Section Twenty

The raging inferno blazed for an entire day and night, only gradually dying down when heavy snow began to fall. In the northern land at winter’s solstice, the blanket of white covered the strewn corpses, hiding the aftermath of a war that had dragged on for months, claiming countless lives on all sides. Who could say how many soldiers now lay buried far from home?

Braving the piercing cold, tens of thousands of Han and Mongol soldiers stood in full armor, arrayed on the eastern plains of Beining. Yet this gathering was no longer a battlefield for mortal struggle—it was a council of alliance.

Buryagma’s appearance took Lin Feng by surprise. He had imagined this cunning, scheming figure to have a sinister look, but upon meeting him, Lin Feng saw how wrong he had been. The Mongol prince was a towering, burly man, his voice booming, and laughter rough and unrestrained. With his thick beard, one might mistake him for a brute, though none would dare think so in such company. In truth, every time Lin Feng considered forming an alliance with this man, his hair stood on end—the still-warm corpses of the Eight Banner Army nearby were a stark reminder. It was said that politicians rarely kept faith, but few could turn against their allies so quickly and ruthlessly. Gazing at this seemingly guileless friend, Lin Feng could only marvel inwardly. Who would have thought? The Mongol people had once been famed for their forthrightness—how swiftly had these eagles of the steppe fallen!

“Your Highness, King of Han, your reputation has spread across the grasslands,” Buryagma greeted Lin Feng warmly, clapping him on the shoulder with the air of a senior kinsman. “Truly, youth is to be feared. When I was your age, I couldn’t even shoot a wolf!”

“You flatter me, Prince,” Lin Feng replied with some surprise. The man’s command of Chinese was impeccable. He had expected the usual Mongol metaphors—lambs, calves, or young eagles—but what he heard were practiced civilities. “You, Prince, are the lord of the steppes, commanding lands for a thousand miles and tens of thousands of armored riders. Your fame and might are known throughout the world. I have always admired you.”

“Heh, my tent was left to me by my ancestors, but your palace you built with your own hands. If we are to speak of heroes, I cannot compare to you!” Buryagma smiled kindly at Lin Feng, his gaze warm and gentle, like a benevolent elder. “This time, with only twenty thousand men, you marched a thousand miles and destroyed the Manchu forces completely—truly formidable!”

“Merely a matter of luck!” Lin Feng laughed. “If not for your help, Prince, who can say whose army would have been annihilated?”

“King of Han, you are too modest!” With the pleasantries over, Buryagma turned serious. “This time, Galdan the wolf brings his great army, coveting both our Khorchin lands and the Han realm. I wonder what strategy you might suggest?”

“Ah, warfare is not my strong suit, and the Mongol cavalry is invincible—no Han army can match you. So the best plan, of course, must come from your wisdom, Prince,” Lin Feng replied with caution now that the topic had turned serious. “You have dominated the steppe for decades—what challenge is Galdan to you? Truly, it is my honor to form an alliance with you. If you have any orders, speak them, and I will follow you unreservedly.”

Buryagma shook his head, offering a wry smile, “Youth is to be feared, indeed, youth is to be feared!” Seeing Lin Feng pretend not to hear this, he cleared his throat. “Your Highness, Galdan’s army is formidable, but Khorchin does not truly fear him. The Hulunbuir steppe has nothing if not brave warriors—if you are willing,” he leaned forward, pointing to the large map before them, “let us join forces, relying on the Great Wall, and resist the Dzungar army from Datong to Suiyuan. What do you think?”

“Easily said!” Lin Feng nodded. “Our Datong troops are not a problem, but Suiyuan and Chahar are under Prince Pucha’s command. I cannot make decisions for his lands.”

Buryagma’s expression darkened, but he quickly masked it with a forced laugh, “Your Highness must be jesting. Just last month, your General Zhao Guangyuan commanded the Chahar and killed my son-in-law—such intimacy between you! Can you not speak for them?”

“Ah, Prince, you wrong me!” Lin Feng feigned surprise. “An alliance is one thing, but decisions are another. Prince Pucha is a true descendant of the Golden Clan, a direct scion of the Great Genghis Khan. How could I make decisions for him?” He shot a sidelong glance at Buryagma’s now ashen face, then turned away with a chuckle, “Prince, you are truly humorous!”

“Then, what is to be done?”

“Actually, it’s not so difficult, nor is it so easy. In the end, it depends on your generosity, Prince,” Lin Feng sighed. “To be honest, Prince, you have been a bit unkind. Prince Pucha is your junior, and when Chahar suffered a setback, you were quick to take advantage. They are not pleased, and this knot is not easily untied.”

Buryagma’s face grew stiff, his smile cold and forced. “Then, according to you, Your Highness…”

“I am a straightforward man, and have always enjoyed resolving disputes for friends. So, this time, I shall be the mediator between your two sides,” Lin Feng beamed at the Khorchin generals. “Why not return some of Chahar’s pastures—Chengde and Jehol would do nicely. Be generous, Prince, yield a little to the juniors and let them recover. Then, would all not rejoice?”

Before Lin Feng could finish, Zhamuhe could not contain his anger. “Your Highness, what do you mean by return? Were Chengde and Jehol ever Chahar’s lands?”

Buryagma raised his hand to stop Zhamuhe, then turned to Lin Feng with a thin smile. “Prince Pucha has a great appetite! But is this truly Chahar’s will?”

“Ah! What do you mean by that, Prince? Do you think I am greedy?” Lin Feng immediately changed his tone, bristling with anger, “Biting the hand that feeds you, not knowing a good man’s heart! Fine, I won’t meddle! Damn you Mongols, fight amongst yourselves—what business is it of mine?”

The Khorchin party all blanched, the atmosphere turning tense. Buryagma suppressed his fury, his voice forced calm, “Please, Your Highness, do not be angry. Galdan is a threat to us all—we must work together sincerely.” He hesitated, then gritted his teeth and declared, “If Your Highness insists, I will cede Zhangjiakou to Chahar…”

Lin Feng burst out laughing, waving his hand. “Zhangjiakou lies at the foot of the Great Wall—when was it ever yours to give or take? To be frank, Chengde and Jehol border Beijing.” His face twitched, his expression fierce. “You will cede them, whether you wish to or not!”

Buryagma could restrain himself no longer. He slammed the table, eyes blazing at Lin Feng. “And if I refuse?” he thundered.

Unfazed by his fury, Lin Feng met his gaze coldly. For a moment, both Han and Mongol generals glared at each other, the air thick with tension.

After a long, heavy silence, Lin Feng suddenly smiled faintly. “If you agree to this concession, you shall not suffer any loss.”

To everyone’s surprise, he strode to the map, picked up a brush, and drew a bold line. “The Eight Banner Army is defeated. Manchuria is now jointly held by the Han and Khorchin. If you cede Chengde, I will not contest your claim to the lands beyond the pass.”

The Khorchin generals were astonished. Buryagma’s expression eased as he stepped closer to study the map. He saw Lin Feng’s line running from Chengde, passing through Karachin, Zhotusuo, Tongliao, Zhelimu, and Qiqihar, skirting Harbin and stretching up to the Sikhote-Alin Mountains, granting Jilin and Heilongjiang to his own control. His heart leapt, though he kept his brow furrowed. “The land is vast, but it is nothing but barren, uninhabited wilderness. Is this your compensation to Khorchin?”

Lin Feng dropped the brush, ignoring Buryagma’s protest. Instead, he gazed upward. “Prince, do you see? What a heavy snow this winter brings!”

Buryagma looked at him in confusion.

“In this bitter winter, who knows how many cattle and sheep will freeze, how many herdsmen will suffer from cold and hunger?” Lin Feng sighed, his face full of compassion. “I wish to forge good relations, Prince—let us trade grain and cloth for your cattle, furs… and horses. What do you say?”

Seeing Buryagma hesitate, Lin Feng pressed on, “If you agree, our Han nation and Eastern Mongolia shall trade every year. Would that not be a fine thing?”

Buryagma pondered for a long while, then spoke slowly, “There is no issue with cattle and furs, but as for the warhorses…”

Lin Feng suddenly laughed, cutting him off, and gestured toward the Han artillery. “If you are willing to trade horses, we shall give you muskets and cannon in exchange!” He fixed Buryagma with a steady look. “I hear Galdan also brought heavy artillery this time. Are you prepared?”

“Agreed! Warhorses for cannon, then!” As if struck by a blow, Buryagma’s hesitation vanished. “Khorchin and the Han are brother nations, bound to help each other! As you wish, Your Highness—we shall cede Chengde and trade, standing together against our common foe!”

With the alliance settled, the Han and Mongol armies swore an oath in blood before tens of thousands of soldiers—Lin Feng and Buryagma vowing eternal brotherhood and a united front against the Dzungar invasion.

The snow fell ever heavier; the cold deepened. Thanks to the timely truce with the Mongols, winter clothing and boots were distributed promptly. Even so, travel grew more arduous with each passing day. Yet these hardships did little to dampen the Han army’s spirits. Even the laborers were fired with excitement—stripped to the waist in the icy cold, they pushed carts through snow and ruts, shouting out their determination.

“Thirty years of fame, like dust and earth; eight thousand miles of road, beneath clouds and moon…” Watching the energetic army, even the usually icy Wang Shirong was stirred beyond restraint, reciting martial poems from horseback with uncharacteristic passion, drawing Lin Feng’s attention.

“Ji Yun, you have been acting strangely of late,” Lin Feng remarked, puzzled. “This isn’t like you.”

Wang Shirong shook his head, bowing respectfully. “Master, do you know what I was called in Jiangnan?”

“Weren’t you called ‘Little Zhang Liang’?” Lin Feng laughed. “A master of strategy, peerless in the realm—an excellent title!”

“My lord, you are mistaken. Zhang Liang’s greatness was not in strategy alone,” Wang Shirong’s pale face flushed with excitement. “Zhang Liang was a man of loyalty and righteousness—a scion of Han, faithful even after his country’s fall, undaunted by Qin Shihuang. He recruited assassins for a desperate blow, and though he failed to restore his nation, he never ceased resisting until the Qin perished. His virtue still inspires after a thousand years. I, unworthy as I am, have always aspired to emulate Zhang’s example, to drive out the Manchu invaders and reclaim our land!”

Lin Feng was taken aback. He had always seen Wang Shirong as a secretive, scheming man—who could have guessed at such passionate conviction beneath the surface? Lin Feng could only smile wryly. “No wonder, no wonder.”

Wang Shirong continued, “Not to boast, but with my talents, I could have served the Qing for rank and wealth. But a true man cannot serve the enemy. The Tatars have seized our beautiful rivers and mountains, slaughtered our people. Though I may not be strong in arms, I have always aspired to be a man among men. Thus, I would rather serve Wu Sangui—traitor though he is—just to drive out the Manchu foe and avenge our nation!”

“National vengeance?” Lin Feng was startled. “Ji Yun, do you truly serve the Ming?”

“No! This ‘national vengeance’ is not merely for the Ming,” Wang Shirong shook his head, gesturing at the snowy wilderness. “These lands belong to the people, not to the Zhu family alone. I hate the Qing not out of loyalty to a fallen Ming emperor, but out of duty to the Han people, to seek justice for countless wronged souls. Only by striving for all under heaven can I fulfill my youthful aspirations!”

His expression grew fervent. Suddenly, atop his horse, he bowed deeply to Lin Feng, his voice choking, “To march straight to the dragon’s lair and fulfill my lifelong wish—it is all thanks to you, my lord. To serve the greater good, I pledge my life in gratitude!”

Lin Feng was left speechless, his heart heavy. He almost wanted to ask whether Wang’s “all under heaven” included the Manchus, but the question died on his lips—the gulf between their beliefs was too great to bridge. He could only clear his throat and change the subject. “Marching straight to Shenyang is not so simple. It is the Manchu’s capital—let’s wait and see.”

The road meandered on; beyond the Pu River, it broadened and the army advanced swiftly. With the main Eight Banner forces annihilated, all outlying posts around Shenyang had been abandoned. The remnants were holed up in the city, bracing for the final defense. Under Ma Ying’s command, the cavalry fanned out, cutting off the western approaches and completely isolating the city.

When Lin Feng’s main force reached the fortress at Shaling, the defenders atop Shenyang’s walls were already on full alert. For centuries, this city had been the anchor of the region, and even before the Banners entered China, it was their capital. Long at war with the Ming, its defenses were formidable—deep moats fed by the Hun River, walls of solid blue stone rising several stories high, the battlements bristling with weapons and cannon, all trained on the besieging Han army.

Lin Feng frowned and turned to Sabusu, his tone polite. “General Sabusu, did you not say Shenyang was poorly defended?”

“Your Highness,” Sabusu bowed, his face contorted in pain, and lowered his head. “In Shenyang, there are fewer than a thousand bannermen. What you see are conscripted Han civilians—old men and children.”

Lin Feng nodded, unmoved by the enemy’s weakness. With such strong fortifications and determined defenders, an assault would mean heavy losses. Victory was in sight, but a costly one would be senseless. He hesitated.

“Your Highness…” Sabusu suddenly fell to his knees. “Forgive my boldness, but if we fail at Shenyang, what will you do?”

“What will I do? What do you mean?” Lin Feng looked at Sabusu in surprise, then laughed. “You jest, General. You’ve seen the journey—winter’s cold, exhausted troops, long supply lines. What do you think I’ll do?”

Sabusu’s teeth chattered. “Does Your Highness… do you intend…”

“Ha! General, you know the story of Yue Fei—do you not? You must know what it means to ‘strike straight for the dragon’s lair.’ The lesson is clear—Liaoyang is Shenyang’s example!”

Sabusu’s legs buckled and he collapsed, gasping for breath. After a long silence, he rasped, “If the capital surrenders, will you…”

“Oh, I am not a cruel man, nor do I seek a reputation for brutality. When we took the capital, we had our rules—only the chief offenders are punished; the innocent are spared, especially women and children.”

“In that case, I beg Your Highness—allow me to try to persuade General Dakema to surrender!”

Sabusu’s expression eased and he bowed in resignation.

War banners fluttered as tens of thousands of troops assembled outside Shenyang’s eastern gate. Snow fell thickly, soon cloaking their weapons and armor. The discipline was so strict that no one so much as moved; gun barrels gleamed, bayonets flashed coldly, and the massed soldiers’ breath rose in clouds above the snow.

A command rang out, passed from rank to rank to the artillery. Dozens of red-painted cannons fired in a thunderous volley. The explosion sent snow cascading from the city walls; defenders ducked behind the parapets. After a long silence, not a single shell fell within the city. The defenders exchanged bewildered looks.

Sabusu, alone on horseback, rode through the ranks under the gaze of the entire army, drawing near to Shenyang's mighty walls. As he looked up at the imposing city, his throat tightened and he could not speak. Overcome with grief, tears streamed down his face.

“Sabusu?!” a voice called from the battlements.

Sabusu gazed upward, his body trembling, face contorted with pain. “Dakema… it’s me, Sabusu!”

“Pah!” Dakema spat, the gob landing on Sabusu. Pointing in disdain, he sneered, “What coward is this? The Black Dragon General of Great Qing is dead. The Sabusu I knew was a Manchu hero, not a cringing dog!”

Sabusu, hoarse, replied, “Dakema… we are defeated… it is over…” His lips trembling, he mustered his courage. “Surrender…”

“Pah!” Dakema spat again, hitting Sabusu’s face. “I am a son of Manchuria! Would I betray my ancestors for riches?”

“Riches…” Sabusu murmured, a bitter smile on his lips as he left the filth untouched. Raising his voice, “Dakema, can you truly hold Shenyang?”

Dakema was stunned, then burst out laughing, “If I cannot hold it, should I surrender?”

Sabusu shook his head, his smile turning bleak. “Would you see Shenyang slaughtered like Liaoyang?” He pointed with a shaking finger at the old men and children on the walls. “Will you cut off Manchu blood, leaving no ancestors to worship?”

“Pah!” Dakema shouted, “Coward, you have no right to speak of our ancestors!”

Sabusu’s face flushed red, tears streaming from his fierce eyes. In a burst of passion, he drew his sword and struck down his own horse. The animal’s dying scream echoed as blood spattered Sabusu. Raising his bloodied blade, he pointed at Dakema. “You call yourself a hero, loyal to your emperor—fine! But why must all Manchus die with you?”

Dakema stared in shock, speechless.

Sabusu turned to the defenders on the wall, voice quivering. “When the ram dies, there is still the ewe; when the ewe dies, there are the old and young. But when the flock is gone, what remains?” He wept bitterly. “Dakema, look at the women and children—ask the ancestors if they wish to see the Manchu line extinguished!”

Dakema, shaken to his core, trembled and could not speak.

Sabusu drew himself up, facing the wall of soldiers. “Today, you shall see what it means to be a ‘coward’—and what it means to be a true Manchu hero!” Fixing his eyes on his comrades, he sang in a voice of mournful grandeur:

“Mother gave me milk, father taught me the bow;
Clear is the Harla River, homeland of the Jurchen;
Mighty eagles soar over Changbai Mountain…”

His song echoed across the silent plain, moving all to tears. Turning toward Lin Feng’s banner, he stroked his own hair, then seized it and, in a single motion, drew his sword and severed his own neck. Blood spouted high, staining the snow red. His body stood upright in the wind, refusing to fall.

Dakema, staring in horror, coughed violently and spat blood. Langing rushed to support him, but Dakema shook him off. “Sabusu is right. Open the gates!” he cried.

Langing fell to his knees, weeping uncontrollably.

Dakema smiled wanly, wiped the blood from his lips, and climbed atop the battlements. Drawing his sword across his throat, he threw himself into the moat.

Lin Feng, watching Sabusu’s corpse, felt his blood surge and his eyes fill with tears. He spurred his horse forward. “General, go in peace—Lin Feng will keep his word!”

The snow fell thickly, the wind biting. Sabusu’s headless body stood rigid in the cold, frozen in place.

Lin Feng drew a deep breath, pulled out his sword, and drove it into the earth. Looking around, he shouted, “All troops, sheath your blades!”

The body finally fell.