The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

Eight thousand infantrymen, twelve hundred cavalrymen, and hundreds of artillerymen—the entire army instantly lowered their guard, stood at attention, armor in place, and minds focused. The once deafeningly loud Imperial Street fell into utter silence in an instant; the wind ceased, human voices vanished, and under the vast autumn sky, only the awe-inspiring, steely aura of the thousands of armored soldiers remained.

Mu Guiying's clear and resonant voice pierced the entire venue, each word as firm as iron and shaking the hearts of all: "The brave warriors of the Great Song Dynasty—"

As the four words faded, she reined in her horse, turned sideways, and retreated to the flank, giving up the entire space.

In the next instant, eight thousand voices resonated in unison, singing loudly, their powerful sound waves breaking through the silence and resounding through the sky! There was no accompaniment of string and wind instruments, no drums or music to enhance the atmosphere, only the sincere shouts of the iron-blooded soldiers, deep, fierce, and burning, like a copper wall breaking through a wall and mountains and rivers surging!

"My hair stands on end in anger, I lean on the railing as the rain subsides. I raise my eyes, look up to the sky and roar, my heart filled with fierce passion."

As the first line fell, a thunderous roar shook Yelü Zongwang, causing his spine to stiffen abruptly and his mind to tremble violently. He could not understand the profound meaning of the lyrics from the Central Plains, but he could understand the immense power of the eight thousand soldiers resonating in unison, like ten thousand horses galloping across the grasslands and mountains and rivers resonating, possessing an earth-shattering and magnificent momentum.

"Thirty years of fame and glory are but dust and dirt, eight thousand miles of road are but clouds and moon. Do not idly let your youthful head turn white, only to be filled with empty sorrow."

The singing, layer upon layer, surged and reverberated, crashing against the stone walls of the imperial city, its echoes growing ever deeper. The eight thousand soldiers, their faces stern and their eyes burning, breathed in unison with the lyrics, their hearts resonating with the music, each word sung with power and conviction.

These lyrics, brought from another world by Wang Zhonghua (Zhao Zongshi), are filled with the pain of national tragedy and the ambition to protect the country. He deliberately altered the old lines, bringing forward this age-old regret to warn the present and proclaim it to the world:

"The shame of Yan and Yun remains unavenged. The hatred of the subjects, when will it end!"

The phrase "Shame of Chanyuan" was changed to "Shame of Yanyun" at the suggestion of Wang Zhonghua (Zhao Zongshi). This single alteration encapsulates the century-long humiliation suffered by the Central Plains and the hatred of lost territory in the north. Every word is burning with passion, every sentence is filled with tears, concealing the Song Dynasty's century of forbearance and its determination to launch a thunderous counterattack.

"Driving a long chariot, we will shatter the Helan Mountains. With lofty ambition, we will feast on the flesh of the barbarians when hungry, and laughingly drink their blood when thirsty."

As the song reached the line about breaking through the enemy lines, the thousand long-handled swords of the iron cavalry were raised once more, their blades piercing the autumn sun and shimmering silver against the sky, their sharpness pointing directly at the northern frontier and the western border. The surrendered officials of Western Xia turned pale, their hearts shattered. Helan Mountain was their natural barrier and last resort, the foundation of their nation. Now, the direction of the Song Dynasty's swords and the direction of its song clearly stated: the natural barrier can be broken, and the powerful enemy can be destroyed!

"Let us start anew, reclaim our lost lands, and return to the imperial palace!"

As the final note fell, all the boundless passion was condensed, and the roar abruptly subsided at its peak!

The ten-mile-long Imperial Street instantly plummeted from a frenzied uproar to utter silence, the world emptied, and the mountains and rivers fell still. A moment later, the eight thousand soldiers simultaneously ceased their stance, brought their legs together, and sheathed their blades. The crisp clinking of their armor formed a continuous, cold rain, clean, crisp, and perfectly synchronized.

When the music ended, all was silent, and the lingering melody filled the air.

Yelü Zongwang stood frozen for a long time, his mind reeling and speechless with shock. In his youth, he had followed the army south, standing at the Yanshan Pass overlooking the Central Plains, filled with arrogance, believing the Southern Dynasty to be weak and feeble for a century, its military lax and insignificant. But today, he stood on the Imperial Street of Bianjing, hearing firsthand these eight thousand armored soldiers sing their patriotic hymns, witnessing firsthand the iron formations, cannons, flashing swords, and discipline of the Song Dynasty.

He finally realized: the strength of the Song Dynasty lay not in its military might at any given moment, but in the spirit of the entire nation. This army was capable of commanding the battlefield with its formations, breaching cities with its firearms, its soldiers were courageous, and the whole nation was filled with lofty aspirations. It was a battle-hardened iron army with heart, hatred, ambition, and spirit.

On the high platform of the military review, Emperor Renzong's beaded curtain fluttered slightly, and a warm mist quietly rose in his eyes. He clearly heard the line "The shame of Yan and Yun has yet to be avenged," understood the Crown Prince's ambition for the country hidden in the lyrics, and saw the iron-willed spirit of the newly reborn Song Dynasty. He turned his head to gaze at Zhao Zongshi among the officials standing in formation. He saw the young Crown Prince standing quietly, his expression calm, his fingertips hanging from his sleeves gently tapping his palms in rhythm with the lyrics, steady and confident.

With the ruler and his ministers of one mind, and with both civil and military affairs flourishing, a prosperous era can be expected.

After a brief silence, thousands of people on both sides of the Imperial Street suddenly erupted in thunderous cheers!

"Long live the Great Song Dynasty!"

"Reclaim Yan and Yun! Reclaim our lost land!"

The fervent and sincere calls rose and fell, though not in unison, they came from the heart of the people and were more powerful and resounding than the chorus of the army. Some were moved to tears, some wept with joy, others embraced and laughed, raising their arms in triumph. A century of suppressed national regrets and generations of longing for the restoration of the country burst forth today.

Yelü Zongwang silently rose, slowly retreated from his seat, and stood alone beneath the gray bricks of the palace wall, his back to the magnificent and bloody scene, remaining silent for a long time.

The deputy envoy stepped forward discreetly and asked in a low voice, "Sir, when should the secret report to the capital be drafted?"

Yelü Zongwang, the Liao envoy and the world's leading smuggler, had already planned ahead. His deep voice carried an undisguised solemnity: "No rush. We'll write it down on the return journey. Today's magnificent scene and the might of the Song army must be etched into our hearts and remembered in every word."

He knew that from this day forward, the balance of power between the North and the South had been reversed, and the Liao Kingdom's century-long confidence in looking down on the Central Plains had completely vanished.

The autumn sun shone brightly over Bianjing, illuminating the departing iron-clad troops, the bustling crowds, and the solemn guests from all over the world. An invisible boundary between mountains and rivers was quietly reshaped today. The Song Dynasty was no longer a weak and complacent dynasty, but a prosperous and powerful nation, flourishing in both literature and military affairs, displaying its sharp edge, capable of recovering lost territories and governing the four seas.

Among the officials standing in formation, Zhao Zongshi quietly watched the last cavalry force withdraw from the imperial street, his eyes calm and serene, revealing the depths of the land.

From the direction of the distant drill ground, a black horse galloped towards them. Duan Gong, covered in sweat and dust, his armor stained with grime, could not hide the burning smile in his eyes. He rode up to Zhao Zongshi, dismounted, and his voice, tempered by blood and fire, boomed with confidence: "Your Highness, the grand review was a complete success! The entire army is in full force!"

Zhao Zongshi did not turn around. His gaze was fixed on the northern horizon, on the Yanyun homeland beyond the Yanshan clouds, a land that had been occupied for over sixty years. He spoke softly, his words carrying immense weight:

"This is not the peak, but merely the beginning."

Three days after the grand military parade concluded, the fervor that had gripped Bianjing (Kaifeng) gradually subsided, the city's euphoria receding as it returned to the ordinary sounds and sounds of everyday life.

One after another, the guests from all over the world departed from the capital. The envoys from Gaochang, Khotan, and Kucha completed the full set of rituals of formal submission, investiture, and trade treaty at the Ministry of Rites. Holding the imperial seal, tea bricks, and brocade bestowed by the Song Dynasty, they rode westward with deep reverence. From then on, the three kingdoms of the Western Regions officially acknowledged the Song Dynasty's calendar, and a glimmer of life quietly appeared in the gaps of the Silk Road that had been isolated for a century.

Of all the states, the Western Xia envoys left in the most haste and disarray. Having witnessed firsthand the Song Dynasty's ironclad defenses and cannons, and hearing of the surrender of the three Western Regions kingdoms, Western Xia...

The Goryeo envoy deliberately lingered for a day, secretly visiting Han Qi to inquire about the overall situation between the North and South. In reality, he was filled with anxiety and pleading for survival: "If the Song Dynasty were to launch a military campaign northward in the future, and Goryeo were caught in the middle, how should we position ourselves to ensure the safety of our nation?"

Han Qi sat upright in the main seat, his expression calm. With the simple phrase, "Each guards their own territory, and together we enjoy peace," he deftly deflected all probing questions. He made no promises, took no sides, and left no room for criticism, displaying the composure and shrewdness of a Song Dynasty prime minister. The Goryeo envoy gained nothing and could only depart in disappointment.

All the other kingdoms had left, but the Liao delegation remained stubbornly in Bianjing, refusing to move.

The inn in Bianjing East City remained closed for three days, isolating the inside from the outside, and the atmosphere was as heavy as iron.

The Liao envoy, Yelü Zongwang, remained secluded at his residence. The exquisite meals delivered daily by the postmaster were all removed untouched, except for the pots of tea, which were consumed rapidly, a testament to his prolonged insomnia and anxious state of mind. Inside and outside the post station, Liao guards maintained a constant watch, ostensibly to protect the envoy's safety, but in reality, to seal off the streets and isolate the entire compound, making it virtually impenetrable. Hunting falcons were constantly stationed under the eaves; any carrier pigeon that flew overhead would be chased down by falcons for three miles, eliminating any possibility of private communication.

This seemingly tranquil foreign inn has become the most strict and oppressive prison and spy field in Bianjing City.

On the fourth night, as the night deepened and the dew grew heavy, all was silent.

A simple, unadorned blue sedan chair was silently carried out from a hidden side door of the post station. The curtains were drawn tightly, blocking out all light, so no one could be seen or heard. The sedan chair bearers walked with extremely steady steps, weaving through streets and alleys, deliberately taking detours, passing through three secluded alleys and two stone arch bridges, avoiding the patrolling imperial guards and the nighttime pedestrians of the city, and finally quietly stopping in the shadows behind the back door of a secluded teahouse next to the Donghua Gate.

The person in the sedan chair bowed as he stepped out. Dressed in plain, simple clothes, he moved with a swift and steady gait, landing silently. He glanced around the quiet streets to make sure no one was watching before quickly ascending the stairs to a private room by the window on the second floor. He stood silently outside the wooden door for a moment, calming his breathing and suppressing his turbulent emotions, before gently pushing the door open and entering.

Inside the private room, the candlelight was soft and quiet, without a trace of noise.

Zhao Zongshi had been sitting quietly for half an hour. A pot of tea on the table had long since gone cold, and two empty white porcelain cups sat facing each other. He did not rise to greet the guest; his expression was calm and serene. He merely gestured for the seat opposite him, his voice flat and even: "Mr. Yelü, please sit."

Yelü Zongwang raised his hand and removed the felt hat covering his face, revealing a highly deceptive countenance. He lacked the haughty arrogance of a nobleman from the Liao Kingdom; instead, his complexion was darker from years of traveling north and south, weathered by wind and sand, and his brows and eyes were etched with fine lines from the trade routes of the marketplace. His eyes were most striking; normally they displayed the shrewdness and calculating nature of a merchant, but once the superficiality was removed, they revealed a deep, restrained, and suspicious nature born from a lifetime of wandering between two countries, struggling to survive in the cracks.

He sat down silently, without exchanging pleasantries or formalities. He poured himself a cup of cold tea, tilted his head back, and drank it all in one gulp. The cool tea calmed the restlessness and anxiety that had been building up in his heart for three days. Only then did he speak softly, his tone complex and difficult to express: "Your Highness has quite the grand procession. On the day of the grand review, I was in the second row of the Liao envoys. The moment the cannons roared, the teacup in my hand trembled three times."

"Is it a tremor in your hand, or is it deliberate?" Zhao Zongshi asked calmly, piercing through the layers of pretense with a single sentence.

Yelü Zongwang paused slightly, the shrewdness and cunning of a businessman vanished from his eyes, revealing his truest and most contradictory nature—half of it was a calculation for survival, and half of it was a gambler's desperate gamble.