Chapter 43: Long Smoke and Setting Sun, The Lonely Fortress Closed (Part 2)

Further ahead was a narrow alley, its entrance piled with half-man-high timber where several carpenters hammered away intently, guarded by a squad of soldiers nearby.

The leader was an old man with a missing tooth, pushing his plane so fast that wood shavings drifted like white snow, mingling with the pale sawdust. Nearby, a young man was riveting iron plating onto a shield; the blows of the hammer against the metal produced a rhythmic thud that made ears ring.

This area was livelier. The bellows of the adjacent blacksmith shop wheezed rhythmically, and Old Zhang the blacksmith, stripped to the waist, swung his hammer with sparks sputtering onto the snow like tiny black dots.

In his early fifties, with muscles like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, the veteran blacksmith was bare-chested save for a black leather apron riddled with countless holes burned by sparks. His bronze skin gleamed with dense beads of sweat under the fierce, ruddy glow of the furnace, sending up thin wisps of steam when struck by the biting wind.

Every time he swung that slick, heavy jujube-wood-handled sledgehammer, the muscles across his ribs and spine bulged and coiled like pythons, accompanied by a muffled grunt.

His sons were tossing arrowheads into a quenching basin, creating a sudden hiss of white smoke. "Dad, are those three-edged arrowheads requested by the ramparts enough yet?"

Old Zhang grunted, his hammer falling like an anvil strike. "Forge three hundred more! The enemy's armor is tough; ordinary arrowheads won't pierce it."

His son, having just neatly stacked a batch of quenched arrowheads, straightened up. "Aren't they just sharper than the usual ones? Didn't we send this same pattern to the west wall the other day?"

"Crap! Do you think the Jurchens wear paper armor? Can any random arrow shoot through it?"

He picked up a palm-sized piece of iron and tossed it to his son. "Take a look at this." The iron shard had jagged edges, specifically salvaged from the Jurchen iron lamellar armor. Young Zhang weighed it in his hand; it was twenty percent lighter than Song armor plates of the same size. He scraped it with his fingernail, but it didn't even leave a white mark.

"Your grandfather used to say the cold-forged armor of the Xia was tough enough, but the Jurchens' armor is made by heating iron red-hot and hammering it repeatedly, until it's hard as stone. The iron from our Jin territory has great resilience, but when it comes to sheer head-to-head hardness, we truly fall short."

He picked up one of the three-edged arrowheads, running his fingertip along the sharp ridge. "We have to rely on this kind of thing, driving with all our might into the gaps of the armor plates, otherwise shooting them is utterly useless."

"Those barbarians," Old Zhang muttered, a trace of bitter hatred in his voice. "Their iron is damn well good!"

His son scratched his head. "Could it be better than the iron ore from our Jiaocheng?"

"The ore is one thing, but their quenching and tempering craft is even more uncanny."

Old Zhang tossed a lump of charcoal into the furnace, and the flames leaped up with a roar, casting a reddish glare in his eyes. "Didn't you see the Jurchen arrowheads? Dark and heavy, quenched to look like inkstone. They pierce our leather armor just like poking through window paper. When the batch came in the other day, I melted some down to inspect it; the molten iron was thicker than ours, guessing they've mixed some secret method into it."

"Don't assume our Great Song iron is the absolute best under heaven. The Jurchens were able to drive away the Khitans; the gear in their hands is no joke. Take their maces for instance—they look clumsy, but when swung, they can dent our infantry armor. That's not just brute force; the iron itself is hard enough and resilient enough!"

The Bohai Iron Lifu in Harbin produced iron and excelled in forging armor. After the Jurchens destroyed the Liao, they absorbed Bohai craftsmen and established the system of "blacksmith households." Deep in the forests of the White Mountains and Black Waters, there was no shortage of fine wood to burn into hard charcoal, exclusively used for weapons and armor. In the past, the Song people foolishly regarded them as mere savages stumbling out of the mountains, but once they clashed, the Song army suffered a disastrous defeat and never dared treat them as savages again.

The two stepped over shattered tiles as they pressed forward. The bloodstains on the bluestone pavement had frozen into a dark crimson, belonging God knows to soldiers or civilians.

At the street corner, local militia members were laboring to lift a corpse covered with a straw mat toward a collection point. By rule, bodies were supposed to be burned centrally, but with artillery stones constantly raining down, walking the streets risked one's life—especially near the east and north walls.

From beneath the straw mat poked a foot wearing a tattered straw sandal, the heel still stained with fragments of city brick.

The old man jerked his chin to the side, where three local braves were carrying door-sized shields up to the ramparts. Crude spells had been scrawled in ink across the shields, presumably praying for safety.

The one walking in front walked with a slight limp, having taken a tumble the other day. Now he crunched down the snow with an uneven gait, humming an untuned ditty: "Oh younger sister, do not wait for me, your brother goes to guard the city tower, hi-hi-yo-yo, die early and return..."

"Use the shields to block the falling stones."

Li Quanwu gazed at the backs of the local braves. "Orders were given above to dismantle the temple statues, turn the wood into shields, and cover them with iron plating. That should hold out for a while."

Turning two corners further ahead, the mountain gate of the South City City God Temple came into view.

This spot was one of the few sturdy redoubts within the city. The towering temple walls blocked most of the wind and snow, serving as a temporary refuge.

Seven or eight bamboo poles, as thick as a rice bowl, propped up a faded blue canvas patched in numerous places. The canvas billowed and swelled in the wind like a gasping, tattered pouch.

Beneath the canvas, three earthen stoves had been hastily dug into pits, with cracked large iron cauldrons mounted on top.

The millet porridge in the cauldrons bubbled and churned, sending plumes of steam swirling upward that condensed into a hazy fog in the chill air, carrying a faint fragrance of rice far into the distance.

Three minor bailiffs took turns tossing firewood into the stoves. The wood came from the dismantled offering table legs of the old temple statues, crackling loudly as sparks sputtered onto the frozen earth and instantly died out.

A petty official stood by the cauldron, his robe hem stained with mud, gripping a worn, shiny wooden spoon. His face was frozen purple, and visible white vapor puffed from his mouth as he spoke: "Line up! Collect according to household registration! One bowl per family, and don't blame me if anyone tries to take extra!"

His voice wasn't particularly loud. Sweeping his gaze over the queue of people, he noticed a child pushing forward and tapped the rim of the cauldron with the spoon handle: "Go get your mother to fetch it!"

The people in line stretched into a crooked, winding queue along the base of the temple wall, numbering at least several dozen.

At the very front was an old woman wrapped in a tattered cotton padded jacket, clutching a black jar to her chest. "Official, my old man is sick and can't walk. Can I collect one extra bowl?"

The official didn't look at her, simply ladling a spoonful of porridge into a clay bowl. "Rules are rules. If I don't see the person, no food. I'll send someone to go back with you later."

The old woman received the bowl with both hands, her fingertips frozen red and cracked, yet she dared not loosen her grip. She shuffled back toward the interior of the temple, where dry straw was laid against the wall, upon which a dozen people lay waiting for porridge.

A laborer attempted to cut the line. Just as he took two steps forward, he was pinned down by a nearby bailiff: "Get back in line! Didn't you see they are all the elderly and weak?"

The laborer stiffened his neck as if to retort, but catching sight of the bailiff's saber at his waist, he sullenly retreated, squatting on the ground and staring blankly at the empty bowl in his hands.

A distant roar echoed—another artillery stone had fallen. The queue froze instantly; a child buried its face in its mother's chest, its crying exceptionally piercing in front of the silent temple gate.

The official frowned and raised his voice: "What is there to fear! The enemy cannot break in! Hurry up and get your porridge back indoors!"

His voice trembled slightly, yet it coaxed the queue into motion again.

People began shuffling forward once more, though their paces were quicker. Those who secured their porridge lowered their heads and slipped into the temple. No one spoke further; only the slurping sound of eating porridge, mixed with the faint, distant sounds of battle, swirled in the bitter wind.

Proceeding further south, the north wind churned up charred, foul-smelling soot in all directions.

Just as they turned the street corner, a stench of mingled grease and charred bone assaulted their nostrils, making him instinctively shield his nose.

In an open plaza ahead, three bonfires blazed furiously, flames shooting up a丈 high and turning the snowy day a reddish hue.

The outer perimeter was stacked with split timber from doors and windows salvaged from houses demolished by artillery stones, still bearing unburned window paper.

Over a dozen militiamen, wading through knee-deep snow, silently carried corpses wrapped in straw mats toward the fires.

The straw mats snapped and crackled upon contact with the flames, revealing limbs curled or extended beneath, still clad in tattered short garments. As the tongues of fire licked the fabric, the clothes first shrivelled, then billowed, and finally turned to ash. The exposed limbs gradually blackened and curled in the fire, looking like countless scorched hands clawing hopelessly.

The method of open-air cremation was meticulously arranged: a base layer of firewood with corpses and fuel interleaved in a "well" lattice pattern, with grease and dry grass stuffed between each body to ensure thorough burning. Yet the more orderly it was, the more chilling it felt.

With each added corpse, the pyre sent up a sudden pillar of black smoke, carrying sparks into the downwind.

"Namo amitābhāya..."

The old monk struck his wooden fish percussion, each blow sounding like a strike against frozen earth, heavy enough to tighten one's chest.

A young novice monk held the Ksitigarbha Sutra, his lips frozen purple, stumbling over the scripture: "If any good man or good woman hears the name of Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva..." The wind caught his voice and drove it into the fire, swallowed instantly by the flames.

A pair of parents knelt in the snow, clutching a small corpse wrapped in cloth. The fabric was already soaked through with blood. The woman stared blankly at the pyre, devoid of focus, and suddenly began kowtowing to the monks, her forehead striking the frozen earth with loud thuds: "Master, I beg you, let her leave cleanly. She is only five years old and has never even tasted candy."

"Tathāgatāya..." The old monk closed his eyes, reciting the scripture with even greater devotion than usual.

On the western side, however, the Taoist priest appeared more brisk.

The green-robed Taoist flicked his horsetail whisk, his bronze hand-bell ringing sharply, while his other hand grabbed a handful of cinnabar and scattered it into the pyre: "Heavenly Venerable who Delivers from Suffering of Taiyi! Dust to dust, earth to earth, do not linger on the mortal path!" He paced the Dipper constellation, stepping out the seven-star pattern, and the ashes of burnt yellow paper talismans clung to his beard, making him look as though frosted with ice.

"That is my husband!"

A shrill cry pierced through the chanting. A disheveled woman rushed out from the crowd, flinging herself madly toward the corpse just hoisted onto the pyre. One of the corpse's arms remained exposed, a braided peace knot she had personally sewn tied around its wrist.

"You cannot burn him! He promised me! He promised me!"

Yesterday, her husband had been conscripted as a local brave to guard the ramparts, and within a single day, he had fallen in battle. When government runners came to notify her, the world had spun into darkness, and she collapsed to the ground.

Two soldiers quickly pulled her back. The woman struggled desperately, her throat hoarse: "Zhang Wulang! Open your eyes and look at me! You said you'd buy the baby a rattle after the battle, come back!"

The peace knot in the pyre turned to ash, and she abruptly collapsed into the snow, reaching into her bosom to pull out a tattered cloth bundle containing half a mantou. She held it out toward the fire, her voice as soft as a dream: "Wulang, are you hungry? I kept it warm in my bosom for you for half a day..."

Wailing erupted all around.

"My son, how could you leave!" An old man wailed, clutching his son's lingering possessions.

A young girl with twin hair-buns cried aloud, pointing to a patch of green cloth in the fire: "That's older brother's jacket! That's older brother's jacket!"

Her family members, eyes red with suppressed tears, pulled her away into the crowd. The girl kicked frantically in her father's arms, crying "I want my brother," her voice as thin as a thread yet slicing agonizingly into everyone's ears.

A lame young man leaned on a wooden staff, weeping openly as he stared at a corpse in the fire.

It was his younger brother, who had gone yesterday to haul stones in his stead and was struck in the lower back by an artillery stone, dying on the spot. "I told you to stay out of the way..." he muttered to himself, grabbing his wooden staff and poking at the fire. "You blockhead! I told you not to show off!" Sparks splattered onto the back of his hand, blistering his skin, yet he did not pull back.

The old monk's wooden fish beat faster and faster, while the young novice's chanting mingled with sobbing: "At that time, the World-Honored One said to Ananda..."

The Taoist intoned: "Supreme Sovereign of the Eastern Jade Treasure, Sovereign of the Southern Profound Truth and Myriad Blessings... The Heavenly Venerable of Deliverance pervades the ten directions, constantly saving the multitudes with mighty light."

The scriptures intertwined with the woman's weeping, the old man's murmurs.

The bronze bell rang louder, trying to drown out the sorrow that filled the sky, but as the cinnabar scattered into the fire, it only provoked a fiercer burst of flames.

Li Xiao stood on the outer perimeter of the crowd, his feet seemingly nailed to the snow. There were no flashing swords or clashing blades, only the charred stench of flesh and bone consumed by fire, only the living weeping before the ashes.

Amidst the cries were unexpressed promises, unrealized hopes, and lives cut short just as they began.

Those commoners who usually quibbled over a few cash coins, those women who haggled in the marketplace—at this moment, they had all been reduced to wretched souls clutching urns of ashes.

Snowflakes melted upon touching the edges of the fire, mixing with blood and mud to form pools of dark brown sludge.

A snowflake landed on Li Xiao's eyelash. Blinking, he realized when his own eyes had grown wet.

"Let's go." Uncle Quanwu tugged his sleeve from behind, his voice hoarse as well. "This place... is too much to bear."

Walking far away, the charred stench still lingered. Glancing back, the firelight flickered like the bleeding wounds of this city. The snow fell heavier and heavier, trying to blanket everything, yet some things, once burned and wept over, left human yearnings still raging tempestuously.

The deepest pain in this city was never the cracks battered into its walls, but these shattered hearts dissolved in fire and drifting in the wind, destined never to be made whole again.