Chapter 171: Refusing Peace

“Listen to me out,” Han Tuozhou interrupted him, his eyes burning brighter than the wick, “you say the tiger from the north comes to take lives, while our wolf from the south only comes to beg for food. Let me tell you—I, Han Tuozhou, sit here today because the Song has had its meals stolen for eighty years. The Jingkang Humiliation, the Two Emperors exiled north, half the empire lost to the enemy—these debts cannot be erased with a single phrase like ‘let us all perish together.’”

He drew a deep breath, his voice dropping from a roar to a low growl—but that low growl was more terrifying than any roar.

“Besides, what makes you think the Song can only be a wolf? How long has your Jin feared this Xinming Party? Two years! A regime barely two years old, and you’re already terrified of it. Our Song has stood for over two hundred years, with hundreds of thousands of armored troops, a million soldiers under arms—our foundations, our talent, our wealth—where do we fall short of a new upstart from the steppe? You fear them—I do not. When I reclaim the Central Plains, seize the Yellow River’s natural defenses, and consolidate the resources and population north of the Huai River—then I shall see who dares not fight whom.”

Wanyan Honglie stood motionless, his expression complex—not anger, not fear, but something closer to sorrow. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but finally exhaled slowly.

“Grand Tutor Han,” his voice suddenly grew very soft, “you say our Jin is merely your whetstone. You say that once you reclaim the Central Plains and hold the Yellow River’s defenses, you will fear no one. But have you ever considered—”

He paused.

“How long will it take you to reclaim the Central Plains? Two years? Three? During that time, your army must cross the Huai River, storm cities and fortresses, split forces to garrison them, pacify the people. Every step forward fragments your strength. By the time your forces are scattered thin, the colossal power to the north may already have fully consolidated. Then the enemy you face won’t be the broken remnants of Jin you imagine—but a war machine that has digested the entire steppe and Western Xia, armed with standardized firearms, and organized with a discipline far beyond your comprehension. Do you think you’ll have time to integrate the reclaimed Central Plains? Do you think your Yellow River defenses will mean anything against firearms?”

He stepped before Han Tuozhou, only a table between them. The flame danced between them, stretching their shadows long and crooked.

“Every word you’ve spoken, I cannot refute,” Wanyan Honglie said. “Jin is indeed buying time. The northern frontier is indeed strained. I came to Lin’an precisely because I fear your northern expedition. All true. But Grand Tutor Han—have you ever considered that what we fear and what you fear might be the same thing?”

He paused again, lowering his voice to barely a whisper only the two could hear.

“I’ve told you all this not merely for Jin—or not only for Jin. I’ve spent five years on the northern frontier, watching that thing grow from an obscure faction into this colossal power. I had countless chances to crush it while it was weak. I begged the court for troops, for grain, for authority—countless times. Each time, I received only one reply: ‘The Song to the south are more dangerous.’ By the time the court finally reacted, it had grown too large to crush.”

A new quality entered his voice—one Han Tuozhou had never anticipated: exhaustion. A weariness deep to the bone.

“You may curse me however you like—call me stalling, blustering, deceitful Jin dog—it’s all fine. But remember this: the reason that colossal power to the north hasn’t moved yet is because Great Jin still stands between you and it. This wall of ours—no matter how you see it—is now, in truth, shielding you from the wind blowing from the steppe. When this wall falls, only then will you learn what kind of wind lies behind it.”

Han Tuozhou fell silent.

Not shaken—but weighing. He weighed how much of Wanyan Honglie’s words were truth, how much deception. In the end, his judgment remained unchanged: Wanyan Honglie might speak truth, but truth does not mean harmless. The truest traps are often baited with truth.

He reached out, picked up the cup of fermented mare’s milk long gone cold, and drank it down in one gulp. The sour, bitter liquid slid down his throat, stinging his eyes red—but he did not cough once. He slammed the cup onto the table; the bottom struck the wood with a dull thud.

“Prince Zhao,” he said, voice hoarse but unwavering, “I honor your five years of grim defense on the northern frontier, and I honor your candor tonight. But you have not convinced me.”

Wanyan Honglie closed his eyes.

“The northern expedition—I am determined to launch it,” Han Tuozhou rose, straightening his robes. “Your words about firearms, cavalry, artillery—I’ve memorized them all.” He tapped his forehead. “I will send men to verify. If true, I will accelerate preparations after reclaiming the Central Plains to face the northern threat. But before that, Jin must first return the Central Plains it has swallowed. This is the foundation of Song—and my personal bottom line.”

He reached the door, then halted, without turning back.

“Prince Zhao, you say that thing to the north is the enemy of us all. Perhaps you’re right. But between Jin and Song lies eighty years of blood-deep hatred. Until that knot is cut, your talk of shared enmity is empty. When Song regains what is ours, then we may speak of cooperation. But before that—”

He pushed open the door. Winter wind rushed in, snatching at the lamp flame, nearly extinguishing it. Wanyan Honglie reached out, shielding the flame; the fire struggled in his palm, then steadied.

“The northern expedition will not be canceled,” Han Tuozhou’s voice came from outside, torn apart by the wind. “Prince Zhao, your goodwill, I accept. But we walk different paths—we cannot walk together.”

The door remained open. Cold wind kept pouring in. Wanyan Honglie sat alone beneath the lamp, his hand still shielding the flame. He gazed at the faint glow, and a bitter smile slowly curled on his lips.

“Different paths,” he murmured the three words again, as if savoring them.

Outside the window, Lin’an’s winter night was unnaturally quiet. Far away, the West Lake shimmered cold under the night, the willows along the Su Causeway stripped bare, their bare branches swaying in the wind. In a few months, spring wind would return, the branches would bud again, and the lakeside would again swarm with flower-viewing tourists. This city had turned like this for over a hundred years—war, peace talks, northern expeditions, tribute payments—none could alter the spring blossoms on the West Lake.

But this time is different.

Wanyan Honglie rose, stepped to the map, and stared at the red expanse covering the steppe and Western Xia. His finger traced its edge slowly—from steppe to Western Xia, from Western Xia to Jin’s northern frontier, then from Jin’s frontier to the Southern Song’s Huai River front. This line was a noose tightening—and around its loop, every neck.

He suddenly recalled the words of an old northern soldier: “Your Highness, that organization is not like us. We seek land and silver. They seek the entire world—and to remake it in their image. Those who refuse to walk with them either die, or become like them. There is no third path.”

Wanyan Honglie pulled a token from his sleeve and placed it on the table. It was a troop mobilization token from the northern frontier garrison, engraved with a small inscription: “As the token, so the commander.”

He picked up his brush and wrote several lines on a blank silk scroll. The recipient: General Heshilie Zhizhong, commander of the northern frontier troops. The message was brief—only one sentence: Peace talks have failed. Southern front will open war. All northern armies, take care.

He rolled the scroll, sealed it with red wax, and called his attendant.

“Send it to Zhongdu. Six hundred li express.”