The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

Veteran general Yang Wenguang returned to the ranks, his steps heavy yet unwavering, each step treading upon a new era, shattering old grudges and ushering in a new peace.

Xiao Chuyun withdrew her gaze and looked at Zhao Zongshi again. The coldness in her eyes had completely disappeared, replaced by a gentle and clear expression, full of approval and expectation.

"Eight moves to seek the Dao, each one aimed at the heart, each one to take the life. You survived by the skin of your teeth, and you caught them all."

She took out an ancient scroll of dark yellow sheepskin, impervious to wind and snow, illuminated by the lamplight. Chinese and Khitan scripts were displayed side by side, the characters neat and dignified, with the large Khitan characters "Eternal Peace Agreement" shining brightly at the top.

"This is a letter of state personally written by Yelü Hongji and stamped with the imperial seal of the Liao Dynasty." Xiao Chuyun handed over the parchment scroll steadily, each word solemn: "The time limit for the handover of the Sixteen Prefectures of Yanyun, the annual tribute system, the detailed rules for border trade, and the three-year alliance agreement for the Hu-Han integration experimental zone are all in accordance with what you and Jingrong discussed at Baigou Post Station, without a single change."

"His Majesty has another message for me to convey." Her clear eyes fell on Zhao Zongshi's face. "If the Crown Prince of the Southern Dynasty intends to destroy Liao and wage war, he will never allow a three-year buffer period or a coexistence agreement. I trust his conscience to some extent, and I believe that he does not seek victory or defeat, but only peace."

Zhao Zongshi took the heavy parchment scroll, carefully put it away, and kept it close to the Huiming manuscript in his arms. One scroll contained the promise of the Martial Saint and the covenant of a nation; the other scroll contained the great path of the sea and the enlightenment of the rest of his life. Accompanied by both literary and martial arts, and upholding the original aspiration, he kept it close to the warmest place on his heart.

He looked up and asked, "Three parts believe, but where is the remaining seven?"

A faint yet genuinely warm smile spread across Xiao Chuyun's lips, like ice melting and snow thawing, like the first breath of spring: "The remaining seven parts await the answer of time."

"With a three-year period, the pilot zone has achieved initial success, border trade has been smooth, Han and Qi cultures have been integrated, and people's lives have been peaceful and happy. The Liao Kingdom will then entrust the remaining seven parts of its trust and seven parts of its sincerity to you."

She turned her head to look at the figure in plain clothes in front of the Liao army formation, and said softly, "Three years later, at the old pavilion in Baigou. At that time, the north and south will be at peace, and the Han and Hu people will live together. I will be your witness at your wedding with Jingrong."

The wind and snow were silent, and the lights were gentle.

Yelü Jingrong stood in the cold wind, her fox fur hat still hanging low, obscuring her eyebrows and eyes, so no one could see her expression. Only her slender fingertips, hanging at her sides, suddenly curled slightly and trembled gently. This was her unique panic, tension, and excitement, a rare tenderness and emotion beneath her icy heart.

Zhao Zongshi looked at the figure in white on the north side, his heart clear and bright, without any ripples or hesitation, only unwavering determination.

Three years.

He answered loudly, his voice carrying across the wind and snow: "Three years from now, at the old pavilion in Baigou, I will personally come."

He raised three bloodstained fingers, his words resounding, promising a future of peace and prosperity for the land and the world.

"First, I bring with me the register of the Sixteen Prefectures of Yan and Yun, with land registration, household registration, and territorial ownership clearly stated in black and white, so that there will be no disputes or disturbances."

"Secondly, I have three years of records, including the number of intermarried households, bilingual schools, and trade markets. Every item is verifiable and consistent with the evidence."

"Third—" A gentle yet firm smile curved his lips, his eyes brimming with starlight and the warmth of spring, "I arrive with the spring breeze of humanity."

"Three years later, the ice and snow on the Baigou River will melt, and the mountains and rivers north and south will no longer have a cold winter. Don't believe it? Let's try it."

Xiao Chuyun gazed at his three bloodied fingers and sincere eyes, remaining silent for a long time. No words were needed, no oaths were required; she was completely convinced. She bent down and drew the Snow Returning Origin Blade, condensing twenty-three years of wind and snow, obsession, and expectation into a single blade, which she solemnly presented to Zhao Zongshi.

"This knife is yours."

"The person Ning Zhongze has waited for for twenty-three years has finally arrived. The peace that the North and South have longed for for a hundred years is finally within reach."

Zhao Zongshi accepted the Guiyuan Blade with both hands. The blade was icy to the touch, but deep within the hemp rope of the hilt, there was a warmth that had traversed twenty-three years. It was the burning heat of two generations upholding their original aspirations and living up to the expectations of the people, a warmth that had never cooled despite the wind and snow.

The flash of the sword reflected the fire, and the lamplight illuminated him. In a daze, he saw the phantom of a woman in plain clothes superimposed on the flash of the sword. Her eyes were gentle and her heart was as vast as the mountains and seas. Across the long span of twenty-three years, she gently nodded to him, with no regrets.

He held his sword at his side, bowed deeply, and thanked his predecessors for their perseverance, for the inheritance of the great principles, and for the years that had not let him down.

Suddenly, a night wind swept through the field, and the flames of the nine oil lamps all sank simultaneously, then shot up sharply, the light growing warmer and brighter, illuminating the entire snowy field and dispelling the pervasive chill.

Suddenly, the lights of the sky bathed her beautiful, aloof face. In her eyes, which had been frozen and unwavering for years, a thin layer of water shimmered, clear, moving, and full of expectation. She did not wipe away her tears, but quietly gazed at the young man standing tall in the arena, bathed in blood, his heart filled with concern for the world. She gazed at the Guiyuan Blade in his hand, which carried the obsessions of two generations, and at his figure, covered in blood yet still upright.

The fingertips that were just tense and clenched have now relaxed and become relaxed.

Xiao Chuyun turned around, her white robes billowing as she walked north through the snow, her steps light and steady, as if treading on thin ice without breaking it, as if she were unperturbed by the wind and snow. After walking twenty steps, she suddenly stopped, her back to the entire training ground, letting the night wind carry her clear voice, piercing through the wind and snow, and touching the hearts of everyone.

"Your Highness."

"Your hundred-times-forged steel sword, after the eighth strike against a clumsy blade, has developed three fine cracks on its back. Upon returning to camp, you must have it sharpened and repaired. If it is not repaired within three days, your future strikes will inevitably be off-target, and your mind will be disturbed."

With those words, she lingered, her figure gradually merging into the vast northern night, slowly swallowed by the wind and snow, leaving only a wisp of her white robe, like ink entering the long night, a gentle curtain falling.

The drill ground returned to silence.

Nine lamps burned steadily, their warm light spreading across the snow-covered field, melting away some of the harshness and softening the snow. The soldiers of the Song and Liao armies remained standing silently, no one giving the order to disperse. Thousands of eyes were fixed on the young man in the center of the field, a mixture of awe, emotion, and admiration spreading through them.

Zhao Zongshi hung the Guiyuan Blade and the Hundred-Forged Steel Blade side by side at his waist, old and new together, literary and martial arts intertwined, upholding his original aspirations. He raised his eyes to look at the Song army formation, and slowly raised his right hand, which was cracked and covered with scabs.

Eight thousand Song soldiers raised their heads in unison, their hearts trembling with awe and reverence.

He didn't utter a word, but simply raised his blood-stained hand and slowly and gently waved it towards the Liao army formation to the north.

This wave of the hand is a farewell as the snowstorm ends tonight, a steadfast commitment to the three-year agreement, a signal of reconciliation between North and South, and a declaration of the original aspiration of the Han and Hu peoples to be one family.

Within the Liao army ranks, a centurion was the first to raise his hand to his heart and bow in the ancient Khitan salute, his posture respectful yet neither servile nor arrogant. Immediately following him, the second, the third, and countless soldiers… the entire Liao army ranks, like wheat fields swaying in the wind, bowed in unison from north to south, bowing their heads in reverence for the Great Way, for their original aspirations, for peace, and for all living beings.

For a century, the Liao army had been locked in a standoff with the Southern Dynasty's crown prince. Tonight, they bowed their heads not for power or victory, but for the shared origins of humanity and the unity of the Han and non-Han peoples, and for their down-to-earth and sincere commitment to the cause.

Yelü Jingrong stood at the front of the battle, gazing at his blood-soaked, raised hand, open and gentle, at his weathered yet unwavering demeanor, and whispered softly. Her voice was so soft it drifted on the wind, yet it reached Zhao Zongshi's ears with perfect clarity.

See you in three years.

Zhao Zongshi slowly lowered his hand, turned around, and strode towards the heart of the Song army camp, where lights shone. Eight thousand soldiers automatically parted to make way for him, the sound of their armor clattering like the flow of water, solemn and dignified. He walked on through the snow, the snow melting beneath his feet with his body heat, leaving two lines of bloody footprints of varying depths, straight ahead, fearless of the wind and snow, undaunted by the road ahead.

Fine, white snowflakes drifted down again, falling gently and silently, softly covering the knife marks, pebbles, bloodstains, and footprints on the training ground. Heaven and earth sealed this night with the falling snow, sealing away the life-and-death trials of the Eightfold Path of Inquiry, sealing away the original aspirations of breaking the ice between North and South, sealing away the burning hope of coexistence between the Han and the Hu people.

In the distance, the lights of Youzhou city towers lit up one after another, their warm glow spreading across the cold night, like the earth opening its eyes and the stars falling to earth, gently illuminating the road ahead to the north and south.

Zhao Zongshi walked into the camp gate without looking back.

Only the Guiyuan Blade at his waist retains a faint warmth, a testament to his unwavering commitment. Twenty-three years of unyielding dedication transcends time, clinging to his palm, burning with passion, patiently awaiting the spring breeze of three years to warm the mountains and rivers of the north and south, dissolving a century of estrangement, ultimately uniting the Han and Hu people into one family, bringing peace and prosperity to the world.

On the third day of the third month of the eighth year of the Jiayou era, it was the Shangsi Festival.

The ginkgo tree in the backyard of the Eastern Palace in Bianjing has grown to over two zhang (approximately 6.6 meters) tall. New branches are sprouting, their tender green buds adorning the branches, like smoke and mist, enveloping the courtyard in the warm colors of spring. A new rattan rocking chair has been placed under the tree, covered with a fluffy and thick goose down cushion. It was sewn by Liu Xinyi herself, with dense and restrained stitches, hiding all the loose threads, so gentle that not a single burr could be found.

Zhao Zongshi leaned back in his rocking chair, a half-read memorial lying on his lap. The characters were neatly written, but they no longer caught his eye. His gaze drifted gently to the other end of the courtyard and landed on three children who were running and laughing.

Eight-year-old Anhe, with light and quick steps, ran ahead, bending down to catch the kitten curled up in the grass. Her eyes crinkled with a bright smile, lively and charming. Six-year-old Zhonghe followed closely behind, stumbling and falling after his sister. After a few steps, he would stagger and fall onto the grass, but without complaint or tears, he would get up, his palms covered in mud, and continue chasing, his childlike spirit resilient. Four-year-old Zhongzhen, the youngest, had short legs and couldn't keep up with his older siblings. He would squat under the ginkgo tree, whimpering softly, his little hands clutching a handful of tender grass leaves, stubbornly holding them high in the direction the kitten had gone, his appearance utterly endearing.

Yelü Jingrong sat gracefully on the railing of the corridor, dressed in a simple, elegant dress. Her fingertips held a half-finished embroidered sachet, the silk threads flowing gently, the stitches delicate and soft. Her gaze followed the children playing in the courtyard, a faint, warm smile playing on her lips, serene and peaceful. Having been in Bianjing for two years, she had long since shed the sharp edge of her nomadic childhood. She rarely spoke her native Khitan anymore, her Bianjing Mandarin tinged with a slight northern accent. Occasionally, when bickering with An He, she would utter a few words of Yan-Yun dialect, soft and charming, always eliciting a soft smile from Liu Xinyi beside her.

Liu Xinyi carried a plate of freshly steamed green rice dumplings and walked slowly towards them, the rising steam carrying a sweet, herbal fragrance. She was five months pregnant, her belly round and protruding, yet her steps were steady and composed, gentle and graceful. Yue Linshan followed closely behind, holding a cup of hot tea. Seven months pregnant, her pregnancy was stable, and her eyes and brows were filled with the soft warmth of expectant motherhood.