Chapter 178: The First Victory of the Northern Expedition

Kaixi Year 2, the 14th day of the third month.

The Huai River curved northward around Sizhoucheng; the spring flood had not yet come, and the water was shallow, exposing sections of waterlogged, blackened driftwood. Dawn had not yet broken; mist clung to the river’s surface, thick as a pot of boiling rice gruel. On the opposite bank, the battlements of Sizhoucheng flickered in and out of the fog like a row of crouching beasts. Guo Zhuo stood on a dirt slope on the southern bank of the Huai, dew congealing on his armor, his warhorse’s breath puffing white plumes behind him.

Behind him stood eight thousand vanguards, all elite troops selected from the armies of the Two Huai. These soldiers had crouched among the reeds along the riverbank all night, their blades slick with sweat. Guo Zhuo glanced back; he could not make out faces, only a dense mass of shadows and the occasional glint of steel.

“My lord, the fog is too thick—should we wait a little longer?” His deputy, Tian Junmai, leaned in, voice hushed.

Guo Zhuo said nothing. He stared across the river, his fingers tapping the hilt of his sword three times. The fog was thick, yes—but what would he fight if it cleared? The Jin garrison in Sizhoucheng numbered fewer than two thousand, a fact confirmed repeatedly by spies. Two thousand men defending a city—walls of rammed earth faced with brick, not the stone towers and moats of the Jin northern frontier. Two thousand men spread thin along four walls—only a few hundred per side. With the fog as cover, one decisive strike would take the city.

“No waiting.” Guo Zhuo mounted his horse. “Order: cross the river.”

Twenty-four small boats emerged from the reeds, their hulls scraping mud with a muffled hiss. Only six hundred men crossed first, each biting a bamboo tube between his teeth—not to avoid noise, but to prevent screaming if he fell into the icy water. Oars rose and fell silently through the mist. The fog was too dense; by the time the boats reached mid-river, those on shore could no longer see their shapes, only the fading rhythm of oars dipping into water.

Guo Zhuo stood motionless on the slope, hand resting on his sword hilt. Behind him, eight thousand men waited in silence—not a cough, not a word, not even a snort or paw from the horses, as if they understood. The mist flowed over the river, muffling all sound.

Tian Junmai stood half a step behind Guo Zhuo, palms slick with sweat. He was no rookie—he had served in the army during the final northern campaign of Shaoxing, though then he was only a squad leader. He remembered how that campaign had gone: the army surged forward with overwhelming momentum, then the Jin counterattacked, then the retreat, then the dead. Dead men had dyed the Huai River red. Now he stood beside this same river, watching the same fog, breathing the same fishy stench, his spine chilled with dread.

“My lord,” he whispered again, “what if the Jin were prepared—”

“They are not.” Guo Zhuo’s voice was steady. “Spies confirmed: the Jin commander in Sizhoucheng sent for reinforcements from Xuzhou half a month ago. Xuzhou sent not a single soldier. The Jin main force is stationed north and west; the southern front is hollow. Sizhoucheng’s defenders number fewer than two thousand—mostly old, weak, and local conscripts. They bully civilians, but they cannot fight.”

“But they still hold the walls—”

“Walls?” Guo Zhuo sneered. “Wait and see.”

A sharp cry echoed from the opposite bank, followed by the clang of metal, then more cries, then silence. After a few breaths, a flame flared in the mist on the far shore—three circles, then three more. It was the agreed signal—the beachhead had been taken.

“It’s done.” Guo Zhuo mounted his horse, drew his longsword, and pointed the blade toward the opposite bank. “Full army, cross the river! Order: surrender and you live. Seize the four gates. Disobey, and be executed!”

Eight thousand Song soldiers surged from the reeds, racing toward the boats. There were not enough boats; many simply leapt into the river and swam—mid-March Huai water still carried winter’s chill, freezing every bone seam, yet no one hesitated. The first six hundred had already secured the beachhead, dismantled two Jin outposts, killed over a dozen sentries, and the remaining Jin troops fled toward the city gate, still half-dressed in armor.

The commander of Sizhoucheng’s northern gate was a Han Chinese battalion commander named Liu, a conscript himself. When dragged from his bed in the dead of night, his first thought was: “The Song army has come.” His second: “How many?” His third—he never reached it. The fleeing sentry sobbed out one sentence: “Too many. The fog’s full of heads. Can’t count them.”

Liu stood on the northern gate tower and looked out. That one glance decided him. The beach was ablaze with firelight, like ghostly flames over a summer graveyard. Amid the flames, countless small boats crossed the river; the water teemed with heads and hulls, and men swam toward the southern shore. Farther out, through the mist, the outlines of large forces emerged—steel glinting in flashes. This was no raid. This was annihilation.

“Withdraw.” Liu spat the word, turned, and descended the tower. Years guarding the Huai Line had taught him: if you cannot strike the enemy mid-crossing, once they’re fully across, a small city’s walls cannot hold an enemy many times your strength. His men—half old and weak, half conscripts—were fine for collecting tolls, but they could not stand against Song elite troops like wolves. He fled south with fewer than eight hundred broken soldiers, even forgetting to order the granaries burned—there was no time. The Song were already storming the northern gate.

Sizhoucheng fell at the hour of Mao. Guo Zhuo’s personal guards smashed the gate with a battering ram—three blows, and the gate bar snapped. Not because the Song were too strong, but because most of the defenders had already fled. Dozens of conscripts who couldn’t escape cowered behind the battlements, throwing down their weapons and kneeling with hands raised. One conscript cried out, making Tian Junmai freeze: “My lords! You’ve finally come! We’ve waited for years!”

When the army entered, most of Sizhoucheng’s civilians still slept. Some peered from windows, saw Song cavalry pouring through the northern gate, torches blazing, armor gleaming through the mist, and slammed shut their doors. But soon, the brave opened windows, then doors, then lit lanterns reserved for the New Year. By daylight, when the Song banner rose above the city gate, people had dug out long-stored Song coins and handed them to soldiers. “Song coins! We kept them all these years!” An old man shoved a handful of Chongning Tongbao into a young soldier’s hand. The soldier refused, but the old man wept.

As Guo Zhuo rode through the gate, he noticed a detail: on the lintels of some homes, the era name of Shaoxing still lingered—carved over sixty years ago, worn by wind and rain, yet legible. “Shaoxing Thirtieth,” “Shaoxing Thirty-Second.” These marks had been carved by Huai River people during the last Song northern campaign—their final whisper of loyalty to their homeland. For sixty years, no one had chiseled them away.

“Report!” A scout galloped up, dismounted before Guo Zhuo’s horse, voice trembling. “Jin troops in Sizhoucheng routed. Three hundred captured. Granaries intact. Armory intact!”

Guo Zhuo sat on his horse, gazing at Sizhoucheng’s ruined streets, the kneeling surrendering soldiers, the citizens holding lanterns. Slowly, he sheathed his sword. His face showed no emotion, but his grip on the reins trembled—not from fear, but from exhilaration. His first northern campaign battle—he had won. His horse stood on land north of the Huai. His blade had sunk into the soil of the Central Plains. He called over a personal guard, voice low, each word forced from his teeth.

“Send word to Lin’an. Sizhoucheng is taken. Jin troops routed. Our casualties under a hundred.”

He paused, then added: “Add this—the people of the city brought food and wine to welcome the royal army.”

In truth, there was no food or wine—only a few leftover lanterns and a handful of old copper coins. But to Guo Zhuo, those lanterns carried more weight than any victory report—they were still subjects of Great Song. They recognized this banner. That was enough.

The victory report traveled south from north to south, relayed by mounted couriers who changed horses but never men. The couriers had never run so desperately. When the courier burst into Lin’an’s gate, brandishing the report, his horse collapsed at Lizheng Gate, foaming at the mouth, convulsing. The courier tumbled off, staggered into the palace, sprinting and screaming: “Great victory at Sizhoucheng! Great victory at Sizhoucheng! General Guo has retaken Sizhoucheng!”

Lin’an boiled that afternoon—not metaphorically, literally. Storytellers in teahouses abandoned their old tales and improvised “General Guo’s Cunning Capture of Sizhoucheng”—though the battle had lasted only half a day, with no cunning involved. But the storytellers didn’t care, nor did the listeners—they wanted only a satisfying climax. Li Bi, upon hearing the news, immediately spread paper, ground ink, and penned a lavish congratulatory memorial, citing over twenty classical allusions, comparing Guo Zhuo to Li Si’s snow-night raid on Cai Prefecture. When Lu You heard the news in Shanyin, he reportedly circled his courtyard thrice with his cane, tears streaming, then entered his study and wrote a poem: “Hearing news of Sizhoucheng’s victory, old tears soak my robes.” When Han Tuozhou received the report in the Hall of State Affairs, he was reviewing documents. He read the sweat-stained military dispatch, placed it slowly on the table, and sat silent for three breaths. Then he raised his head and spoke to the assembled ministers the words later quoted in every official gazette: “Gentlemen, this is the first city. Many more lie ahead. The Central Plains welcomes us home.” All ministers rose, clasped hands, and cried: “Grand Tutor, your wisdom! Long live Great Song!”

Guo Zhuo did not enter the Sizhoucheng government office until the next day. He had not slept, his eyes bloodshot, yet his spirit was high, his stride brisk. The office’s sign still bore the Jin dynasty’s inscription. He ordered it torn down, burned as firewood, and replaced with a hastily painted board: “Office of the Prefect of Sizhoucheng, Great Song.” The characters were written by Tian Junmai—ugly, crooked—but Guo Zhuo said it was perfect: “Even the ugliest Song characters are still Song.”

In the main hall, he unrolled the map and began planning the next offensive. North of Sizhoucheng lay Suzhou; northeast lay Xuzhou—both hard targets. Sizhoucheng was weak—two thousand old and broken men. Taking it meant nothing. Suzhou and Xuzhou would be the true test.

But that was tomorrow. Today, the first Great Song banner had unfurled atop Sizhoucheng’s walls, snapping in the spring wind. Beneath that banner, the mist over the Huai had cleared. The sun had risen. For the first time in sixty years, the Song flag flew again over land north of the Huai.