Prologue Two: The Great Fire of Chengdu

"General, we have been surrounded."

As Zhang Yi spoke these words, war cries erupted from all directions, surging like relentless, crashing waves. The surrounding fire had coalesced into a sea, and waves of scorching heat surged and boiled among the eaves, turning the naturally dark night as bright as day. Even within the dim room, the light filtered through the bamboo blinds, casting the shadows of everyone inside against the walls, where they danced like long, writhing serpents.

Jiang Wei glanced at Zhang Yi. His bloodshot eyes reflected the distant flames, flickering like wandering fireflies. His expression was inscrutable, a blend of exhaustion and profound compassion. He licked his parched lips and sighed, "I know."

"General, what now?" Ju Fu, his only remaining eye wide, looked on. A cloth bandage wrapped around his forehead was soaked through with blood and cold sweat, carving shallow furrows down his blackened cheeks.

Jiang Wei thought bitterly: Yes, even in the depths of despair, he remained the Great General of the Han. Until the last hope was extinguished, until the final Han soldier had fallen, he had no reason to surrender. This was the expectation his mentor had placed upon him thirty-five years ago.

In that moment of reflection, Jiang Wei seemed to travel from old age back to his youth, the frustration of his failed strategy replaced by a serene resolve. He straightened his back and said, slowly and firmly, "Someone must break out and lead the army outside the city to safety."

"Is there still a chance?" Jiang Bin asked. Clearly, he did not grasp the command—or perhaps, he did not know where hope lay.

"There is no chance," Jiang Wei spat a mouthful of blood-tinged saliva onto the floor and continued, "but as long as someone lives, there is always potential."

With that, Jiang Wei slowly drew the sword at his waist. The jagged edge scraped against the scabbard with a harsh sound, yet it seemed to possess a magical power that silenced everyone present, watching the aged general clean his blade in the dark. This sword, the Zhangwu sword, was a gift from the Emperor and had accompanied Jiang Wei for over thirty years. He had used it countless times to issue orders, but only just now had it tasted blood for the first time, severing four heads and gaining four notches in the process. This was why he cleaned it with such meticulous focus.

Seeing the general’s graying hair and the fine lines around his eyes, the officers fell silent. This old man, who had entered Shu at the age of twenty-eight, had spent his life immersed in military affairs. He had never married, had no children, and had always distributed his wealth among the people of Shu. Whether his choices were right or wrong might be difficult to judge, but his character was beyond reproach. Yet, was such a man to be buried here today?

Suddenly, several arrows whistled through the air, shattering the bamboo blinds and pinning themselves firmly into the earthen wall behind them. Light and heat surged in with the wind, illuminating their faces. The jeers of the Wei soldiers poured in, demanding they come out to surrender and meet their deaths, but those in the room remained unmoved.

Jiang Wei scanned the expressions of his men. Most of those who followed him were old veterans; the wrinkles on their skin were like wind-eroded stones on the mountain paths of Didao, their bodies scarred and hearts weary, yet they were filled with murderous intent. Among them, however, were three young men whose fear was etched into their expressions and movements: they were facing death for the first time, and their legs and pupils trembled uncontrollably.

It was the look of longing for hope. Even in the face of annihilation, these youths instinctively wanted to live, yet their youthful pride forbade them from accepting such weakness. Thus, their eyes were at times as clear as mountain springs, at others as desolate as fallen leaves. Jiang Wei was familiar with this look, and now, he even admired it. He believed it was a necessary path toward greatness.

He called the three youths forward and instructed, "When we head out, you three are to move west. Do not look back; you must make it to the camp alive."

This sudden command left the youths bewildered. They did not understand the general’s deeper meaning, but they could hear the weight within his words: the general had resolved to die so that they might live. The three felt a sudden sense of relief, followed immediately by shame, for a true warrior needs no one else to preserve his life. The shame urged them to refuse, but upon seeing the fire in the general's eyes, they were rendered speechless.

Finally, one youth asked with difficulty, "General, what happens after that?"

"Find a place to hide, and then wait," Jiang Wei said, watching them. "Wait with all your might."

Wait for what? For how long? The youths wanted to ask, but time would not permit it. The Wei army outside was closing in, accompanied by the sound of hooves and shouts. Jiang Wei glanced at the three of them and led the others out.

With steady, unwavering steps, he crossed the shadows of the ruined walls and came to a halt. Beneath the scorching, blinding flames, Jiang Wei held the Zhangwu sword in one hand and kept the other behind his back, looking down upon the thousands of Wei soldiers like a god. Beside him were sixteen old comrades who had campaigned with him for decades. Behind him burned the brocade palace of Chengdu; the fire had turned the moon crimson, and the smoke gathered into black clouds that seemed ready to collapse upon them.

This solemn sight startled the surrounding Wei soldiers. They had heard the legend of Zhang Fei standing at the broken bridge to hold back an army, but seeing it for themselves was a first. It struck them with awe, and they instinctively drew arrows from their quivers, nocking them to their bows and pulling until the horns were like full moons. Yet, for some reason, they did not release the strings. Was it a lack of courage, or a stir of respect? Regardless, everyone in the flames fell silent.

They heard the old man shout: "Jiang Wei, Great General of the Han, is here! Come and meet your deaths!"

The Wei soldiers responded with a volley of arrows.

Thus, seventeen old soldiers began the final battle of their lives. This battle was not for victory, nor for breaking out, but was driven by a simple wish: to slay one or more enemies before falling, and to never surrender.

The Wei soldiers surged toward the Han army like a tide. The sounds of slaughter erupted once more, but it no longer mattered who won or lost. It was not a show of force; it was simply that men needed to shout, needed to prove they still existed. The heavens responded by casting down a misty spring rain that clung to their armor and blades.

Liao Hua and Ju Fu, both nearly crippled, soon fell into the black torrent of Wei soldiers. Zhang Yi had remained at Jiang Wei’s side, suffering over a dozen wounds until, losing too much blood, he collapsed and lost consciousness. A moment later, he suddenly lifted his head, eyes blood-red, but he could not see General Jiang Wei. At that moment, a group of men ran past him. He picked up a short sword from the ground and threw it with all his might, striking a Wei soldier in the head. The soldier let out a cry and collapsed. "Got another one!" Zhang Yi cursed under his breath before he fell and died.

Jiang Wei had sustained four arrow wounds and six sword wounds. Beside him remained only Zhao Tong, Jiang Bin, and Guan Yi, all of whom were also wounded. The four fought their way to a small hill, surrounded by an endless sea of enemy soldiers. A general in red armor led a group to rain down arrows. An arrow pierced Jiang Wei’s left chest. He pulled it out, let out a roar, and leaped from the hill, striking down the enemy general. His notched Zhangwu sword once again struck the target’s neck. But this time, the enemy’s head did not fall. With a metallic "clink," the weight in Jiang Wei’s hand lightened; blood splattered his face, and the blade snapped in two.

The rain grew heavier, tapping rhythmically against the mud, the corpses, and the flames. A gale swept through, causing the budding treetops to rustle and the fires to flicker. Finally, a peal of spring thunder cracked overhead, a bolt of white light followed by a deafening roar.

This sound awakened Jiang Wei; he felt a premonition that his end was near. His aged body was covered in blood, every muscle screaming in agony. Yet he continued to swing his broken blade, shouting to encourage his few remaining soldiers and to answer the souls watching him from above:

"Ancestors above, warriors have given their lives! The heavens remain, the Great Han shall not perish! Kill! Kill!"

He was struck in the back by a blade, his body swaying violently, nearly falling to the ground. But Jiang Wei caught himself with his left hand, turned, and killed an enemy. Only then did he realize that he was the last of the Han soldiers. But was he truly alone? In a trance, Jiang Wei saw countless souls standing beside him, watching him in silence. At their head was a familiar face, long dead, smiling and nodding at him.

The illusion lasted only a moment before dissolving like the tide. Those souls returned to being cruel Wei soldiers in the gloom. They circled him, cautiously observing the dying old man. Someone demanded he surrender. He felt a surge of shame, stood straight, and said angrily, "The glorious Han has only generals who lose their heads, not generals who surrender!" But his voice was weak and low, unable to sustain the thought.

In an instant, two swords pierced his chest—one through his lung, the other through his heart. He finally collapsed into the mud. The broken sword fell to the ground beside a campfire that had yet to die out. The sounds of blades and war cries still echoed in his ears, and like a dream, he felt as though he were still fighting, still shouting. Yet, he vaguely knew he was gravely wounded, lying on the ground, his blood flowing away.

Did the young men make it out? This thought flickered through Jiang Wei’s mind, only to be replaced by another: Has the Great Han truly perished? Reluctance drove Jiang Wei to struggle—to struggle with his final ounce of strength, to make a wish, and then, with a soft groan, he lost consciousness.

The dark sky was interwoven with white light, erupting with thunder like a tidal wave. The torrential rain washed the blood and ashes into the river, leaving behind only charred ruins. People were astonished by the scene and whispered among themselves: It was the season for spring thunder, but such a storm was rare. Could it be that Jiang Wei’s soul had turned into a vengeful spirit, wreaking havoc in the heavens?

Curious, some cut open Jiang Wei’s chest and took out a gall bladder as large as a peck. The Wei soldiers looked at one another, believing the rumors to be true, and then carefully crushed it underfoot.

The night ended, the thick clouds scattered, and the morning sun was reborn. A new day began. The people marked that day as the beginning of a new empire. The following year, they changed the era name to Taishi, meaning that peace had begun anew. They rebuilt the Brocade City, carved tombstones over the bones, pounded earthen walls over the ruins, planted mulberry trees over the ashes, and brought in refugees from the surrounding lands. The broken swords were ground into dust, the tombstones were covered in moss, and no trace of that bloody battle remained.