The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

"I have always been proud of my Chinese scholarship, believing myself to be unmatched in the North. Only today do I realize that there are always those more talented than myself. Mr. Su's talent is beyond the reach of ordinary people; it is a gift of divine inspiration."

"Princess, I concede defeat. The three secret secrets and the one unique couplet with the same radical are the culmination of my life's work. Mr. Su calmly broke through the puzzle, and I am completely convinced. I have nothing to say in argument."

Su Shi quickly stepped forward and offered his hand to help him up: "Old sir, you mustn't do this! Please get up! Your couplet is a masterpiece for all time, especially the one about 'staying in a Hakka village.' I pondered for three whole breaths before I could come up with an idea. Three breaths! That's enough time for me to eat half a piece of osmanthus cake!"

Han Zhongming was amused by his teasing and laughed heartily, his white beard trembling uncontrollably: "Three breaths... that's a long time in Mr. Su's words. I've spent thirty years trying to come up with a matching line for 'Smoke locks the willow by the pond,' I'm truly ashamed."

A long-suppressed cheer erupted from the Song army ranks. Yang Huayu, standing in the back row, couldn't help but shout, "Brother Su, well done!" As soon as he finished speaking, Duan Gong gently nudged him with his elbow, but everyone could see that Duan Gong's lips were already curled up to his ears.

Standing below the high platform, Zhao Zongshi watched as Su Shi turned his head and grinned at him. He recalled the evaluation in the ancient book: Su Shi was a once-in-a-millennium genius. His talent was like an underground spring that could not be blocked. The more it was suppressed, the more turbulent it became.

Having witnessed it with my own eyes today, I know that what I said was true.

The first line of the couplet thrown by the Liao people was like huge rocks pressing down on flowing water, while Su Shi wrote the second line, which was like the rocks breaking open and clear springs gushing out.

He secretly rejoiced that in the imperial examination of the second year of the Jiayou era, he had defied public opinion and appointed Su Shi, the greatest writer of the millennium, as the second-place scholar. If the court had been rife with infighting at that time, crushing Su Shi's spirit, he would not have had the chance to witness this exhilarating exchange of pens today.

Yelü Jingrong stood in the center of the high platform, her expression still calm. Zhao Zongshi, however, noticed a subtle change—her fingers, which had been tightly gripping the railing, slowly loosened, as if she had been holding a heavy burden for a long time and was finally no longer in such a rigid position.

She raised her voice, her words piercing through the clamor:

"Song wins the second match!"

Cheers from the Song army echoed across the drill ground once more. In the Liao army camp, a few generals showed resentment, but most civil officials felt only relief. Having witnessed Su Shi's literary talent firsthand, they had only one thought in their minds: losing to such a figure was not humiliating.

Su Shi slowly walked down the high platform, and Zhao Zongshi asked in a low voice, "That couplet about 'staying at a Hakka' just now, did you come up with it on the spot, or had you seen it before?"

Su Shi was slightly taken aback, then honestly replied, "It was something I came up with on the spur of the moment."

He leaned close to Zhao Zongshi's ear and lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret anecdote: "But after I finished writing it, I felt that the four characters 'lost and gone far away' seemed familiar. When I put pen to paper, my mind hadn't yet sorted out my thoughts, but my hand had already finished writing."

Zhao Zongshi raised an eyebrow slightly. He suddenly recalled the note left by Master Huiming a month ago, in which the fragment read: "Lost on the wrong path, gone far away, return to the origin." At that time, it seemed mysterious, but now Su Shi had seamlessly incorporated it into a couplet without any trace of artifice.

Looking at Su Shi's oblivious expression, he sighed inwardly, thinking that this man's talent seemed to be blessed by the heavens, allowing him to express himself through his writing.

Yelü Jingrong stood in the center of the high platform, about to slowly survey the entire field and announce that the Song Dynasty had won two out of three battles, and the third competition was over. Suddenly, an unusual commotion arose on the east side of the training ground.

Within the Liao army ranks, Yelü Zongyuan had already mounted his horse, his face ashen, a long-suppressed roar rising in his throat. Behind him, thousands of Liao soldiers were filled with righteous indignation, their weapons clashing violently against their shields, the sounds as dense as a sudden downpour, echoing across the training ground: "Compete! Compete! Compete! The third match must be held!"

A Liao army centurion strode forward, his voice rough and calloused, like the grinding of sand. He knelt on one knee before the high platform: "Your Highness! The first two rounds were intellectual contests, and the Southern Dynasty scholars were truly outstanding; we are convinced. But archery and horsemanship are the skills upon which we, the sons and daughters of the grasslands, rely for our livelihood. If we were to hastily concede defeat without even drawing our bows, we would have no face to face our brothers who died on the battlefield when we return to the grasslands!"

Immediately following, a centurion shouted in response: "Even if we lose all three rounds, we must finish these three arrows! To be defeated on the training ground is not a disgrace; to bow down before even drawing the bowstring is the greatest shame for a man!"

Yelü Jingrong frowned slightly, her expression remaining calm, but her fingers gripping the railing tightened suddenly. She turned her head to look at Zhao Zongshi, her gaze not probing, but rather conveying a silent message: You saw it with your own eyes; this is the person you need to face. They could readily admit their inferiority in literary skills, but they would never willingly withdraw without a word, upholding the dignity of a warrior.

Zhao Zongshi stopped his horse at the north end of the drill ground, gazing at the Liao army's ranks, their faces flushed, their fists clenched, and their teeth clenched. After a moment's hesitation, he turned his horse and slowly rode towards the center of the drill ground.

Without dismounting, he remained seated on the saddle, bowing respectfully to Yelü Jingrong on the high platform. His voice, though not loud, pierced through the incessant clanging of armor, reaching everyone's ears clearly:

"Princess, I accept the challenge for the third match."

As soon as he finished speaking, the Liao army formation fell into a brief silence.

Zhao Zongshi continued slowly, his tone calm, as if he were merely discussing the snowy weather: "According to the previous agreement, since the Song side won the first two rounds, there was no need to continue the competition. However, I have heard that Khitan men grow up on horseback from a young age, learn to draw a bow at the age of three, shoot wild rabbits at the age of five, and go hunting in the mountains with their fathers and brothers at the age of ten. Archery and horsemanship are already ingrained in their blood and bones. If I were to let you all concede defeat without even firing a single arrow today, even if I were to win the entire region, Zhao Zongshi's victory would be dishonorable."

He paused slightly, his gaze sweeping over the crowd and settling steadily on Yelü Zongyuan. His voice suddenly rose slightly: "I will grant your request. This will be a single match, a duel in which you both excel at mounted archery, and I will personally engage you. If I lose, the results of the previous two battles will still stand, and the fourteen prefectures of Yanyun will be handed over as agreed. Only the Zhenyue Blade—I will return to claim it in three years. If I win, you will keep your promise, return the Zhenyue Blade, and uphold the alliance for three years. What do you all think?"

The Liao army camp was shaken. Not by anger, but by a surge of emotion intertwined with tragedy. The Southern Dynasty's crown prince, holding a sure-fire victory, had deliberately gambled, agreeing to postpone taking his sword for three years should he lose in a single battle. This act was tantamount to leaving the Liao people with a final shred of dignity.

Yelü Zongyuan spurred his horse forward from the front lines, reining it in ten paces from Zhao Zongshi. After a brief silence, he dismounted, pounding his chest with his right fist, producing a dull, metallic clang. His voice was hoarse, like the scraping of rusted metal: "Your Highness has granted me this opportunity, which I will remember forever. If Your Highness wins today, I will never again volunteer for battle. If Your Highness loses—"

"If I am defeated, I will return to collect the sword three years from now, as agreed," Zhao Zongshi interrupted bluntly. "But you should all understand that three years from now, I will only be stronger than I am today."

Yelü Zongyuan said no more, mounted his horse, and rode back to the starting line at the north end.

Silence returned to both sides of the drill ground. The north wind taut the banners, making them flutter loudly. Yelü Jingrong stood on the high platform, watching Zhao Zongshi turn his horse around and head back north. Her lips moved slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but she ultimately fell silent. Her hand, which had been gripping the railing tightly, slowly fell to her side, her fingertips slightly curled—a tension that even she herself was unaware of.

The vast training ground was deathly silent.

At the front of the Song army formation, Duan Gong crossed his arms and whispered to Yang Huayu beside him, "Watch closely, Your Highness will not lose this archery duel."

Yang Huayu gripped the reins tightly, his palms sweating, his voice trembling slightly: "Why are you so certain?"

Duan Gong didn't turn his head, a slow smile curving his lips: "Who is Your Highness? You are the esteemed disciple of the Martial Saint Ning Zhongze, the most valued person by Master Huiming, and the disciple of the Great Song Archery God Yang Jinhua—my good brother, Duan Gong! Your Highness's greatest strength has never been merely defeating your opponents. It is making the defeated willingly and honestly admit defeat. The Liao people are drawing their bows with a heart full of bloodlust. If Your Highness wants to win, you must win so that their bloodlust transforms into heartfelt respect."

Duan Gong raised his hand and pointed vaguely towards the two warhorses standing side by side at the north end, his tone as firm as a rock: "Look closely at His Highness's horse's head; it's half an inch behind Yelü Zongyuan's. This is a deliberate concession of half a body length. From the very beginning, His Highness intended to win without reproach."

Yang Huayu stared intently and saw that Zhao Zongshi's "Snow-Treading" steed was not level with Yelü Zongyuan's black horse, but slightly behind by half a head. In the midst of the swirling snow, such a subtle difference was easily overlooked, and only a veteran like Duan Gong, who had experienced countless bloody battles, would have noticed it.

The command whistle blew sharply for the third time!

Two warhorses galloped out at the same time!

This time, Yelü Zongyuan's speed far surpassed that of the previous two rounds. Drawing the arrow, nocking the string, and drawing the bow fully—the entire sequence of movements was executed in one fluid motion, almost without any discernible order. The first arrow, like a black lightning bolt tearing through the wind and snow, precisely pierced the bullseye of the first target. Its force surpassed that of the previous two arrows, the arrowhead deeply embedded an inch and a half into the target wood, the fletching trembling and humming incessantly.

A short, restrained shout rang out from the Liao army ranks. Everyone held their breath and waited for the three volleys of arrows to finish.

Zhao Zongshi followed closely behind, firing the first arrow. "Treading Snow" leaped into the air, leaning slightly forward. The moment the arrow left the bowstring, he sharply pressed his wrist, causing the arrow to trace an even steeper arc and firmly embed itself in the bullseye!

In an instant, Yelü Zongyuan fired his second arrow. His left foot slammed into the horse's belly, and the black horse abruptly changed direction amidst its gallop—this was a highly difficult "change-of-course shot" in grassland archery, requiring the rider to abruptly change course without slowing the horse's speed, while simultaneously maintaining a steady bow-drawing posture. His body shifted more than five feet, yet the arrow remained as straight as an ink line, striking the bullseye of the second target!

Everyone in the room gasped in shock.

Zhao Zongshi did not change the trajectory of his second arrow, but the instant it flew, he released his right hand from the bow. Taking advantage of the bowstring's rebound, his left hand quickly stabilized the bow arm, employing a technique of switching hands and firing in quick succession. The arrow pierced the cold wind and accurately struck the bullseye of the second target!

Each of them had only one arrow left in their quiver.