines of rifles, then formed long ranks of spears and shields, cutting off the charging Jurchen prisoners along a line of slaughter.

Corpse after corpse floated up on the little river, piling along the banks.

To Jurchen scouts who had lived through years of campaigning and killing, such a sight was nothing they hadn’t seen countless times before — but for it to happen to Jurchens themselves was, perhaps, the first time in many years.

The Chinese Army dared to massacre Jurchen prisoners!

Having already killed the Prince of Baoshan in front of everyone, they now dared to slaughter the already-surrendered prisoners of Yanshan Guard!

Humiliation and fury exploded in the scout’s mind. After confirming the scene once more, he sprinted back toward Lion Ridge. Before long, the Jurchen leadership, still awake through this long night, learned of this brutal, even inhuman news.

Wanyan Sheyema, having failed in his assault to reach Wangyuan Bridge, charged into the great camp in armor half-soaked with blood, his eyes bloodshot, teeth grinding as if about to shatter: “This is too much — that man Ning has gone too far! I will kill his entire family, exterminate his clan to the ninth degree! If not, I, Sheyema, will have failed to face the ancestors of the Jurchen people through the ages—”

Cursing and furious shouting became the dominant sound within the Jurchen camp. Even the usually composed and steady Han Qixian smashed a teacup fiercely on the table. Someone shouted loudly, “Given this situation, there’s nothing left but to fight the Chinese Army to the death! No more retreating!”

Others volunteered to serve as vanguard, vowing to die on the battlefield if they failed to break the Chinese Army. Wanyan Zonghan, having just endured the pain of losing his son, clenched both fists, and amid the clamor of discussion and shouting, slammed one fist onto the table: “Is this useful?! What are you all shouting about?! By doing this, Ning Yi means to force us into a decisive battle right now! You people don’t understand the stakes — and call yourselves great generals!!!”

Amid Zonghan’s furious rage, the righteous indignation of the crowd finally quieted down. In truth, of the Jin generals who had followed Zonghan to this point, which one was not a hero of outstanding strategic vision? It was only that, at this moment, all they could do was speak words to rally morale — while the decision to retreat could only be made by Zonghan himself.

That a massacre following a defeat should fall upon their own heads was indeed enough to provoke indignation and distress — but in the past, how many hundreds of thousands, how many millions had they themselves killed? The northwest turned to a blank white waste, the Central Plains left with nine houses out of ten empty — these were things they themselves had once done. Now, faced with Ning Yi being just as ruthless, on one hand, it was clearly the gloating cruelty of a victor venting his spite; on the other, it was clearly also meant to enrage the entire Jurchen army, to keep them here for one great decisive battle.

Behind everyone’s fury lay this kind of calculation and speculation. But within the Chinese Army’s command post at Lion Ridge, quite a different scene was unfolding.

Ning Yi, who had been asleep for less than an hour, was woken and informed of the incident that had broken out around Wangyuan Bridge. His expression darkened, and he too slammed his hand on the table: “What kind of mess is this!” He snatched up the intelligence report and strode out.

That the Jurchens would react fiercely tonight had already been anticipated, and the front lines had already prepared various countermeasures — whatever conflict broke out would not have been surprising. But the lapse at Wangyuan Bridge truly was unexpected.

In fact, this was also a problem caused by the Chinese Army’s insufficient troop numbers. After the Battle of Wangyuan Bridge, soldiers able to move to the front had already been transferred forward, with more units already preparing for further offensives. By nightfall on the first, only around three thousand Chinese Army soldiers remained stationed near Wangyuan Bridge guarding the prisoners.

Psychologically, three thousand fully armed Chinese Army soldiers facing more than twenty thousand disarmed Yanshan Guard troops had no reason to feel fear. But under the high-intensity pace of the fighting, the work of guarding the prisoners could hardly be handled with real thoroughness in such a short time. The large-scale troop movements throughout the first made it very difficult to immediately relocate a prisoner population ten times their own number, not to mention the many wounded who still needed to be settled.

And after enduring a full day of hunger on the first, though the Jurchen prisoners’ stomachs were certainly empty, the shock that had numbed their minds the day before had, by this point, finally begun to stir back to life.

In the early hours of the second, some Jurchen soldiers chose to take a desperate risk, breaking out of the crude prisoner camp and attempting to flee via the river. This escape attempt was discovered almost immediately — the patrolling soldiers speared the escapees to death in the river. Meanwhile, within the camp, hidden Jurchen officers cried out loudly, trying to exploit the cover of night and the Chinese Army’s shortage of manpower to incite a mass breakout.

This was the first defeat Yanshan Guard had suffered in years — however devastating, after a day’s time, some of them had still managed to recover a measure of courage.

Roughly six thousand people across the two separated prisoner camps took part in this steadily escalating breakout. Given the constraints of the river terrain, they had few directions to choose from. Meeting them were roughly five hundred riflemen. At the entrance of each camp, after three warnings, the riflemen opened fire without hesitation. After two volleys, the soldiers switched to blades, shields, and spears, forming ranks and advancing.

As one of the Jurchens’ most elite units, the soldiers of Yanshan Guard were renowned across the realm for their savagery; even unarmed, they were lethal weapons, ferocious beasts to ordinary men. But in this regard, the soldiers of the Chinese Army showed no inferiority whatsoever. Facing the long lines of the thin shield wall, the soldiers of Yanshan Guard threw caution to the wind, trying to muster whatever ferocity they had managed to gather to smash open a path through — and then, like a roaring tide, they crashed against unyielding rock.

The assembled shield wall withstood the tremendous impact; spears thrust forward at once, piercing the front ranks of Jurchen soldiers where they stood in pools of blood. Then the shield wall opened, blades flashed, cutting down the first wave of charging Jurchen soldiers where they stood. The shields then closed back into a wall once more, ready to meet the next wave.

The light of the Diyi also fired toward the section of the camp near the river.

“Death to those who flee—” The cold cry rang out across the night sky. At this moment, toward these Jurchen prisoners who still dared to resist, the Chinese Army’s guards showed not the slightest mercy either.

Nearly two thousand people died in the chaos of that night. The will to resist among the more than twenty thousand men of Yanshan Guard was extinguished along with them.

In the command post, Ning Yi listened in silence as the process of suppressing the uprising near Wangyuan Bridge was recounted to him in full, his expression dark. “The one responsible for guarding Wangyuan Bridge — that was Chen Wei of the Second Division, wasn’t it?”

Pang Liu’an nodded. “Yes. His men had just pulled back from the front, and the original plan was to let them rest a while…”

“Relieve him of his brigade commander post, and get to the bottom of this immediately — why did it turn out like this? Was it deliberate negligence or an honest mistake? I know his family died at Jurchen hands, that his comrades died at Jurchen hands too. But if things go on like this, he doesn’t get to command troops anymore!”

The atmosphere in the command post grew instantly heavy. Ning Yi struck the table. “You think this is something to be pleased about? More than twenty thousand men had already laid down their arms — what’s so impressive about killing them all?! But you are soldiers! Your task was to make that bunch of monkeys behave, not to go settle personal scores for fun! Everyone’s exhausted these past few days — if it was an honest mistake, I’ll demote him; if it was deliberate, then he doesn’t deserve to be a soldier! What a mess!”

Pang Liu’an nodded. “This matter will be investigated.”

The matter was settled on that note. Lin Qiu, in charge of the negotiations, stepped forward: “By now, they’ve probably already learned of this on their side. Come daybreak, they may well use it as an excuse to cause trouble. How should we respond?”

Everyone looked to Ning Yi, who waved his hand. “So what if they know? Bring out the rocket launchers and fire a few rounds at Zonghan’s position, blow those bastards to pieces! Also — however many died tonight, drag their heads over tomorrow and deliver them as a gift. Tell Gao Qingyi: if their people sneak over again to incite the prisoners to riot, there’ll be no more talking — we attack immediately!”

……

Within the Jurchen camp, Gao Qingyi said, “Come daybreak, I will demand an explanation from the Chinese Army over this matter!”

……

The Chinese Army’s technical unit hauled rocket launchers forward, delivering retaliation for the Jurchens’ incitement of the Wangyuan Bridge prisoners to riot.

……

As night gave way to dawn at the Lion Ridge position, Lin Qiu walked up to Gao Qingyi and, before the man could even open his mouth, cursed him out thoroughly. A furious exchange of insults broke out at once.

In early March, in the southwest, hidden beneath the peaceful atmosphere of the negotiations at Lion Ridge, a large-scale battle unfolded across the crisscrossing mountain forests, hundreds of thousands of men fleeing and pursuing one another along the mountain paths between Jiange and Zizhou. Black columns of smoke and flame spread across the land, and the blood and bones of countless men fertilized this already dense jungle.

This was the beginning of a complete reversal in the fortunes of the entire realm.

Days later, this news, seeming almost like a lie, spread across the lands of Jiangnan — some were stunned, some skeptical, some enraged, some bewildered, some in tears, some overjoyed, some caught in a tangle of mixed feelings, some utterly at a loss…

It seemed as though the world, as if in a dream, had taken on an entirely different shape…