Another autumn had arrived.
The golden winds of the season brought a refreshing chill, and the morning dew turned cold as jade.
Seven full moons had passed since the three armies of Great Chen first stepped into the territory of Eastern Liao. Now, nearly ninety percent of the Han people’s ancestral lands had been restored to the imperial map.
For the first three months, the momentum had been unstoppable, with Eastern Liao suffering one defeat after another. It was only when Yelü Chi reclaimed command of the Imperial Court Army that the sleeping wolf of the north finally clawed its way back to consciousness.
The four months that followed were a brutal, face-to-face struggle. The Provincial Armies and Foreign Auxiliaries held the cities with grim determination, leaving the battlefield as a private slaughterhouse for those two eternal rivals: the Northern Frontier Army and the Imperial Court Army.
Yelü Chi’s strategy was sound. He wanted the Imperial Court Army to feel the sting of pain so they would understand fear, recognize the shifting tides, and finally commit to a fight to the death against those he once considered “sheep.”
But in the end, he underestimated the teeth and grit of those sheep.
With the Chancellor backing him and no one in the capital to tie his hands, Pei Jingyi pushed the art of military deception to its absolute limit. His tactics were so unorthodox, so perilous, and so unpredictable that the Eastern Liao forces found themselves constantly wrong-footed.
He didn’t follow common military logic by charging straight for the northern border. Instead, he broke the three hundred thousand men of the Northern Frontier Army into smaller, mobile units. They cleared strategic points, swallowed up outlying towns, and advanced in a methodical, suffocating crawl.
As the autumn winds began to howl, the iron cavalry of the Northern Frontier Army had already encircled the city of Xijing so tightly that not even a drop of water could leak out.
One hundred thousand soldiers of the Imperial Court Army The capital was well-stocked with grain and its walls were as solid as rock. If Yelü Chi chose to dig in, he could likely hold out for three to five years.
But Yelü Chi didn’t want to wait.
The once-prosperous Imperial Palace of Xijing was now a desolate, lonely place. Everyone knew that Eastern Liao was a spent force. Palace servants scrambled for ways to escape, while the commoners prayed for a chance to flee the city and join the Han. Panic was a contagion; no one wanted to stay.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the last rays of light spilled into the grand hall.
Yelü Chi sat alone on the dragon throne, the silver thread embroidery on his black python robes shimmering faintly in the twilight.
Du Bale entered the hall with his head bowed. He knelt, tucking his robes beneath him. “Your Highness, I have just finished inspecting the garrison. The soldiers are all willing to follow you to the death to defend the city.”
Yelü Chi remained silent for a long time.
Only when Du Bale looked up did Yelü Chi tap his finger against the armrest of the throne. He suddenly let out a soft laugh. “I’ve just done some calculations. There are still two hundred and eighty thousand piculs of grain in the city. That can support ten thousand soldiers for three years. six hundred thousand civilians”
His finger paused. He spoke with chilling indifference. “If we start by eating the elderly, the weak, the women, and the children, we can hold for another four years. By the time the madness of hunger sets in among the ranks, we can squeeze out a few more months. All in all, holding out for seven years and three months wouldn’t be difficult.”
Du Bale’s face turned deathly pale as he listened.
“However—”
Yelü Chi rose with a flick of his sleeves, shaking his head coldly. “What is the point of holding for seven years? Great Chen will breach the walls eventually. Such an act would only waste the lives of the Imperial Court Army. It isn’t worth it.”
His tone was detached, as if the lives of sixty thousand civilians were nothing more than a string of numbers in a ledger. Only the Imperial Court Army counted as living souls to him.
Du Bale visibly relaxed, asking tentatively, “Then, what is Your Highness’s intent?”
“War.”
Yelü Chi spat the word out with finality as he strode down the steps. “The enemy is in the light while we are in the dark. Every one of the twelve gates of Xijing can be a blade. We will launch night raids to harass them, wearing down their resolve like a dull knife sawing through meat—just as they have done to our Eastern Liao.”
Du Bale immediately prostrated himself at the Regent’s feet, his voice loud and clear. “I am willing to lead the night raid! I swear to serve Your Highness unto death!”
Yelü Chi looked down at the man’s bowed back, his eyes narrowing. “Du Bale, how many years have you followed me?”
Du Bale pressed his forehead against the floor. “In response to Your Highness, I have been a house slave of the Yelü clan since childhood. I have served Your Highness for exactly twenty years.”
“Twenty years…” Yelü Chi sighed softly. He reached down, gripped Du Bale’s arm, and pulled him to his feet. “Very well. I grant you leave.”
