The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

Before the sound of shattering doors had even subsided, the iron cavalry poured in like a flood bursting its banks. Zhe Kexing led the charge, his long spear sweeping across, impaling two Liao soldiers guarding the city wall. Mu Guiying's cavalry reserve followed closely behind, their hooves trampling over the broken doors, stray arrows, and lingering gunpowder, charging straight in along the main road into the city, heading straight for the central command tent in the north.

She was clad in silver armor and rode a white horse, her spear flashing in the morning light, causing Liao soldiers and horses to fall wherever she went. Liao civilians peeking through cracks in their doors saw a white figure, like a ghost, sweep across the streets, the snow kicked up by her horse's hooves slapping against the doors with a loud thud.

Xiao Guangzu was assembling his troops in front of his tent, fully armored, when he heard the sounds of battle approaching from the east gate. His expression changed drastically. He turned to look south—where cannon fire raged and battle cries were deafening. His main force was pinned down on the south city wall, while in the north, the Song cavalry had already broken through the last line of defenses.

The tide had turned against him, yet he refused to surrender. As he drew his sword and spurred his horse toward Mu Guiying, his hands trembled—not from fear, but from anger and resentment. The Xiao family had guarded Nanjing for generations; his grandfather had followed the late emperor on his southern campaign, and his father had died in battle at Chanzhou. Yet, in his generation, they were about to hand over Youzhou to another.

The two riders clashed at the crossroads, the clang of metal on metal short and piercing. Xiao Guangzuo's sword was knocked away by Mu Guiying's spear, his hand split open, blood dripping from the hilt. Before he could recover, Mu Guiying's spear thrusts continued, the second thrust knocking him off his horse. The spear tip pressed against his throat, her voice cold and clear: "King Xiao, will you surrender?"

Xiao Guangzu lay on the frozen ground, coughing up blood, staring at the gray sky, and laughed bitterly: "The sons of the Xiao family... would rather die than surrender!"

Mu Guiying said no more, and with a swift stroke of her spear, knocked him unconscious. She then ordered her personal guards to tie him up. Seeing their commander captured, the remaining Liao soldiers lost all will to fight. They threw down their weapons and knelt on the frozen street, their weapons clanging and clattering like a chaotic funeral bell.

Youzhou City has fallen.

The news of the recapture of Youzhou was sent south to Bianjing by express courier, covering an distance of 800 li (approximately 400 kilometers). Officials and civilians along the way spread the news. From Zhuozhou to Daming Prefecture, the post station officials changed horses but not riders, covering 700 li (approximately 350 kilometers) in a day and night. On the official road trodden by the messengers, the hoofprints on the thin ice formed a long, discontinuous line, the end of which led to the majestic Xuande Gate of Bianjing.

On the day the news reached Bianjing, Emperor Renzong was discussing the new tea tax policy with Han Qi in the Chuigong Hall. Small dragon-shaped tea cakes were simmering over charcoal fires, their aroma filling the air. Liang Huaiji entered the palace and delivered the urgent report. Emperor Renzong's fingers trembled slightly as he read it. After a moment, he put down the paper, remained silent for a brief pause, and then softly said, "Good. Very good."

He spoke so softly that he was afraid of disturbing something. When he picked up the teacup, his hand trembled so much that tea spilled onto his dragon robe, but he was completely unaware.

Han Qi bowed silently to the side, tears welling in his aged eyes, which he could no longer hold back. He lowered his head and let the tears drip onto the hem of his court robes, leaving dark stains. He recalled thirty years ago, when he was still a young collator in the Imperial Academy, listening to Emperor Zhenzong recount the old stories of Yan and Yun, and the humiliating loss of the Sixteen Prefectures ceded by Shi Jingtang. At that time, he thought he would never see his homeland return in his lifetime.

He is now 64 years old.

On the same day, in the backyard of the Eastern Palace, Liu Xinyi sat under a ginkgo tree sewing winter clothes for her child. Her pregnancy was progressing, making it difficult for her to stand for long. Ginkgo leaves covered the ground, rustling underfoot. Yue Linshan brought An He for a visit. The two women chatted idly through the yellow leaves. An He squatted on the ground, poking at a frozen ladybug with a twig.

Suddenly, deafening cheers erupted from the front courtyard, and moments later, palace maids rushed in, panting and their faces red from the cold: "Ladies! Youzhou City has been recaptured! Commander Yang, Commander Zhe, and Commander Mu have decisively defeated the Liao army!"

Yue Linshan paused, her teacup hovering in mid-air. She lowered her head and gently stroked An He's hair, her fingertips trembling slightly, and said softly, "An He, your father has won a battle. From now on, when we go to the north, that will also be part of our Great Song territory."

Anhe blinked, not understanding what "boundary" meant. Seeing her mother smile, she clapped her hands and patted the ginkgo tree trunk, shaking down a few withered leaves: "Daddy is so amazing! Daddy chased away the bad guys!"

Liu Xinyi lowered her head and continued sewing, her stitches fine and dense, each needle piercing the thick cotton cloth. A faint moisture welled up in her eyes, and tears fell beside the stitches, leaving a small damp patch. She didn't wipe them away, but sewed even slower—this winter garment was for her unborn child. By the time the child was born, there should be no more war in the north.

Inside the imperial palace of Dading Prefecture, the central capital of the Liao Dynasty.

Yelü Hongji stood before the throne, clutching the urgent report of Xiao Guangzuo's capture and the fall of Youzhou. He read it three times, his face turning from red to white, then from white to green. He crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it on the ground. The ball bounced down the steps, then he bent down, picked it up, and unfolded it to reread it, as if trying to discern a different meaning from the four words "the fall of Youzhou."

The Privy Councilor and other high-ranking officials of the Northern and Southern Courts below the steps remained silent, as if trembling with fear. The charcoal braziers in the hall burned brightly, yet no one felt warm.

After a long while, Yelü Hongji raised his eyes, his gaze sweeping over everyone before landing on the figure standing respectfully with his hands at his sides in the corner: "Yelü Zongwang."

His voice was hoarse and weary, as if he had aged ten years overnight: "You've traded with the Southern Dynasty for many years, and you know the Southern Dynasty's crown prince best. Tell me—what does he want?"

Yelü Zongwang stepped forward and bowed, his face calm, but his fingers clenched so tightly in his sleeves that his knuckles turned white. He had been waiting for this question for two whole months. For two months, he had stayed up every night in his residence in Zhongjing, his study lamp burning until dawn, his desk piled high with secret reports from the Southern Dynasty. He had calculated that Zhao Zongshi would not stop at Zhuozhou, that Xiao Guangzuo would not be able to hold Youzhou, and that Yelü Hongji would definitely summon him for questioning after the fall of Youzhou.

But when the moment actually arrived, my heart was still pounding like a drum.

"Your Majesty," he said calmly and precisely, "I believe that the Southern Dynasty's Crown Prince does not seek to destroy Liao. If he wanted to destroy Liao, he would not have held peace talks at Baigou Post Station, nor would he have remained inactive after conquering Youzhou. What he desires is the ownership of the Sixteen Prefectures of Yan and Yun, and a century of peace on the northern and southern borders. I have observed that this man is always pragmatic and does not seek empty fame. If he can exchange 'land for peace,' he may well be willing to give up."

Yelü Hongji remained silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on the cracked wood of the imperial desk, as if looking at an unhealable wound. Finally, he wearily waved his hand and said to the eunuch, "Pass on my imperial decree to summon Princess Yong'an to the palace."

Yelü Jingrong had been waiting in the side hall for two hours. Upon being summoned, she entered the hall with steady steps and a calm expression, as if she had expected this day. She knelt before the emperor, looked directly at Yelü Hongji, and before her father could speak, she said softly, "Father, your daughter is willing to go to Baigou Post Station again."

Yelü Hongji gazed at his daughter—dressed in plain Hu clothing, without gold or jade, her face as serene as the morning light of the northern frontier, yet her eyes held a resolute understanding that saw through everything. It wasn't recklessness, but a calm that came from weighing all the consequences.

"This time," Yelü Jingrong's voice was soft yet clear, echoing in the empty hall, "it's not about seeking peace for the moment, but about striving for lasting peace between the Song and Liao dynasties."

Baigou Post Station, temporary negotiation hall.

Outside the hall, the snow fell thicker and thicker, and the ice surface of the Baigou River was covered with snow like a white silk. The world was vast and boundless, and it was impossible to tell which way was north or south.

Yelü Jingrong put down her teacup, her fingertips lightly tracing the rim of the rough porcelain bowl, as if weighing a weighty promise. The cold wind swirled snowflakes into the old pavilion, lifting the fur trim of her fox fur coat, and the snowflakes fell softly onto the table, just like chess pieces being placed on a board.

"Your Highness desires the Sixteen Prefectures of Yan and Yun, and I can grant it." She raised her eyes, her gaze clear and cold as ice water, enunciating each word distinctly, "But my father has a command that I must deliver—"

She leaned forward slightly, her voice suddenly becoming deep and resonant:

"The Sixteen Prefectures of Yan and Yun can be handed over, annual tribute can be paid, and border markets can be opened. But the Liao Kingdom cannot perish. If you promise not to destroy Liao, not to abolish the Khitan ancestral temples, and not to relocate my people to the Song Dynasty, then we will sign the surrender document today. If your intention is to annex all of Liao and bring all the Khitan people under the rule of the Song Dynasty—" She straightened up, a sharp glint in her eyes, "Even if Youzhou is lost, Zhongjing is breached, and Shangjing falls, the Liao Dynasty still has the remnants of the Northern Desert Pishi Army, fighting and retreating, and can fight to the death for ten years!"

Zhao Zongshi did not respond immediately. He turned his gaze to the old boundary marker outside the pavilion, half-buried in the snow. The four characters "North-South Connectivity" on the bluestone were mostly covered by snow, with only the corner of the character "Connectivity" remaining jagged. The last sentence of Yelü Zongwang's secret report from last night suddenly came to mind: "If Your Highness insists on destroying Liao, the Liao people will surely fight to the death, and the thousand-mile grassland of the northern frontier will not be peaceful for twenty years. What Your Highness seeks is a prosperous era, not ruins."

He slowly withdrew his gaze, returning it to Yelü Jingrong's face, a faint yet resolute smile playing on his lips:

"Princess, you are mistaken."

The voice was not loud, but every word was clear, penetrating the wind and snow to reach the ears.

"I don't want you to 'return to Song,' I want you to 'be with Song.'"

Yelü Jingrong was slightly taken aback. Snowflakes melted from her eyelashes and slid down her cheeks, but she forgot to wipe them away.

Zhao Zongshi rose, stood with his hands behind his back at the pavilion entrance, his back against the swirling snow, facing Yelü Jingrong, his figure as immovable as iron. When he spoke, his tone was as calm as millennia-old ice, beneath the snow, an unshakeable foundation already formed:

"What I want is not for the Liao Dynasty to become part of the Song Dynasty, nor for the Khitans to become its servants. What we would gain in return would be nothing more than a second Western Xia—ostensibly submitting, but secretly harboring resentment, rebelling again twenty years later, reigniting the war, and adding another hundred thousand bones to the pile. I do not want that kind of victory."

"I want the land of the Sixteen Prefectures of Yan and Yun to be a place where Han people, Khitans, Shiwei, Dangxiang, Jurchens... farm, herd, trade, and live together. Your people need not change their surnames, their clothes, or their language—but their children can attend the same schools, read the same books, take the same imperial examinations, and become officials of the same rank as Han children. A hundred years from now, there will be no more distinction between 'North and South,' only the word 'All Under Heaven.'"

"This is the 'Great Integration of China,' this is 'Opening a Peace for All Generations.'"

Yelü Jingrong's eyes trembled violently, as if a sharp light had pierced her defenses.

She grew up in the Liao palace, hearing from childhood the stories of the "weakness of the Southern Dynasty and the cunning of the Han people"; during her mission to the Song Dynasty, she witnessed firsthand the prosperity of Bianjing, the happiness of its people, and the implementation of new policies; and now, in the hall of Baigou Post Station, the words of the Southern Dynasty's crown prince opposite her held no conqueror's arrogance, no benevolent pity, but only a light she had never seen in the eyes of the Liao nobles—

It's not ambition, it's conviction.

"You mean...integration?" Her voice was slightly hoarse, like snow frozen in her throat. "Would the Han people be willing to stand on equal footing with the Khitan? Would the Southern Dynasty's scholar-officials allow Khitan sons to take the imperial examinations and become officials? Would your father have?"

"Whether you're willing or not, it's not something others can bestow upon you." Zhao Zongshi turned and sat down, drawing a line on the snow-covered table with his fingertip. "It's up to you and me to make it happen. I'll first designate the Sixteen Prefectures of Yan and Yun as a pilot area and implement new policies: tax reductions for those who marry into Khitan families, exemption from tuition fees for Khitan students studying in Song, and priority given to those fluent in both Chinese and Khitan for official positions. Within three years, I want to see Han people bringing Khitan stewards into the city to do business, and Khitan people bringing Han employees back to the grasslands to herd sheep—I want this scene to be vividly presented before my eyes."

He raised his eyes and looked directly at Yelü Jingrong, his gaze as open and honest as a clear sky:

"If successful in three years, the entire country will implement it; if not—"

"What if it doesn't work out?" Yelü Jingrong pressed.

Zhao Zongshi smiled slightly: "If it doesn't work out, it's my fault, and I admit it. If the Liao Kingdom wants to go back on its word, I will personally return the Sixteen Prefectures—but by then, you probably won't want them anymore."

Yelü Jingrong stared at him blankly for a long time, then suddenly lowered her head, picked up the half-cooled tea, and drank it all in one gulp. The cold tea seeped into her throat, making her eyes slightly hot, unable to tell whether it was from the cold or the shock.

Outside the hall, the wind and snow intensified, the old pavilion's walls were drafty, and the flames in the charcoal stove were suppressed by the wind, yet they never went out.