The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

There are still eighty steps between the starting line at the north end and the third target.

Yelü Zongyuan suddenly let out a low growl, a sound unlike a human voice, like the long howl of a caged beast breaking free of its cage. He straightened his body slightly, his legs tightly gripping the horse's belly, and as he drew out the last arrow, blood seeped from the gaping wound on his hand, slowly flowing down the arrow shaft and quickly congealing into dark red ice beads in the biting cold wind. He nocked the arrow, drew the bow, the iron bowstring stretched to its limit, the thick bow creaking as if its bones could no longer bear the weight.

Arrow fired!

The arrow failed to land on the third target.

It flew over the target, pierced straight through the flag beside it, and embedded itself deeply in the thick flagpole at the end of the training ground, nine feet above the ground, the fletching embedded three inches into the wooden post. Yelü Zongyuan reined in his horse and stopped just outside the finish line, turning back to gaze at the arrow, his face ashen, like snow falling everywhere.

He missed.

It wasn't a lack of skill. At the last moment, he was eager to increase the force, trying to use his strength to counteract the crosswind, but he overdid it, and the arrow was pushed off course by the gale, eventually hitting the flagpole.

The drill ground was deathly silent.

Zhao Zongshi's "Snow-Treading" continued its rapid advance, only thirty paces away from the third target. Everyone clearly saw him complete three movements in succession:

First, loosen the reins, letting them rest on either side of the horse's neck, and completely release your hands to control the horse.

Second, he drew the last arrow from the side of the saddle, gently flicked the fletching with his thumb, and turned it half a circle—the cold wind was coming from the left, and he adjusted the angle in advance to counteract the deviation caused by the wind direction.

Third, when drawing the bow, deliberately tilt the bow to the side by fifteen degrees, abandoning the safe horizontal shot and choosing to shoot at an angle.

The arrow leaves the bowstring.

The arrow initially flew about a foot above the target, and from a distance, it seemed destined to miss.

Some in the Liao army camp were already smiling, but those smiles froze on their faces the moment they appeared. The arrow rose to its highest point, then plummeted downwards under the pull of gravity, its tip tracing a mysterious arc as it pierced the bullseye at an almost vertical angle!

The entire venue fell silent; even the howling north wind seemed to pause briefly.

A vertical shot from top to bottom into the bullseye—this is an extremely rare "drop shot" technique in mounted archery. It requires precise calculation of the range, the arrow's descent speed, and the wind direction and speed; even the slightest difference will result in missing the target.

Zhao Zongshi's third arrow struck the bullseye perfectly, with just the right amount of force, its fletching upright like a marker planted vertically in the earth. It stood in stark contrast to Yelü Zongyuan's arrow, which was driven diagonally into the flagpole, creating a silent yet striking difference.

One person exerted all his brute strength, but ultimately missed the mark;

One person calculated the wind direction and hit the target with a single blow.

Zhao Zongshi reined in his horse, slowing it down until it stopped just before the finish line. He didn't look back at his target, but turned to Yelü Zongyuan, and through the vast snow and thousands of soldiers, spoke in a deep voice:

"In terms of strength to draw a bow, your arrow surpasses mine. But if we're simply comparing internal energy, I am no match for you."

Yelü Zongyuan stared blankly at the arrow on the flagpole, then at the arrow standing straight on the third target, a burning, sour feeling rising in his throat. There was no anger in his heart, only a complex mix of emptiness and relief after the victory was decided. He looked down at the scabs forming on his tiger's mouth, dismounted, raised his iron bow high, and knelt on one knee before Zhao Zongshi, his head bowed until it was level with the bow's back.

"Your Highness, Yelü Zongyuan was completely convinced by the third arrow. He was not only impressed by the archery skill, but also by Your Highness's demeanor."

The wind and snow swept away most of his voice, but the last few words were clear and resounded throughout the fields:

"Your Highness had two victories in hand and did not need to give us the opportunity to compete, yet you still granted it. You could have chosen the safer option of a straight shot to win, but instead you chose the most difficult dropping shot. Your Highness used the most difficult method to preserve our dignity in front of everyone."

Yelü Zongyuan swore that he would never again initiate a war between the Song and Liao dynasties.

He knelt on the ground, holding the iron bow high above his head. Blood beads slowly slid down the bowstring, dripping onto the white snow and blooming into a small dark red flower.

Thousands of eyes on both sides of the training ground silently watched as a Liao general knelt before the Southern Dynasty's crown prince. No one in the Liao army shouted or stopped him; only the soft rustling of weapons falling and shields being gently set down could be heard, like the pattering of snowflakes falling from branches after a strong wind.

Yelü Jingrong stood on the high platform, her back straight as a spear, her face still cold and calm. But Zhao Zongshi noticed that the moment Yelü Zongyuan knelt down, she slightly turned her face to avoid the north wind, as if she did not want others to see the fleeting glint of tears in her eyes.

Zhao Zongshi dismounted, walked to Yelü Zongyuan, bent down, stretched out his left hand, supported the back of the iron bow, slowly raised it, and gently placed it back into Yelü Zongyuan's hand.

"Put the bow away. From now on, you can use it to shoot wolves, hunt wild animals, and defend against foreign enemies. You no longer need to aim your arrows at the Song people."

Yelü Zongyuan raised his head, his face streaked with tears mixed with the wind and snow. After a moment of silence, he nodded heavily.

Zhao Zongshi mounted his horse again and rode slowly across the center of the training ground. As he passed the Song army formation on the east side, five thousand soldiers stopped in unison, the clanging of their armor resounding in perfect unison, like a steel mountain crashing down. He did not stop, but went straight to the foot of the platform, reined in his horse, and looked up at the figure in crimson silver armor on the platform, a figure with a cold and aloof demeanor.

Yelü Jingrong met his gaze, remained silent for two breaths, and then raised her voice to announce, her clear and melodious tone like shattering ice, piercing through the swirling snow and reaching the ears of every soldier in both the northern and southern armies:

"The Song army won all three matches!"

"According to the alliance—the Zhenyue Sword will be returned to the Song Dynasty in three days. The border areas to be mutually governed will be demarcated immediately. All Khitan tribes," she paused slightly, her tone gentle yet increasingly clear, "from this day forward, all Khitan tribes shall abide by this alliance with the Song Dynasty."

Five thousand soldiers in the Song army camp erupted in thunderous cheers. The trembling of armor, the clatter of swords and spears, and the sound of horses' hooves scraping the snow converged into a surging torrent, rushing out of the training ground, over the walls of Youzhou, and rolling south towards Bianjing and north towards the grasslands.

Zhao Zongshi halted his horse beneath the high platform, layers of snow cascading down his shoulders, making him appear as if clad in a pure white armor. He looked up at Yelü Jingrong on the platform, who also looked down at him. Their eyes met, separated by the ancient Chu-Han border, by a century of grudges, by the blood and bones of countless soldiers—but from this day forward, they would share a table where they could sit side by side and discuss the future.

A fierce wind swept through, and banners fluttered in the wind. The arrow marks left on the walls of Youzhou City over the years were slowly covered by the new snow, just like a heavy old history being gently turned over.

The 28th day of the twelfth lunar month was the day he was executed at the south gate of Youzhou.

The sky was clear and bright, the snow still piled high, and the north wind had quietly subsided. Along the ten-mile-long road outside the south gate of Youzhou, Song soldiers stood in formation, their iron armor gleaming coldly in the winter sun. Banners hung low in the stillness, and the eight thousand soldiers remained motionless, with only the occasional white breath from their warhorses condensing into a thin mist in the frigid air.

At a corner of the south gate tower, Yelü Jingrong stood leaning against the railing. Today, she was dressed in a plain white Khitan robe, her fox fur hat pulled low over her shoulders, obscuring most of her face, revealing only a sliver of her cool chin. Behind her, Han Zhongming and Yelü Zongyuan had both changed into plain everyday clothes, removed their armor and weapons, and stood silently.

Yelü Jingrong tilted her head slightly and asked Han Zhongming in a low voice, "Has she arrived?"

Han Zhongming's face tightened slightly, and he answered softly in a low voice, "They are already waiting at Sanlipo outside the city. She said—she wants to wait until the Song army is fully arrayed before proceeding, and doesn't want the Southern Dynasty to think that the Liao Kingdom is hastily sending a knife."

Yelü Jingrong nodded silently, asking no further questions. She knew that man's temperament well: he was never early or late, always appearing at the exact moment, like snowflakes falling at the right time, like a precious sword being drawn from its sheath when the opportunity arises.

At the exact hour of Mao (5-7 AM), the south gate of Youzhou slowly opened.

A figure slowly stepped out from the depths of the doorway, treading over the fine snow covering the city, and headed straight for the front lines of the two armies.

No carriages, no attendants, no entourage. A lone figure in a robe, traversing the old streets and alleys of Youzhou, his steps leisurely as if strolling in a garden, his slender frame showing no sign of frailty. His plain blue robe, its hem lightly brushed against the accumulated snow, without a single crease; a long sword hung at his waist, its scabbard entirely black, unadorned, yet exuding a weighty, imposing presence.

The scabbard is four feet two inches long, more than half a foot longer than a typical Song Dynasty sword, and only two fingers wide. The iron sheath at the end of the scabbard has been worn down to a dark brassy color, which is obviously due to years of handling and rubbing.

—The Zhenyue Blade.

Outside the south gate of Youzhou, eight thousand Song soldiers stood silently, without a sound of commotion. Yet all eyes were fixed on the jet-black scabbard, like a stone thrown into a stagnant pool, creating silent ripples.

Yang Wenguang stood at the forefront of the formation. The moment he saw the sword, his fingers tightened abruptly around the reins. His grandfather, Yang Ye, had been captured years ago, and this sword had become a war trophy of the Liao Kingdom. For sixty years, it had been passed around, and three generations of the Yang family had longed for it. Now, the precious sword was less than a hundred paces away, yet it was brought silently by a woman in plain clothes, as light as a falling leaf on water, as heavy as mountains and rivers returning to their rightful place.

"Who goes there?" Yang Wenguang reined in his horse and stepped forward, his voice deep and resonant.

The woman in plain clothes stopped a hundred paces in front of the battle lines, raising her eyes to glance at the enemy. Her gaze was as calm as autumn water, neither angry nor imposing, yet it sent a chill down the spine of this veteran general, making the hairs on his back stand on end.

She spoke, her voice neither too loud nor too soft, like a morning bell striking old wood, its lingering resonance long and deep:

"Xiao Chuyun, a Liao man, entrusted by his Khitan ancestors, sent this knife back to the Song Dynasty."

The entire audience fell silent.

The name Xiao Chuyun was revered like a deity in the Liao territory. Some said she was over seventy years old, yet looked like she was in her forties; some said her sword was never drawn twice, but once drawn, no one could stop it; others said she was not of mortal form, but possessed by the spirit of a Khitan ancestor—the legend spread throughout the Song camp, yet no one had ever seen her true face.

Standing before eight thousand Song soldiers, she wore an old robe, carried a black sword, and had a plain face, as ordinary as a woman from the northern mountains. Yet, that very plainness exuded an imposing aura.

Zhao Zongshi rode out from the ranks. Today he was dressed in black iron armor, with silver-gray fox fur over his shoulders, and no armor hanging from the side of his saddle. He rode slowly to within thirty paces of Xiao Chuyun, dismounted, and walked forward on foot.

Stand still after five steps, cup your hands in a respectful bow, and adopt a dignified posture:

"Mr. Xiao."

Xiao Chuyun's gaze lingered on his face, scrutinizing him for a moment before she suddenly nodded slightly, as if confirming a long-standing matter. She raised her hand to unsheathe the long, dark sword from her waist, offering it to him with both hands, her movements unhurried and deliberate, as if handing him a cup of hot tea or a letter from home—so ordinary it was almost casual.

"Prepare to take it. This knife has been in Liao for sixty or seventy years; it's time for it to go home."