The wind carried the cries of alarm, and sea eagles wheeled overhead.

In the valley below, bodies lay scattered every which way, blood pooling and staining the ground red. Wanyan Yuchi rode his jet-black warhorse across the corpses; by the roadside lay greenwood fighters, their faces smeared with blood, who had finally chosen to surrender to save their lives.

His gaze swept over them as he rode on toward the mountain ahead.

As had happened repeatedly over the past ten-odd years, when an organized army struck, greenwood fighters bound together only by passion and blood could not withstand this kind of systematic slaughter — their defensive formations were shattered almost immediately, with only a small number managing to inflict any harm on the Jurchen soldiers.

But because Dai Jincheng’s plot had been discovered just in time, the assembled greenwood fighters had still won themselves a brief window to flee. The trail of fighting spread northeastward along the ridge, cutting through peaks and forests, with Jurchen cavalry giving chase the whole way. The forest was not large, but it happened to work against the cavalry’s charge, and some soldiers who rushed carelessly into it fell into ambushes set by the fleeing greenwood fighters, suffering no small losses.

The moment Wanyan Yuchi crossed the ridge, his cavalry had already begun lighting torches, preparing to set the forest ablaze, while some of his men tried to find a way around it to cut off and slaughter the fleeing greenwood fighters on the other side.

Within the forest, the scarred man, his upper body soaked in blood, dragged a Jurchen cavalryman to the ground and cut him down with his blade, then seized the man’s horse — but the horse proved unruly, whinnying and kicking. After mounting it, the scarred man was thrown off, and as the horse tried to bolt, he rolled and lunged, hacking savagely at its neck.

Horse blood sprayed across him again, its stench unbearable. He looked around, and seeing the old woman disguised as an elderly matron running toward him from not far off, waved his hand. “Old woman! The Jin dogs can’t get into the forest right away — lay out your snake formation, we’ll fight them together!”

“The Jin dogs mean to set the fire — we can’t stay long!” the old woman said. The scarred man froze for a moment, then said, “The forest’s this big, how long will it take to burn through it all? Going out there means death too. Let’s go find the others first—”

He turned to leave, but a flash of blade light suddenly cut across from behind a tree trunk, closing in on him in an instant. The old woman lunged to intercept; the scarred man leapt back. Three figures crossed paths in the forest — the old woman’s three fingers went flying through the air, and the scarred man’s right chest was grazed by the blade, his clothes torn open, blood seeping through.

The one who had just struck was a lean, wiry Jurchen scout. The Jurchens, too, had risen from a background of fishing and hunting, and many among their scouts were hunters who had killed all their lives. This middle-aged scout, blade in hand, had a sharp, venomous gleam in his eyes — an indescribable air of danger about him. Had the scarred man not reacted so quickly, had the old woman not paid the price of three fingers to block that blow, that single strike would very likely have split the scarred man clean in two. As it was, the blow proved non-fatal, and the scarred man swung his own blade to strike back — but the scout moved with astonishing agility, pulling back and circling to the side, about to slip away into the other end of the forest.

At that very moment, a figure came whistling through the air. Seeing himself outnumbered, the Jurchen scout leapt backward — but the incoming figure thrust out a spear, its point tracking the scout’s movements through several shifts before driving straight into his heart, then pulling free again. This long spear looked utterly plain and unremarkable, yet in an instant it had crossed several zhang of distance, thrusting and withdrawing — truly a strike of consummate skill disguised as clumsiness, a return to the purest essence of the art. The scarred man and the old woman took one look and recognized who had arrived.

“Elder Fu Lu, why are you still here!”

“It’s best that I stay,” Fu Lu said, glancing at the two of them. “The two of you, go quickly.”

“We’ll stay too!” the scarred man said, pulling out a pouch of wound medicine and quickly beginning to bandage the old woman’s severed fingers. “Elder Fu Lu, you’re the pillar of the greenwood today — you cannot die. Let us hold the Jin dogs here for whatever time we can. For the sake of the greater cause, you should go quickly.”

“It’s the two of you who should go quickly.” Fu Lu’s expression turned stern. “We had heard earlier that Wanyan Yuchi was leading troops to attack Xicheng County — and yet here he is now, with a force that isn’t large. Where has the main body of his army gone, and who leads it? If Dai Mengwei truly harbors ill intent, what is the situation in Xicheng County right now? Old Eight, my brother — you’ve always understood the bigger picture and known when to advance and when to retreat. I alone am enough to hold off Wanyan Yuchi here, and I likely won’t die. The more people who escape from here, the more hope there will be for the future.”

“You’re the pillar of the greenwood.”

“There are thousands upon thousands of heroes in Xicheng County who may die. What does one old greenwood fighter matter beside that?” Fu Lu began walking toward the distance. “Men with real backbone can rise to their feet without anyone telling them to!”

The scarred man’s chest wound wasn’t severe; as he bandaged the old woman’s fingers, the two of them quickly tended to his chest as well. Seeing Fu Lu’s figure about to disappear from view, the old woman waved a hand. “My wound’s serious — I can’t walk any further. Elder Fu Lu, I’ll set an ambush here in the forest and lend you what help I can.”

“Thank you,” Fu Lu’s voice called back from the distance.

The scarred man stood frozen for a moment. The old woman gave him a push. “Go. Get the word out.”

He gritted his teeth, finally cupped his hands in a bow, and called out loudly, “I, Old Eight, swear before heaven — if I don’t die today, I will wipe out Dai Mengwei’s entire clan!”

From somewhere unseen, a voice called back in echo: “So do I!”

……

“I, Old Eight, swear before heaven — if I don’t die today, I will wipe out Dai Mengwei’s entire clan…”

The cry echoed through the forest as Fu Lu, his hair now entirely white, ran on through the trees. Along the way he had already persuaded several groups of greenwood heroes — those who believed their chances of escape were slim and had chosen instead to stay behind and take as many Jin dogs down with them as possible — to leave. Among them were men he already knew, like Jin Chenghu, who had come to join him and worked alongside him for a time, and Old Eight, whom he had crossed paths with before, as well as heroes whose names he couldn’t even recall.

None of these men deserved to die. For every one who survived, the realm might carry one more sliver of hope.

For the greater part of his life, Fu Lu had lived in this world as a servant of Zhou Tong’s household. His temperament was mild, and his manner of dealing with people gentle and yielding; even when he trained under Zhou Tong and took lives, it was always Zhou Tong who gave the order to kill before he acted. Among those close to him, even his wife Zuo Wenying had always been more decisive and fierce-tempered than he was.

Zhou Tong’s own temperament had been upright and severe — stern in his bearing most of the time, a man of his word who did not equivocate. Looking back, the Fu Lu of the first half of his life and Zhou Tong had been two entirely different kinds of men. But in the ten-odd years since Zhou Tong’s death, and especially in this past year or so, having been called upon by Ning Yi to rally the greenwood forces in joint resistance against the Jurchens, Fu Lu had found himself constantly issuing orders, constantly having to think ahead and secure a way out for everyone. He often found himself wondering: if the master were still alive, what would he do in this situation? And without quite realizing it, he had grown to resemble the Zhou Tong of old more and more with each passing day.

At the edge of the forest, flickering flames leapt up. The old man, spear in hand, began running forward — the riders at the forest’s edge were holding torches, setting the fire — and suddenly, a fierce gust of spear-wind came whistling through the air.

That rider, still mounted, was struck through the throat with a soft, wet sound; the spear point withdrew. Nearby, two more riders noticed the commotion and charged toward him on horseback. The old man advanced with his spear, his middle-level stance steady as a mountain, and in an instant a spray of blood burst into the air; the horses, now riderless, brushed past the old man as they ran.

The old man raised his head and saw, on a nearby peak, Wanyan Yuchi. At that same moment, Wanyan Yuchi, mounted on his jet-black warhorse, turned his gaze toward this direction as well. After a moment, he issued an order.

Archers with flame-tipped arrows fixed their aim on this spot. The old man, spear in hand, retreated back into the forest.

Points of fire arrows rose into the sky, then descended into the forest. The old man walked with his spear deeper into the woods, and behind him, smoke and flame began to rise.

The forest was not especially large, but burning it entirely to the ground would still take time. Flames had already begun to catch in several other parts of the forest as well. The old man stood amid the trees, listening to the faint sounds of fighting and the roar of flames not far off, and in his ears rang the sounds of battle from ten-odd years ago — the assassination attempt on Wanyan Zonghan, the shouting, the low growl of the Sleeping Dragon subdued. This battle had never truly quieted in his mind, not once.

Wenying, ah…

he thought.

Sooner or later, everyone dies. Some, only a matter of when…

Overhead, the wind carried the cries of alarm, and sea eagles wheeled through the sky.

In the forest below, they were fighting, side by side, in the very same war that Zhou Tong and Zuo Wenying had once fought, ten-odd years before…

……

The scarred man seized a somewhat gentler warhorse and fought and fled his way onward.

By now it was drawing close to evening. As he neared the outskirts of Xicheng County, approaching the forest to the south, his heart sank. Traces of Jurchen mounted scouts were everywhere in the woods, and sea eagles wheeled in the sky above.

He abandoned the horse and pressed cautiously through the forest, but partway through, he was finally spotted by two Jurchen scouts. He fought desperately and killed one of them; as the second moved to kill him, someone else burst out from the forest and saved him.

The man who came to his aid was likewise a travel-worn warrior. “This one is Jin Chenghu. We joined the righteous cause yesterday — I’ve had the honor of meeting Elder Eight before.”

The scarred man returned the bow.

Both men had fought their way out of that same valley, and their thoughts remained on the situation there — though even more, they worried about the state of affairs in Xicheng County. Without much further exchange, the two of them made their way together toward the northern edge of the forest. As the trees gave way past the ridge, the further they walked, the colder their hearts grew. From far off, an unusual commotion carried through the air, and occasionally, through gaps in the trees, they thought they could make out smoke rising against the sky — and by the moment they finally emerged from the forest’s edge, though they should have crept out cautiously, the scarred man, exhausted beyond measure and clutching at a tree trunk for support, found himself unable to hold back and sank to his knees on the ground…

More than a year after the fall of the south, with the turning point in the southwestern campaign, Dai Mengwei and Wang Zhainan’s rallying cry had inspired several Han army units to rise up and turn against the Jin, converging toward Xicheng County — a spark that so many people had worked so hard, at such great cost, to kindle. But at this moment, Jurchen cavalry was tearing through the Han army’s camp, and the great battle was already drawing to its close.

And flying over the battlefield was the banner that should, by rights, have been hundreds of li away — the banner of Wanyan Xiyin.

The evening wind by the summer riverbank moaned softly, and along with the sound of battle horns on the battlefield, it seemed to play out a desolate, ancient dirge. Wanyan Xiyin sat mounted on his horse, watching as the Han army units before him crumbled, section by section, into collapse.

Great numbers of troops had already laid down their weapons and knelt in row after row upon the ground. Some fought on stubbornly to the last; others tried to flee, but the cavalry showed them no mercy, striking them down mercilessly. These units had once already surrendered to Great Jin before, and seeing how things now stood, encouraged by certain agitators, had risen up in rebellion once more — but their fighting spirit and courage had long since been spent.

The cavalry he had brought here was not large in number, but having received intelligence on the enemy’s deployments beforehand, they had easily crushed the several tens of thousands gathered here. This, once again, proved that though the Han army might be numerous, they were, in the end, nothing but cowards without spine.

Here and there, tattered, poorly armed Han soldiers knelt on the ground, weeping — but the vast majority simply wore expressions of numbness and despair. Some cried out in agony amid pools of blood, their voices hoarse and weak; the wounded still feared drawing the attention of the Jurchen soldiers. Wanyan Xiyin watched all of this unfold, and from time to time cavalrymen approached to report the killing of some Han commander or another, often bringing the severed head along with the news.

Seven or eight heads that had once belonged to commanding officers already lay discarded on the ground; those captured alive were being marched over under guard. Not far off, another group was drawing near to pay their respects — it was the great Confucian scholar Dai Mengwei, the man who had orchestrated this entire affair. He was over sixty years old, his expression sorrowful, his manner grave and humorless. Xiyin had originally held him in considerable regard — even after his betrayal, he had once spoken to Wanyan Yuchi about the value of Confucian learning — but now, he found himself viewing the man rather differently.

He accepted Dai Mengwei’s bow of greeting, then dismounted and had the man rise. At their previous meeting, though already a man who had surrendered, Dai Mengwei had always stood ramrod straight; this time, after paying his respects, he remained slightly stooped throughout. The two exchanged a few pleasantries, then walked leisurely along the ridge together.

“…To be honest, Elder Dai, after stirring up such a great commotion, you turned around in the end and sold them all out to me in a letter. If anyone else had done this, I might well believe them if they said it was because they recognized Great Jin’s mandate of heaven, that a wise man knows how to read the times. But coming from you, Elder Dai, I confess I find myself somewhat puzzled. Your letter was brief — please, enlighten me.”

Dai Mengwei walked slightly stooped, his hands tucked into his sleeves the whole way, matching Xiyin’s pace step for step. He glanced ahead and said calmly, “So long as Gushen honors the terms agreed upon earlier, they will have died a worthy death… Besides, having conspired with the Black Banner, they deserved death many times over regardless.”

“Does Elder Dai truly fear the Black Banner this much? More than you fear our Great Jin?”

“Great Jin is the enemy of us Han people, but even so, there will come a day when you withdraw. Once the Marshal and Gushen return north, once the Black Banner strides out of the southwest, they will be able to march straight through and swallow our Wu Dynasty’s realm whole. Ning Yi once said he intended to destroy Confucianism. Though nothing definite has come of it since, in this old man’s view, that only shows he is not being reckless — once he truly moves against it, the harm will be all the greater. Gushen, Ning Yi cannot destroy our Confucian tradition — but he can bring our realm decades, even generations more of turmoil, and who can say how many will die because of it.”

“Oh?”

“Gushen may not agree with this old man’s view, may even look down on what this old man has done — that’s only natural, human nature being what it is. Great Jin is a rising power, sharp-edged and full of vigor; though Gushen has studied Confucian learning his whole life, he too cannot abide this old man’s staleness and decay. But Gushen — if Great Jin endures long enough in this world, it too will, sooner or later, become just like this.”

Dai Mengwei walked with his hands still tucked in his sleeves, always half a step behind Xiyin as they walked forward, his pace and his words equally calm and measured — yet carrying within them an indescribable air, something like the stillness of death, or an ominous prophecy. This stooped figure before him now, sorrowful of expression and ominous in speech, was, in truth, the old man’s genuine inner self, finally on display. Xiyin listened as the man continued.

“…As far back as the pre-Qin era, there was talk of the Five Virtues succeeding one another in cycles; later it was said that every five hundred years, a true king must arise. Five hundred years is too long a span — in truth, this realm and its ruling houses face upheaval roughly every two or three hundred years. That upheaval might last a few decades, or a hundred years, before order coalesces once more into unity. This is the pattern of heaven, beyond human power to change. Those fortunate enough to be born in an age of order may enjoy a few good days; those unfortunate enough to be born in an age of chaos — look at how people live then, no different from ants.”

“…This cyclical pattern of heaven cannot be altered. All we scholars can do is try to extend the age of order a little longer, shorten the age of chaos a little more, and refrain from stirring up trouble recklessly — that alone would be a merit benefiting countless thousands upon thousands. Gushen, let me speak from the heart: if this realm could still belong to the Han people, this old man could die content, even in the grave. But if the Han truly can no longer hold this realm, and it passes to Great Jin instead, sooner or later you too will have to govern it with Confucian principles — and then the Han people, too, might hope for an age of order, and suffer somewhat less.”

He looked out over the kneeling ranks of Han soldiers on the battlefield. “But the Black Banner won’t do… This man Ning Yi speaks of ‘Hua Xia,’ the Chinese nation, and what he has done truly shows bold, self-strengthening resolve — admirable, in its way. He is a hero, but he is no true sovereign. A hero holds fast to his original convictions, unbending through every setback; but a sovereign must know when to advance and when to retreat, must understand balance and compromise. From the very beginning, he set his mind on destroying Confucianism, wanting to build everything anew from scratch on his so-called principles of contract, fairness, and equality — and in this, he shows all the signs of something too rigid, too unyielding, and thus prone to breaking.”

“…Think about it — having crushed Marshal Zonghan, as his power extends further outward, he can no longer govern with the same simplicity he used in the mountains. He cannot transform the realm, and the realm cannot transform him either. The more unyielding he remains, the longer this realm will be trapped in chaos. He has brought with him the study of natural science, making his weapons ever more formidable through clever craft and ingenious devices — and now every faction across the realm is learning from him. This is the temper of an age of great contention. It sounds heroic and grand, to be sure, but in the end, it amounts to nothing more than the whole realm going up in flames together, with the common people left to suffer.”

Xiyin, hands clasped behind his back, walked on for a while before finally speaking. “Elder Dai, this is a line of reasoning I’ve never heard before — but it is, indeed, thought-provoking.”

“Gushen is a man of keen insight and wisdom — in time, perhaps you will come to understand this old man’s helplessness in all this. But regardless, containing the Black Banner is now something both our sides must do, and cannot avoid doing. In truth, in the past, when Ning Yi spoke of destroying Confucianism, everyone simply dismissed it as the reckless bluster of a young upstart. But Gushen — since the third month, the balance of power in this realm has shifted entirely. This Ning Yi commands strong troops and sturdy horses; he may well take the southwest and even break through Jiange. But going forward, every step he takes will grow several times harder than the last. Confucian learning has blessed this realm for a thousand years — scholars who never before rose up to contend with him will now begin to stand against him, one by one. On this point, Gushen, you may watch and see for yourself.”

Xiyin turned to look back at the battlefield. “So that’s how it is — then you really do have good reason to cooperate with our Great Jin. Very well. I’ll double whatever was promised to you before. Only — once we withdraw, Elder Dai, you likely won’t live much longer. Surely you’ve already thought this through, haven’t you?”

“This old man’s death means nothing, and I trust in Lord Gushen’s word. So long as Gushen hands over to me the manpower, provisions, and supplies that the southwestern army cannot take with it, I will use them to keep several tens of millions of Han slaves here, using these resources for disaster relief, so that a million people across this thousand-li stretch of land may survive. Then I will have earned the gratitude of ten thousand households, like a living Buddha to them. If the Black Banner wishes to kill me for this, then let them kill me — it would be a fitting chance for the whole realm to see the true face of the Black Banner army. Let the world know that though they call themselves the Chinese Army, in truth they fight only for power and gain, not for the welfare of the common people. If this old man dies by their blade, that would, in truth, be a rather good thing.”

Xiyin was silent for a moment. “The provisions, supplies, and equipment we cannot carry away will all be given to you in full. The cities our western army has taken in Great Jin’s name — those too, are yours. The Han troops currently under Great Jin’s banner will be placed under your command to direct as you see fit. The more than eight hundred thousand Han slaves we had originally planned to march back north — all of them, I will give to you, and kill not a single one. I also promise you this: during our withdrawal, unless there is genuine cause, our Great Jin army will not needlessly sack cities out of spite. You may announce to the world that this is the agreement between us… But as for these men here today—”

He gestured toward the battlefield.

Dai Mengwei’s gaze remained calm. “These surrendered soldiers today, being Han subjects of our own Wu Dynasty who nonetheless conspired with the bandits of the Black Banner, deserve no mercy for their crime. In consideration of the fact that they laid down their arms in surrender, execute one in three as a warning to others. This old man will see to it personally — Gushen need not worry.”

“Very well…” Xiyin nodded, gazing ahead. He seemed to want to say something more, but in that moment found he had little left to say, and simply waved for his horse to be brought over.

“From this day forward, Elder Dai, you shall be the next Liu Yu. I do not approve of what you have done, but I must admit, you are a far more troublesome adversary than Liu Yu ever was. That Ning Yi should have an enemy like you, Elder Dai… he really is rather unlucky.”

“On behalf of the million common people south of the river, I thank Lord Gushen for sparing my life.”

“There’s no need to thank me for that.”

With that reply, Xiyin fell silent, and at that moment a scout arrived bearing intelligence. It concerned developments on another battlefield — Tushan Guard’s forces, divided into several columns and moving alongside puppet troops, were closing in from the direction of the Han River, encircling and cutting off the escape routes of Qi Xinhan and Wang Zhainan’s forces. Among them, Wang Zhainan’s troops were of poor fighting quality, but the brigade of Black Banner soldiers led by Qi Xinhan were genuinely tough, hardened men — even with their escape route cut off, they would not be easily overcome.

From the reports coming in, with Dai Mengwei’s betrayal now known, every surrounding route had become impassable, and Qi Xinhan, having once been deceived, had already scaled back his operations, beginning instead to construct a defensive line based on the terrain — apparently preparing to make a last stand with his three thousand core troops, supported by Wang Zhainan’s more than ten thousand Han soldiers, holding their ground to the last.

A similar situation had occurred ten-odd years earlier, at the defensive battle of Xia Village during the first siege of Bianliang — and it was in that very battle that the embryonic form of the Black Banner army’s fighting spirit had first taken shape. Every member of the Black Banner army knew this battle by heart, and Wanyan Xiyin was certainly no stranger to it either. For this very reason, he had no intention of letting this engagement drag on into a long, grinding stalemate.

Fortunately, with Dai Mengwei’s betrayal so fresh, Wang Zhainan’s troops were unlikely to have earned the Black Banner’s full trust — and what they faced this time was not the once-invincible army of Guo Yaoshi from years past, but Tushan Guard, which Xiyin himself had personally led here.

After Xiyin departed, Dai Mengwei turned his gaze to the whole battlefield beside him — tens of thousands of his own countrymen kneeling there, their clothes tattered, their eyes numb, pale, and hollow with despair, countrymen tumbling and sinking into a living hell. Even nearby, soldiers under guard stared at him with hate-filled eyes, but he remained unmoved.

The great principle of heaven — what could fools ever hope to understand of it? Against the survival of tens of millions, what did the deaths of a mere few tens of thousands matter?

In this moment, the old man had become one of the most powerful men south of the Han River.