Chapter 954

When the sun sank toward the western mountains and darkness settled over the land, the quiet world carried sounds on the wind that no one could hear by day.

The cries of insects. Leaves brushing against one another.

And, from hundreds of jang¹ away, something like a shout from someone whose voice carried internal energy.

“I don’t know who that bastard is, but he’s got a set of lungs on him. Don’t you think?”

At the low voice that pierced his ears, Temur swallowed nervously.

In his trembling eyes was the reflection of a man smiling beneath the faint moonlight.

Chinggen.

His blood relative, who had grown up alongside him since a childhood now hazy in his memory.

They hadn’t been born to the same parents, but Chinggen was a cousin closer than any brother, and a sworn brother bound to him by the anda oath.²

And… a dead man. Someone who no longer belonged to this world.

This is no time to laugh and chatter, Temur.

The memory flashed before Temur’s eyes: Chinggen speaking to him with a worried look, just before an unusually cold steppe wind pushed open the entrance to the ger.³

Brother, I’m sorry. You were right.

Temur lowered his head in misery.

Why hadn’t he listened to Chinggen?

Even before that day—the day of a tragedy that made him shudder just to remember it—Chinggen had sent word through messengers several times.

Something was wrong on the grasslands.

Something unknown seemed to be starting beyond their reach.

But Temur had let the warnings go in one ear and out the other. He’d filled his ger³ with rare treasures brought along the trade routes, then feasted on meat and liquor with his men.

He’d never dreamed what would come of it.

“What’s got you so lost in thought this time, brother?”

The Chinggen of his memory vanished. Temur jerked his head up like a man startled awake and answered in a trembling voice.

To the man who had killed Chinggen—and had now become Chinggen.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Goodness. You must be nervous before the battle. Is that why you didn’t hear me?”

“What do you mean…?”

“That shout just now. Don’t you recognize the voice?”

Only then did Temur understand. He answered quickly.

“Y-yes. The Lesser Family Head of the Jin Family of Taiyuan. It has to be him.”

“Ah, I see. I thought I’d heard that voice before.”

Of course, the man was lying to keep anyone nearby from growing suspicious. Temur might be simple, but the meticulous Chinggen would never have forgotten someone important whom he’d met several times.

“Jin Wikyung… So that’s who it is.”

Chinggen smacked his lips in satisfaction and glanced over his shoulder. At the look he gave him, Jamukha, riding with his customary calm, nodded slightly.

The Lesser Family Head of the Jin Family of Taiyuan has more than a loud voice. He has nerve, too.

Their Sound Transmission passed discreetly through the darkness. A faint smile touched Jamukha’s lips.

If he’d meant to flee from the start, he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of pulling that stunt.

It was quite a stunt. It cost us more than we expected.

Chinggen frowned and spat phlegm from his swaying saddle.

The Great Wall, which a cruel emperor had built across a full ten thousand li⁴ after unifying the continent long ago, hardly deserved to be called a wall.

Yet the north, which should have been unoccupied, was littered with obstacles everywhere.

Losing the vanguard was one thing. I didn’t expect them to turn the whole place into such a filthy shitshow.

A shitshow. Chinggen couldn’t think of a better word for it.

Northern Shanxi Province, which they had reached through wind and rain, had been devastated. Paddies and fields that should have been nearing harvest were ruined. Wells and streams were fouled with poison and filth. Even the houses had been reduced to ashes.

Those lunatics. They burned down the places they’d been living in until recently, then left.

At Chinggen’s Sound Transmission, Jamukha’s lips moved, his expression still calm.

Do you know Emperor Gaozu of Han?

I’ve heard of him. Liu Bang, from the story of Xiang Yu and Liu Bang?

Yes. Even the eventual victor was once driven back by Xiang Yu and had to leave for Hanzhong. On the advice of his strategist Zhang Liang, he burned the plank roads behind him.

He cut off his own way back.

But he returned to the Central Plains, defeated Xiang Yu, and became ruler of all under Heaven. This land is their plank road. As long as its people survive, they can always rebuild it.

One person alone was an individual. Ten made a group.

But gather a hundred or a thousand, and villages and cities arose.

People were what mattered.

Though everything in the north had been destroyed, those who burned their own homes must have made a vow as they left. They would return and reclaim this land. Just as their ancestors had done long ago, they would begin again amid the ruins, even with nothing left.

Of course, it’s all a vain hope.

Jamukha smiled faintly.

Xiang Yu had been arrogant and foolish. Despite possessing the martial might and forces to look down on all under Heaven, he had ultimately lost to Liu Bang.

Jamukha was different.

For decades, he had strengthened his hold on the western grasslands and built up his forces, waiting for that person to call him.

And at last…

The time has come.

Jamukha gazed into the pitch-black darkness. There, where even the moonlight was dimmed by dark clouds, he could almost see the enemy holding their spears and swords upright, struggling to master their trembling hearts.

“Can you feel it? Their fear.”

His low voice rang through the darkness. Charged with internal energy, it reached every ear clearly, and his eyes shone fiercely.

“Our enemies have spent their lives hiding behind tall walls. They’re no different from cows and pigs—softened by peace, doing nothing but eating!”

What of the grasslands?

Their people had been born of grass and earth. They had endured the cold north wind in gers,³ not behind walls, and ridden through snowy fields to hunt wild beasts.

To the nomads, death came cheap. Plunder and killing were taken for granted.

“They don’t know where we came from! They don’t know what great conquerors our ancestors were!”

His forceful voice pressed down upon the night air.

It was as if the sound of their ancestors’ hooves, trampling across lands covered in frost and ice and crossing the dreadful, scorching desert, were faintly echoing in everyone’s ears.

“Keep your eyes sharp as you draw your bows! Thrust your spears like a tiger’s claws! Cut through their flesh with crescent sabers like an eagle’s talons, then trample them beneath your horses’ hooves!”

A light slowly kindled in the nomads’ slack eyes.

They had marched without rest for more than half a month, through traps laid on every side. Thousands had lost horses they treasured as much as their own lives to poisoned iron caltrops. Thousands more had collapsed after drinking fouled water.

And that wasn’t all.

With the houses burned down, they’d had to sleep outdoors beneath the night dew and fill their bellies with tough jerky made while sitting in the saddle, all to keep up their speed.

It didn’t matter.

Thousands of men and horses had fallen, but tens of thousands remained. If they crushed an enemy less than half their number—if they won this battle—it would all be over.

Beyond the gorge, shrouded in darkness, more than weak enemies awaited them.

Wealth. Honor. A new age.

“My beloved brothers, remember our ancestors! Remember the grasslands in all their former glory!”

Jamukha cried out like a king of the beasts that ruled the grasslands. Like one of the great conquerors of old, who had ridden out from their gers³ and shaken the continent with thunderous hoofbeats.

Then he fixed his eyes on the gorge, now only a hundred or so jang¹ ahead, and spoke in a low, clear voice.

“Now, it’s time to conquer.”

At that moment—

Clang-clang-clang-clang!

A wave of steel swallowed the darkness. Gently curved crescent sabers, sharp lances, and arrows nocked to bowstrings in a flash gleamed on every side.

“Waaaaah!”

A roar shattered the deep night and seemed to shake heaven and earth.

Thududududu!

Dozens became hundreds. Hundreds became thousands. At last, tens of thousands swept toward the gorge like the wind.

They cried out in strange voices that chilled anyone who heard them, their hair streaming behind them like horses’ tails with every jolt of the ride. They drove forward with all their might to avenge a tragedy stained by lies and claim the glory their ancestors had once won.

Rrrrummmble!

Beyond the gorge, the people waiting there felt the fierce vibration through their bodies, as if an earthquake had struck.

“So it comes to this, after all.”

Jin Wikyung murmured, then looked down at his hand. It was clenched around his sword hilt, and it had begun to tremble.

Why?

Was he afraid of the enemy bearing down on them with such overwhelming momentum?

No.

He feared the countless allies who would die here. He feared that he would not be able to protect them all.

That’s why… we have to win.

He had taken every measure he could. There was no undoing any of it, and no retreating now.

Do everything within your power, then leave the rest to Heaven.

The old saying came to him suddenly. So did someone who hated it more than anyone—someone who wasn’t here.

No. If you’re just going to leave it to Heaven in the end, why go through all that hell? You’ve got to make Heaven change its mind, even if you have to raise all kinds of hell to do it.

Yes, that was exactly what the guy would have said.

At the sound of that voice, so vivid in his ears, Jin Wikyung let out a quiet laugh before he knew it.

Then, the next moment, he realized his hand had stopped trembling.

“Wipeng.”

At the low call that cut through the thunder of approaching hooves, his longtime loyal retainer answered.

“Your orders, my lord.”

Tens of thousands of men and horses would be upon them in moments. Ragged breaths sounded all around.

Every eye turned to Jin Wikyung, their commander-in-chief. Then he said the last thing anyone expected.

“I think we should spend next year’s Double Ninth Festival⁵ on Mount Heng.”

“…!”

“All of us together. We’ll drink chrysanthemum wine, make music, and enjoy ourselves.”

“M-my lord.”

“Why? Don’t you like the sound of it?”

Wipeng and the others stared at Wikyung’s faint smile. Then, as if by agreement, they smiled just like him, holding back the emotion rising in their chests.

Next year’s Double Ninth Festival.⁵ All of us together.

Those few words stirred something deep within them.

As they smiled, their fear faded. When they laughed aloud, the stiffness left their bodies. The darkness surrounding them no longer felt so ominous.

Step.

A footfall sounded with startling clarity. Someone stepped out in front of them and spoke.

“Next year’s Double Ninth Festival⁵ sounds rather enjoyable.”

Jin Mukyung was smiling.

Amid the vibration and shouts that had swallowed the gorge.

In the darkness that had been his only friend for the past two years.

And in the next moment—

Thudududu—whoosh!

He turned toward the dozens of men and horses bursting from the pitch-black darkness, as though a curtain had been drawn aside.

Shing!

A dazzling flash rose from his waist and cleaved through the faint moonlight.