Governing the country, enriching the people, an unparalleled imperial tutor

The mornings on the Jurchen border were colder than in Jizhou. When the sunlight peeked through the gaps in the eastern mountain ridge, a layer of white frost clung to the grass blades.

The border town was about eighty li away from the Jurchen king's camp. Usually, only fur merchants and salt caravans came and went. But these past few days were different: for three consecutive days, several unfamiliar peddlers came to the town, speaking Mandarin with a northern barbarian accent. When chatting with people in teahouses and inns, they always inadvertently mentioned the same thing.

"Have you heard? The entire three tribes of the Northern Barbarians have been moved south. The number of soldiers left behind is less than the number of hunters in our town."

"The horses on that grassland on the left have been grazing for three months without anyone tending to them, and they've lost half their weight."

"The winter camps in the central region are empty; even the old women who used to watch the tents have left with the Khan."

The conversation was conducted in a casual tone, but every word was precisely chosen to reach the ears of those who were paying attention. In these places where merchants from various regions gathered, there were spies from all sides mingled among them. By the evening of the following day, this news had been relayed to Wanyan Zongbi's royal tent via express courier.

The Jurchen Wanyan tribe's main tent was even more rugged than Xuan Shuo's. A single cowhide formed a dome, and the central fire pit glowed red-hot, with a whole yellow sheep roasting on an iron rack. Wanyan Zongbi sat on a tiger-skin cushion, a silver-handled dagger in his hand, cutting a leg of lamb. He was in his early forties, with a round face and a neatly trimmed beard. His narrow eyes, squinting in the firelight, resembled those of a leopard just awakened.

The scout, kneeling on one knee by the fire pit, reported every word of what was happening in the border town.

Wanyan Zongbi's hand continued cutting the meat, but his slender eyes lifted from the lamb leg and landed on the scout's face, pausing for a moment.

"The Northern Barbarians' rear is vulnerable?" He put the meat from the tip of his knife into his mouth, chewed it slowly, and said, "This news is just too damn timely."

"Khan, you are wise," the scout said, bowing his head. "The news came from three different towns. The messengers didn't know each other, but they all spoke with the same accent. I sent two groups of men to patrol the border for three days: the border outposts in the left and central parts of the Northern Barbarians. There used to be ten men per outpost, but now only two old soldiers remain. Most of the tents on the grasslands have been dismantled, leaving behind mostly the wounded, sick, and weak."

Wanyan Zongbi did not speak immediately. He placed the dagger on the low table, reached for a pot of wine by the fire pit, took a sip from the spout, and then glanced at the two people sitting next to him.

Seated on the left is Wanyan Zonghan, the younger brother of Wanyan Zongbi. He is more robust, with a short stubble beard, and is gnawing on a roasted lamb bone. On the right is an elderly man in a black leather robe, with gray hair and a calm expression. He is an old shaman of the Jurchen tribe, skilled in observing celestial phenomena and predicting good and bad fortune.

"Zonghan, what do you think?"

Wanyan Zonghan tossed the gnawed sheep bones into the fire pit, the joints cracking softly in the flames: "We've been fighting the Northern Barbarians for seven years, and we've never had such a good opportunity. Regardless of who leaked this news, the Northern Barbarians' rear is undeniably vulnerable. I'll lead eight thousand cavalry, and within three days we can cross the Polu Volcano and penetrate straight into the heart of the left flank. By the time Ashina Gule receives the news and returns to reinforce his troops, his pastures will have already been burned to the ground."

Wanyan Zongbi neither nodded nor shook his head. He turned to the old shaman: "Shaman, what do you think?"

The old shaman closed his eyes, as if he had fallen asleep. After a long while, he spoke, his voice soft and slow: "The wind comes from the south, carrying a fiery scent. Someone has set a fire in the south, intending to spread it to our side. But this fire will not harm us; it will only burn the grasslands of the Northern Barbarians, not the stables of the Wanyan tribe."

Wanyan Zongbi remained silent for a moment. He looked down at the leather map on the low table in front of him—the territory of the Wanyan tribe was to the north, the pastureland of the Northern Di Left Wing was to the south, and the Polu Volcano crater was in between. He had been looking at that grassland on the map for more than ten years, and every inch of it was engraved in his mind.

He suddenly looked up, his voice rising half an octave: "Dispatch five thousand cavalry, set off tonight, and capture the Polu Volcano before dawn. Zonghan will lead the vanguard, with a shaman accompanying them to divine good and bad omens. After crossing the pass, no burning or killing is permitted, and the northern barbarian people must not be disturbed. We will advance straight to Jinjibo, where the Left Wing King's camp is located. We'll deal with the cattle, sheep, and horses of the Left Wing after we've captured them."

Wanyan Zonghan suddenly stood up, a grin spreading across his face, and slapped his thigh hard with his thick hand: "This is the elder brother I know!"

The old shaman also opened his eyes, a glimmer of light shining through his cloudy gaze, as if he had seen something that was destined to happen.

That night, the five thousand cavalrymen of the Jurchen Wanyan tribe silently assembled, each equipped with two warhorses, three days' worth of dry rations, a scimitar, and a strong bow. As Wanyan Zonghan mounted his horse, he glanced back at the direction of the royal tent. Wanyan Zongbi stood at the tent entrance, the firelight casting a long shadow of his robust figure.

"Go ahead," Wanyan Zongbi said. "I'll wait for you to come back and allocate the pastures."

The sound of horses' hooves was like a muffled thunderclap, grinding along the ground in a southwest direction.

Meanwhile, on the drill ground north of Jizhou City, five scouts were inspecting their gear. They wore old fur robes from the Left Wing of the Northern Barbarians, with imitation Left Wing tokens at their waists, and dried strips of meat and leather water pouches hanging from their saddles.

Zhou Chongyuan stood before them, looking at each one in turn: "Remember, you are just refugees from the Northern Di nomads. Because there was no one to graze your livestock in the rear, your herds scattered and you fled to the Jurchen border in a panic. If you are questioned on the road, tell anyone that you are subjects of the Left Wing, and that the conscripted tribal soldiers ran away, and you fled with them. Your mission is to deliver a message over there for an immortal."

The five scouts responded in unison, mounted their horses, and rode out of the south gate into the night, quickly disappearing into the grayness of the north.

Lin Yanzhou watched the whole thing from the city wall. The north wind whipped his short hair around, and he squinted, his gaze sweeping across the open fields outside the city and settling on the dark outline of the distant mountain range.

He knew the storm had passed. The Jurchens must be on the verge of a fire.