The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

Spring breeze crosses the river, life is worthwhile.

—Author's Note on the Completion of "The Great Song Dynasty: The Soul-Forging Process"

Text by: Azure Sky

It's early autumn outside the window. A gentle evening breeze blows, the sunlight is soft, and the ginkgo leaves along the roadside are gradually shedding their green, slowly turning a warm golden yellow, layer upon layer adorning the branches, like the gentle undertones that time has slowly settled. I sit quietly in front of the computer, my fingertips lightly touching the keyboard. The clean document interface on the screen marks the completion of the 1.2 million-word story, bringing it to a close.

In a daze, the autumn fireworks before my eyes faded away, and what unfolded in my mind was still that cold and magnificent winter—the desolate training ground north of Youzhou City, the nine oil lamps that burned eternally in the four corners, the snow falling all over the mountains and rivers, and the group of people who set an example and kept their promises in the wind and snow.

Although it was a story written over six months with meticulous care, it felt like a long journey I had personally embarked on, vivid and real, as if that snowy night of seeking answers, that reconciliation between North and South, and that journey across mountains and rivers that spanned the years had happened just yesterday.

"The Great Song Dynasty: The Soul-Forging Process" is a 1.2 million-word novel that took more than three years to complete. It was signed and released on Qidian eight months ago, and it is now officially finished.

As I finish this chapter, there is no fervent passion in my heart, only the calm, gentleness, and relief that comes after a long journey. It's like walking a long, tumultuous road, witnessing snowstorms and vast landscapes, and finally pausing to look back, my heart filled with gratitude and deep emotion.

Looking back, I'm ashamed to admit that when I first started writing, I never imagined I could actually finish this 1.2 million-word piece. The initial idea came from a sleepless night when I was browsing through the History of the Song Dynasty and stumbled upon the unprecedented Dragon and Tiger List of the second year of the Jiayou era.

That examination was a once-in-a-millennium spectacle of Chinese literary heritage. Su Shi, Su Zhe, Wang Anshi, Zeng Gong, Zhang Zai, Cheng Hao, Cheng Yi… countless renowned scholars and Confucian masters, whose names are etched in history and have influenced generations for millennia, all gathered in the same year's imperial examination hall. Each possessed their own integrity, ideals, and principles, shining brightly in the pages of history, each pursuing their own path, yet never truly intersecting or standing shoulder to shoulder.

At that moment, an indescribable surge of emotion and regret welled up in my heart. Such a group of people, with hearts full of love for their country, eyes shining with light, and minds filled with a sense of national pride, should have met, known each other, discussed and debated, and walked side by side. However, they were separated by the chronology of history and the long river of time, and could only persevere alone, travel alone, and shoulder the storms of the times in their own years.

I suddenly had a stubborn thought: if there were a pen that could break the shackles of time and space, allowing these once-in-a-millennium stars to gather together, letting their ideals collide, their character blend, and their paths cross, so that they would no longer walk alone, but instead embark on a journey of national reform and jointly safeguard a peaceful world, what a moving scene that would be.

Thus, Wang Zhonghua was created based on the story of "Wang Hua Buys a Father" in the play "The Legend of Huilong" by Wu Zongjian, a master of Yudong Zhuizi (a type of storytelling performance).

I created this character not to create an invincible, all-conquering protagonist for online novels. He was originally an ordinary boy from the streets, with the egalitarian perspective and inclusive mindset of a modern writer, with our God's-eye view looking back over a thousand years, and with a compassion and sincerity that transcends time and space, falling into the Jiayou era of the Northern Song Dynasty, a time of brilliant stars but also deeply entrenched problems.

He didn't possess an invincible cheat code to defy fate, nor did he have a stroke of extraordinary luck to rise to the top. All he had was an unyielding heart, a compassionate heart for all living beings, and a yearning for a world of great harmony. He stepped into that turbulent era, not as a lofty savior, but as a hands-on practitioner. He traversed the mountains and rivers of the north and south, traveled between Han and non-Han peoples, and navigated the complexities of the court and the underworld, personally working to bridge the gaps, resolve grievances, and put his ideals into practice. Little by little, he tried to transform the eight characters "Han and non-Han are one family, and the world is one" from an abstract vision into a tangible reality, like simmering a hot and sour soup.

As I wrote, I gradually came to a complete understanding that the protagonist of this story was never just Wang Zhonghua.

In the 1.2 million words, every vivid, three-dimensional, flesh-and-blood character is an indispensable part of the book's soul. They are small pieces of the spirit of the land and the warmth of humanity that I have painstakingly "forged" myself amidst the chaos of a turbulent world and the heavy pressure of history.

It was Emperor Renzong of Song. It was the ever-burning lamp in his Chuigong Hall, the underlying character of a monarch who ruled with benevolence and chastity throughout his life, and the gentle yet heavy sigh he uttered after experiencing the storms of the court and seeing through the chaos of the world: "Only when the people's hearts are at peace can the country be stable." He may not have had the glorious military achievements of conquering new territories or the decisive imperial spirit of killing, but with a lifetime of benevolence, he nurtured a prosperous cultural heritage, protected countless people, and safeguarded the most gentle and resilient foundation of the Song Dynasty.

He was Master Huiming, a figure both Buddhist and demonic. His journey across the vast ocean, a lifetime of seeking the Dao, was a profound understanding and release born from navigating countless trials and tribulations and seeing through illusions. He traversed the boundless seas and searched for sacred mountains, ultimately comprehending the ultimate Dao—immortality is not about physical immortality or eternal existence, but about dying without perishing, the Dao enduring through the ages, and a heart warming humanity. What he left Wang Zhonghua was not a secret manual, but a profound state of mind—a return to one's roots, a grounded approach, and a commitment to the present moment—along with a life-saving sustenance.

It is Di Qing. It is his unwavering loyalty, forged through half a lifetime of military service and weathered by time, and the old copper coin at his waist, worn smooth and shiny by the repeated caresses of time and the palms of his hands. He came from humble beginnings, faced numerous hardships, fought on the battlefield for half his life, protected the land, witnessed mountains of corpses and seas of blood, and endured the infighting of the court, yet he never wavered in his original aspirations, upholding the greater good of his country, accepting the realities of human life, and enduring the poverty of the years.

It was Su Shi. It was his youthful fame and spirited magnanimity, his composure and gentleness amidst chaos. Even with a broken country, a north-south divide, and turbulent times, he could still stand before the Liao army, pick up his pen, and write with unhurried ease, penning the insightful and open-minded lines, "Lost on the long road, now I return to nearness, carefree and at ease." His life was filled with hardship and displacement, yet he always faced the sun, forever gentle, forever loving humanity, and forever believing that spring would come.

It is Xiao Chuyun. It is her unwavering commitment through half a lifetime of hardship and unyielding spirit, the iron-willed past hidden behind the scar on her forehead, and her magnanimous spirit of seeking the Dao through eight moves and nurturing people with the Dao. She upheld Ning Zhongze's last wish, waiting for a full twenty-three years, enduring until her black hair turned white and her face was covered in frost, finally letting go of the century-old obsession with the North-South divide, personally handing over the Zhenyue Blade, and bringing about reconciliation between the land and the people. Her blade cut through the chaos of war, ultimately bringing peace to the world; her heart endured half a lifetime of coldness, finally waiting for the spring breeze to warm it again.

It was Yelü Jingrong. It was her forbearance, harboring righteousness while in the enemy camp; it was her gentle, aloof demeanor in simple fox fur; it was the soft words, "Respect for the new mountains and rivers," uttered as she raised her teacup in the old pavilion of Baigou. Bearing the heavy responsibility of her family and country, and caught in the predicament of the North-South divide, she remained clear-headed and insightful, unburdened by old grudges or conflicts. She was willing to believe in the unfamiliar young man, willing to wait for the faint spring breeze, and willing to quietly uphold the three-year promise and a lifetime of peace for the coexistence of the Han and non-Han peoples and for the peace between the North and South.

Of course, there are also Qin Tiehua, Liu Xinyi, Li Jingniang, Qin Tiedan... as well as An He's pure sincerity, Yang Wenguang's undying loyalty, Ning Zhongze's regret and melancholy... Countless vivid characters intertwine to form this epic poem of mountains and rivers.

Many readers have asked me why this book lacks many of the "exciting moments" common in online novels. There's no exhilarating feeling of crushing everything, no carefree vengeance, no mindless comebacks; instead, there's more restraint, perseverance, adjustment, and waiting.

I've always felt that what truly moves us in the long run, more than the fleeting pleasure of momentary gratification, is the power of the human spirit, the warmth of perseverance, and the weight of ideals.

All the characters in this story are struggling under the weight of history, caught in the predicaments of their era, and bewildered by centuries of grudges and estrangement. They are not omnipotent saints; they too experience confusion, cowardice, inner conflict, and regret. But their most moving quality is never their invincible abilities, but rather—even when the road ahead is uncertain, even when the world misunderstands, even when the burdens are too heavy to bear, they are still willing to choose to believe, willing to uphold their original aspirations, willing to let go of their obsessions, and willing to extend a gentle and open hand of seeking peace and coexistence to the opposing side.

Looking back on the story, what moved me most and lingered in my mind for a long time was never the spectacular victories, the thrilling duels, or the dramatic power struggles.

What truly remains in our hearts, warm and enduring, unforgettable year after year, are always those quiet, gentle, and fragmented moments of life.

It was the image of young Wang Zhonghua, newly arrived in a chaotic world, squatting on the bustling street of Longsheng Ferry in Chenzhou, quietly listening to old tea drinkers reminiscing about the old history of Yan and Yun and the conflicts between the North and South, his eyes quietly gathering compassion and obsession. At that time, he was still insignificant and ordinary, but he had already planted the seeds of his initial aspiration to protect the country and dissolve barriers in the midst of human life.

Anhe, her face flushed red from the autumn sun, innocently asked, "Grandpa, why aren't you wearing your golden clothes today?" Her pure and innocent childlike words dispelled the intrigue of court politics and the heaviness of the chaotic world, adding a touch of the most healing and gentle warmth to the cold era.

It was in his later years that Emperor Renzong of Song, having shed his imperial aura, walked alone into the quiet backyard of the Eastern Palace and softly murmured to the tender little ginkgo tree, "I want to step down." A benevolent ruler, who had spent half his life bearing heavy burdens and toiling away, was ultimately just an ordinary person who longed for peace and tranquility. That moment of weariness and tenderness surpassed all his imperial achievements.

As the snowy night in Youzhou came to an end, Xiao Chuyun walked north through the snow, turned and left, not seeking credit or leaving a name, only leaving behind a simple and appropriate piece of advice for the world of wind and snow: "Remember to sharpen your hundred-forged sword when you get back. If you don't repair it for three days, it will become uneven when you use it in the future."

Having endured eight trials of enlightenment, life-or-death battles, and the breaking of ice in the mountains and rivers, she spoke not of the Great Dao, nor of fame or fortune, nor of any promises; she only cared about the crack in a sword and the future of a young man. This gentle tenderness hidden beneath her iron-willed spirit, this profound simplicity and silent benevolence, is the most touching lingering warmth of the entire book.

These small, fragmented moments, untouched by climaxes or driven by the plot, these quiet, gentle, and simple human moments, are what I most want to preserve and cherish after writing this entire book.

I never shied away from the book's shortcomings and flaws. The opening was rather slow-paced, with lengthy setups, and a lot of ink was spent on character development and setting the stage. The middle part stretched out the storyline to an extremely long length, with multiple storylines running concurrently in the imperial court, the martial arts world, the border regions, and the sea routes. The plot was intricately interwoven, inevitably leading to some dragging and redundant parts. The ending leaned towards a gentle, ambiguous conclusion, lacking intense conflict and a dramatic ending, which may have failed to satisfy some readers' expectations for "quick revenge and a satisfying celebration."

But I have never regretted writing it this way or ending it this way.

From the very first moment I put pen to paper, I knew clearly that the core of this story was never "how one person wins the world," but rather "how a group of people share the same belief in the great path, uphold their original aspirations, and wait for the spring breeze together."

It is not about defying fate with one's own strength, but about the harmonious coexistence of the land and the people united as one; it is not about the victory or defeat of war and conquest, but about the inclusiveness and reconciliation that dissolves barriers; it is not about a prosperous and peaceful world achieved overnight, but about the gentleness of humanity that is steadfastly maintained year after year and slowly accumulated.

In today's fast-paced era, we have long been accustomed to the allure of online traffic, the thrill of quick and easy action, the explosive plots that grab our attention in three seconds, and the satisfying feeling of a swift and decisive conclusion. Too many stories are compressed into fragmented, fast-food content, dramatic and intense, yet forgotten in an instant, leaving no lingering warmth or reflection.

But I stubbornly believe that some stories should not be hastily dissolved, should not be swept up by traffic, and should not become fleeting fragments.

It requires slow writing, slow laying, and slow settling; it requires patience to depict human nature, portray integrity, and pave the way; it requires weathering storms, enduring waiting, and traversing a long road before it can finally usher in the spring breeze crossing the river and the mountains and rivers warming up.

Here, I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to every reader who has accompanied us along the way and never abandoned us.

Thank you to that old friend who understood the profound meaning of "Eight Cuts to Break the Edge" and the core of "Forging Mountains and Rivers" from the very beginning. Every in-depth interpretation you give me confirms that this gentle path and sincere original intention are understood, resonated with, and upheld by some.

Thank you to every friend who has taken the time to read and sincerely discussed in the comments section. Some have analyzed the parallelism and structure of the Five Elements Sword Technique with me, some have delved into the details and rules of archery and horsemanship in the North and South, some have appreciated the character arcs and empathized with their joys and sorrows, and some have been waiting for the plot to update and hoping for a happy ending. Every discussion and every comment you've made is a precious resonance.

I also want to thank those who silently followed my reading, quietly accompanied me, and never left comments but were never absent. You may have been silent, but you accompanied me through these six months, saw the warmth of spring in Bianjing, the winter snow in Youzhou, the cool autumn in Dali, and the summer breeze in the Western Regions with me, traveled with me across 30,000 miles of vast sea, witnessed the life-and-death sincerity of the Eight Paths of Inquiry, and kept a three-year promise that transcends time.

This long journey of 1.2 million words has never been a solitary one. Every click, every follow-up reading, every "like," and every warm comment from you is like kindling that fuels this story, allowing this epic poem of mountains and rivers to burn quietly and bloom warmly in countless nights.

At the same time, I would also like to express my sincere gratitude to every character in the book.

By the end, I no longer felt that they were fictional characters created by me. They lived vividly and independently in the words. They would meet, get to know each other, argue, misunderstand, reconcile, and stand side by side. They had their own joys and sorrows, their own integrity and convictions, and their own principles to uphold.

I was never the one who created them; I was merely a recorder who was fortunate enough to wield the pen, to convey their messages, and to accompany them through their lives. I thank them for being with me through thick and thin, for healing my confusion, and for warming my heart during these 1.2 million words.

The night I finished the book, I gently closed the file, set aside the weariness from working at my desk for so long, and walked alone to the window. The night was deep, the evening breeze was cool, and the city lights lit up one after another, gentle and dazzling, spreading layer upon layer into the distance, warm and peaceful.

The lights of that moment were so gentle, so incredibly tender, just like the peaceful and tranquil scene of thousands of lights in Bianjing after the first snow and the storm had subsided in the winter of the third year of the Zhiping era in the book.

The evening breeze drifted through the window, neither too cold nor too warm, just the right gentle touch, lightly brushing against my brows and eyes, washing away all the fatigue from sitting at my desk and the ups and downs of the story. In a daze, I seemed to hear soft whispers in my ears, hazy and gentle, like Su Shi softly reciting a poem amidst the sweet fragrance of osmanthus, like Huiming sighing softly while gazing at the moon on the deck of a ship on the vast sea, like countless characters in books, slowly revealing their life's desires from the depths of time.

The timeless proverb naturally came to mind: "The most delightful taste in life is simple joy."

This is the ultimate answer I most wanted to leave for everyone after writing this entire book.

Wang Zhonghua spent half his life traveling and experiencing hardships. He fought life-and-death battles, shouldered heavy burdens, promoted institutional reforms, and bridged a century-old divide. He witnessed the ups and downs of a chaotic world and the suffering of humanity. In the end, he let go of winning and losing, let go of utilitarianism, and let go of his obsessions. What he sought was never supreme merit or eternal fame.

In his final moments, he picked up his pen and wrote only four simple, gentle words: "Life is worth living."

In fact, this is true for each of our lives.

We toil day and night, busy year after year, traversing mountains and rivers, experiencing the ups and downs of life, tasting joys and sorrows, pursuing ideals, forging ahead, and weathering storms. Only in the end do we slowly come to understand that the most precious fulfillment in life is not earth-shattering achievements or the glory of being the center of attention, but the peace and gentleness of ordinary days.

It is a warm light on a snowy night, a waiting presence on the way home, the warmth of cooking at the dinner table, love in the heart, starlight in the eyes, and anticipation for the future. It is remaining sincere after weathering storms, gentle after seeing the world's vicissitudes, and believing in beauty even after experiencing life's hardships.

Spring breeze crosses the river, and the mountains and rivers shine eternally.

The story concludes, the snow recedes, North and South reconcile, and warmth returns to humanity. All barriers will eventually melt away, all storms will eventually dissipate, and all perseverance will eventually usher in the spring breeze.

May each of you who reads this story carefully remain true to yourself, endure loneliness, and wait for the spring breeze in the long years to come. May you travel across mountains and rivers and experience the world, and still find life worthwhile; may you find gentleness and light accompanying you in every ordinary year and every mundane moment.

The old chapters have been written, and the new chapters await their opening.

A brief farewell, only for a better reunion. In the next book, we will still be together through mountains and rivers, meeting through words. See you then!

In August 2026, when the ginkgo leaves turn golden, I dedicate this scroll to the mountains and rivers, to humanity, and to each and every one of you whom I have met.