In this realistic war game, only I understand the course of the battle.

As the walls of Chang'an rose above the horizon, Old Wei, who was at the front, stopped. He stood in the middle of the official road, leaning on his long, dulled spear, squinting as he gazed westward for a long time. Then he turned and shouted to the group, his voice carrying something long suppressed: "Chang'an! I see Chang'an!"

Almost everyone in the column who could still walk quickened their pace. Amu helped a Qiang foot soldier whose leg wound hadn't fully healed as they hurried forward. Zhou Jing, leaning on a wooden cane, walked in the middle of the column, raising his eyes to look at the outline of the gray-blue city wall to the west for a long time before lowering his head and continuing to walk. His lips moved a few times, as if he were saying something, but no one heard him. Shen Du walked at the very front of the column, leaning on the iron spear shaft he had salvaged from the ruins of Pengcheng. His left leg had suffered a relapse of an old injury while crossing the Xiaoshan Mountains; his knee was so swollen that it stretched his trousers tightly, and every step was excruciatingly painful. But the moment he saw the walls of Chang'an, his steps involuntarily quickened. From the Fei River to Chang'an, they had been walking for nearly two months. Two months ago, when they set off from the north bank of the Fei River, the mountains and plains were filled with defeated soldiers; two months later, only a little over a hundred remained at the foot of Chang'an. These hundred-plus people were selected through a rigorous process—by enduring the cold, hunger, pursuers, and the harsh terrain and snowstorms of Xiaoshan Mountain. Those who made it this far are the toughest of the tough.

Chang'an. In Shen Du's memory, this city was called Xi'an. On the wall of his research lab in another world hung a reconstruction of Chang'an during the Tang Dynasty—the largest ancient capital in human history, with its majestic palaces, orderly markets, and the Zhuque Avenue wide enough for eight horses to gallop side-by-side. But that was Tang Dynasty Chang'an, what the city looked like centuries later. The current Chang'an was the capital of the Former Qin Dynasty. Fu Jian had ruled here for over twenty years, transforming this ancient Qin and Han capital into the most prosperous city in the north. But Shen Du knew that the city's prosperity had been washed away by the Fei River. News of the annihilation of 870,000 troops reached Chang'an even before he did—the fleeing soldiers ran faster than he did, and rumors spread even faster. He had a rough idea of ​​the state of the people in Chang'an now.

The closer they got to Chang'an, the more horrifying the scene became along the official road. Where once there were large areas of residential houses and markets outside the city, now nine out of ten houses were empty, and the market stalls were torn apart, their timber taken away for firewood. At the foot of the city walls, dilapidated shacks stood everywhere, housing not beggars—desperate soldiers fleeing the front lines. Some had broken arms, some leaned on crutches, some lay on the ground wrapped in tattered blankets, their condition indistinguishable. Several bonfires burned between the shacks, their light illuminating numb faces devoid of anger or sorrow, only a blank emptiness left after utter depletion. The air reeked of a mixture of excrement, rotting flesh, and cheap herbs. As Zhou Jing passed one shack, he glanced inside. A defeated soldier lay on the ground, his thigh wound so rotten it exposed bone. Zhou Jing looked only once and left—not because he didn't want to help, but because he couldn't. Even if he found medicine in Chang'an City, it would be too late if the wound had festered to this extent.

The city gates were closed. Chang'an's gates had been closed for several days, and the soldiers guarding the city stood on the city walls, pointing their spears down, preventing anyone from approaching. Shen Du looked up and shouted towards the city walls, "We're back from Feishui! The vanguard battalion!"

A captain on the city wall leaned out and glanced at him, then at the hundred-odd ragged, fleeing soldiers behind him. The captain's armor was much more intact than the fleeing soldiers below, but his expression was no better—a numbness born of knowing people were dying outside and being powerless to do anything about it. He asked Shen Du which unit he belonged to, and Shen Du gave him the designation of Fu Rong's vanguard battalion. The captain was silent for a moment, then said that His Majesty had ordered all fleeing soldiers to remain outside the city and await further orders, forbidden from entering. The city had been closed for several days, and food supplies were running low; letting more fleeing soldiers in would likely cause chaos.

"It took us two months to get here!" Old Wei roared at the city wall behind Shen Du. "If you don't let us into the city, what are we going to eat? Where are we going to stay?"

The captain didn't answer. He retreated behind the crenellations, leaving only the faded Qin army flag fluttering weakly in the wind atop the city wall. Old Wei was about to shout again when Shen Du stopped him. Shen Du looked up at the city wall, his voice not loud, but every word was clearly audible to the captain: "We don't need to enter the city. You pass on a message—the remnants of the vanguard battalion, over a hundred men, have arrived outside the city and are stationed at the abandoned kiln east of the city. We can do any work needed for guarding the city, repairing the walls, or carrying supplies, in exchange for food. Also, an old medic is with the group and can treat the wounded outside the city. We don't need food, just medicine."

There was a moment of silence on the city wall. The captain leaned out again and nodded: "Alright. I'll pass it on." Then he retreated behind the crenellations, his footsteps fading into the city along the wall.

Shen Du led his team eastward along the city wall and found the abandoned brick kiln. Half of the kiln entrance had collapsed, but the inside was relatively dry, with walls on all four sides and a roof overhead—much better than a shack. He divided his men into several groups—Old Wei led a few who could still move to gather firewood, Zhou Jing placed the wounded in the innermost sheltered part of the kiln, and Amu led his men to scavenge usable items from nearby abandoned houses. An hour later, Amu returned with half a broken iron pot, several chipped ceramic bowls, and a cotton quilt gnawed by rats. Old Wei carried back a bundle of dry firewood and several door panels pried from the ruins. Zhou Jing used the remaining bricks from the kiln to build a makeshift stove, placed the broken iron pot on it, and took out the last bit of old millet he had brought from Xiaoguan, pouring it into the pot to cook a very thin porridge.

After eating, Zhou Jing and a few young soldiers who could still walk re-examined the wounded deep inside the cave. He spread a layer of dry grass on the cave floor to make the wounded more comfortable, and then gathered all the bandages and redistributed them. From Xiaoshan to Hangu Pass, the young soldiers he had trained were already able to independently treat simple knife wounds and frostbite. Shen Du squatted at the cave entrance, watching Zhou Jing's busy figure, and suddenly thought of Zhao Laoliu—in the wards of western Beijing, Zhao Laoliu would also squat on the ground like this, tightening the iron hoops of the battering ram with a wrench, a pipe dangling from his mouth, and after finishing the last turn, he would stand up, pat the rust on his hands, and say, "Master Li, it's fixed." That was another world. But at this moment, in the abandoned brick kiln outside Chang'an, he saw Zhou Jing bandaging the wounded and suddenly felt that the two men were very similar—not in appearance, but in that kind of silent, unassuming reliability, like a nail driven into a wall, no matter how the wall shakes, the nail is still there.

The wind outside the cave dwelling died down at night. But the noise didn't stop—cries and curses rose and fell from the shacks at the foot of the city wall. Shen Du looked out of the cave dwelling and saw a group of defeated soldiers huddled around a campfire at the foot of the city wall, fighting over something. The firelight cast their shadows on the wall, making them look distorted and grotesque. They weren't fighting over food—they were fighting over a sheepskin coat stripped from the body of a recently deceased soldier. The defenders on the city wall shouted a few times, but no one listened. Arrows fell from the crenellations and embedded themselves in the mud beside the shack. The crowd scattered for a moment, then gathered again. Shen Du turned his head away and stopped looking.

"They arrived before us, but the city wouldn't let them in, so they rotted at the foot of the city walls." Zhou Jing walked to his side, looking at the shack area in the distance, his voice calm. "The hungry will rob, the cold will rob, but those who have nothing will die. The food in the city is running low. For the past few months, Fu Jian has been writing letters to the tribal leaders and procuring grain from all over, but most of the messengers were intercepted and killed by the fleeing soldiers before they even reached their destination. Murong Chui is holding power in Hebei, and Yao Chang's Qiang cavalry are stationed north of the Wei River. Nominally they are still under Fu Jian's command, but in reality they are all watching and waiting. The decrees of the Chang'an court no longer leave the city gates."

"How long can Chang'an hold out?" Shen Du asked.

"It won't last long. But what won't hold is the city walls, it's the people's hearts. Fu Jian's hair has turned half white in the past few months, and he paces back and forth in the palace every day, repeatedly telling his close advisors—'If we had listened to Wang Jinglue, we wouldn't have suffered this defeat.' But Wang Meng has been dead for many years." Zhou Jing sighed, tapping his pipe on the ground. "In the first place, not many people advised him to fight; he insisted on leading the entire nation south. Now look what's happened, the million-strong army is gone, and the tribal leaders are out of control." He looked up at Shen Du, "What do you plan to do with those bamboo slips in your arms?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"Then don't think about it for now." Zhou Jing took out a packet of herbs wrapped in rags from his pocket and handed it to Shen Du. "Take care of your leg injury first. The chaos outside Chang'an has only just begun. With your leg injured, you won't be able to run fast."

Two days later, a notice was suddenly posted on the city wall. It wasn't an imperial edict—it was a handwritten order from Fu Jian, copied onto yellow silk and hung at the city gate. The gist of the notice was: all soldiers returning from the Fei River, regardless of their tribe or clan, as long as they could still wield weapons, were to assemble at the drill ground west of the city. The court would reorganize them, provide rations and pay, and prepare them for defending the city. At the end of the notice, written in vermilion ink, was a line: "I have failed you all, yet Guanzhong cannot be abandoned. I am willing to defend Chang'an with you all." The handwriting of this last line was noticeably more illegible than the preceding text, as if it had been added hastily. Fu Jian's hand was probably trembling when he wrote this line.

Shen Du stood at the city gate and read the proclamation twice. He didn't make a decision immediately, but instead went to the abandoned brick kiln to tell the rest of the group what the proclamation said. Old Wei listened in silence for a while and said he had no home in Guanzhong; going back would only mean farming, and even farming wouldn't pay the taxes. He figured it was better to stay and defend the city, at least he'd have a place to live and food to eat. Amu squatted on the ground, head down, not speaking. Old Wei answered for him, saying his sister was still in Chang'an, and he had to go find her. The defeated Xianbei and Qiang soldiers exchanged glances and shook their heads—they didn't trust Fu Jian, nor did they want to defend the city for him; they wanted to return to their own tribes.

"Then let's split up." Shen Du stood up. "Those who want to go to the training ground, come with me. Those who want to go home, take the rest of your dry rations with you. Be careful on the way."

In the end, fewer than sixty people followed Shen Du to the western training ground. Lao Wei, Zhou Jing, and Amu all went. The defeated Xianbei and Qiang soldiers divided their rations, bowed in farewell, and headed west along the Wei River. Shen Du stood at the entrance of the brick kiln, watching their figures disappear on the gray-yellow horizon, then turned and led the remaining men toward the western training ground.

Several thousand men had already gathered at the drill ground west of the city, all defeated soldiers who had gradually gathered from various parts of Guanzhong. There were Han Chinese, Di people, and Qiang people, but not a single Xianbei. Several faded Qin army flags flew in the drill ground, and several gray-haired military advisors were counting heads according to a roster, but most of those on the roster were gone—either dead or scattered. When Shen Du led sixty men into the drill ground, the military advisor in charge of registration looked up at him. He was a tall, thin man in his fifties, wearing a faded civil official's robe, the patterns on the rank badge worn away and illegible. He asked Shen Du for his troops and unit number, picked up a pen and wrote a few words in the register, then suddenly stopped writing and looked up at Shen Du again.

"You came back from the south bank of the Fei River?"

"Yes."

"From the vanguard battalion?"

"Yes."

The soldier put down his pen, stood up, and bowed slightly. His eyes suddenly reddened, but he didn't say anything. He simply pressed Shen Du's shoulder hard, then sat down again to continue registering. Several other defeated soldiers queuing nearby also looked over, their numbness fading somewhat.

After being reorganized on the drill ground, Shen Du was assigned to guard the eastern city wall. Lao Wei was assigned to guard the city gate, Amu was temporarily assigned to the supply train because he had not yet recovered, and Zhou Jing was transferred to the wounded soldiers' camp to help. For the next few days, Shen Du led his men to stand guard on the city wall every day, occasionally helping to repair the crenellations and move arrows. More and more defeated soldiers were arriving outside the city, and Xianbei cavalry occasionally appeared on the horizon outside the city to spy from afar, but never approached. Food in the city became more and more scarce, and the daily ration was reduced from three he to two he, and then from two he to one and a half he—one and a half he was just a small handful of millet, cooked into a porridge so thin that you could see your reflection in it.

One evening, Old Wei returned from the wounded soldiers' camp looking unwell. He pulled Shen Du aside and whispered, "Master Shen, I've heard something. There's a man on the north bank of the Wei River named Yao. He returned from the Fei River front, and he's gathered a large number of defeated Qiang soldiers under his command. It's said he's established a camp north of the Wei River and doesn't associate with either side. Some people call him General Yao." Shen Du looked up at him, his eyes suddenly sharpening. Yao Chang—a Qiang general of the Former Qin Dynasty, one of Fu Jian's most trusted generals. Historically, it was he who betrayed Fu Jian after his disastrous defeat at the Fei River, killing him and establishing the Later Qin Dynasty. Now he's north of the Wei River, just outside Chang'an.

"Find a few reliable brothers and have them patrol the granary area for the next few days to see if anyone's been hauling things in at night. Also, have Zhou Jing pay close attention to what the defeated soldiers returning from the wounded soldiers' camp are saying. I need to know more about Weibei." Old Wei nodded and strode out. Shen Du leaned against the city wall, gazing at the myriad lights of Chang'an—lights that were going out one by one.