The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

On the high throne, Emperor Renzong of Song, Zhao Zhen, sat beneath a bright yellow canopy, dressed in a full imperial crown. A twelve-tasseled white jade beaded curtain hung down, lightly veiling his face and concealing his emotions. Yet, the gaze peeking through the gaps in the curtain lacked its usual gentle warmth, instead revealing a sharp, long-suppressed glint. For over thirty years, the Song Dynasty had been known for its benevolent rule and pacification, its civil administration renowned throughout the land. People generally perceived the Song as weak and militarily powerless, its northern borders vulnerable to attack. Today, he would witness firsthand the iron-willed soldiers nurtured by his own land.

Beside the throne, Mu Guiying stood in gleaming silver armor, a long sword at her waist. Her battle armor, soaked with morning dew, shone with a chilling light. Years of reorganizing and training the army on the battlefield had honed this nascent Song army. At this moment, her mind was as calm as iron, and her aura was solemn and imposing, more like a commander-in-chief on the battlefield than a courtier.

"Your Majesty," Mu Guiying began in a low voice, her tone steady and calm, as if announcing an ordinary time, without the slightest ripple, "at the exact hour of Chen (7-9 AM), the grand ceremony is complete. Please, Your Majesty, ascend the platform to review the troops."

Emperor Renzong slowly rose, his dragon crown and jade belt swaying slightly, and the beaded curtain gently rocking. He first looked up at the heavy curtain at the southern end of the Imperial Street, and through the layers of obscuring, he seemed to be able to see thousands of armored soldiers lined up and ready to go. Then he turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the officials standing in formation, and landed on the tall, dark figure between Han Qi and Bao Zheng.

Zhao Zongshi, dressed in the crown prince's ceremonial robes, the fabric dark and embroidered with cloud patterns, stood tall and straight like a pine tree, his expression calm and serene. His gaze was fixed on the end of the imperial street, his eyes devoid of the clamor of the masses or the presence of guests from all nations, only the military systems meticulously planned through countless nights of deliberation, the formations rigorously honed through numerous rigorous training sessions, and the sharpness honed through countless rehearsals and meticulous schemes, all awaiting this day to be unveiled and displayed.

Emperor Renzong withdrew his gaze and steadily stepped onto the reviewing stand. With a wave of his hand, the flag bearer raised the crimson and gilded command flag, standing silently in the wind, awaiting the emperor's command.

The next instant, the loud and powerful bugle call of the founding of the army pierced through the morning mist, pierced through the clouds and shook the ten-mile-long Imperial Street.

On the viewing platform, Yelü Zongwang suddenly straightened his back, his relaxed posture completely disappearing, and his mind instantly tensed. His instincts, honed from years of experience in the northern frontier war, allowed him to instantly perceive the killing intent in the bugle call—it was by no means the empty ceremonial sound of the old-fashioned imperial guards, but the bugle call of an iron army that had been tempered in battle and bloodshed.

The heavy curtains were slowly drawn back, and the infantry formation of the new Song Dynasty army roared into the arena.

Seventy-two men formed a single column, perfectly aligned horizontally and vertically, straight and square, as if carved by a knife and chisel, measured with a ruler and a straight line, with no one ahead, no one behind, and no one crooked. Eight thousand elite infantrymen, clad in finely crafted iron armor, formed a somber, iron-gray mass in the rising morning light, advancing silently and steadily.

Eight thousand pairs of iron boots rose and fell simultaneously, their heavy footsteps overlapping and rolling forward, surging from the southern end of the Imperial Street, forming a truly tangible wave of deafening sound. The sound waves rolled over the stone slabs and swept across the viewing platform, causing the tables and teacups on the mats to tremble slightly, and a few drops of light brown tea to gently splash onto the cuffs of Yelü Zongwang's brocade official robe.

He glanced down at the damp tea stain, not raising his hand to wipe it, but his heart was already churning with turmoil. The Liao army, which roamed the grasslands, was most skilled at charging in formation, but he had never seen such an extremely orderly infantry formation—a thousand men as one, ten thousand men as one, their pace, breath, posture, and angle all perfectly synchronized.

As the formation marched to the front of the throne, the eight thousand soldiers suddenly turned their heads in unison, their gazes fixed on the emperor on the high platform. The angle of their necks turned was precise, their eyes resolute and unwavering, as if an invisible iron wire was pulling at the heart and mind of the entire army.

Unbeknownst to anyone, this seemingly simple head turn and salute was a core detail repeatedly corrected over 300 times during head coach Duan Gong's 87 days of intensive training. Having traversed mountains of corpses and seas of blood, he deeply understood the essence of battlefield formations: a military review is not merely about observing appearances, but also about military discipline; a formation is not just about looking at its shape, but also about unifying hearts and minds. Steps must be synchronized, gazes must be synchronized, spirits must be synchronized—even the rise and fall of breaths and the angle of the armor plates must be perfectly uniform.

At this moment, three hundred days and nights of rigorous training have finally resulted in the unified and awe-inspiring presence of eight thousand soldiers.

Emperor Renzong stood on the high platform, his eyelids behind the beaded curtain trembling slightly, his fingers gripping the railing tightening imperceptibly. In his thirty-three years as emperor, he had witnessed countless imperial guard drills and ceremonial formations, all loose and sluggish, mere formalities without substance, lacking any real edge. But this new army before him was as still as an abyss, as solid as iron, a thousand men united as one, a true military might honed through long training, ready for bloody battles and capable of withstanding powerful enemies.

A myriad of emotions welled up within him. Years ago, at the Treaty of Chanyuan, the Song Dynasty exchanged annual tribute for peace. At that time, he ascended the throne as a young man, and his only wish was for the Liao people not to invade, for the borders to be peaceful, and for the world to be at peace. But today, gazing at the majestic iron formation before him, a thought that had been suppressed for many years and never dared to be uttered arose in his heart: the Song Dynasty could not only defend, but also fight, win, and reclaim its lost territories.

As the infantry formation steadily retreated, the drumbeats on the city wall suddenly changed, from slow and deep to rapid, resounding, and thunderous.

A formation of 1,200 iron cavalrymen thundered into the Imperial Street!

Six riders in a row, one after the other, the iron horses clad in armor, the knights wielding blades, the entire cavalry formation surged forward like a flowing river of steel. Duan Gong's specially made bits on the warhorses strictly controlled the horses' speed, ensuring a uniform stride and regular spacing. The six riders were aligned horizontally, and the horse heads and tails were seamless vertically. The hooves of the 1,200 warhorses landed with resounding, synchronized steps, without the slightest deviation or unevenness.

Yelü Zongwang's pupils suddenly contracted, and his expression finally showed emotion. As the head of the Liao Kingdom's Privy Council and commander of the elite troops in the northern frontier, he knew the ultimate level of the grassland cavalry. The Liao Kingdom's Pishi Army was known as the best cavalry in the world, and they were invincible in their formations and raids. But even so, it was impossible for them to maintain such a constant, precise, and orderly formation while moving at high speed.

He instantly grasped the crux of the matter: such military discipline and tacit understanding were no mere showmanship. This Song cavalry could launch high-speed raids, change formations on the spot, form ranks to repel the enemy, and charge to break through enemy lines. Their formation remained intact and their fighting power inexhaustible. The Liao army's proud tactics of scattered cavalry raids and high-speed split-and-break tactics had become completely ineffective in the face of this iron army.

As the iron cavalry rode to the front of the throne, the twelve hundred knights suddenly raised their hands in unison and held their longswords horizontally!

A thousand cold blades flipped and were drawn from their sheaths in mid-air. The autumn morning light poured down, reflecting a dazzling silver glow that stretched across the entire Imperial Street, like a suddenly exploding sea of ​​sword light. A chilling killing intent swept over, silencing the entire area.

The expressions of the envoys from various countries in the audience changed drastically. The Goryeo envoy instinctively leaned back, his eyes filled with fear; the Jiaozhi envoy gripped the armrest tightly, his knuckles turning white; the envoys from the three Western Regions exchanged glances, their faces pale and their hearts trembling; only the Western Xia envoy, gazing at the flashing blades, lost his composure and felt a chill run down his spine. Western Xia had established its state relying on the natural defenses of the Helan Mountains and its elite cavalry, but now the Song Dynasty's iron cavalry was displaying its full might, already surpassing them.

Emperor Renzong gazed at the sea of ​​swords stretching across the sky, then turned his head and softly asked Mu Guiying beside him, "When did this army begin training?"

Mu Guiying replied in a deep voice, each word resounding: "Your Majesty, Duan Gong, as the chief instructor, commanded seven elite troops, conducting closed-camp training day and night for a full eighty-seven days without a single day of relaxation or slackness. He abolished the old dynasty's lax military discipline and implemented the new army's iron-fisted regulations, refining formations, tactics, and coordination day and night, which is why we have the army we see today."

Emperor Renzong nodded silently, his eyes filled with emotion. He recalled his early days as emperor, when everyone, both inside and outside the court, doubted his shrewdness and suspected that the Song Dynasty valued literature over military prowess, lacking a strong army. For thirty-three years, he had weathered storms and diligently governed the country, balancing the court and ensuring the well-being of the people, ultimately bringing peace and prosperity to the land and ensuring the people's safety. And the ironclad formation and gleaming swords before him today were the best answer to over thirty years of benevolent rule—only with a prosperous people could a strong army be supported; only with a clear and just court could elite soldiers be forged. All the deliberations made late into the night, all the toil at his desk, all the restrained concessions—at this moment, they transformed into a sturdy shield protecting the nation and a sharp edge safeguarding its destiny.

The cavalry formation slowly retreated, and the drumbeats on the city wall changed again, becoming slow, deep, solemn, and heavy, like a massive weight pressing down on the ground, each step heavy and awe-inspiring.

The new-style firearms battalion of the Great Song Dynasty makes its grand finale appearance!

Twenty brand-new cast iron cannons were slowly led into the arena by heavily pulled horses. The black barrels were straight and neat, and the cannon bodies were decorated with strict patterns. Under the autumn sun, they gleamed with a cold and deathly metallic light. They did not need to roar, but they already had a powerful and overwhelming aura that could suppress all directions.

Each cannon is staffed with six elite gunners, each with their own specific duties and clear division of labor: loading, calibration, aiming, firing, guarding, and replacement. Everyone is upright and walks in unison, marching and standing in neat formation. The angle of the cannon barrel is exactly the same, and even the sound of the wheels rolling over the cracks in the stone slabs is synchronized and perfectly uniform.

Dressed in full military attire, Yang Huayu rode his horse to the flank of the artillery unit, a small crimson flag fluttering in the wind, his gaze sharp as an eagle, overseeing the entire operation. His improved and iterated artillery had overcome the shortcomings of the old, cumbersome, and inaccurate designs. Its rate of fire, power, range, and stability far surpassed those of the old weapons, making it a crucial national weapon for the Song Dynasty to crush other nations.

The artillery advanced steadily, forming a precise array and standing at attention 120 paces in front of the throne.

Yang Huayu raised the flag, paused briefly in mid-air, poised to strike. The next instant, the red flag was swiftly and decisively brought down!

Twenty heavy cannons roared in unison!

This sound was unlike the heavy thud of iron boots or the clanging of galloping cavalry. It had no prelude, no build-up, but exploded suddenly from utter silence, like thunder piercing the sky and shaking the heavens. The violent sound waves swept across the entire venue, passing over the viewing platform, causing doors and windows to tremble violently, and even the air itself to vibrate violently.

The Liao deputy envoy beside Yelü Zongwang's jaw snapped shut from the shock, his heart pounding and his body swaying slightly. Yelü Zongwang himself tensed instantly, his blood surging, and his instinctive alertness, honed over years of battle, suddenly surged to its peak, though he forcibly suppressed it. Yet, his ten fingers inside his sleeves had already unconsciously clenched, and a chill ran through him.

The booming cannon fire echoed and reverberated through the stone walls of the imperial city, its lingering sound stretching northwards, seemingly about to cross the Yellow River, traverse the northern frontier, and climb over the Yanshan Mountains, reaching directly into the palace of the Liao capital, and into the ears of all the states that looked down on the Central Plains and disdained the Song Dynasty.

Smoke slowly rose, thin as smoke, enveloping the Imperial Street. The artillerymen, enduring the deafening roar, showed no sign of shrinking back, no panic, and no wavering. They all simultaneously took three steps back, standing tall and straight, eyes level, minds focused, as orderly and disciplined as precision instruments, their military discipline impeccable.

Yelü Zongwang lowered his eyes and picked up his teacup. The tea inside had long since gone cold, but he was oblivious to the chill on his lips and teeth. His heart was filled with boundless terror. He knew perfectly well that today's cannon fire, loaded only with empty powder and intended as a ceremonial salvo, already possessed such earth-shattering power. If it were loaded with live ammunition, deafening bombs, and armor-piercing powder, such a dense volley and precise strike would not have been enough to withstand three rounds of bombardment from the Liao Kingdom's proud border fortifications and northern defenses. They would crumble and vanish in an instant.

The army of the Song Dynasty was no longer the weak and feeble force it had been for a century.

Before the echoes of cannon fire had faded and the smoke of battle had dissipated, at the northern end of the Imperial Street, a crimson command flag was suddenly waved three times, crisp and decisive, as if the military order were as firm as a mountain.

Mu Guiying galloped out on her horse, her silver-armored steed and her heroic figure standing alone in the center of the iron formation and the viewing platform. Her long whip was raised high in the air, and her fierce aura instantly filled the entire scene.