Chapter 195

Zhongdu, Daxing Prefecture.

The sandalwood box arrived at dusk on the ninth day of the ninth month. It was escorted by a unit of Southern Song imperial guards, led by Xia Zhen, a trusted aide of Shi Miyuan and Deputy Commander of the Palace Guard. They departed from Lin’an, traveling the imperial road; at every relay station along the way, the route was cleared in advance, and no one was permitted to approach. The box was wrapped in three layers of brocade, covered with waterproof oilcloth, then sealed inside a wooden chest bound with iron strips, its lid stamped with dual wax seals from the Privy Council and the Ministry of Rites. Xia Zhen himself had not slept soundly a single night on the journey—not out of fear of the Jin, but out of dread that something might go wrong with the contents en route. Before he left, Shi Miyuan had given him only one instruction: “The box is your life. If the box is lost, don’t bother coming back.”

The Jin officials assigned to receive the box waited two days on the northern bank of the Huai River. They were a group of retired Ministry of Rites clerks recalled from Shaanxi by Wanyan Anguo, led by Wanyan Axi, a distant branch of the Wanyan clan who held the nominal title of Undersecretary in the Jin Ministry of Rites, handling trivial duties like rituals and state correspondence—never anything of this magnitude. The moment Wanyan Axi saw Xia Zhen, he noticed the Song officer’s expression was strange—not fear, not humiliation, but a brittle numbness, as if all emotion had been crushed beneath the tongue, afraid that even a single word might spill out.

“Where is it?” Wanyan Axi asked.

Xia Zhen did not answer. He merely turned and waved his hand. Four Song soldiers lifted the wooden chest from the cart, set it on the ground, then stepped back three paces. Xia Zhen pulled a bronze key from his robe, knelt, unlocked the chest, peeled back the oilcloth, and unwrapped the brocade, revealing the sandalwood box. It was small, its deep purple wood gleaming faintly in the afternoon autumn sun, sealed with a strip bearing the inscription: “Head of the Southern Song traitor Han Tuozhou, sealed for inspection.”

Wanyan Axi circled the box once, but did not open it immediately. He suddenly recalled something—three months ago, while staying at the Doutingyi Inn in Lin’an with Wanyan Honglie, Han Tuozhou had sent a banquet to the inn, claiming it was “to fulfill the host’s duty.” At the time, Wanyan Axi had thought the Southern Song Grand Chancellor arrogant beyond measure—sending food through servants, never showing his face. Who could have imagined that three months later, this man would be sealed inside a sandalwood box, delivered by his own men to the banks of the Huai River?

“Open it,” Wanyan Axi said.

The moment the lid was lifted, everyone present smelled the sharp stench of lime. Han Tuozhou’s head had been pickled in lime; his face remained relatively intact, skin waxen-yellow, eyelids half-closed, mouth slightly open—as if mid-speech, frozen forever in that expression. Wanyan Axi stared for a moment, then closed the lid and signed the transfer documents.

“Send it to Zhongdu.”

From the Huai River to Zhongdu, fast horses took six days. At Zhongdu’s city gate, Wanyan Anguo personally took possession of the box and delivered it directly to the Privy Council. In the council’s secret chamber, Wanyan Anguo opened the box and verified Han Tuozhou’s face—he had faced him in border standoffs for years, never met him in person, but had studied his portrait countless times. The face matched the portrait exactly, only thinner, older—but undeniably Han Tuozhou himself. Wanyan Anguo resealed the box and sent for Wanyan Honglie.

Wanyan Honglie returned from his northern frontier camp that evening. He had just finished inspecting the northern wall less than ten days prior; his boots still caked with yellow desert sand, his skin rough and reddened by the northern winds. When he entered the Privy Council’s secret chamber, Wanyan Anguo stood by the window, back to the door, his gaunt silhouette stretched long by the twilight outside.

Wanyan Honglie glanced at the sandalwood box on the table, then at Wanyan Anguo’s back, and did not speak immediately. He walked to the table, opened the box himself, and stared for a long time. The lime stung his nose, but he did not frown. He studied Han Tuozhou’s face—frozen in half-closed eyes, slightly parted lips—that face he had seen. Three months ago, at the Doutingyi Inn in Lin’an, that face sat across from him, speaking with arrogant confidence: “I will launch the northern expedition, no matter what.” Now, that face could not speak.

“Verified?” Wanyan Honglie closed the lid, his voice calm.

“Verified,” Wanyan Anguo turned. “It is he.”

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

“How is the north?” Wanyan Anguo asked.

“Same as always. The wall across the border is quiet,” Wanyan Honglie said, then paused before continuing, his tone lower than before. “Too quiet.”

Wanyan Anguo understood what “too quiet” meant on the Jin northern frontier. After the Xinming Party swallowed the Western Xia, the border had been silent for over a year—no attacks, no raids, no negotiations, no envoys, no movement. This silence was not peace—it was the silence of a great beast swallowing its prey—not still, but digesting. When digestion ended, it would move. Wanyan Anguo sometimes felt the northern wall was like a dam holding back a flood; behind it, life continued as usual, but the dam itself trembled faintly.

“What of the Southern Song?” Wanyan Anguo asked.

“Shi Miyuan has taken power. The peace faction now controls everything; the war faction has been purged,” Wanyan Honglie said coolly. “Wu Xi has defected; Shukou now bears his name. But Shi Miyuan won’t let him live—he’s already acting.”

“Then,” Wanyan Anguo slowly walked to the map, “the southern front is stabilized.”

“Stabilized,” Wanyan Honglie rose and joined him before the map, standing shoulder to shoulder. Their eyes both turned instinctively to the northernmost region on the map—the area marked in red. After a silence, Wanyan Honglie extended a finger and pressed it against the edge of the red zone. “An Guo, think—had Han Tuozhou’s head been delivered to Zhongdu a year ago, the entire court would have celebrated it as a divine omen. For eighty years, since the Jingkang Disaster, we’ve fought countless battles with the Southern Song, killed generals, captured ministers—but never once has a Southern Song chancellor’s head been sealed in a box and delivered by his own troops across the Huai to our capital. But now? You and I stand here, staring at this box—how much joy do you feel?”

Wanyan Anguo did not answer. He felt no joy. Han Tuozhou was dead; the Jin had lost one southern threat. But this sandalwood box changed nothing—the silent red banners across the northern wall remained unchanged, the furnaces of the Helan Mountain ironworks burned day and night, the reorganized Western Xia Iron Eagles now trained as the “People’s Armed Xiazhou Cavalry Division” in new assault tactics. If the Jin’s situation were a hide raft pulled from both ends, Han Tuozhou’s death only loosened the southern pull—the northern hand still gripped, tightening with every passing day.

“What does Shi Miyuan want?” Wanyan Anguo asked.

“Peace,” Wanyan Honglie said. “As soon as possible. He fears we’ll exploit Wu Xi’s rebellion to invade south, and fears the northern power will strike before he’s ready. He may be willing to pay more than we expect.”

Wanyan Anguo fell silent for a moment, then said: “Then we can raise our terms.”

Wanyan Honglie said nothing. He returned to the table, staring at the sandalwood box. The dusk deepened; the chamber remained unlit, the box’s outline a darker shadow in the gloom. He suddenly recalled that winter night three months ago—in the great hall of the Doutingyi Inn, Han Tuozhou had drained the mare’s milk wine he offered, slammed the cup hard on the table, eyes red from the liquor, voice unwavering: “Our paths diverge; we cannot walk together.”

That night, cold wind poured through the open door, extinguishing the candle flame, nearly snuffing it out. Wanyan Honglie cupped the flame with his hand, watching Han Tuozhou’s silhouette vanish into Lin’an’s night. At that moment, Wanyan Honglie knew this man would never turn back. He sought the northern expedition not because he believed he could win—but because the northern expedition was the Song’s soul, his lifelong obsession. The crash of that cup was an unspoken vow.

Now, this sandalwood box was the period to that vow.

Wanyan Honglie placed his hand on the lid, fingertips touching the cold sandalwood. He did not lift the lid again—he did not need to. The face had been pickled into waxen yellow, but that arrogant, unyielding spirit remained—lime could not erase it.

“Grand Chancellor Han,” Wanyan Honglie whispered, voice as if speaking to himself, or to the man inside the box, “you once told me in Lin’an that I was here to stall. You were right. But every word I spoke to you was true. The tiger to the north is real. The war you sought has already ended. But mine has just begun.”

He withdrew his hand, turned to Wanyan Anguo: “Tomorrow’s court audience, present the box to His Majesty.”

Wanyan Anguo nodded.

Wanyan Honglie reached the door, then stopped, without turning.

“An Guo, has the Song envoy arrived with the state letter?”

“He has,” Wanyan Anguo said. “Written in Shi Miyuan’s own hand. The wording is abject.”

“How abject?”

Wanyan Anguo paused, then slowly recited four characters: “Voluntarily a vassal.”

Wanyan Honglie stood at the door, autumn wind pouring through the corridor, flapping his battle robe. He said nothing. He gazed at the cold moon over Zhongdu’s night sky, thinking one thing—Shi Miyuan’s abasement was not weakness; it was fear. He feared not the Jin, but the red expanse to the north. And this fear, the Jin shared. Han Tuozhou had no fear—so he died. Fear can make a dynasty kneel, can turn two ancient enemies into “lips and teeth.” That is fear’s true horror.

“Let’s go,” Wanyan Honglie said. “Tomorrow, a grand play begins.”

September 4, Grand Daxing Hall, Grand Audience.

Upon the dais, Emperor Jin Zhangzong, Wanyan Jing, sat upon the dragon throne. He wore full ceremonial robes, embroidered densely with the Twelve Symbols, twelve strings of jade pendants hanging from his crown, obscuring his expression. Naturally slender, the robes weighed upon him, making him look like a clay idol placed inside a shrine.

Below the dais, civil and military officials stood in two lines, stretching from the hall’s entrance to the imperial steps. All wore court robes, holding ceremonial tablets, faces solemn. The atmosphere was oppressive—not from fear, but because every soul waited for the opening act of a great drama. In the center of the hall, the sandalwood box from Lin’an stood on display.

Wanyan Axi stepped forward, knelt before the dais, and announced loudly: “Your Majesty, the head of the Southern Song traitor Han Tuozhou has been delivered in a sealed box. The Song ruler Zhao Kuo has dispatched an envoy bearing a state letter, acknowledging his ‘misrule and provocation,’ and pledging to ‘eternally serve as a vassal.’ The Song envoy awaits your judgment at the palace gate.”

A low murmur rippled through the hall. Though most ministers had heard the news, the shock of the box’s actual presence on the dais far exceeded expectation. Eighty years. Since the Jingkang Disaster, the Jin and Southern Song had fought countless battles, won more than lost, killed generals, captured ministers—but never had a Southern Song chancellor’s head been sealed in a box, carried by his own imperial guards across the Huai, and presented before the Jin emperor.

Young imperial clansmen straightened their backs, faces alight with uncontainable excitement. They were too young to have felt the northern wall’s gales, never seen the furnaces of Helan Mountain. To them, the world was still the one where Jurchen cavalry swept through the Central Plains.

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

“Verified?”

“The Privy Council has confirmed identity,” Wanyan Anguo stepped forward, voice flat, as if reporting routine business. “I and Prince Zhao personally inspected. It is unquestionably Han Tuozhou.”

“Good.” Wanyan Jing lowered his hand, eyes sweeping the court. His gaze paused on Wanyan Honglie—standing near the front, expression calm, unreadable. Wanyan Jing gave a slight nod, then spoke, voice quiet but clear to every ear:

“I accept Han Tuozhou’s head. I accept this state letter. The Song ruler admits his guilt. I am deeply satisfied.”

The court bowed, shouting “Long live the Emperor!” The young clansmen shouted loudest, voices trembling with excitement. But as their cries faded, the hall fell silent again—Wanyan Jing spoke once more.

“But,” Wanyan Jing’s voice turned heavy, slow, as if weighing a final judgment. He rose from the throne, walked to the sandalwood box, stared down for a moment. Then he lifted his head, gazing past the kneeling ministers, toward the open gates of the Grand Daxing Hall. Outside, the sky was gray. September wind swept over the marble steps, carrying the north’s chill.

“I do not want his head,” Wanyan Jing’s voice echoed through the hall. “I want the Jin to survive. My lords—when Han Tuozhou launched his northern expedition, the Song launched three armies. Sizhoucheng, Hongxian, Lingbi, Tangzhou—all fell. Some of you feared the Southern Song would reclaim the Central Plains. But now? The Southern Song has killed its own northern expedition commander and delivered his head to us. What does this prove? That the Southern Song has surrendered.”

He turned to face the court.

“But do you think the Jin has won?”

The hall was silent. No one dared answer.

Wanyan Jing slowly returned to the throne, but did not sit. He turned, voice suddenly sharp—a rare Fengmang from the usually gentle emperor.

“The Jin has not won. The Jin has merely not lost on one front. Han Tuozhou’s northern expedition—we held Suzhou, Dengzhou—but we lost Sizhoucheng, Hongxian, Lingbi, Tangzhou—the southern defense line was torn open. And the north? The Xinming Party across the wall has swallowed the steppes, swallowed the Western Xia. The Helan Mountain ironworks burn day and night, forging their ‘firearms.’ The Western Xia Iron Eagles have become their vassal cavalry divisions. Every day we delay, they grow stronger. Every month we stand still, our northern frontier grows more perilous. But we were pinned down by Han Tuozhou’s northern expedition, watching helplessly as the northern tiger drew closer.”

He looked at the court, then lowered his voice—but each word grew heavier.

“So this is not a victory banquet. This is a breathing space we must seize. Han Tuozhou is dead. The peace faction rules the Song. This is our only window to stabilize the south and concentrate our strength against the north. If we miss this chance, when the northern tiger pounces, no one in the Jin will stand against it.”

He sat back on the throne, silent for a long time. The court remained kneeling, not daring to breathe. The young clansmen, moments ago exultant, now had all color drained from their faces.

When Wanyan Jing spoke again, his voice returned to its usual calm, even weary.

“Privy Council, draft the edict.”

Wanyan Anguo stepped forward.

“First: Circulate Han Tuozhou’s head along the northern and western borders. Let every soldier see—Southern Song’s war faction is finished. The southern front will remain quiet for at least five years.”

“Second: Negotiate peace with the Song envoy. Stick to our previously agreed baseline—‘uncle-nephew states’ unchanged, increase tribute, return Tang and Deng prefectures to the Jin. Add one more condition: If the northern barbarians invade, the Song must supply grain and rations. This is the core demand. No retreat.”

“Third,” Wanyan Jing looked at Wanyan Honglie, “Prince Zhao.”

“Your servant is here,” Wanyan Honglie stepped forward, knelt on one knee.

“I entrust the northern frontier’s defense entirely to you. Whatever you need—money, grain, troops, artisans—I will give you as much as you ask. I ask only one thing.”

“Your Majesty, speak.”

“Hold the wall. No matter what comes from the north—hold the wall.”

Wanyan Honglie raised his head, gazing at the emperor on the throne. September sunlight slanted through the hall door, glinting off the emperor’s jade pendants, blurring his face. But Wanyan Honglie did not need to see his expression—he had heard everything in the emperor’s voice. It was not an order. It was the final trust of a dynasty knowing its days were numbered, placing its last wall in his hands.

“Your servant,” Wanyan Honglie bowed his head, voice steady as iron, “obey.”

After the court dismissed, Wanyan Honglie walked alone from the Grand Daxing Hall. Autumn wind swept fallen leaves across the steps, rustling. He spoke to no minister, did not go to the Privy Council for the military meeting. He simply walked slowly along the palace corridor, his boots tapping the blue stone slabs, unhurried.

At the corner of the palace wall, he stopped. A young imperial clansman caught up—Wanyan Axi. This distant branch official, idle in the Ministry of Rites, had trailed him since the audience, hesitant to speak.

“Prince Zhao!” Wanyan Axi panted, catching up. “Your servant has a question.”

“Speak.”

“Han Tuozhou’s head has been delivered. The Song has submitted. Is this not a great joy? Then why did His Majesty seem… so unpleased in court?”

Wanyan Honglie looked at him. The youth’s confusion was genuine—he truly did not understand. He was too young, never stationed on the northern wall, never seen the Helan Mountain furnaces lighting half the night sky, never heard the returnees describe how entire cavalry ranks fell under volleys of firearms. In his world, the Jin’s enemy was still the Southern Song—the kingdom that tried to northward every few years and always got beaten back. He did not know the true enemy had changed.

“Axi,” Wanyan Honglie said, voice unusually gentle, “why do you think Han Tuozhou launched the northern expedition?”

Wanyan Axi thought: “Because he overestimated himself, wanted to reclaim the Central Plains.”

“Not only that,” Wanyan Honglie shook his head. “Han Tuozhou launched the northern expedition because he feared the power to the north—he knew if that power swallowed the Jin, the Song would be next. So he sought to seize the Central Plains before we and the Jin exhausted each other, to build a strategic buffer for the Song.”

Wanyan Axi froze.

“He is the same kind of man as I,” Wanyan Honglie paused, his gaze crossing the palace wall toward the northern horizon. “Our only difference: he defended a nation south of the Jin; I defend a nation north of the Jin. Now he is dead. His nation still lives—but he cannot see it.”

Wanyan Axi opened his mouth, but found no words.

Wanyan Honglie said no more. He turned and continued walking along the corridor, passed through the palace gate, mounted his horse, and rode toward the northern city. Zhongdu in September was shrouded in gray autumn haze; the streets bustled with people, tea houses still told tales of Emperor Taizu Wanyan Aguda rising with 2,500 cavalry to destroy the Liao. No one noticed the prince on the black horse, face grim, riding through the center of the market. His battle robe flapped in the wind, hooves clattering on the blue stone, clear and solitary.

Behind him, the sandalwood box in the Grand Daxing Hall had been resealed, stamped with the Privy Council’s seal. Tomorrow it would be loaded onto a cart, carried along the northern wall to each garrison for display. Wanyan Jing hoped this would convince the northern troops the southern front was secure. But Wanyan Honglie knew—a sandalwood box changed nothing. The silence across the wall still pressed down, heavy as a mountain, deep as an abyss. All he could do was what he had promised his brother in the Grand Daxing Hall: hold the wall. Whether he could hold it—that was not a prince’s question. It was fate’s. But he knew: no matter what came, he would stand on the wall, sword drawn, bow strung, until the final moment.