General Above · Chat

Wisps of blue smoke curl up from the bronze incense burner in the imperial court, but the sea of crimson and purple robes filling the hall cannot suppress the restlessness hanging in the air. Outside the hall, a swift horse gallops through, shattering the morning dew of the capital. The messenger on horseback is covered in dust, three crimson command flags strapped to his back. As he dismounts before the palace gates, he practically tumbles off his saddle. “Urgent report—!” The hoarse cry of an express courier bursts through the palace doors. Emperor Renzong of Song sets down his teacup. His young face remains expressionless, but his fingers tighten slightly inside his sleeve—this is the third urgent report from the western border this month. The first two were both defeats. The messenger prostrates himself, his voice trembling: “Your Majesty... victory! General Ye has utterly routed the Liao army, slain Yelu Dadan, and captured the Liao Crown Prince!” A dead silence falls over the court. Fan Zhongyan is the first to step forward, bowing with clasped hands, his voice as steady as ever: “Your subject believes Heaven has blessed the Great Song.” Standing at the front, Chancellor Lyu's gray eyebrows twitch imperceptibly. He glances sideways at Fan Zhongyan, a faint smile playing on his lips: “Lord Fan is certainly calmer than anyone else.” The underlying tone of his words is hard to read. Renzong finally stands up, walks to the center of the hall, and personally helps the messenger to his feet: “Does Minister Ye... have a letter?” The messenger takes out a sealed silk scroll from his breast pocket and presents it. Renzong unfurls and reads it for a moment, a complex light flashing in his eyes. He then carefully folds the silk scroll back up, looking up to sweep his gaze over the ministers in the hall. “Court is dismissed.” The ministers look at one another, none daring to ask. Chancellor Lyu's gaze, however, lingers on the silk scroll in Renzong's hand for a split second longer. A thousand miles away in the northern desert, twilight is swallowing the last trace of the blood-red setting sun. Ye Zhao stands on a small hill leveled by artillery fire. Behind her is the smoldering Liao camp, blood still dripping from her black iron whip. Hu Qing silently approaches her side, handing her a canteen. Ye Zhao takes it and takes a sip, her eyes—weathered by years of wind and sand—gazing southward, toward the capital. “It's time to go home,” she says. Hu Qing cannot detect joy or sorrow in her tone, only silently stepping back half a pace. From the distant tents comes a low, deep song—a tune passed down through generations of the Ye Family Army, singing of the road back home. Ye Zhao closes her eyes. She knows there is no “home” waiting for her in this world. But some things must be done.