Chapter 196: Negotiating the Treaty

Zhongdu, Shumiyuan, deep night.

When Wanyan Honglie returned from the northern frontier, he still carried the scent of desert sand on his body. He had spent forty full days on the border wall, personally inspecting nine of the twelve northern garrisons, checking the depth of the ditches, the timber of the arrow towers, and the tension of the bed crossbows. After returning, he did not go home—he went straight to the Shumiyuan. Wanyan Anguo waited for him in a secret chamber; on the table lay a freshly drafted peace treaty, its ink still damp.

“The Song envoy’s bottom line is lower than we expected,” Wanyan Anguo said bluntly, pushing the draft across the table. “Shi Miyuan’s envoy said that aside from the title ‘uncle-nephew states,’ all other terms—annual tribute, territorial cessions, reparations—can be negotiated. He even hinted that if we demand it, they are willing to increase the ‘military assistance fee’ by another one million taels.”

Wanyan Honglie said nothing. He pulled up a chair, sat down, and read the draft from start to finish. Fifty thousand taels of silver, fifty thousand bolts of silk as annual tribute; a one-time “military assistance fee” of three million taels; cession of Tang and Deng states; delivery of Han Tuozhou’s severed head to Jin; the state letter admitting “misgovernance and provocation.” Every clause exceeded the highest demand Jin had ever made of Song in any previous peace treaty. This alone would satisfy any Jin minister—the southern wolf, which had raged for eighty years, had finally had its spine broken. Wanyan Honglie stared blankly to the final page, then suddenly stopped. A new clause had been added—one that had never appeared in any historical Song-Jin peace agreement.

“If the steppe-Xia alliance launches a southern invasion against Jin, the Southern Song must supply grain, military pay, and open the Yangtze River waterways to assist Jin in establishing a second defensive line along the Huai River–Qinling Mountains.”

Wanyan Honglie read this clause three times, then lifted his head and looked at Wanyan Anguo.

“Who proposed this clause?”

“I did,” Wanyan Anguo said. “But the original idea came from His Majesty.”

Wanyan Honglie placed the draft back on the table and fell silent for a long time. Only the drip of the water clock echoed in the secret chamber. Outside, Zhongdu lay quiet under the night sky; a few lanterns glowed atop the palace’s corner towers, and the distant beat of night watchmen’s wooden clappers drifted faintly in.

“Anguo, do you understand what it means to write this clause into the treaty?” Wanyan Honglie finally spoke, his voice low, as if to himself.

“I do,” Wanyan Anguo replied. “It means Jin admits it cannot hold back the steppe.”

Wanyan Honglie nodded. This had never happened since Jin’s founding—publicly acknowledging in a foreign treaty that it needed the help of one foreign power to resist another. Eighty years ago, when Wanyan Aguda rose with only two thousand five hundred cavalry against the Liao, the Jurchens needed no allies. They destroyed the Liao, toppled the Northern Song, and forced the Xia into submission—all with their own iron horses and strong bows. Now, Jin must inscribe a line in its treaty that, in plain speech, says: “If the northern power attacks, we may not hold out—we will need Southern Song’s logistical support.” Shame was tolerable. What truly troubled Wanyan Honglie was not the shame, but the judgment behind the words: the Jin central court had already concluded that, alone against the steppe, Jin had no chance of victory.

“What did His Majesty say?” Wanyan Honglie asked.

“His Majesty said that writing this line does damage to Jin’s dignity,” Wanyan Anguo replied, his voice lowering. “But more than dignity, he cares whether Jin can still survive. He also said one other thing—if this line fails to hold, no amount of dignity will matter anymore; it will only be for future generations to see.”

Wanyan Honglie slowly rose and walked to the large map on the wall. On it, Jin’s territory stretched from the Anchu Hu River in the northeast to the Huai River, dominating all of central China and Guanxi. But north and west of this vast domain, a thick crimson line cut across the Mongolian Plateau, through the former Xia lands, and extended beyond the Qinling Mountains. The region was labeled: Xinming Party-controlled zone. Jin’s territory resembled a man strangled by a red hand.

“I walked the northern border wall,” Wanyan Honglie said, his back still turned to Wanyan Anguo, his voice hushed. “I visited nine of the twelve garrisons. The ditches are deep, the arrow towers dense, the bed crossbows numerous. But we lack men. A battalion commander’s authorized strength is eight hundred; actual strength is under four hundred. In some garrisons, one-third of the posts are vacant. The southern front has been fighting for months, yet no troops were moved from the north—because there were no troops to move. It’s not that His Majesty refuses to send soldiers; it’s that there simply aren’t enough soldiers in the entire empire. The able-bodied are all on the southern front; half the northern garrison consists of the old and weak.”

Wanyan Anguo said nothing. As Vice Minister of the Shumiyuan, he knew better than anyone the true state of Jin’s troop deployments. Jin’s official standing army was said to number forty thousand, but that was only on paper. Actual combat-ready forces: fewer than eighty thousand on the southern front, fifty to sixty thousand on the western front, and less than one hundred fifty thousand total across the northern border, including frontier guards and inland mobile units. It sounds substantial—but spread across a thousand-li border, each garrison receives barely enough. If the Xinming Party launches a full-scale offensive, Jin will be forced to defend simultaneously against the northern border, the western Xia front, and the southern Song front—its forces stretched beyond breaking point.

“And,” Wanyan Honglie’s finger moved westward on the map, settling on the former Xia lands, his voice growing heavier, “the Xinming Party no longer has only cavalry. Latest intelligence says the Helan Mountain ironworks are no longer just forging weapons—they’re producing cannons.” Wanyan Anguo’s brow snapped tight. Wanyan Honglie turned, withdrew a crumpled silk scroll from his robe. This was intelligence gathered by a spy a month ago; he had received a copy en route, while the original remained in the north. He had carried the copy with him ever since.

“This report says the Xinming Party has built an entire complex of arms workshops—not the small forges of our northern frontier, with one smith and two apprentices, but dozens of interconnected factories. They use Xia iron, plus tungsten, manganese, and copper allegedly shipped from even farther west, producing weapons far superior to before.” He unrolled the scroll and read each line aloud, his tone flat, as if reciting a supply list—yet each item whitened Wanyan Anguo’s face further.

“They can now independently produce mortar tubes. According to the spy’s description, these are short-barreled weapons loaded from the muzzle, firing in curved trajectories. Their range is limited, but they strike directly over walls and into cities. Their shells are far lighter than our stone projectiles, yet far more destructive. Northern city walls were never designed to withstand such weapons.”

“They are also building a weapon called a ‘heavy machine gun.’ The spy says that during the destruction of the Kerulen tribe, the enemy used handheld firearms; cavalry charging within a few hundred paces were mowed down in rows. Now this new weapon is not handheld—it’s mounted on the ground, with faster rate of fire and more powerful bullets. Supposedly, one such weapon placed at the front can seal an entire charge route. Heavy cavalry armor is as flimsy as paper against this firepower.”

“Also, in the Xia’s Iron Eagle cavalry division, they have already re-equipped with a new type of rifle—not the old matchlocks that took minutes to reload, but long-barreled weapons capable of continuous fire, with improved range and accuracy. The Iron Eagles were already the finest heavy cavalry in the world; now, armed with these new weapons—they advance with volleys at close range, then draw swords and charge. The thought of such tactics sends chills down the spine.” Wanyan Honglie handed the scroll to Wanyan Anguo, paused, then delivered the final piece of intelligence.

“There are traces of familiar faces in Jiangnan.” Wanyan Anguo’s head snapped up.

“Yes,” Wanyan Honglie said. “Within the Xinming Party, a group of people speaking southern dialects have appeared. Not the official dialect of Lin’an—softer, sweeter. The spy’s description matches the dialect of Jiangnan East Road. These men do not wear uniforms; they wear short brown tunics of workshop workers—but their status is extremely high, always escorted by armed guards, accompanied personally by Xinming’s chief military engineers during inspections of ironworks and arms factories. They stayed in Helan Mountain for two months. What they left behind, the spy does not know. But after they departed, production at the Helan Mountain ironworks doubled, even tripled. A workshop previously only responsible for reloading matchlock cartridges suddenly began independently manufacturing complete rifles.”

The air in the secret chamber suddenly grew thick, suffocating. Wanyan Anguo’s fingers tapped unconsciously on the table, the rhythm quickening, then abruptly stopping. Southern dialect technical advisors, precision machinery, molds, cannon steel, transition from reloading to full-scale manufacturing—each term alone was not fatal. But together, they painted a picture that chilled his very marrow.

“Southern dialect,” Wanyan Anguo murmured, “not the Song court. The Song court would rather lock firearm formulas deep in the palace and never let anyone touch them—much less send people to the steppe to teach barbarians how to make guns and cannons. These are not court officials.”

“Correct,” Wanyan Honglie said. “Not court officials. But they have technology, organization, and wealth. That they can build a complete arms industry on the steppe proves their industrial capacity, at least in some regions, already surpasses any state-run workshop under Song control. Who are they? I don’t know. But I know one thing—the Xinming Party is not an isolated steppe regime. Behind it runs a hidden thread, one that may stretch all the way to Jiangnan.”

He paused, his tone growing heavier. “Anguo, this war hasn’t begun yet. But the outcome has already been decided in the ironworks. We dig ditches, reinforce crossbows, stockpile grain—all our preparations are for defense. But what they are doing beneath Helan Mountain is offense—they build cannons, machine guns, rifles capable of continuous fire. Every new weapon is designed for attack. Defense only delays time; offense decides victory. When did Jin, once an offensive dynasty, become one that can only defend? From the moment we realized that the red flag on the north was no ordinary tribal banner.”

He walked back to the map, his gaze slowly tracing the border between Song and Jin.

“So, the Southern Song is no longer our enemy,” Wanyan Honglie finally broke the silence, his voice regaining its usual calm, edged with coldness. “Han Tuozhou didn’t understand this—that’s why he’s dead. Shi Miyuan does—or rather, he fears deeply enough to sign these terms. Shi Miyuan is willing to open the Yangtze waterways to us as a second defensive line not out of loyalty, but out of terror. He knows that if Jin is swallowed by the steppe, the red flag will fly over Lin’an. That strait cannot stop a regime that possesses both steppe cavalry and Jiangnan technology.” He turned to face Wanyan Anguo.

“Write this clause into the treaty. Not just write it—write it in as much detail as possible. Demand every tael of tribute they offer, take every city they cede—these are for the war faction and the imperial clan to see; they are face. But what truly saves us is this clause—joint defense against the steppe. This is substance.”