**Year of Xiangfu, Autumn.**
The yin energy grew heavier, and dew crystallized into frost. The chill of the Central Plains deepened, most severe in the northwestern frontier.
At dusk, beyond the walls of Jubei City, a vast army of four hundred thousand grassland cavalry set up camp, their formation stretching endlessly. The neighing of warhorses thundered like a storm.
Small groups of riders—dozens, even hundreds—darted out from the ranks, swiftly approaching Jubei City before halting just beyond the range of the city’s archers. There, they raised their whips and sabers, pointing arrogantly at the battlements, their arrogance palpable.
On the northern ramparts of Jubei City alone, over forty massive crossbows—revered by generations of military strategists as the nation’s most formidable weapons—stood ready. Their range and power far exceeded anything the grasslands could imagine. During the Spring and Autumn Wars, the renowned general Ye Baikui had once marveled at the Western Ramparts battlefield: *”The Nine-Ox Crossbow, a single bolt shatters mountains, three hundred paces, and even a grandmaster falls!”*
Yet, for some reason, despite the Northern Desert riders lingering just beyond ordinary archery range, the crossbows of Jubei City remained eerily silent. There was no sign of these supreme weapons being unleashed to strike fear into the enemy.
The Northern Desert had already tasted the might of Jubei City’s crossbows. The grassland forces that had once besieged Tigerhead City—led by the Southern Court’s King Dong Zhuo—had suffered devastating losses, their ranks still licking their wounds in the northern territories, absent from this southern campaign.
In the first Liang-Mang War, General Yang Yuanzan, who had led troops into Youzhou’s Hulu Pass, had died in battle. Had the Northern Liang not sought to exchange his head for the corpse of Liu Jinu from Tigerhead City, Yang Yuanzan’s remains would have remained among the skeletal mounds of Hulu Pass. As for the meritorious deputy general Zhong Tan, who had broken through Wolong and Heluan, he had been captured at the Battle of Miyun and remained imprisoned in Jubei City.
Dong Zhuo, now leading the assault on Huaiyang Pass in the north, had not joined the main force marching south. Thus, the Northern Desert’s impression of the Northern Liang still revolved around its iron cavalry—a perception largely shaped by Dong Zhuo’s cunning victory at Tigerhead City. Even after resigning as Southern Court King, Dong Zhuo had repeatedly warned his peers in the southern court: *”Tigerhead City, once the foremost fortress of the northwest, was already a nightmare to besiege. The new city beyond Liangzhou’s borders—built with twenty years of the Xu family’s wealth—will not fall easily. For our cavalry to cross this chasm, we must be prepared to lose a dozen banners.”*
Yet his words carried little weight. Stripped of his title, his reputation tarnished by accusations of hoarding strength while letting others bleed, Dong Zhuo’s warnings were dismissed as self-serving exaggeration.
Outside the city, grassland nobles galloped recklessly, taunting: *”Your grandfather is here! Xu Xiao of Northern Liang, you coward, dare you face me in battle?!”*
Some warriors, renowned for their strength, drew their bows to full moon and loosed arrows that thudded into Jubei City’s gates, the shafts quivering with impact. As these marksmen wheeled their horses back, cheers erupted from the Northern Desert camp.
Behind the cavalry, siege engines advanced—nine hundred trebuchets in total, with another fourteen hundred promised by dawn. The sheer number of boulders stockpiled was said to have hollowed out two opposing peaks in Longyao Province. Rumor had it that the Northern Desert’s emperor and the Grand Chancellor had personally visited the site, where the dragon-robed sovereign had enshrined the mountains as *”Guardian Deities of the Nation,”* promising them dominion over the eastern and western sacred peaks once Jubei City fell.
Beyond the trebuchets, the Northern Desert had spared no expense in this war. Among their endless supply trains were over a hundred siege towers, originally built for Tigerhead City but hastily modified to match Jubei’s greater height. Tens of thousands of laborers had toiled through the night to complete the modifications, lest the emperor’s wrath fall upon them.
The Southern Court’s Armory Bureau, responsible for these war machines, had been under immense pressure. Though its officials had grown gaunt from stress, whispers spread that they had profited handsomely from the trebuchets and siege towers. A disgruntled scholar from the Hongjia exiles had even penned a biting verse: *”Bones grow thin, but purses swell—no trace of virtue in those sleeves.”*
Yet when the scandal reached the emperor’s ears, it was the scholar who paid the price—executed for “spreading seditious lies.” The Armory Bureau’s officials, meanwhile, were reassured by their superiors: *”His Majesty has inspected our work and found no flaws. The materials are excellent. A few extra coins in our pockets? A trifle.”*
To support this campaign, the Southern Court had expanded its courier roads, with Longyao Province alone constructing three new routes in half a year. The northern provinces, though less extravagant, had each added a direct path to Longyao. Countless herds of livestock followed the cavalry south, all in preparation for the siege of Jubei City.
Meanwhile, nearly all of the Southern Court’s resources had been funneled into Longyao, allowing Dong Zhuo to easily muster a vast force to besiege Huaiyang Pass.
This time, the Northern Desert would not retreat easily. Even after the disastrous defeat at Liuzhou, where Huang Songpu had met the same fate as Yang Yuanzan, becoming the highest-ranking general to fall in battle, the emperor had not hesitated. Crown Prince Yelü Hongcai was dispatched to oversee the campaign, while she remained in the Western Capital to steady morale.
This war, the Northern Desert was determined to win.
The silence of Jubei City only emboldened the grassland warriors. With the crown prince leading the campaign and no orders to restrain their aggression, riding out to taunt the city became an unspoken rite of passage. Some, growing bolder, ventured dangerously close, as if daring the defenders to strike.
Among the riders, two young men rode leisurely along the camp’s outskirts. One wore a Xianbei jade belt—a mark of nobility. This was Yelü Dongchuang, a member of the Northern Desert’s royal clan. His companion was Tuoba Qiyun, eldest son of the legendary general Tuoba Pusa.
Yelü Dongchuang grinned, his dark skin and wolfish demeanor stark in the fading light. *”Tuoba Qiyun, with such glory at hand, are we just going to sit and watch?”*
Tuoba Qiyun remained calm. *”With our families’ status, even if we nap through the battle, merit will find its way to us.”*
Yelü Dongchuang frowned. *”You sound uncertain. Do you doubt we’ll take Jubei City?”*
Tuoba Qiyun glanced at the towering city. *”Forcing the Northern Liang to dismount and fight… may not be the advantage we think.”*
Yelü Dongchuang laughed. *”You scholars—always overthinking. War is war.”*
Tuoba Qiyun smiled faintly. *”In chess, they say ‘golden corners, silver sides, straw belly.’ The last war proved it—Northern Liang only triumphed at Hulu Pass because Dong Zhuo withdrew.”*
Yelü Dongchuang flicked his whip. *”And now we’ve lost at Laonü Mountain, with fifty thousand elite cavalry annihilated. Are we repeating history?”*
Tuoba Qiyun shook his head. *”No. This is the Grand Chancellor’s design. Let the Northern Liang strike deep into the Southern Court. Let them purge the troublesome remnants of the Central Plains refugees. A clean court, fewer variables on the battlefield—two birds with one stone.”*
Yelü Dongchuang bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. *”The Grand Chancellor is ruthless.”*
Tuoba Qiyun murmured, *”Perhaps he learned it from the Central Plains.”*
Yelu Dongchuang curled his lips disdainfully. “Once we take over the Central Plains, I’ll make sure those scholars and literati suffer, humiliating their so-called refinement!”
The Spring Nabao remained silent, merely glancing at the towering silhouette of Jubei City—majestic and silent, like an unyielding pillar standing firm against the flood of grassland cavalry. It seemed to embody the eight centuries of profound fortune accumulated by the Central Plains.
…
Inside the besieged Western Capital of Northern Mang, a hunched old woman walked slowly along the city walls, her frail steps precisely treading the line between the fading sunlight and the encroaching shadows.
Beside her walked the Taiping Ling of the Chess Sword Music Mansion, once an imperial tutor, an old man whose ambitions lay not in the northwestern Jubei City but in the distant Taian City of the Central Plains.
The old man suddenly spoke. “Why did His Majesty refuse to keep Yelu Dongchuang in Gusai Prefecture to fend off the cavalry from Liuzhou? Wang Jingchong of the Winter Nabao withdrew ten thousand border cavalry from the Liao border, enough to contend with Yu Luandao’s Youzhou cavalry before the disastrous defeat at Laoniu Mountain. But now, we are stretched thin. Though the collapse of the Southern Court won’t affect the grand scheme, it still reflects poorly on His Majesty’s dignity. Those remnants of the Hongjia era, though retired from office, are no fools. They might grow wary.”
The old woman, walking unaided, hobbled forward and replied coldly, “According to Li Mibi, Wang Du has kept to himself for twenty years. But recently, whether in a final surge of life or for his descendants’ sake, he’s been secretly meeting with influential figures. Better safe than sorry. Let the insignificant Wang Jingchong die for the state. At worst, I’ll bestow a dozen Xianbei clasps and grant Wang Du a grand posthumous title. These remnants of the Chunqiu era, clinging to life, are worse than the younger generation—old thieves who refuse to die. I once took great care to curb their influence in the Southern Court, yet they still infiltrated. I gave them shelter and sustenance, and in return, they left me this mess!”
Her voice grew sharper, laced with fury. “For centuries, our grassland cavalry has swept across battlefields, undefeated since the Dafeng era, all because we fought as one. Any selfish desires were reserved for dividing the spoils after victory—never before battle, as in Youzhou’s Hulu Pass or Liuzhou’s Laoniu Mountain! If not for the fortunate emergence of Wanyan Yinjiang from the Longguan nobles, this purge of the Southern Court’s rot would have spared none, not even the Wanyan clan—those parasites bred for generations on the grasslands! They all deserve death!”
The Taiping Ling sighed softly.
The old woman gradually calmed, her gaze falling to the stark line between light and shadow beneath her feet—like a border between nations, or the divide between life and death.
She murmured, “Whether it’s Yelu Dongchuang, aided by his grandfather’s schemes, or my cousin Murong Baoding, who believes ‘heaven destroys those who don’t look after themselves,’ or even General Zhong Shentong—all are wolves in sheep’s clothing, seemingly shrewd but, in my eyes, none as clever as Dong Zhuo. Only that smooth-talking fatso knows when to hold and when to fold. No one wants to attack the impregnable Huaiyang Pass—the rewards are meager, and even if taken, only Chu Lushan’s head would be worth the effort. Tens of thousands would perish, leaving any newly enfeoffed lords without troops to hold their titles. So when I ordered Murong Baoding to attack, he acted as if mourning his parents, demanding endless Rouran cavalry yet still unwilling to commit. He knows the stakes but refuses to act—utterly despicable!”
She sneered. “If Dong Zhuo takes Huaiyang Pass, even if he can’t join the assault on Jubei City, I’ll restore his title as Southern Court King and let him lead troops into Northern Liang.”
The Taiping Ling frowned. “That would be like releasing Chen Zhibao, the Western Shu king enfeoffed by Liyang—a tiger returned to the mountains, a disaster in the making.”
The old woman chuckled darkly. “Disaster? I have but days left to live. Why should I care if the Yelu or Murong clans live or die?”
The Taiping Ling fell silent.
She reassured him, “Master, once our cavalry treads upon Taian City, Guangling Dao, and the southernmost lands of the Central Plains, history will remember you and me. Who sits on the throne afterward—be it Yelu, Murong, or Dong—what does it matter?”
He smiled bitterly. “If we can unify the realm, fewer deaths would be preferable.”
The old woman laughed heartily, sweeping her sleeves. “Then you’d better live a little longer!”
The Northern Mang imperial tutor stood still, his figure solitary.
The old woman walked on alone, the fading light vanishing beneath her feet.
In the gathering darkness, she whispered, “Next year’s snow in your hometown of Jinzhou, Liaodong… perhaps I won’t see it. Tell me, if I hadn’t returned home but stayed by your side, would I now have… a house full of descendants?”
—
Dawn approached, yet the sky remained dim. In the rear hall of Jubei City’s princely residence, candlelight blazed in a chamber.
A Liang blade lay on the table as a young man silently donned his princely python robe.
Outside, a young woman in mourning white held a sandalwood sword case, her expression resolute as she waited for him.
Elsewhere in the residence, Xue Songguan, sleepless all night, rose slowly, pulled on her boots, and cradled her guqin before pushing open the door.
The old Taoist Yu Xingrui of Wudang Mountain, having just finished the boxing routine created by his junior brother Hong Xiangxiang, left his courtyard refreshed, a sword on his back.
A white-haired, white-browed elder sat on a stone stool, an open sword case before him. He held a blade, shattering it inch by inch with his fingers before tossing the fragments into his mouth like beans. Discarding the hilt, he glanced at the empty case and stood with a smile. A century of sword qi filled his belly—time to unleash it.
On the steps of another courtyard, the young swordsman, current champion of the Wu Family Sword Mound, crouched before suddenly rising. He turned to his sword-bearer, Cui Hua, who carried the ancient sword Su Wang. For the first time, she opened her eyes and smiled at him.
In yet another courtyard, the master and disciple from Wudi City stepped out simultaneously. The elder, dashing and elegant, unhooked a Liang blade from his waist and tossed it to his companion, who in turn threw him the famed swords Shu Dao and Fu Ji. Each adorned themselves with blade and sword, moving in perfect sync before striding out side by side.
A middle-aged man with cloth-bound legs turned at the gate to wave at his Miao wife, who smiled and gave him a thumbs-up.
In a quiet courtyard, an aged scholar set down his book of sages, straightened his robes, and rose. Beside him, an elderly swordsman drank half his wine before pouring the rest over his drawn blade. Outside, a burly old man stood with arms crossed, eyes closed, awaiting his friends.
Before the council hall of Jubei City’s residence, beneath a wooden archway, a man leaned on an iron spear, the master of Dongyue Sword Pool at his side.
Elsewhere in the city, a woman in purple tied her skirt into a knot.
On the southern ramparts, a plain-faced middle-aged swordsman sat cross-legged, sword across his knees, gazing eastward as if awaiting the sunrise.
Nearby, a figure in white drank deeply, his crimson-robed companion serene beside him.
The young prince, now clad in his python robe and armed with his Liang blade, paused briefly before flinging open the door.
—
The Northern Mang army stood ready to attack at dawn.
Then, a lone rider burst forth—a Northern Mang commander galloping within a hundred paces of the walls, bellowing with laughter.
“Bullshit about Northern Liang’s cavalry being the best under heaven! Not a single one dares to face me?!”
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