The weather had been overcast for days on end, with dark clouds pressing low over the city walls, stifling and suffocating.
On the distant slopes, a gray haze hung thick. A great banner flapped violently in the wind, its bold, forceful character “Wei” starkly visible – like a stalking tiger, poised to spring at any moment and devour the city a thousand times its size. Beneath that banner, cooking smoke curled upward as the Wei army set up camp and prepared their meals, the rich aromas of grain and meat wafting through the air.
The walls of Yang City were faintly stained with blood. Not far from where the Wei army had pitched their tents, the main battlefield below the city was littered with corpses – broken limbs and mutilated remains – the air thick with the stench of blood mingled with decay.
The soldiers on the battlements were at the end of their strength, their armor battered and torn. In the howling wind, their lips were cracked and bleeding. Worst of all, the sight of the Wei troops feasting in the distance and the scent of food carried on the air mercilessly eroded their will. One after another, they cast down their arms and surrendered to the enemy.
Inside the city, all was desolate. Not a single soul walked the streets. The bitter wind, laden with ice and snow, roared through the alleys, sweeping the ground so clean that not a speck of dust remained.
The empty, desolate prison cell.
It was chillingly damp, filled with the stench of mildew and decay. The torches lining the paths on either side could barely sustain their flames in such an environment, their light offering little more than a feeble glimmer. The only source of illumination came from a palm-sized ventilation hole three meters above the ground, through which a shaft of dazzling white light streamed in, faintly revealing the shapes and faces of those within.
“Master Huaijin – Master Huaijin, save me!”
The hollow chamber echoed faintly, the trembling quiver at the end of each plea betraying the speaker’s fear and cowardice without reserve.
A person in coarse hemp robes leaned against a pile of straw in the corner. The person’s hair was loosely bound in a disheveled topknot, with stray strands falling messily over their face, half-shielding their features. The person’s garments, dark with grime yet tinged with pale patches, made it impossible to discern their original color.
Kneeling before this prisoner was a middle-aged man in splendid robes – none other than the lord of Yang City himself, the Marquis of Duanyang.
The light from the ventilation window fell upon the Marquis, clearly illuminating his pale, sweat-drenched face. Seeing that the other person made no move, the Marquis hurriedly shuffled forward on his knees. “Master, save me!”
Dust stirred up by his movement swirled wildly within the beam of white light – whether it eventually settled back to the ground or drifted out through the window, no one could tell.
The person leaning against the wall finally stirred slightly, a pair of clear black-and-white eyes gazing at the Marquis of Duanyang through the tangled strands of hair.
They were not particularly beautiful eyes, but the clarity and wisdom shining within them filled the Marquis with relief – this was that very look: an air of nonchalance tinged with an icy, crystalline lucidity. In every moment of panic, just setting eyes on it would inexplicably steady his heart.
The man addressed as Master Huaijin regarded him for a long while, then suddenly let out a scornful chuckle. In a dry, hoarse whisper, she drawled slowly, “What a fucking coward.”
Though her voice was parched and rough, it was unmistakably that of a woman.
Even if Song Huaijin had done nothing but curse him – or even slapped him across the face – the Marquis would have harbored no resentment. At this very moment, the enemy was at the gates. The first wave of the Wei army’s assault had lasted an entire day and night before receding like the tide for a brief respite, granting him this chance to rush here and plead for help.
The Marquis gazed at her anxiously. This woman before him possessed wisdom rivaling that of any top-tier strategist. Yet, from the very beginning, he had never truly respected her. So even though she had helped Yangcheng survive countless crises, when the so-called evidence of “collusion with the enemy” was placed before him, he had not hesitated for a moment to throw her into prison.
“My lord – the city has run out of water and provisions!” A man covered in blood burst in, ignoring all attempts to stop him, his voice laced with shock and despair.
Song Huaijin lifted her head with difficulty to glance at the newcomer. In the dim light, she could not tell whether the armor he wore belonged to a common soldier or a general. His face was overgrown with a wild, straw-like beard, and with his burly, towering frame, he resembled a black bear. Yet Song Huaijin recognized him at once – he was Qi Wu, the most valiant warrior under the Marquis of Duanyang’s command.
The Marquis stood frozen in place, his face ashen pale.
“Master Huaijin…” Qi Wu turned to look at Song Huaijin, his voice trailing off. Back then, he had believed in that evidence of treason, and when she was imprisoned, he had not spoken a single word in her defense. Now, how could he have the nerve to beg her for help?
But his words clearly reminded the Marquis of Duanyang. Snapping back to his senses, the Marquis bowed deeply to Song Huaijin, his hands clasped in front of him, and pleaded once more with earnest desperation, “Master, save me.”
Song Huaijin leaned weakly against the mottled wall and let out a slow sigh. “Enough. You once gave me a second chance at life. Today, I will save your life one last time – and that will settle the debt.”
Though the Marquis was cowardly and incompetent, and suspicious by nature, he had after all saved her back then. No one else had been willing to employ her, yet he had given her the opportunity to put her talents to use. If she were to resent anyone, she could only resent herself for misjudging people, for trying to prop up a pile of mud that could never stick to the wall. If she were to resent anyone, she could only resent herself for trusting in love, for giving her true heart to that man, only to be utterly defeated at his hands.
Even if not for saving the Marquis, she would have to confront Min Chi herself – the one who had used her feelings to bring her to this miserable state.
“Master Huaijin, do you have a plan to hold the city?” Qi Wu could not help but ask.
Song Huaijin was choked by his question and broke into a fit of coughs. She slammed her fist hard against the dry straw on the ground, and when her anger reached its peak, she actually let out a laugh. “General Qi, the fact that you’ve managed to stay this naive all these years is truly enviable.”
She spat through gritted teeth, “You’ve left me such a hopeless mess – how the hell am I supposed to clean it up? I, Song Chuyi, am human, not some bloody god! The walls of Yang City are tall and strong, yet the Wei army still chose to assault them head-on – it’s plain as day that they’re making a feint to cut off our water supply. Even sitting here in this cell, I know that outside, people must be surrendering to the Wei forces one after another. Min Chi has more connections in this city than every one of you combined. For all I know, someone might open the gates for them any moment now, and their army will pour right in. Shall I grow wings for every one of you so you can fly away, General Qi? Would that do?”
Song Huaijin was physically weak, and after speaking so much in one breath, she panted heavily.
The sharp sting of her sarcasm flushed the face of the hot-blooded Qi Wu – though thankfully, shrouded in darkness and with his face fully bearded, the color was quite indiscernible.
The Marquis of Duanyang, however, felt not shame but a chill rising from the soles of his feet. He was merely a minor marquis struggling to survive between the states of Qin and Wei, and his roster of advisers had never been large – only Song Huaijin and Min Chi possessed any real talent; the rest were third-rate hangers-on who barely earned their keep.
Min Chi had abandoned his lord and defected to Wei. It was he who now served as their strategist in attacking Yang City, and it was he who had schemed to drive a wedge between the Marquis and Song Huaijin. As the former chief adviser under the Marquis, Min Chi knew the city’s troop deployments and terrain like the back of his hand. With the might of the Wei army at his back, taking Yang City was as easy as turning over his palm.
The other mediocre strategists under the Marquis, seeing the tide had turned, promptly packed their bags and fled. They might have been useless in every other regard, but they had honed the art of “retreat” to perfection – vanishing without a trace.
“My end is near…” The Marquis slumped onto the dry straw, his face ashen.
“You won’t die.” Song Huaijin braced herself against the wall and struggled to her feet, then shot a glare at Qi Wu. “Give me a hand.”
Hearing this, the Marquis scrambled up at once, not minding the grime on her, and reached out to support her. Qi Wu also strode over and took her other arm. Together, the two men helped her out of the cell.
Song Huaijin asked to bathe and change her clothes. Though the Marquis was frantic with anxiety, he still ordered his men to make the preparations.
…
In the vast, empty main hall, the floor was paved with dark bluish-grey stone bricks, flanked on both sides by black pillars as thick as two men could embrace. At the head of the hall, the Marquis of Duanyang sat on the main seat, his face pale, yet far more composed than before.
After about an hour – by which point the sweat from his palms, resting on his knees, had already soaked through the thick silk of his robes – a figure finally appeared at the entrance of the hall, walking in slowly.
She wore a flowing robe of pale yellow with wide sleeves, her dark hair coiled atop her head like a man’s in a bun, secured with a simple jade hairpin. Her frame was tall and slender as bamboo, her broad robe fluttering in the wind like a banner. The half-month in prison had left her cheeks hollow and her complexion sallow.
Her features were by no means beautiful – taken together, they were merely passable, so ordinary that she had never attracted much notice even among the other advisers. Yet if one met her gaze, one would discover a keen wisdom hidden behind those clear, ice-cold eyes.
The Marquis hurried down from the main seat. “Master Huaijin, night is about to fall… the soldiers are hungry and exhausted. The Wei army will surely not let pass such a prime opportunity to attack the city.”
“Why not just wait until you’ve all starved to death and then march in unopposed?” Song Huaijin knelt and sat down on the mat to one side. The cold drafts in the great hall were hard on her, still in the throes of a fever. “I know Min Chi’s character well. He advocates subduing the enemy without battle. If he has any way to starve you out, he will not assault the city.”
Subduing the enemy without battle – that, too, was the highest ideal a strategist could achieve. Tactics were only called upon when battle was unavoidable; and when it came to commanding troops in actual combat, the military commanders far outshone mere strategists like them.
“If the King of Wei had truly wanted to take Yangcheng at great cost, he would have succeeded long ago – there would have been no need for Min Chi to step in. So I suspect he has only limited troops at his disposal. I have long prepared an escape route out of the city. Take your most trusted followers and slip out of the city tonight to seek refuge with Qin. Tell them that the Wei army has laid siege to Yang City, that the city has too few men and too little provisions to hold out, and that you are willing to offer the city to Qin in exchange for the King of Qin’s asylum.” Song Huaijin lowered her gaze and spoke slowly, then drew a rolled scroll of sheepskin from her sleeve and handed it to the Marquis. “This is the route map.”
Fortunately, she had kept one last card hidden from Min Chi – otherwise, at this moment, she would have no one to turn to.
“You cannot take too many people – it will draw the attention of the Wei army. If you cannot bear to part with your beautiful concubines, then stay here and share life and death with them.” Song Huaijin fixed her eyes on him and spoke each word deliberately. She knew the Marquis of Duanyang all too well – he was suspicious, yet also kind-hearted. But in this world, kindness was simply a fatal weakness.
Yet it was precisely because of that weakness that she had survived to this day.
The Marquis pressed his lips tightly together, as if summoning great resolve, before finally agreeing, “Very well.”
Song Huaijin coughed for a while, then said in a slightly hoarse voice, “Go on, then.”
“Won’t you come with me?” the Marquis asked hesitantly.
Still suspecting her, even now. Song Huaijin let out a scornful laugh and said coldly, “When the birds are gone, the bow is cast aside; when the hare is dead, the hound is cooked. A wise person always prepares an escape route for themselves. If you’re unwilling to leave, no one is forcing you.”
Did Song Huaijin not wish to leave as well? But her time was already running out. She had been ill in prison for seven days now, and her vital energy was all but spent. They would be fleeing for their lives – there would be no comfortable carriage for her. A long, grueling journey over rough terrain would only end in her death anyway.
Rather than die in such a miserable, desperate flight, she preferred to face her end with greater composure and dignity.
Footsteps echoed through the hall. Song Huaijin thought the Marquis had left – but then a weight settled on her shoulders. He had draped his white wolf-fur cloak over her.
