Chapter 207: The Fall of Xi Xia

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What color is war?

To some, it should be red.

Because when two armies clash, blood splatters everywhere, and the ground is littered with severed limbs exposing pink, tender flesh.

Yet others believe it should be black.

Because after battle, the battlefield is covered in ash, all vegetation crushed flat, and only black sludge churns and exposes itself like scars upon the earth.

For the people of Xingqing Prefecture, war is gray.

Because the faces of those who died in battle, from starvation, from cold, or from execution are gray, their eyes are gray, the gloomy sky is gray, and even their hearts are gray.

The people of Xingqing Prefecture have endured a grueling half-year of city defense; countless people around them have died, many of whom have even ended up in their stomachs.

It is cruel, yet brutally true.

Not long ago they were comrades fighting side by side; today, some are piled together without dignity, stacked into a small mound, and at nightfall, those driven mad by hunger steal them away to turn them into food.

The Liao reinforcements promised by the Emperor and his ministers have yet to arrive, while the Song Ren outside the city have sent arrows bearing messages informing the populace that Song and Liao have made peace, that Xi Xia has been abandoned by Liao, that Liao troops will not come to their aid, and that they are now Xi Xia's final resistance.

Food within the city grows ever scarcer; horses and livestock in both outer and inner cities have long been consumed, even cats, dogs, insects, and rodents have vanished, and the remaining food is first allocated to the imperial palace's nobles and their absolute confidants—those who defend Xingqing Prefecture receive only a spoonful of beans daily, let alone the common folk, whose suffering is unimaginable.

Now, the ice protecting Xingqing Prefecture from Song assault has melted visibly, and perhaps tomorrow the Song army will begin its siege.

Will the Song army sack the city after it falls?

It should.

Over these years, our ancestors and we ourselves have raided Song Jing countless times, burning, killing, looting, and capturing people to bring back as slaves to Xi Xia.

Now that the Song Ren have finally destroyed Xi Xia and captured us, their enemies, how could they not avenge this deep hatred?

Resentment, rage, fear, despair—each person's heart is filled with these, and the people's nerves are like drawn bows, taut and fragile, ready to snap at the slightest provocation, driving them to madness or frenzy.

Emperor Li Qianshun and his ministers long noticed these conditions; fearing mutiny or riot, they enforced military and civil orders more cruelly than ever: no laughing, no complaining, no sighing, no crying, no shouting, no murmuring of family—anyone who breaks these orders is executed on the spot without mercy, and even comrades in the same unit and neighbors are punished by association.

Under such oppressive conditions, the people's spirits grow even more taut.

Everyone carefully avoids eye contact, for everyone's eyes hold a suppressed, unrelenting bestiality. Countless times, a beast-like impulse surges within them—to draw their blades and slash at every living thing around them.

On a night at the end of April in the third year of Hongwu, dark clouds obscured the moon, and the air was oppressively heavy.

The people of the city were strictly divided into group after group, so they could huddle together for warmth and reduce firewood consumption.

In one tent, dozens of men lay shoulder to shoulder, leg to leg beside a small fire.

They did not remove their clothes or armor; each hugged their arms, guarding their weapons, ready for dawn.

They all strained to breathe, trying to fill their chests with air, yet still felt suffocated.

The stench of blood, sweat, foot odor, and rotting mud mingled and surged into their minds, leaving them dizzy and nauseous.

Flashing blades, severed limbs—images flickered before some eyes; cries of men and horses echoed endlessly in others' ears.

Only in the late hours of night did these haunted minds barely slip into a half-sleep, half-awake state.

Suddenly!

A thunderclap exploded above the roof.

At the same moment, a boy of twelve or thirteen jolted upright, his eyes fixed on empty air, tearing at his clothes while letting out a hysterical scream.

The sound was unbearably shrill, utterly inhuman—more like a beast's roar.

Those already on edge, having slept poorly for months, were instantly jolted awake.

Thick, impenetrable darkness surrounded them; the piercing scream crashed into their eardrums, filling them with terror and fury.

Finally, "crack"—someone felt the nerve stretched to its limit in his mind snap; in an instant, years of accumulated rage, resentment, fear, grievance, and longing for home, wife, and children surged into his chest, threatening to explode his ribs.

The man, as if possessed, tore at his own chest like the boy, screaming to the heavens, desperately releasing the fury within.

Madness spread like plague through the crowd.

Soon, several others stretched their necks and let out beastly howls.

Those still lucid found the hysterics of the afflicted incomprehensible and the scene before them chilling.

Elderly veterans, seeing this, looked as if facing an imminent enemy; their faces turned ashen. "It's happened," they said. "The camp is exploding."

Some youths wanted to ask what "camp exploding" meant, but the neighboring tent had already erupted.

Someone screamed, someone cursed, someone shouted names of those lost to hysteria.

The lucid tried to stop the hysterics.

The hysterics, oblivious, grabbed those nearby and beat and bit them wildly.

One bit another's ear; another gouged out an eye; bloodied men crawled on the ground, wailing, sobbing, shrieking in madness.

Torch after torch lit up; flickering flames stretched, twisted their shadows, making this hellish scene even more horrific.

At that moment, someone suddenly shouted: "Enemy attack!"

The crowd erupted further; panic surged like waves through their hearts, engulfing the entire camp—some drew knives, others drew swords, wildly slashing at blurred figures around them.

Shouts of battle spread rapidly; soon the entire camp was in chaos, filled with wails like ghosts and wolves, and fierce clashing of weapons.

More and more camps erupted.

Soon, it seemed the entire Xingqing Prefecture had descended into chaos.

The hysterical, the vengeful, the self-preserving, those merely seeking to vent their rage—all swung their blades, slashing endlessly, tireless in their frenzy.

Emperor Li Qianshun and his ministers inside the imperial palace, and General Lu Huiqing and other Song officers outside, nearly simultaneously noticed the turmoil within Xingqing Prefecture.

Li Qianshun and Lu Huiqing climbed their respective high platforms and stared toward the chaos.

The difference: Lu Huiqing instantly recognized it as "camp exploding"; Li Qianshun, unfamiliar with such a sight, stared in shock and asked urgently: "What is this?"

His attendants also looked terrified; no one could explain this sudden upheaval.

Li Qianshun turned to the old general Ren Duobaozhong beside him.

Ren Duobaozhong's face was ashen; a flicker of despair passed through his eyes. He spoke in a trembling voice: "The camp is exploding."

Li Qianshun heard this and was shaken to his core, a chill shooting straight down his spine. He had heard of camp explosions before—he knew this was the result of the city's people enduring prolonged war pressure until their minds shattered; now, they no longer distinguished friend from foe, knowing only mad slaughter.

Li Qianshun understood clearly: if this explosion of chaos could not be contained, Xingqing Prefecture would fall without a single attack, and the fate of Western Xia would end here. He forced down his inner panic and barked, "Issue orders—hold the situation at all costs! Do not let this disorder spread to the Imperial City!"

Yet those who understood camp explosions—like Ren Duobaozhong—knew as clearly as if it were a mirror: no matter what they did now, the overall situation was already beyond saving.

The chaos within the city spread like plague, flames roaring skyward, screams and battle cries deafening. Many in the city had lost their reason; they slaughtered one another, brothers who once fought shoulder to shoulder now becoming each other's corpses beneath their blades.

Soon, someone cried out: "This day's calamity stems entirely from the Li clan's division of the land and self-proclamation! Had we not done so, we would all still be Song subjects—why would the Song army come to attack us?"

Others echoed: "The Emperor has lost his realm, yet refuses to open the gates and surrender; instead, he forces us to cling to desperate resistance, dragging us down with him to die—his heart is worthy of execution."

Those already driven mad had their hatred fully ignited; someone shouted: "Capture Li Qianshun and deliver him to the Great Song Emperor Your Majesty! Only then might we be spared death and enjoy peace!"

As soon as these words were spoken, it was like a boulder cast into a lake, stirring a thousand waves. Those who had been driven mad by the camp explosion suddenly seemed pulled by an invisible force; their rage and resentment finally found a new outlet. They began consciously surging toward the Imperial City, their cries of slaughter now laced with hatred and curses against Li Qianshun and the Li clan of Western Xia.

Seeing this, Western Xia's high officials and nobles each led their families, trusted retainers, and personal troops to assist Li Qianshun's Imperial Guard of Six Ban Zhi, the Emperor's Personal Bodyguard, and the Five Armies of Xingqing Prefecture—all rushing to defend key positions against these hundreds of thousands of madmen.

The Imperial Guard of Six Ban Zhi were the Emperor's elite personal troops, five thousand men selected from the sons of powerful clans, all skilled in horsemanship and archery, divided into three rotating shifts for palace guard duty; they served both as imperial bodyguards and as a "hostage army," with sons of tribal chieftains and magnates held at court as living guarantees of loyalty.

The Emperor's Personal Bodyguard numbered roughly three thousand, elite warriors selected from across the realm's armies, all heavy cavalry, organized into ten squads of three hundred each, accompanying the Emperor into battle; they were the most elite cavalry of Western Xia, known as the "Iron Hawks," equipped with the finest warhorses and the strongest cold-forged armor of the age, their combat power formidable.

The Five Armies of Xingqing Prefecture were the Tiger-Control Army, the Earth-Strengthening Army, the Great Passage Army, the Propagating Might Army, and the Mingsha Army—all also part of the Western Xia imperial guard.

Li Qianshun and his ministers had long sensed the danger, so they had already moved all these elite troops into the Imperial City to protect themselves and Western Xia's high officials and nobles.

Added to this were the forces brought by the high officials and nobles themselves.

The garrison within the Imperial City totaled over fifty thousand.

Though fewer than the civilians and soldiers outside, these troops were the elite among elites—each one capable of holding off five enemies without issue.

Crucially, the mad civilians and soldiers outside had no organization; they merely surged blindly through the night and firelight, like a swarm of wild bees without a queen—vast in number, yet utterly chaotic, without order.

Thus, the outcome of this battle held no real uncertainty.

But the problem was, this was fratricide—it was Western Xia's funeral dirge, the apocalyptic scene Li Qianshun and his ministers could not bear to face.

Most critically, once they finished killing each other here, the Song army would surely storm into the city and deliver Western Xia's final blow, securing total victory in this war.

In other words, Western Xia had already perished at this very moment.

Soon, the mad masses began assaulting the Imperial City.

Arrows rained down, slicing through the night, carrying the breath of death, driving deep into the surging, frenzied crowds.

Blood sprayed, wails rose and fell, yet not a single cry could halt the tide. They were like mindless zombies, blindly pushing forward, toward the Imperial City they had once dared not challenge.

Lü Huiqing, watching this chaos from outside the city, said to those around him: "Heaven aids Great Song! Western Xia's mandate is exhausted—the city will fall today!"

Lü Huiqing's eyes gleamed with cold brilliance; his words carried unshakable certainty. Beneath the night, his figure flickered between light and shadow cast by the flames, like a judge of fate, silently observing this turning point in history.

Wang Hou beside him asked: "Your Excellency, when shall we storm the city?"

Lü Huiqing spoke without emotion: "No rush. Let their madness exhaust itself. When their elite are broken and their people's spirit shattered, the city will fall without a single assault—we may take it without shedding a drop of blood."

A cold smile curled Lü Huiqing's lips, his words revealing precise grasp of the situation and deep calculation.

Then Lü Huiqing ordered: "Issue my command—prepare for the assault. Rotate the troops for rest. Tomorrow morning, we shall claim this unparalleled achievement."

Meanwhile, within Xingqing, atop the Imperial City, the defenders stood resolute; arrows flew like locusts, each twang of the bowstring claiming a life.

Yet this brutal slaughter failed to quench the frenzy of the civilians and soldiers outside; they brought siege engines, charging the walls with reckless abandon, while battering rams pounded ceaselessly against the gates.

It was easy to guess: once this flood breached the Imperial City, it would obliterate everything within.

Precisely because they understood this, the defenders, though knowing they were killing their own kin, dared not hesitate for a moment.

By dawn, casualties within Xingqing had exceeded seventy percent.

The remaining survivors, staring at the ground littered with corpses and pools of blood, slowly regained their senses.

Yet at that moment, countless Song soldiers had already scaled the city walls; they immediately descended, opening all gates of Xingqing Prefecture.

Immediately after, innumerable Song troops poured into the city, slowly advancing from all directions toward the Imperial City…

The survivors, seeing so many Song soldiers, dropped their weapons and scattered like birds and beasts, hiding in ruins or the hidden tunnels they had long dug.

Li Qianshun, watching from the city wall, saw this scene—and looked upon his own exhausted troops, their eyes now filled with a suppressed, bestial fury. They stood but one step from their own camp explosion.

Li Qianshun finally lowered his head, gazing down at the blood-soaked ground and corpses below.

Li Qianshun knew: all of this was caused by the Li clan's ambition. Had they remained humble and obedient, the Tangut people might still have lived peacefully on this land, thriving and multiplying—instead of today's shattered homeland and rivers of blood.

Li Qianshun prostrated himself on the ground, weeping uncontrollably, his breath choked, unable to rise.

All present, especially members of the Li clan—regardless of age—broke into loud, wailing sobs.

Their cries shook heaven and earth, darkening the sun, the wind howling like a dirge.

They all knew: Western Xia was gone, utterly erased from history—and they themselves would become lambs awaiting slaughter.

Before the Song troops could enter the inner city, the gates of the Imperial City opened from within.

Prince Pu, Li Ren, and Chief of the Secretariat Xue Yuanli carried a white flag inscribed with the word "SURRENDER," walking heavily toward the Song army…

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(End of Chapter)