In mid-March, in the southwestern mountains, the sky hung heavy and overcast, the clouds pressing low. The soil in the mountains seemed thick with moisture; the roads, trampled by marching troops, quickly turned to maddening mud. Soldiers stumbled along unevenly, and now and then someone’s foot would slip, sending them tumbling down some slope beside the road, high or low, their bodies soaked through with mud and water, struggling painfully to climb back up.

Soldiers from the northern lands, unable to bear the southern wind and rain, fell ill with chills, crowding into hastily erected wounded-soldier camps along the roadside to make do as best they could. The bloated, retreating army still moved forward each day, but even when it stopped, it was never left far behind by the pursuing forces. Since the army had set out on its retreat on the sixth, by the eighteenth only one or two ten-thousands of the vanguard had reached Huangming County and Yushui Creek, the central line of this battlefield.

The Chinese Army could not possibly leave behind every man along the Jurchen retreat line, but blocking actions erupted at every point along this sprawling, serpentine line of withdrawal. After Yuyu’s death, the Jin forces lost most of their remaining initiative in these rugged southwestern mountains, and the Chinese Army, drawing on its earlier reconnaissance, sent elite troops across one difficult path after another, attacking every weakly defended mountain road.

If the target looked easy to crush, they attacked decisively and without hesitation; if they encountered elite Jin troops with strong will and fighting ability still intact, they would first harass them from the surrounding woods, wearing them down and provoking them into recklessness — and if the Jin troops chased them into the mountains, that suited the Chinese Army perfectly.

Once one left the handful of relatively passable roads, every stretch of this mountainous terrain could serve as a pass that one man could hold against ten thousand. Breaking through the Chinese Army’s coordinated defenses here required several times the number of troops pushed forward. And in fact, even if several times the number did arrive, the mountain forests made it impossible to form any real attacking formation — the troops in the rear could only watch as their comrades ahead died beneath a hail of Chinese Army crossbow bolts.

This was the most stifling kind of battle — the pain of watching comrades die intertwined with the fear of never making it home oneself, and for the wounded, this pain became something even more like despair.

For the once high-spirited Jin forces, not a single moment before this could have foreseen the situation they now found themselves in. Especially before entering the southwest, they had advanced triumphantly, mile after mile — hundreds of thousands of Jin troops burning, killing, and plundering their way across territory home to tens of millions of Han people, seizing countless treasures along the way. Now, with less than a hundred li of mountain road standing between them and home — so close, and yet many of them would never make it back from here.

Some found it hard to understand the decisions of their superiors. The defeat at Wangyuan Bridge could no longer be concealed within the army. But even if thirty thousand men had been crushed by seven thousand, that did not necessarily mean a hundred thousand were bound to be utterly destroyed at the hands of the Chinese Army. If only… In times of adversity, such grumbling was inevitable, and alongside the grumbling came enormous regret.

Back when Great Jin was still poor and weak, men who charged out of the mountains and faced death on the battlefield felt none of this regret — death was simply the way of things, a matter of “when a man dies, his prick still points at the sky; if he doesn’t die, he lives ten thousand years” — that carefree bachelor’s fatalism. But now, facing the possibility of death, men could not help but think of the fine things they had plundered along the way, of the good life waiting for them in the north. Such regret not only surfaced now, but multiplied.

Yet even now, not a single Jin unit had chosen to surrender and beg for mercy. Everyone knew perfectly well what their own side had done on this long march south; everyone among the Jin soldiers knew perfectly well what had happened over these ten-odd years of war and confrontation.

Having done such things, if the enemy ever got the upper hand over them, they knew they would be flayed alive and have their bones pulled apart.

And in recent days, what the Chinese Army had shown in these southwestern mountains was exactly that fierce, unrelenting resolve to flay and dismantle the entire Jin army without reservation. They showed no fear of a strong enemy’s hatred; after crushing Xiebao, Ning Yi had killed him outright in front of Zonghan and hurled his mangled head back at them — an act that had at first provoked fury among the Jin troops, but which people gradually came to understand for the meaning it carried.

Especially over these past ten-odd days, small Chinese Army units had again and again cut across the path of the retreating Jin army. What the Jin forces faced was not some easy, one-sided chase — every time, they had to weather the Jin army’s own frenzied assaults, and every time, the Chinese Army paid a heavy price in sacrifice merely to pin the retreating army down for a while. But each of these attacks grew fiercer than the last, and what showed in the eyes of these Chinese soldiers was the most unwavering killing intent.

In the face of such deep-seated hatred, no one cared anymore about the possibility of future reprisal.

The scales of war were tipping. Over more than ten days of fighting, defeats had far outnumbered victories, and the entire army had advanced less than thirty li in all that time. There were, of course, occasional victories — Wanyan Sheyema, clad in a white robe after his younger brother’s death, once managed to surround a Chinese Army unit several hundred strong, launching wave after wave of attacks until the entire unit was wiped out. When only a dozen or so men remained, Sheyema tried to humiliate them into surrender, shouting up at them from before the mountain: “When you killed my brother, did you ever imagine it would come to this?!”

The half-bloodied Chinese Army soldiers on the mountain, propping each other up, laughed loudly and through gritted teeth: “If wearing mourning white is meant to look impressive, then look ahead — soon the whole mountain range will be white with it. None of you are ever going home—”

That shout rang out firm and bloody. The very next day after this unit was wiped out at several times its own cost to Sheyema’s forces — on the nineteenth — Qu Zhengyan, leading Mao Yishan and a handful of other elite assault teams, coordinated with a dozen-odd rocket shells to punch through the Yushui Creek position, cutting off this route home for the Jurchens.

……

Spring rain fell across the sky.

War horses crossed the muddy mountain path, carrying Wanyan Sheyema toward the ridge on the far side. This nameless ridge was where Wanyan Zonghan had set up his temporary headquarters, still eleven li from Huangming County. The surrounding terrain was gentler, allowing the scouting network to extend outward and reducing the risk of the command camp being struck by enemy fire in the night.

In the drizzling rain, the soldiers gathered among the tents and beneath the rain shelters showed low morale — some looked dejected, others feverishly agitated, neither of which boded well. Soldiers fit for battle ought to be calm and composed — but such a state had not been seen for more than half a month now.

As something of a “crown prince” figure within the western army, Wanyan Sheyema’s armor was spattered with blood; his battlefield presence had lifted the spirits of no small number of soldiers — on the battlefield, a commander’s resolve often translated directly into his soldiers’ resolve. As long as those at the very top had not fallen, there remained some chance of getting home.

Sheyema’s small party did not stop before the main camp; guiding soldiers led them instead toward an unremarkable small tent nearby. Sheyema dismounted, lifted the tent flap, and went in to find Wanyan Zonghan and Han Qixian huddled over a simple sand table, deep in discussion.

“Father, Lord Han.” Sheyema saluted the two of them. Zonghan waved a hand, and only then did he rise. “I’ve heard about what happened at Yushui Creek.”

Zonghan nodded. “What you did the day before yesterday lacked prudence. When it’s a matter of life and death, it isn’t about mouthing off.”

Sheyema fell silent for a moment. “…Your son was wrong.”

The tent grew quiet again for a while. During this period of the Jurchens’ stubborn retreat, many officers had thrown themselves boldly to the fore, trying to rouse the army’s morale. Sheyema’s wiping out of those two hundred-odd Chinese Army soldiers the day before yesterday should have been news worth broadcasting widely — but in the end, the reaction it provoked was rather delicate.

Part of what made the reaction so delicate lay in the words Sheyema had shouted at the very end. Since his brother’s death, the pent-up grief in his heart had been unbearable; he had spent over ten days plotting and setting an ambush, finally seizing the chance to trap those two hundred-odd men with no way to retreat. Only when a dozen-odd remained did he call out to them — itself a kind of release from his own suppressed anguish. But this particular group of Chinese Army soldiers harbored too deep a hatred for the Jurchens; even with only a dozen-odd men left, not one begged for mercy — instead they answered with defiance.

— If wearing mourning white is meant to look impressive, you’ll see white banners covering the whole mountainside.

Partly out of hatred, and partly perhaps out of the awareness that falling into Jurchen hands meant a fate worse than death, those two hundred-odd men fought to the last man, taking nearly six hundred Jin soldiers down with them — not a single one surrendered. Those defiant words soon spread quietly through the Jin army. Though the leadership quickly caught wind of it and issued a gag order, preventing it from causing too great a stir for the time being, in the end, it brought no real benefit either.

“…People call Ning Yi a demon in men’s hearts, but some of what he says isn’t wrong either. Among this crop of people fighting in the southwest today, countless have lost family, lost loved ones. If you lose one younger brother today, and I, Wanyan Zonghan, lose one son, and we go around shouting about it as though we’ve suffered some enormous injustice — that’s exactly the kind of thing that gets a man mocked. Most people would probably just think you’re acting like a child.”

Zonghan looked at the sand table, his voice, somewhat hoarse, rising again. “This time, once we’ve fought our way back, in the future there will still be a war of national annihilation to fight against the Black Banner. In the end, one side or the other will likely be wiped out entirely. You’d best… set your mind straight on that, starting now.”

“…Yes.” Within the tent, these words landed with tremendous weight. Only then did Zonghan turn to look at him. “You came here — was there something in particular you wanted to say?”

“The Chinese Army has the upper hand and fights without regard for their lives. These past few days, from what your son has seen, morale is badly shaken.” In recent days, when officers in the army discussed this matter, there had still been some reluctance to speak plainly — but before Zonghan, having already been instructed, Sheyema no longer held back. Zonghan nodded. “It’s something everyone already knows. Say whatever it is you have in mind.”

“Your son requests permission to attack Yushui Creek,” Sheyema said. “As I see it, the terrain at Yushui Creek is different from Huangming — the ground there is more complex, the defensive line not narrow. The Chinese Army attacked with elite forces; on the surface they’ve secured the position, but in reality, if it comes to holding it, their manpower may well fall short. If I lead men in a counterattack, ideally a pincer from both sides, our numerical advantage would work in our favor there. At Yushui Creek, whether the Chinese Army chooses to stand and fight or to strike and then withdraw, either way benefits us.”

Zonghan looked at the map without speaking. Beside him, Han Qixian finally spoke up. “In truth… even if we set aside Yushui Creek for now, it wouldn’t matter much. The Chinese Army’s advantage comes from their earlier reconnaissance of the terrain, which lets them push boldly through the mountains off the main roads, causing us this trouble. But the section they control most firmly is still the stretch before Yushui Creek and Huangming County. Huangming to Jiange remains in our hands for now — at the start of the retreat, the Grand Marshal had General Gao sent ahead to familiarize himself with the mountain terrain and lay traps along the various side paths. So as long as we can get past Huangming, the difficulty of the retreat has already been greatly reduced.”

Zonghan and Sheyema were father and son; Han Qixian was a trusted aide. Seeing Sheyema volunteer for such a risk, he stepped in to reassure him — after all, Wanyan Zonghan, a lifetime soldier, could hardly be without any response of his own even as the whole army struggled forward. Having said this much, and seeing that Zonghan still had not given his verdict, Han Qixian added a few more words.

“Furthermore, the Grand Marshal chose to set up camp here precisely to cut off, as much as possible, any passage through the mountains on either side. Right now, all the possible routes through the seven or eight li of mountains to the east have already been blocked by our forces. The chances of the Chinese Army circling around to strike our advance from the flank, or raiding Huangming county town, are now slim. In another two days, our pace will pick up. Even if we expended the effort to take Yushui Creek now, the benefit would be marginal at best.”

Sheyema shook his head, a faint smile appearing on his stern face as he looked at Han Qixian. “There’s no need for that, Lord Han — you understand our army’s internal state better than I do. Never mind speed — with our morale being cut down piece by piece by that man Ning Yi, whether we can even reach Jiange alive is already in question. What matters most right now is how to rally our spirits. If I lead troops to attack Yushui Creek, whether we win or lose, it will show Father’s resolve. And with tens of thousands of men jammed on the road, stopping and starting, rather than leaving them idle, better to give them something lively to do up ahead. Even if the fighting turns into a stalemate, at least they’ll have something to occupy them.”

With his white headband caked in yellow mud and his armor stained with blood, Wanyan Sheyema’s words carried a genuine measure of insight and courage. In truth, having followed Zonghan through half a lifetime of campaigns, this Prince of Zhenzhu, Wanyan Sheyema, was now a man approaching forty. He had fought bravely, earned many military merits, and killed countless enemies — but having long stood in the shadow of towering figures like Zonghan, Xiyin, Gao Qingyi, and Han Qixian, he had, in certain respects, always seemed somewhat overshadowed.

It was only after Xiebao’s death, as the Jurchen army fell into crisis, that his true qualities began to show through more fully. In truth, had Wanyan Sheyema led an attack on Yushui Creek — whether defeating the Chinese Army outright or merely forcing them to temporarily withdraw there through sheer weight of numbers — either outcome would have been the greatest possible boon for the Jurchens. The Sheyema of old would certainly have made exactly this calculation. But now, his words had grown far more measured, showing a steadier, more grounded quality.

Han Qixian no longer objected. Beside him, Zonghan slowly let out a sigh. “If I send you to attack, and you cannot take it after a prolonged assault — what then?”

“Your son… would treat the preservation of his forces as the priority. Where victory is possible, I will fight for it; where it is not, I will aim simply to hold the Chinese Army down, drawing more of their strength to Yushui Creek, easing the pressure on the surrounding situation.”

Zonghan glanced at Han Qixian, who shook his head slightly. But Zonghan shook his head at him in turn. “…If you were to answer as you always have — leading from the front, coming back with my head in hand if I fail — then there would be no need to send you at all. Qixian, step outside for a moment. I have some things to say to him.”

Han Qixian took his leave and went out.

Inside the tent, Zonghan stood before the sand table, hands clasped behind his back, silent for a long while before finally speaking. “…In those years of hard fighting at Xiaocang River in the northwest, we lost Loushi, one after another, and then Ci Bushi. Gushen and I both knew then that someday the Chinese Army would become our greatest enemy. We spent years preparing for the southwestern campaign — but what has happened today shows that we still underestimated them.”

Sheyema opened his mouth. “…The distance between us and news from afar made communication difficult. Your son believes this was not a failure of the fighting itself.”

“Do you think, in war, anyone bothers to explain such things to you.” Zonghan smiled faintly at Sheyema, reached out a hand to pull him closer, and patted him on the shoulder. “Whatever the fault, in the end, someone must bear the responsibility for defeat. Gushen and I hoped to use this opportunity to firmly establish our position in the southwest, so that our Jurchen people could continue to develop smoothly. Now, it seems, that is no longer possible. Give the Chinese Army just a few years to digest the fruits of this victory, and they will sweep across all under heaven. However far the northern lands may be, they will surely march there in the end.”

Sheyema clenched his fists and said nothing.

Zonghan continued slowly. “In the past, when the court spoke of an eastern court and a western court, I scoffed and never bothered to argue, because as long as our Jurchens kept winning victory after generous victory, none of that mattered. But after this defeat in the southwest, our army’s vital strength has been badly damaged. Looking back now, those matters are going to become a problem.”

“Even with fewer men, your son need not fear Zongfu or Zongbi.”

“This has nothing to do with Zongfu or Zongbi. Zhenzhu — after this campaign, even Baoshan cannot come home. Is your vision still confined to such small matters?” Zonghan’s gaze fixed on him, gentle yet resolute in that moment. “Even if Zongfu and Zongbi manage to flex their strength for a while, what does it matter? The real trouble is this Black Banner in the southwest. What’s frightening is that Zongfu and Zongbi will never know how we were truly defeated — they’ll simply assume that Gushen and I have grown old, no longer fit for battle, while they are still in their prime.”

Zonghan let out a long sigh. “…Our Jurchen people, east and west, cannot afford to turn on each other any longer. When we launched this fourth southern campaign, the original understanding was that battlefield achievement would determine who led. Now that I have lost and they have won, it makes no difference — going forward, in Great Jin, they will have the final say.”

“Father!”

“Listen to me!” Zonghan cut him off sternly. “I have thought this through many times over. So long as we can make it back to the north, everything else can wait — preparing against the Black Banner must come first. Zongfu and Zongbi have won their victories, but as long as Gushen and I are still alive, the old officials and old generals throughout the court will still show us some deference. We don’t need anything from the court — we’ll cede whatever power can be ceded. I will persuade Zongfu and Zongbi to put all our strength into preparing for the Black Banner, and give up every advantage to them. They’ll agree to it. Even if they don’t believe in the Black Banner’s strength, it’s far better for them to take over my authority smoothly and start the fight themselves, than not!”

“That way, perhaps, we can leave our Great Jin a chance to endure.”

“The reason I’m telling you all this is because if this withdrawal from the southwest does not go smoothly, neither you nor I, father or son, may make it back to the north.” Zonghan spoke deliberately, one word at a time. “You are still young. Over these years, there has always been much you still lacked. You appear composed, but in truth you have more courage than cunning. Baoshan looked rough and reckless on the surface, but was actually subtle and sharp underneath — though he too had areas he never had the chance to refine… Well, enough of that.”

Speaking of the now-dead Xiebao, Zonghan shook his head and said no more on the matter. “Through this great battle, you have grown. Once we return, you should be able to take up the mantle of the princedom, however imperfectly. Whatever comes after, think often of your brother. As for this retreat, though I already have measures in place, Ning Yi will not easily let our southwestern army go — dangers remain at every turn ahead. Zhenzhu — if, once we return north, only one of us, father or son, can survive, then hold fast to what I say to you today. Whether it means swallowing humiliation or biting back your anger, this will be your burden for the rest of your life.”

“Father, I will never—” Sheyema’s eyes reddened. Zonghan reached out with a large hand and gripped the iron helmet on his son’s head. “Don’t act like some sniveling girl. Victory and defeat are the common lot of soldiers, but when you lose, you must accept it! You can promise me nothing today! My death means nothing, and yours means nothing either! Only the future and fate of our Jurchen people are worth your concern—”

Sheyema’s eyes turned red-rimmed, and the resolve on his face hardened. Zonghan released his helmet. “Go. Go fight a proper, disciplined battle for me. Don’t be reckless, don’t underestimate the enemy, try to come back alive, and bring the army’s spirits up a notch. That alone would be a great help.”

Sheyema stepped back two paces and knelt on the ground.

“—Yes, sir!!!”

Outside the tent, the spring rain still fell. Sheyema led his troops out of the camp, and before long, having selected his elite soldiers, set off toward Yushui Creek. It was the afternoon of the twentieth of the month. Sheyema’s heart was full of fearless resolve, but also governed by a strong sense of reason — he weighed several possible plans of battle.

The mountain roads were difficult to travel, and troops often blocked the way ahead and behind. Not until the morning of the twenty-first did Sheyema finally reach the vicinity of Yushui Creek and conduct a close reconnaissance. In this battle, he would face Qu Zhengyan, the most formidable of the Chinese Army’s commanders — but fortunately, the man leading the enemy forces was likely only a small elite contingent, and the rain had also dulled the advantage of their firearms.

Before long, the scout sent ahead to investigate returned, stammering.

“Ning—Ning Yi… has come. It seems he’s stationed right there at… at Yushui Creek…”

……

Sheyema’s bloodshot eyes went momentarily rigid. The heavy rain poured down.

……

“I’ll… I’ll f*** your mother…”

……

That afternoon, the twenty-first, Sheyema launched his assault on Yushui Creek…