Chapter 187

The summer at Dasa Pass arrived later than beyond the mountains. By late June, the night wind in the Qinling range still carried a chill; torches on the pass walls flickered in the breeze. Wu Xi issued the order for “total offensive” on such a night. The order came swiftly—at midnight, messengers raced between camps with torches, rousing sleeping officers. By the time the generals, rubbing their eyes, gathered in the central command tent, Wu Xi was already fully armored before the map, his armor gleaming, his waist sword adorned with a brand-new crimson tassel, as red as a drop of blood.

“Gentlemen,” Wu Xi turned, his face stern and resolute, “the plank road is open, provisions are assembled, and the Xia enemy shows no movement. Master Han has urged us repeatedly to advance. The court has nurtured its scholars for a hundred years—today is the day to use them. I have decided: at the hour of Mao tomorrow, the entire army will march out of the pass!”

The tent fell silent for an instant. Then several officers, long simmering with frustration, reacted first, shouting, “We vow to fight to the death under Deputy Commander!” Emotion was contagious in the camp—after nearly three months camped at Dasa Pass, the soldiers had grown calloused, their blades polished to mirror brightness; any order to strike was good news. Cheng Song stood in the corner, his expression complex. He watched Wu Xi’s passionate profile and felt something was wrong—how could a man who refused to move for three months suddenly act? But he had no time to ponder, for Wu Xi was already assigning tasks.

Wu Xi’s deployment seemed flawless. He divided the army into three columns: the center, led by himself, would exit the northern gate of Dasa Pass and advance directly toward Fengxiang; the left flank, under General Wang Xi, would advance east along the Wei River valley to pin down the Jin’s Fuyan garrison; the right flank, under General Zhang Lin, would cross the Qinling foothills to guard toward Qin Prefecture and prevent any Xixia flanking maneuver. Each column had clear routes, troop allocations, and objectives. After hearing the plan, the generals exchanged glances and agreed: though slow, the deputy commander had clearly put thought into his move.

Only one man frowned. His name was Liu Zheng, a commander from Lizhou Road, known among western generals for his outspokenness. He did not speak up during the meeting but followed Wu Xi alone into the rear tent after the council ended.

“Deputy Commander,” Liu Zheng stood at the tent entrance, not sitting, “this officer has a question.”

Wu Xi was unfastening his cloak; his hand paused, then continued. “Speak.”

“I studied your advance route. The center column heads straight for Fengxiang—I’ve traveled that road three times. Along it lie Shanghe Yuan and Dachong Ridge. The Jin have a full battalion stationed at Shanghe Yuan, with stone walls, ditches, and crossbows. If we don’t first capture Shanghe Yuan, our main force passing below will expose our rear to them.”

“I know the Jin occupy Shanghe Yuan,” Wu Xi hung his cloak on a rack, his voice calm and unhurried. “That’s why I’ve assigned Zhang Lin’s right flank to deal with it.”

“The right flank?” Liu Zheng’s voice rose. “Deputy Commander, Zhang Lin’s column takes the western route—Shanghe Yuan lies to the east. How can a western force eliminate an eastern enemy? Moreover, I examined your route closely—you’re not taking the official road, but the abandoned old courier path on the west. That road hasn’t been used since the end of Shaoxing, abandoned for sixty years. It’s choked with dense forest and sheer cliffs—utterly unsuitable for a large army. Taking that path means you’ll never encounter the Jin’s main force.”

Wu Xi turned to face Liu Zheng, his gaze calm, almost tender, as if looking at an ignorant child. He did not answer Liu Zheng’s question but asked instead: “Commander Liu, are you questioning my deployment?”

“I dare not question the Deputy Commander’s deployment—I merely feel—” Liu Zheng’s words were cut short. Wu Xi was no longer listening. He had already stepped to the tent entrance, lifted the curtain, and spoke softly to the captain of his personal guard—so quietly that Liu Zheng caught none of it.

At dawn the next day, the army marched out. Fifty thousand elite troops from Shukou poured through the northern gate of Dasa Pass, banners blotting out the sun, spears and blades like a forest, their momentum overwhelming. The laborers and transport officers waiting on the mountain path knelt as the army marched past the ramparts, shouting, “General, your might!” Wu Xi rode a tall chestnut horse, clad in silver armor, wearing a phoenix-winged helmet, his face solemn. As he passed through the pass gate in the morning light, he reined in briefly and looked back at the Dasa Pass tower. No one knew what he thought in that moment.

Wang Xi’s left flank detachment left the main column first, advancing east along the Wei River. After two days, Wang Xi camped by the river and sent word back: enemy scouts spotted ahead, possible ambush—request to halt advance. Wu Xi replied: “Approved. Maintain vigilance. Do not advance recklessly.” Wang Xi obeyed—staying put for ten days.

Zhang Lin’s right flank detachment left second, crossing the Qinling foothills toward Qin Prefecture. After one day, they returned—the mountain path had collapsed, troops and horses could not pass, so they detoured. Three days of detouring still left them circling less than forty li west of Dasa Pass’s northern gate.

The center column, led by Wu Xi himself, took the abandoned courier path Liu Zheng had warned of. The road was ancient—overgrown with shrubs and weeds; the vanguard had to hack through with axes. Six thousand men advanced through the mountains for four full days, covering less than sixty li. Not a single Jin soldier was seen. Wu Xi sent scouts daily to report: “Today advanced X li, no enemy traces,” “No Jin presence along route,” “Our troops’ morale is high, soldiers eager to fight.”

Five days later, the scouts returned with sudden news—the Jin at Shanghe Yuan had moved. Wu Xi immediately summoned his officers, his face grave. “The Jin have detected our intent. The enemy at Shanghe Yuan has launched a full assault to cut our rear. To preserve the army, I order a temporary retreat.” Every word sounded reasonable—the threat from Shanghe Yuan was real; if the surprise route was exposed, withdrawing to regroup was prudent.

The army retreated back to Dasa Pass. From “total offensive” to retreat, it took only five days. Fifty thousand elite troops marched back and forth through the mountains, lost dozens of stone of grain, ruined hundreds of straw sandals, killed zero Jin soldiers, captured zero cities, seized zero land.

After returning, Wu Xi’s first act was not to redeploy, but to summon Liu Zheng to the central command tent. Only Wu Xi and a few personal guards remained inside. Wu Xi sat behind his desk, idly turning a chess piece. He glanced at Liu Zheng, dragged in, then tossed a prewritten document before him.

“Liu Zheng, spreading rumors, undermining morale, questioning the commander’s decisions, sowing discord among officers. For your years of loyal border service, I spare you military execution. You are stripped of your command, remain in the army under probation.” Wu Xi finished, waved his hand, and the guards dragged Liu Zheng out.

As Liu Zheng was dragged past the tent flap, he suddenly understood—the words Wu Xi had whispered to his guard captain the night before were not tactical orders, but a death sentence. As he was dragged through camp, soldiers watched, whispering among themselves. The news reached Cheng Song, who sat motionless in his headquarters all afternoon, then picked up his brush and wrote a military report to Lin’an: “The western army has exited Dasa Pass; its vanguard encountered Jin scouts; skirmishes ensued. Deputy Commander Wu, assessing the situation, has temporarily withdrawn to regroup.” After writing it, he added: “Progress on the western front is favorable; victory report expected soon.”

While the western army wandered in the mountains, a piece of intelligence crossed the Song-Jin border, racing toward the Song camp beneath Suzhou.

The source was a Han Chinese merchant from Jin’s Nanjing Road. He regularly traded tea and medicine between Kaifeng, Taiyuan, and Xingqing, maintaining contacts with Jin officials, Song spies, and even former Xixia nobles. In a Taiyuan teahouse, he met a Xixia noble who had fled. Drunk, the man recounted his story in fragments.

The Xixia noble had served in the Xixia Iron Hawks. After the Xinming Party seized control of the Xixia army, the Iron Hawks were reorganized into the “People’s Armed Xiazhou Cavalry Division.” All former Iron Hawk officers were replaced by Xinming Party political commissars. He was imprisoned for three months after refusing to surrender command, and escaped only with help from old subordinates. In the Taiyuan teahouse, he spoke in broken Han mixed with Xixia, detailing the Xinming Party’s reorganization, structure, and everything he’d witnessed beneath the Helan Mountains. The merchant, shaken, recorded every word in coded script hidden between the pages of an account ledger, then headed south and found a Song spy station near Dengzhou.

After being transcribed by the spy station, the intelligence was sent at six-hundred-li speed to the headquarters of all three armies—east, center, and west.

July 12, beneath Suzhou.

Deng Youlong received the intelligence while eating dinner in his tent. He set down his chopsticks, read the report three times, then ordered his meal removed. He stepped outside, stood on the sun-cracked mud of Suzhou’s southern outskirts, and stared for a long time at the banner of Heshilie Zhizhong atop Suzhou’s walls. The night wind blew, carrying the dust of Huaibei mixed faintly with the bitter herbal scent from the distant wounded camp.

He had not just now begun to worry. Since the victory at Sizhou, he’d felt something was wrong. The Jin resistance was too methodical—Sizhou fell, Hongxian fell, Tangzhou fell, but Lingbi held for half a month, Suzhou for over a month. This alternating soft-hard strategy couldn’t be explained by a single command—it suggested Jin commanders along the southern front were independently deciding whether to hold or retreat. Why abandon some cities, defend others? He’d never found the answer. Now this intelligence revealed a piece—the Jin had concentrated all attention and elite forces to the north; the southern front was strategically abandoned. Not abandoned to Song, but abandoned to time. The Jin were gambling that Song would halt its advance once it reached a certain point.

That point was now reached—the northern expedition had stalled.

Deng Youlong returned to his tent, spread paper, and began writing a secret letter to Han Tuozhou. He opened by honestly detailing the difficulties before Suzhou—epidemic, supply lines, morale—neither exaggerating nor minimizing. Then he described the grassland intelligence. In the final paragraph, he used the most cautious tone.

“Your servant Deng Youlong bows twice before your Excellency: The Jin southern front is empty, not because they lack strength, but because they choose not to defend. Their twenty thousand elite troops in the north and ten thousand guarding the western border against Xia remain unmoved. We now have intelligence from Xia: the Xinming Party has fully seized control of Xixia, reorganized its army, and stationed troops within its borders. The Jin threat lies not in the south, but in the north. I surmise the Jin have already formed a stalemate with the grasslands, and thus prefer to surrender southern cities to us rather than withdraw a single soldier from the north—because the grasslands are their heartland threat. Our army has stalled before Suzhou’s strong walls for over a month—troops weary, disease spreading. Even if we capture the city, we cannot advance further. Meanwhile, the Jin’s northern elite remain untouched. If we press deeper, and the situation between Jin and the grasslands shifts, our army may find itself unable to support its front and rear. I dare suggest: may we temporarily halt the northern offensive, consolidate our gains, dig deep trenches, raise high walls, and wait to observe the Jin-grassland conflict?”

After writing, Deng Youlong sealed the letter and sent his most trusted guard to deliver it to Lin’an that night. Then he sat in his tent, sleepless.

Days later, a similar report reached Xue Shusi beneath Dengzhou. Xue Shusi had besieged Dengzhou for two months—Wanyan Kuang still drank tea inside. After reading the intelligence, Xue Shusi studied the map again and again, then did one thing—he ordered permanent fortifications built around Dengzhou. Ditches dug two feet deep, earthen walls raised to ten feet, watchtowers increased from four to twelve. His subordinates asked why he no longer attacked. Xue Shusi replied only: “Rushing gains nothing; starve them out.” He didn’t speak the full truth—he wasn’t merely starving Dengzhou, but preparing for a long standoff.

In Dasa Pass, Wu Xi also saw the intelligence. After reading, he placed it on his desk, sat in silence, then told his guard a baffling remark: “As expected.”

The guard dared not ask what he meant. Wu Xi offered no explanation. He walked to the parapet, gazed northward at the mountain range, and allowed himself a faint, almost invisible smile. He had waited three months—not just for the Jin’s reply, but for this news. The Xinming Party’s absorption of Xixia was a nightmare for Lin’an—but for Wu Xi, it was a bargaining chip.

Lin’an knew nothing. Lin’an still waited for news from Suzhou. Han Tuozhou’s chancellor’s mansion teemed daily with guests and congratulations. Official bulletins still proclaimed: “Suzhou will fall any day.” Storytellers had expanded the “Kai Xi Revival Four Battles” into the “Kai Xi Revival Five Battles,” already including Suzhou. In teahouses, people claimed Suzhou had fallen, that Heshilie Zhizhong had been beheaded, describing the details: “General Guo himself swung his blade, severed the one-eyed demon’s head, and hung it on the camp gate—the Jin troops, terrified, surrendered at once.”

Meanwhile, at Piaoquan by Qianshan, Xin Qiji sat by his window and wrote three lines on paper: “Sizhou was picked up, Lingbi was gnawed, Suzhou was slammed into a wall. It hit.” He crumpled the paper and tossed it into the waste basket. Then he paused, picked it up again, smoothed it, folded it, and placed it beneath the inkstone. He rose, stared out at the June rain over Jiangxi, and remained silent for a long, long time.

The summer of the northern expedition thus slowly drained away—in the mud beneath Suzhou’s walls, in the mist of Dasa Pass’s mountains, in the laughter of Lin’an’s streets.