Chapter 195

Zhongdu, Daxing Prefecture.

The sandalwood box arrived on the evening of the third day of the ninth month. Escorted by a contingent of Southern Song Imperial Guards, led by Xia Zhen, a confidant of Shi Miyuan and Vice Commander of the Palace Command, they departed from Lin'an, traveling the official road. At every relay station along the way, the path was cleared in advance, forbidding anyone from approaching. The box was wrapped in three layers of brocade, covered with oilcloth for waterproofing, and placed inside a wooden crate sealed with iron bars. The lid bore the double red wax seals of the Privy Council and the Ministry of Rites. Xia Zhen himself had not slept soundly the entire journey—not out of fear of the Jurchens, but fear that something would go wrong with the contents of the box. Before his departure, Shi Miyuan had given him only one instruction: "If the box is here, you are here. If the box is lost, you need not return."

Officials from the Jin side responsible for the reception had waited two days on the north bank of the Huaihe River. They were a group of former Ministry of Rites clerks recalled from Shaanxi by Wanyan Anguo, led by Wanyan Axi, a collateral branch of the Wanyan imperial clan holding the nominal title of Vice Director in the Great Jin Ministry of Rites, usually in charge of idle duties like sacrifices and state letters, never having handled such a major affair. The moment Wanyan Axi saw Xia Zhen, he felt the expression on this Song Ren's face was strange—not fear, not humiliation, but a tension so extreme it had become numbness, like a person suppressing all emotions at the root of their tongue, terrified that speaking would cause them all to spill out.

"Where is it?" Wanyan Axi asked.

Xia Zhen did not answer, merely turning back and gesturing with a wave of his hand. Four Song Bing carried the wooden crate down from the carriage, placed it on the ground, and stepped back three paces. Xia Zhen took a copper key from his robes, squatted down to open the crate, removed the oilcloth, unwrapped the brocade, and revealed the sandalwood box. The box was not large; the deep purple sandalwood shimmered with a faint light in the afternoon autumn sun. A seal was pasted on top, reading: "The severed head of Han Tuozhou, a criminal of the Great Song, sealed in a box pending verification."

Wanyan Axi walked around the box once, not rushing to open it. He suddenly remembered something—three months ago, when he had stayed at the Lin'an Duting Post with Wanyan Honglie, Han Tuozhou had once sent a table of wine and dishes to the post, claiming it was "to fulfill the courtesy of a host." At the time, Wanyan Axi thought this Southern Song Grand Preceptor was arrogantly overbearing, sending only servants to deliver the food, never showing his own face. Who could have thought that three months later, this person would be packed inside a sandalwood box, delivered by his own people to the banks of the Huaihe River.

"Open it," Wanyan Axi said.

The moment the lid was lifted, everyone present smelled a strong scent of lime. Han Tuozhou's head had been pickled in lime; his features were preserved relatively intact, his skin a waxy yellow, eyelids half-closed, mouth slightly open as if speaking, but forever frozen in that expression. Wanyan Axi looked down for a moment, then closed the lid and signed the transfer document.

"Send it to Zhongdu."

From the Huaihe River to Zhongdu, fast horses took six days. At the city gate of Zhongdu, the box was personally received by Wanyan Anguo and sent directly to the Privy Council. In a secret chamber of the Privy Council, Wanyan Anguo opened the box and verified Han Tuozhou's face—having faced off at the border for many years, though he had never met the man face-to-face, he had seen his portrait countless times. The face was identical to the portrait, only thinner and a bit older, but it was indeed Han Tuozhou himself. Wanyan Anguo resealed the box and sent someone to fetch Wanyan Honglie.

Wanyan Honglie had rushed back from the main camp outside Zhongdu that evening. He had returned from inspecting the northern border wall less than ten days ago; yellow sand from the border wall still clung to his boots, and the skin on his face was rough and red from the north wind. When he entered the secret chamber of the Privy Council, Wanyan Anguo was standing by the window, his back to the door, the twilight outside stretching his emaciated shadow very long.

Wanyan Honglie glanced at the sandalwood box on the table, then at Wanyan Anguo's back, not rushing to ask questions. He walked to the table, opened the lid himself, and looked down for a long time. The smell of lime was pungent, but he did not even frown. He was looking at Han Tuozhou's face, frozen in that expression of half-closed eyes and half-open mouth—a face he had seen. Three months ago at the Lin'an Duting Post, this face had sat opposite him, speaking in that arrogant and confident tone: "Northern Expedition, I am determined to carry it out." Now this face would not speak.

"Verified?" Wanyan Honglie closed the lid, his voice very calm.

"Verified," Wanyan Anguo turned around. "It is indeed him."

Wanyan Honglie nodded, not looking at the box again. He pulled a chair over and sat down, tapping his fingers lightly on the table twice.

"How is the north?" Wanyan Anguo asked.

"Same as always. Very quiet on the other side of the border wall." Wanyan Honglie fell silent for a moment after speaking, then continued, his tone lower than before, "Too quiet."

Wanyan Anguo knew what those four words "too quiet" meant in the Great Jin's Northern Border. After the New Ming Party swallowed Western Xia, they had been quiet on the border for over a year. No attacks, no harassment, no negotiations, no envoys sent, no movements at all. This silence was not the silence of peace, but more like the silence of a giant beast swallowing food—not motionless, but digesting. Once digestion was complete, it would move. Wanyan Anguo sometimes felt that the northern border wall was like a dam blocking a flood; everything behind the dam continued to operate as usual, but the dam itself was trembling slightly.

"What about the Southern Song?" Wanyan Anguo asked.

"Shi Miyuan has taken power. The Zhuhe Sect has taken full control; the war faction has been purged," Wanyan Honglie said indifferently. "Wu Xi has rebelled; Shukou temporarily belongs to Wu. But Shi Miyuan will not let him go—he should already be taking action."

"In that case," Wanyan Anguo slowly walked to the map, "the southern line is stabilized."

"Stabilized." Wanyan Honglie also stood up and walked to the map, standing shoulder to shoulder with Wanyan Anguo. Both their gazes involuntarily turned to the northernmost end of the map—the area marked in red. After a moment of silence, Wanyan Honglie extended his finger and pointed to the edge of that red area. "Anguo, think about it—if Han Tuozhou's head had been sent to Zhongdu a year ago, the entire court would have regarded it as a great joy. Eighty years of north-south standoff, never before had the head of a Southern Song powerful minister been sealed in a box and sent to Daxing Prefecture. But now? You and I stand here, looking at this box. How much joy do you feel in your heart?"

Wanyan Anguo did not answer. Because he indeed felt no joy. Han Tuozhou was dead, the Great Jin had lost a threat on the southern line, but this sandalwood box could not change the silent red flags on the other side of the northern border wall, could not change the furnaces burning day and night in the He Lanshan iron foundries, could not change the new charge tactics being practiced by the Western Xia Iron Falcons now reorganized into the "People's Armed Xiazhou Cavalry Division." If the Great Jin's situation were compared to a sheepskin raft being pulled by two beasts, Han Tuozhou's death only loosened the hand pulling from the south—but the hand from the north was still there, and it was tightening more and more.

"What does Shi Miyuan want?" Wanyan Anguo asked.

"Peace negotiations," Wanyan Honglie said. "As soon as possible. He fears we will move south taking advantage of the Shukou rebellion, and he also fears the power in the north will strike before he is ready. The price he is willing to pay may be higher than we imagined."

Wanyan Anguo fell silent for an instant, then said one sentence: "Then, the conditions can be raised."

Wanyan Honglie did not respond. He walked back to the table and looked down at the sandalwood box. The twilight grew denser; without lamps lit in the secret chamber, the outline of the box became a deeper shadow in the dimness. He suddenly remembered that winter night three months ago—in the main hall of the Duting Post, Han Tuozhou had tilted his head back and drained the cup of mare's milk wine he had offered, then clinking cups heavily on the table, his eyes red from the strong liquor, but his voice without hesitation: "Those who follow different paths cannot plan together."

The cold wind of that night poured in through the open door, blowing the lamp flame on the table into a tight ball, nearly extinguishing it. Wanyan Honglie reached out to protect the flame, watching Han Tuozhou's back disappear into the night of Lin'an. In that moment, Wanyan Honglie knew this man would not turn back. This man wanted a Northern Expedition not because it was certain to win, but because the Northern Expedition was the foundation of the Great Song, the obsession he had lived his whole life for. The sound of him slamming the cup on the table was a threat left unspoken.

Now, this sandalwood box is the period at the end of that threat.

Wanyan Honglie placed his hand on the lid, his fingertips touching the cold surface of the sandalwood. He did not lift the lid to look again—he did not need to. That face had been pickled by lime into a waxy yellow, but that arrogant, overbearing spirit remained; lime could not pickle it away.

"Grand Preceptor Han," Wanyan Honglie said softly, his voice sounding like he was talking to himself, or perhaps speaking to the person inside the box, "Back then in Lin'an, you told me I was here to buy time. You were right. But not a single word of what I said to you was false. The tiger in the north is real. The war you wanted to fight is already over. But my war continues."

He withdrew his hand, turned to Wanyan Anguo, and said: "At tomorrow's court session, present the box to Your Majesty."

Wanyan Anguo nodded.

Wanyan Honglie walked to the door, suddenly stopped, without turning back.

"Anguo, has the Song envoy arrived with the state letter?"

"It has arrived," Wanyan Anguo said. "It is in Shi Miyuan's own handwriting. The wording is extremely humble."

"How humble?"

Wanyan Anguo fell silent for a moment, then slowly recited four characters: "Willing to be a vassal."

Wanyan Honglie stood at the door; the autumn night wind poured in from the corridor, making the hem of his war robe rustle loudly. He said nothing. Gazing at the cold moon in the night sky over Daxing Prefecture, he thought of one thing—Shi Miyuan bowing and scraping to this extent was not because he was weak, but because he was afraid. He was not afraid of the Great Jin, but of the red expanse in the north. And this fear, the Great Jin also had. Han Tuozhou had no fear, so he died. Fear can make a dynasty kneel, and it can turn two ancient enemies into "allies bound by lip and tooth"; this is the most terrible aspect of fear.

"Let's go," Wanyan Honglie said. "Tomorrow, there is a grand drama to be performed."

On the fourth day of the ninth month, the Great Court Session at Daxing Hall.

Above the vermilion steps in the hall, Jin Zhangzong Wanyan Jing sat on the dragon throne. Today he wore a very formal ceremonial robe and crown, the twelve symbols of rank embroidered densely; twelve strings of jade beads from the crown hung down, obscuring his expression. He was naturally slender, and this ceremonial robe weighed him down, making him look like a clay statue stuffed into a shrine.

Below the vermilion steps, civil and military officials stood in two rows, stretching from the hall entrance to the imperial steps. Everyone wore court robes, holding tablets, their faces solemn. The atmosphere in the hall was extremely oppressive—not out of fear, but because everyone's heart was waiting for the opening of a grand drama. In the empty space in the center of the hall stood the sandalwood box sent from Lin'an.

Wanyan Axi stepped forward from the ranks, knelt below the vermilion steps, and reported loudly: "Reporting to Your Majesty, the severed head of the Southern Song criminal Han Tuozhou was sealed in a box and delivered yesterday. The ruler of the Southern Song, Zhao Kuo, sent an envoy bearing a state letter, admitting 'error in governing the state and provoking conflict,' and willing to 'forever serve as a vassal.' The Song envoy is kneeling at the gate awaiting punishment; please, Your Majesty, make a holy judgment."

A low murmur of commotion rippled through the hall. Although most ministers already knew the news, when the sandalwood box was truly placed below the vermilion steps of Daxing Hall, the impact far exceeded expectations. Eighty years. From the Jingkang Incident to the present, the Great Jin and the Southern Court had fought countless wars, winning more than losing, killing Song generals, capturing Song ministers, but never before had the head of a Southern Song Grand Preceptor in office been packed in a box, escorted by the Southern Song's own Imperial Guards across the Huaihe River, and kneeling delivered before the Great Jin Emperor.

Some young imperial clan members could not help but straighten their backs, their faces showing excitement they could not suppress. They were too young; they had not experienced the north wind on the northern border wall, had not seen the furnaces under He Lanshan. The world in their eyes was still the world where Jurchen iron cavalry swept across the Central Plains.

Wanyan Jing slowly raised his right hand. The hall immediately fell silent.

"Verified?"

"The Privy Council has verified the identity," Wanyan Anguo stepped forward from the ranks to report, his voice flat as if discussing an ordinary official matter. "Your subject and Crown Zhao Wang personally inspected it; it is indeed Han Tuozhou without error."

"Good." Wanyan Jing lowered his hand, his gaze sweeping across the assembly of ministers. His gaze paused when it passed over Wanyan Honglie—Wanyan Honglie stood in the front ranks, his face calm, showing no expression. Wanyan Jing nodded slightly, then spoke a sentence, his voice not loud, but every word clearly reached the ears of everyone in the hall.

"I have accepted Han Tuozhou's severed head. I have also accepted this state letter. The ruler of the Great Song admits his guilt; my heart is greatly comforted."

Hearing this, the ministers all knelt, shouting "Ten thousand years" in unison. The young imperial clan members shouted the loudest, with a few voices even trembling with excitement. But after their shouts subsided, the hall suddenly fell silent again, because Wanyan Jing spoke once more.

"However," Wanyan Jing's voice suddenly became very heavy and slow, as if making a final calculation before pronouncing judgment. He slowly stood up, walked down from the dragon throne, approached the sandalwood box, and looked down for a moment. Then he raised his head, his gaze passing over the kneeling ministers filling the hall, looking out through the open doors of Daxing Hall. The sky outside was gray; the September wind blew over the white marble steps, carrying the unique chill of the north.

"What I want is not his head," Wanyan Jing's voice echoed in the hall. "What I want is for the Great Jin to survive. Your beloved ministers—when Han Tuozhou launched the Northern Expedition, the Great Song's three armies pressed against the border; Sizhou, Hongxian, Lingbi, and Tangzhou fell one after another. Some of you were very afraid then, fearing the Southern Court would truly recover the Central Plains. But now? The Southern Court itself killed the commander of the Northern Expedition and sent his head before us. What does this mean? It means the Southern Court has admitted defeat."

He turned around, looking at the ministers.

"But do you think the Great Jin has won?"

The hall was utterly silent. No one dared to answer this question.

Wanyan Jing slowly walked back to the dragon throne, but instead of sitting down, he turned around, his voice suddenly rising in pitch, carrying a sharpness that this usually gentle and reserved Emperor rarely displayed.

"The Great Jin has not won. The Great Jin has merely not lost in one direction for the time being. During Han Tuozhou's Northern Expedition, we held Suzhou and Dengzhou, but we lost Sizhou, Hongxian, Lingbi, and Tangzhou—the southern defensive line was torn open with a large hole. What about the north? The power called the New Ming Party on the other side of the border wall has swallowed the grasslands, swallowed Western Xia; the iron foundries of He Lanshan are non-stop manufacturing weapons they call 'firearms.' The Western Xia Iron Falcons have already become their servant cavalry divisions. For every day we delay, they grow stronger. For every month of standoff, our northern border becomes more dangerous. Yet we were held back by Han Tuozhou's Northern Expedition on the entire southern line, helplessly watching the fierce tiger in the north draw closer and closer."

He looked at the ministers filling the hall, suddenly lowering his voice, but every word became heavier.

"So, this is not a victory banquet. This is a breathing space we must seize. Han Tuozhou is dead; the Zhuhe Sect now holds power in the Southern Song. This is our only window to stabilize the southern front and concentrate our strength against the north. If we fail to grasp this opportunity, when the tiger from the north pounces, no one in the Great Jin will be able to stop it."

He sat back on the Dragon Throne, silent for a long time. The ministers in the hall knelt on the ground, daring not to breathe. Those young imperial clan members who had just been excited now had all the color drained from their faces.

When Wanyan Jing spoke again, his voice had returned to its usual calm, even carrying a hint of weariness.

"The Privy Council, draft the edict."

Wanyan Anguo stepped forward.

"First, send Han Tuozhou's severed head to patrol the border. Let every soldier in the northern frontier and the western line see clearly—the war faction of the Southern Court is finished. The southern front will see no major warfare for at least five years."

"Second, negotiate peace with the Song envoy. Discuss the terms according to the previously agreed baseline—the 'Uncle-Nephew States' status remains unchanged, increase the annual tribute, and return the Tang and Deng prefectures to our Great Jin. Add one more clause: if the northern barbarians march south, the Song must provide grain and supplies. This is the most fundamental point; it cannot be compromised."

"Third," Wanyan Jing looked at Wanyan Honglie, "Zhao Wang."

"Your subject is here." Wanyan Honglie stepped forward and knelt on one knee.

"The defense of the northern frontier, I entrust entirely to you. Whatever you need, I will give you. Money, grain, soldiers, craftsmen—however much you want, I will give you. I only ask you to do one thing."

"Your Majesty, please speak."

"Hold the border wall. No matter what comes from the north, hold the border wall."

Wanyan Honglie raised his head, looking at the Emperor on the Dragon Throne. The September sunlight slanted in through the palace doors, shining on Wanyan Jing's crown; twelve strings of jade beads swayed before him, making his face appear blurred and distant. But Wanyan Honglie did not need to see his expression clearly—he had heard everything in the Emperor's voice. That was not an order; it was the trust of a dynasty aware of its limited days, placed upon the last wall.

"Your subject," Wanyan Honglie lowered his head, his voice steady as iron, "obeys the edict."

After the court dispersed, Wanyan Honglie walked out of the Daxing Hall alone. The autumn wind outside the hall swept up the fallen leaves on the steps, rustling. He did not speak with any minister, nor did he go to the Privy Council to attend the subsequent military meeting. He simply walked slowly along the corridor outside the palace walls, his boots making unhurried sounds on the bluestone slabs.

Reaching the corner of the palace wall, he suddenly stopped. A young imperial clan member caught up, it was Wanyan Axi. This collateral branch member, who held a sinecure in the Ministry of Rites, had been following him since the court dispersed, wanting to speak but hesitating.

"Zhao Wang!" Wanyan Axi caught up, panting, "This subordinate has a matter he does not understand."

"Speak."

"Han Tuozhou's head has been delivered, and the Southern Court has also yielded. Is this not a great joy? Why does Your Majesty in the court hall... seem not at all happy?"

Wanyan Honglie looked at him. The confusion on the young man's face was sincere—he truly did not understand. He was too young; he had never stayed on the northern frontier wall, had never seen with his own eyes the furnace fires of the He Lanshan iron foundry reflecting red across half the night sky, nor had he heard the Zhengren describe what it looked like when entire rows of cavalry fell under a volley of fire lances. In his world, the Great Jin's enemy was still the Southern Court, still that Southern Song which tried to launch northern expeditions every few days only to be beaten back. He did not know the true enemy had changed.

"Axi," Wanyan Honglie said, his voice unusually gentle, "why do you think Han Tuozhou wanted to launch a northern expedition?"

Wanyan Axi thought for a moment: "Because he overestimated himself and wanted to recover the Central Plains."

"Not only that." Wanyan Honglie shook his head. "Han Tuozhou launched the northern expedition because he feared that power from the north—he knew that if he waited for that power to swallow the Jin State, the next would be the Great Song. So he wanted to seize the Central Plains before we and the Jin State destroyed each other, to build a strategic buffer zone for the Great Song."

Wanyan Axi was stunned.

"He is the same kind of person as me." Wanyan Honglie fell silent for a moment here, his gaze looking past the palace wall toward the northern horizon. "Our only difference is that the country he wanted to defend lies south of the Great Jin, while the country I want to defend lies north of the Great Jin. Now he is dead. His country still exists, but he will not see it."

Wanyan Axi opened his mouth, but did not know what to say.

Wanyan Honglie said no more. He turned and continued walking forward along the corridor, exited the palace gate, mounted his horse, and galloped toward the northern city. The Zhongdu City of September was shrouded in a gray autumn haze; the streets were bustling with common people, and the storytellers in the teahouses were still recounting the heroic tale of how the Great Jin's founding emperor, Wanyan Aguda, raised an army of two thousand five hundred cavalry to destroy the Liao. No one noticed this prince, riding a black horse with a resolute expression, galloping through the center of the market. His battle robe fluttered loudly in the autumn wind, and his horse's hooves struck the bluestone slabs, the sound crisp and lonely.

Behind him, the sandalwood box in the Daxing Hall had already been resealed, bearing the Privy Council's seal. Tomorrow it would be loaded onto a carriage and sent along the border wall to tour the various military garrisons of the northern frontier. Wanyan Jing hoped this would make the soldiers of the northern frontier believe the southern front was safe. But Wanyan Honglie knew a sandalwood box could change nothing; the silence opposite the border wall still pressed down there, heavy as a mountain, deep as an abyss. The only thing he could do was one thing—just as he had promised his elder brother in the Daxing Hall: hold the border wall. Whether it could be held was not a question a prince could answer; that was a question only fate could answer. But he knew, no matter what came, he would stand on the border wall, sword drawn, bow strung, until the very last moment.