Chapter 173: The Jin

In the twenty-ninth year of Dading, Zhongdu of the Jin, the Imperial Academy’s Printing Bureau.

This printing bureau was small, but its position was extremely vital—it was responsible for engraving and publishing the official court gazette, the primary channel through which local officials learned of court developments. Since Wanyan Jing’s ascension, the gazette’s content had always been dull: imperial sacrifices, ministerial appointments, grain prices in various regions, and minor border skirmishes. But this issue’s proof copy left every local official who received it stunned.

The headline on the front page was printed in bold, enlarged regular script—twelve characters, each the size of a thumbnail: “The Great Jin’s Legitimacy: Subduing the Southern Barbarians, Suppressing the Northern Savages—Heaven’s Mandate Resides Here.”

The opening paragraph of the body was written with a forcefulness more suited to a war proclamation than a government gazette: “The Great Jin has endured for a hundred years, inheriting the legitimate succession of the Liao and Song, occupying the strategic heartland of the Central Plains, its power stretching across the seas, its virtue reaching the four corners. Now, to the south, the remnants of the Zhao Song dare to falsely claim a northern expedition, seeking to seize our former lands of Henan; to the north, nomadic bandits have usurped the title of Xinming, bewitching the masses with sorcery and devouring our vassals. These two bandits, coordinating between north and south, seek to overthrow the Great Jin’s state…”

Nowhere in the entire text was the word “fear” mentioned. Not only that—it framed the peril of being attacked on two fronts as a glory: “The Great Jin, with the strength of a single nation, faces enemies on both sides—this is precisely the moment Heaven has entrusted a great mandate to the Great Jin.” The article ended with fiery fervor, calling upon all soldiers and civilians to “unite in facing the national crisis, jointly defend the state,” and announcing doubled rewards for warriors who distinguished themselves on the frontier, and three years of tax exemption for the families of loyal soldiers who fell in battle.

The draft of this gazette was prepared by several senior Hanlin scholars of the Hanlin Academy; the manuscript was revised six times, each version personally reviewed by Tuandan Yi. His requirements were clear: First, do not let anyone sense the Jin’s fear; second, do not let anyone perceive the Jin as strategically passive; third, make readers feel that the Jin is not being squeezed between north and south, but is actively confronting two reckless, foolish upstarts.

“Call Xinming Party ‘nomadic bandits’ and ‘sorcery-bewitching,’” Tuandan Yi told the scholars while reviewing the final draft. “Not because we truly believe it, but because only this way can the people understand. If you tell them the organization has standardized weaponry, political commissars, and a cross-regional supply system, they won’t comprehend it. They understand only two things—sorcery and bandits.”

“And what about the south?” asked a young Hanlin scholar. “How do we write about the Southern Song’s northern expedition?”

Tuandan Yi sneered. “Write that they ‘falsely claim a northern expedition, seeking to seize our former lands.’ Emphasize the words ‘former lands’—the more you stress that these are their ancestral lands, the more our people will believe they are trying to steal the homes we’ve lived in for decades. Also, add one more line: say Han Tuozhou is manipulated by corrupt merchants who seek to profit from war. What do the people hate? They hate corrupt officials, they hate merchants, they hate outsiders seizing their property. Bring all three together.”

Simultaneously with the gazette’s release, another, more covert propaganda machine was activated. In teahouses of major cities—Zhongdu, Kaifeng, Taiyuan, Jinan—the same group of “storytellers” appeared. They were not officials, but every tale they told shared a common theme: the legitimacy of the Great Jin. Some recounted the heroic tale of the Jurchen ancestors, Wanyan Aguda, rising with two thousand five hundred cavalry to destroy the Liao; others told of the new force emerging on the steppe—how it burned, killed, looted, hanged nobles by the roadside, and seized all pastures for redistribution. The first kind of story stirred pride; the second kind bred fear.

Meanwhile, Wanyan Jing made a significant gesture in court. During a grand audience, before all ministers and officials, he personally opened the Jin Veritable Records and read aloud a passage from the oath Wanyan Aguda had sworn when he rose against the Liao. After finishing, he closed the book and spoke to the assembled court.

“Long ago, our Ancestor rose from Anchuohu River with two thousand five hundred cavalry, facing a Liao army of a million. Everyone said the Jurchens could not defeat the Khitans—just as today some say the Great Jin cannot withstand the northern savages and southern barbarians. But our Ancestor won, because the Jurchens possessed something the Khitans lacked—we had nowhere to retreat. Anchuohu River was our home; if we retreated one step, our home would be lost. Today is the same. Central Plains is the Great Jin’s home; the northern frontier is the Great Jin’s home; every inch of land is the Great Jin’s home. If the southern barbarians wish to seize it, if the northern savages wish to occupy it, let them try. The Great Jin is not afraid.”

This speech was recorded in full and disseminated nationwide through the gazette. Notices copying these words were posted before Confucian temples, martial temples, and city god shrines. In certain prefectures of Hebei, local officials even organized the people to burn incense and swear oaths before city god shrines: “We swear to defend the Great Jin’s state unto death, and will not let the southern barbarians or northern savages set foot in our homes.”

This coordinated campaign produced immediate results. In Zhongdu’s teahouses, commoners had begun spontaneously cursing the Southern Song as “southern barbarians taking advantage of our misfortune,” and Xinming Party as “bandit sorcerers burning and looting on the steppe.” Some young, hot-headed Banners youths even went to the Ministry of Military Affairs to enlist, declaring they wanted to “fight the northern bandits with real blades and spears.” Wanyan Anguo had to set up a special reception point at the gate of the Privy Council to handle these eager young men’s enlistment applications.

This top-down nationalist mobilization appeared to be in full roar. But beneath the boiling surface, some remained Qingxing .

That night, Tuandan Yi sat alone in his study, reading through the public sentiment reports sent back from the provinces. As he turned page after page, his expression grew heavier. His wife entered with a bowl of hot soup, seeing his furrowed brow, could not help asking: “Aren’t the gazettes already out? Aren’t the teahouses all saying the response is excellent? What are you still worried about?”

Tuandan Yi set down the report and rubbed his temples.

“Worried?” he chuckled bitterly. “I’m worried that one day, when these people who believe ‘the Great Jin is invincible’ discover their court is not nearly as confident as the gazette claims—what will they do?”

He flipped to the last page of the report. There, buried beneath layers of forwarded memorials from prefectures and counties, was a tiny entry from a small county in Shangjing Road’s Linhuang Prefecture. The record was simple: one night, someone had painted a line of white lime on the city wall; at dawn, the guards discovered it and spent half an hour scrubbing it off.

The words read: “Red flags flutter in the western wind.”

No one knew who wrote it. No one knew how this person had learned these six characters.

Tuandan Yi stared at the entry for a long time, his fingers lightly tapping the table. Outside, Zhongdu’s night remained quiet as ever; the night watchman beat his wooden clapper as he passed through the alleyways, all proceeding in orderly harmony under the Great Jin’s rule. But in some corner of this vast empire, a pair of eyes had opened, silently watching all of this.

He was certain those eyes did not belong to the Southern Song. The Southern Song was too distant, too slow. Those eyes came from the north—from the land the gazette had casually dismissed as “nomadic bandits.”

He suddenly recalled the words Wanyan Honglie had spoken to him during their last private conversation. That day, the Prince had drunk some wine and said things he normally never would. He had said: “Tuandan, do you know what I fear most about Xinming Party?”

“What?”

“When they win, the people won’t fear them,” Wanyan Honglie turned his wine cup three times. “They’ll follow them.”