The first quarter of the Chou hour should’ve been the time when people slept the soundest, but the Emperor of the Xianbei lay on his dragon bed, his eyelids trembling violently, as if he would wake up in the next moment.

This was actually strange, because in Xianbei culture, they had no idea what a dragon was, but when the Murong clan raised an army and seized the throne of the Yuwen clan, they claimed they had seen an auspicious omen: dragons circling the peak of Mount Xianbei three times before slowly departing.

So the Murong people always boasted that their imperial power was bestowed by heaven, that heaven had guided them to rule this land. Although their glory faded after they defeated the Yuwen clan—after all, the Yuwen had once truly unified the Central Plains—the Murong had attempted to march south several times, only to return in defeat. Even so, their dream of conquering the Central Plains had never been extinguished.

Wasn’t this pitiful? For generations, several emperors spent their entire lives just to invade other lands. Look at Di Fazeng—his eyes were never set on the Central Plains, yet he still achieved feats that hardly anyone in the world could match. The Xianbei once had a chance. Their emperors started from a far higher position than Di Fazeng, but they insisted on inheriting their forefathers’ meager will, and in the end, they themselves became part of that tragic will.

 

…

This emperor was different from the ones before him. He was peaceful. No one could say what the Xianbei would’ve become under his rule—perhaps better, perhaps worse—but his timing was too unfortunate. From the moment he ascended the throne, his seat at the great table of power had already been removed.

 

*

Murong Yi was having a nightmare.

Murong Yi was the reigning emperor of the Xianbei. As they had been born in the Great Xianbei Mountains—their original homeland—when they later adopted Chinese culture, they liked to give themselves names with the “wood” or “stone” characters, to show their strength and that they hadn’t forgotten their roots. In truth, they’d been mountain folk like the Butewu, only descending the mountains centuries later, undergoing long transformations until they gradually became nomads.

That was too distant to matter to Murong Yi. What concerned him was only the present.

Such as this nightmare.

He dreamt of Shengle City ablaze. His body shrank smaller, he seemed to have returned to childhood, but he was dressed in an ill-fitting dragon robe that trailed on the ground. He couldn’t run fast. In the end he could only shiver and hide under the bed.

Outside were the screams and wails of countless people dying. Murong Yi couldn’t see them, but he knew clearly that it was happening. Soon, his chamber was broken into. He saw a pair of hard, mud-caked boots approaching him step by step. Looking upward, he saw thick, massive legs—this man was even more burly than the great general. Murong Yi suddenly understood who he was.

It was the King of the North, the one he had never met, but who appeared in his every nightmare.

A coarse scraping sound came—the King of the North’s weapon dragging on the ground, carried slowly as it approached. It drew nearer and nearer. In the next second, it would stop before his eyes—

“Your Majesty!!!”

Murong Yi jolted awake. His whole body was gasping for breath as if dredged from water. He sat bolt upright from the bed, unable to think, panic-stricken as he stared at the intruder. That man’s face was full of grief as he brought news that wasn’t surprising at all. “Your Majesty, the north gate is broken!!!”

 

…

As for the Xianbei living in Shengle, they had no idea how the Northern Army had gotten inside.

The fact was that they were already in. The army split into two groups: one violently kicked open every nearby door, dragged people out by their hair, and herded them all into the streets. The obedient were tied up, the disobedient were killed on the spot with a single stroke.

The other group continued advancing on the main road, clashing with the Xianbei troops who resisted. Amid blades flashing, those bound captives, not knowing whether they would see the sun tomorrow, looked toward the battlefield. They could clearly see the Northern Army’s formation shaped like a triangle. The Xianbei were like a piece of cloth, torn open with a huge rent. At the very tip of the triangle, they saw a gleam of silver flashing ceaselessly. At times the silver disappeared, drenched in blood and losing its shine for a moment. In the next instant, the blood fell to the ground, not a drop lingering on it, the light reappeared, and another life was taken. Again and again, over and over.

 

…

 

Even with their lives at stake, the captives couldn’t move their eyes from that silver gleam. What kind of god of slaughter was this, what kind of war god? Never before had they so clearly realized: the Xianbei were truly finished.

Not everyone stayed silent. The streets were filled with cries and curses, but the Northern soldiers couldn’t understand—they were in the Xianbei tongue. Compared to this powerless rage, the imperial palace was far more chaotic.

The Emperor’s guards gathered. Even though the north gate was broken, they still clung to a shred of hope. Perhaps if they summoned the army, they could drive the Northern army soldiers out again. When their commander asked, the reply was even more despairing.

“The south gate is also in fierce battle?! Damn it—these Northern soldiers came prepared! How many soldiers did they bring?!”

The messenger looked as if about to weep. “General, it was too dark. The scouts couldn’t see clearly. Maybe… maybe three hundred thousand!”

The commander stared at him, struck dumb.

Three hundred thousand? What kind of number was that? The Northern Army had mobilized its full strength. They’d sworn to wipe out the Xianbei tonight. Even if their troops returned to the city, it couldn’t be salvaged.

 

…

 

Inside the emperor’s chambers, several elder nobles clustered around the boy emperor. They had been waiting for news. When the commander entered, he immediately grabbed the emperor’s arm. “Your Majesty, to the secret passage!”

The emperor and nobles all froze. This was the last resort, the most desperate measure. Since the news of the north gate’s fall, they had felt a strange unreality. Now it is gone.

Murong Yi stumbled after the commander. The nobles reacted instantly. They stopped talking, hurrying away—clearly they had their own matters to handle.

Murong Yi didn’t know what they intended. Perhaps to protect their children. Perhaps to abandon them, and save themselves. He didn’t linger on them. He only kept looking back at the bedchamber he had lived in for years, the dragon bed where he still remembered how excited he had been when he lay upon it the first time.

The Xianbei had often mocked Emperor Guangjia of Yong, who had fled south in panic before the enemy had even crossed the river. North of the Han River, people called the Yong dynasty “Southern Yong,” while the Xianbei claimed Yong had already fallen, that Emperor Guangjia was a king of a dead state, and the Southern Yong regime was but a grasshopper after autumn, surviving for a moment more.

Whether Guangjia was a fallen sovereign, Murong Yi didn’t know, but he knew—he already was.

 

*

 

At the same time, at the south gate:

Xiao Rong and Qu Yunmie had agreed: When the moon reached its peak, both sides would attack simultaneously. Jian Qiao, Yuan Baifu and others would ambush the Xianbei army here, while Qu Yunmie scaled the walls and struck at the north gate.

The Xianbei army was still miles from the south gate, so even if someone ran back to report, the time difference was enough for Qu Yunmie to open the north gate. By the time news spread, the battle here would already have lasted at least half an hour.

By then, retreating wouldn’t be so easy.

No one had foreseen this two-pronged strategy. Even when the Xianbei general sensed something amiss—as the Northern Army suddenly abandoned its cautious stance of previous days, driving forward in fury, as if determined to break the south gate tonight—he had no spare energy to think elsewhere. He dared not relax for a moment. Even without Qu Yunmie, these three hundred thousand troops were not easy to handle. One mistake, and the south gate could fall.

Both sides fought with all they had. In the blink of an eye, hundreds of lives were erased from the earth.

Xiao Rong stood before the command tent, Yu Shaoxie by his side, both gazing solemnly at the battlefield. It was already the third quarter of Chou, but no one could feel drowsy now.

Suddenly, a soldier who had been circling the battlefield, observing the chaos, rode back. He shouted hoarsely, “Master Xiao, the Xianbei are retreating!”

In that instant, Xiao Rong felt his heart fall, then soar. If the Xianbei retreated, it meant Qu Yunmie had succeeded. Still, he could not allow them to retreat. If the army truly returned to Shengle, the people inside would be in danger.

Xiao Rong rushed to his horse, mounting with a speed he had never shown before. There was no saddle, but he no longer cared. He was no longer a student in a riding class. Like everyone of this era, horsemanship wasn’t his hobby—it was his life.

He galloped toward the battlefield, his voice tearing from his throat, “Stop them! Do not let them return! The King has entered the city! Shengle has fallen! Soldiers, hold the Xianbei, protect the King!!!”

Three hundred thousand men, plus the Xianbei’s own hundred thousand—almost half a million on the field. No one could fathom the scale. Xiao Rong’s shout could only reach a few hundred nearby, but once he shouted, scouts repeated it. Others heard, and repeated again.

It continued until the core of the battlefield had heard as well. Gongsun Yuan pulled his blade from a Xianbei chest. He had lost count of how many he had killed. His face was covered in blood, his eyes frenzied.

Hearing the news from afar, Gongsun Yuan laughed madly, like a lunatic. “Shengle has fallen! These barbarians will all die today! Sons, kill with me—kill! Kill! Kill!”

He was already consumed by adrenaline. Other soldiers were the same. Even Jian Qiao had gone red-eyed with slaughter. Hearing Gongsun Yuan’s cry, he hacked fiercely at his foe, then roared to the sky, “Stop those who try to flee! Whoever slays the most enemies, I will reward heavily!”

Even Yuan Baifu bellowed to rally his men. Xiao Rong’s heart pounded wildly. He didn’t know where to look. He only heard voices rising everywhere, each different, but each burning with bloodlust.

 

Edited by: Antiope

 

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