Chapter Fifty-Two: Old Memories

Currently, within the imperial court, there was constant debate between the peace faction, led by Grand Preceptor Li Heyan, and the war faction, backed by Elder Lin, the Left Minister. Neither side could persuade the other, nor would either listen.

The Grand Preceptor’s camp insisted that under no circumstance should troops be dispatched. They argued that Northern Qi and Great Song had always enjoyed amicable relations; even if troops were to be mobilized, it should be in the spirit of assistance. Now, with Great Song’s mighty armies and countless talented generals, to take advantage of another’s misfortune would be shameful if word spread, inviting the ridicule of the world.

The Grand Preceptor’s attitude was, in fact, the cause of Elder Lin’s distress. The root of the problem lay in the grain stores.

Lin Prefecture, a crucial military stronghold of Great Song, was also known as the “granary” of the nation. Yet this year, disaster had struck: a plague of insects followed by a severe drought had left the fields barren and the granaries empty.

Because of this, Elder Lin had spent many sleepless nights in worry.

When Grand Preceptor Li Heyan heard the news, he was overjoyed, secretly thinking, “Lin, with no grain left, let’s see how you plan to send troops to reclaim lost territory.”

Elder Lin himself commanded a force of three thousand Black Riders—a unit that had never revealed itself in public and served as his trump card. The mere existence of the Black Riders struck fear into the hearts of all. It was said that any one of the three thousand was a first-rate warrior, loyal solely to Elder Lin.

Years ago, when Elder Lin was defeated by the Liao Kingdom and gravely wounded, it was these three thousand Black Riders who charged into the encirclement of seventy thousand Liao troops, rescued him, and escorted him safely back to the capital.

The memory of that painful episode had long been a knot in Elder Lin’s heart.

Nine years ago, Lin, as the Left Minister, led troops to war against Liao. He swiftly eliminated three elite units of the enemy, then, through cunning stratagem, used only ten thousand men to trap and annihilate thirty thousand foes in a deadly ambush.

News of these victories reached the capital, and the Song Emperor, overjoyed, declared a national celebration and prepared a grand banquet to welcome the triumphant minister home.

But a traitor emerged within the ranks. The plans Lin had carefully written fell into the hands of the Liao army, who then feigned ignorance, pretending to fall into his trap while secretly laying one of their own.

In a mountain pass called Blackwind Gorge, Lin set his ambush, but when no enemy arrived, suspicion began to gnaw at him. The plan was airtight—once the enemy entered the trap, they would be helpless prey.

As he waited in growing anxiety, a bloodied soldier arrived, risking his life to fall on his knees before Lin and burst into tears.

Lin’s heart sank. The soldier choked out, “Minister Lin... We’ve been betrayed! The men up ahead... they’re all dead…”

This soldier was the only survivor of the supply division, which managed the army’s provisions. All others had perished—some hacked to pieces by blades, some riddled with arrows, others crushed by rolling stones.

He was the sergeant in charge, and only his exceptional skill allowed him to escape. They had been guarding the supplies when he suddenly felt the ground tremble. Lying low, he heard the thunder of countless hooves approaching.

But the Liao main force was supposed to be waiting for Lin’s ambush at Blackwind Gorge—why were they attacking from the rear?

He realized the plan had been leaked, a traitor had betrayed them, and the Liao army had outflanked them, launching a devastating counterattack.

Even as death loomed, he was determined not to let the supplies fall into enemy hands. He rallied his comrades, and they fought desperately, felling many enemies, but they were hopelessly outnumbered and the defense finally collapsed.

He watched as his brothers were cut down, pierced by arrows, or crushed by falling boulders. The provisions were set alight, burning to ashes before his eyes.

He carved a bloody path out, surviving only to deliver the grim news.

With those words, the soldier collapsed into Lin’s arms and died, eyes wide open. Three arrows in his back—such willpower it took to run so far to deliver his warning!

Lin sighed in grief, gently closing the soldier’s eyes. He rose, heavy-hearted, and looked at his remaining men.

He had calculated everything, victory was in his grasp—yet he had been undone by his own arrogance. He had never imagined there could be a traitor among his ranks.

Now, with supplies cut off, even if they fought their way out and destroyed the enemy, the thousand-mile journey home without food meant certain death. It seemed Heaven itself wished doom upon Lin Bowen.

The supply depot lay only a few miles away; the Liao army was surely on its way now. He knew battle was inevitable and survival unlikely.

His own life mattered little, but he grieved for the soldiers who had followed him through countless battles.

To rally his men, Lin drew his sword and raised it high. “Brothers, it is my incompetence that has trapped us here,” he declared. “Since I, Lin, cannot share your birth, let me at least share your death! Are you with me—will you break free by my side?”

Lin’s stirring words emboldened the troops. Seeing him unafraid of death, they too raised their swords, shouting as one, “Kill! Kill! Kill!”

Turning, they saw the enemy ranks surging forward like a dark tide.

Lin charged at the fore, sword in hand, and his soldiers formed a protective ring, throwing themselves into battle at his side.

By the end, Lin’s hands trembled so badly he could barely hold his sword, standing amidst a field of corpses, watching his men fight to the last and fall before his eyes.

Familiar faces perished one by one, until only a single soldier remained, shielding Lin with a body already riddled with wounds.

Barely able to stand, the soldier propped himself up with the Song banner in one hand and his sword in the other, dying on his feet with a posture that brought tears to all who saw it. Not one among them surrendered.

The enemy general dismounted, borrowed a bow from an aide, and drew it fully, aiming at Lin’s chest.

The soldier before Lin, having lost too much blood, finally died—still upright, with the Song banner in his left hand and his sword braced on the ground, departing this world in a manner that wrenched Lin’s heart.

Tears welled in Lin’s eyes. For the sake of his men, he would die on the battlefield, never retreating.

Behind the enemy general, a line of archers had drawn their bows. At the general’s command, Lin would be slain in a storm of arrows.

Lin closed his eyes, knowing all hope was lost.

Just then, a thunderous sound arose in the distance—a mass of armored cavalry swept across the field. It was his Black Riders!

One of them bore a banner with a tiger’s head, and at the sight, the enemy general was struck with terror—the Black Riders’ name was legendary.

“Retreat! Fall back!” he shouted.

Three thousand Black Riders charged like unleashed tigers, tearing a breach in the encirclement of seventy thousand. The Black Riders, after all, had once destroyed an entire nation with three thousand men.

Desperate for his life, the enemy general halted his archers and withdrew with his remaining forces.