Legends of the Song Dynasty: Blood and Power

In the middle years of the Tang Dynasty, the realm was like a flickering lamp in the wind, its flame about to be extinguished. The empire that had once gazed down upon the four seas in the posture of a golden age was now reduced to nothing but a land of ashes. Chang’an, once the city of the Son of Heaven, was now bleak to the eye. Broken palaces stood in the cold wind, moss growing among the rubble, vermilion walls peeling, stone steps icy. The wind howled across the Guanzhong Plain, lifting dust and cinders, carrying the lament of passing years. Copper bells on the city walls clanged in the wind, like a funeral knell being tolled for the soul of the Tang. North of the Yellow River, the beacon fires had not yet gone out. In the watery towns of the south, iron hooves had long since trampled everything to ruin, the water’s surface drifting with charred wrecks and bleached bones. The splendid dream of song and dance from former days had been reduced to nothing but a field of blood-red. After the An Lushan Rebellion, the realm never again knew peace. The military governors were wolves, each holding heavy armies, pretending to serve Heaven while in truth plundering at will. Their banners bore the words “pacify the rebels,” yet they had long grown used to burning villages and sacking cities. The people were driven from their homes, villages left empty. How many children cried out “I’m hungry” in the cold wind, their voices swallowed by the night. And in the court, the ruler and the powerful ministers wallowed in drunken dreams. Civil officials fought for power, military generals chased profit; on this shattered land, every inch of territory had people fighting over it. Their eyes had long since turned away from the common folk, fixed only on that blood-stained crown. By the end of the Tang, the realm had fallen completely into madness. Huang Chao rose in rebellion, a hundred thousand righteous troops sweeping across the Central Plains. When his banners appeared before the gates of Chang’an, the last dignity of the empire burned into ashes. Emperor Xizong fled in panic, palace women wailing, officials scattering. Huang Chao ascended the dragon throne that once belonged to the Son of Heaven, wild fire flashing in his eyes. He thought that by sitting on the throne he could become a sage, not knowing that the chaos of the world could not be ended by a single blade or a single crown. Under the edge of swords, blood flowed into rivers; in the midst of raging flames, the people were turned to ash. In fifty-three years, eight clans and thirteen emperors rose, and the state name was changed five times. Dynasties rose and fell like the tides, yet not one moment of peace was ever found. The realm forged in blood and fire became a tomb that buried the hopes of countless people. The night wind swept over the northern battlefields, moonlight cold as iron. Fallen battle flags, shattered drum skins, broken halberds lay in silent death. Old crows circled among the corpses, pecking at the eyes of fallen soldiers. Blood mixed with mud flowed into ravines, and the wind carried the stench of rusted iron. This was the night of the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms. People said, “In chaotic times, heroes arise.” But most so-called heroes of this world were nothing more than tyrants. Li Keyong, Zhu Wen, Shi Jingtang, Liu Zhiyuan, Guo Wei… Their glory was built upon mountains of corpses and seas of blood. Some murdered brothers and fathers; some sold out their country for honor. Some trusted traitors; some were licentious and depraved. Rites collapsed and music perished, fathers took sons’ wives, fathers-in-law seized daughters-in-law; the golden dragons beneath those thrones had long been corroded by greed into venomous serpents. Their empires rose one after another, and one after another were destroyed. What they left behind were countless desolate tombs and bones covering the fields. If they were to be called heroes, then there would be no justice under Heaven. They were monstrous beasts, fed by blood and lies. Yet no matter how deep the darkness, it cannot smother the tiny spark within the human heart. In times of chaos, there are always those who refuse to bow their heads. He does not seek fame, nor does he crave wealth; he seeks only the breath of the people. He knows that Heaven is merciless, yet he is still willing to use his blood to defy it. That man is the Fire-Mountain King, Yang Gun. In the northern lands, wind and snow were like blades. On Fire Mountain Ridge, pine waves rolled, white snow capped the peaks, heaven and earth one color. A lone rider galloped in from the snow, iron armor flashing with cold light, a long spear reflecting the moon like a dragon. Hooves shattered the ice, snowflakes scattering like broken silver. He reined in his horse upon the mountaintop, his cloak snapping fiercely in the wind. Yang Gun gazed down at the land below, broken rivers and mountains reflected in his eyes. The wind cut his face like knives, yet he did not move. It was a silent rage, a solitary resolve tempered in blood and fire. He had seen too many cries of suffering from the people, and too much arrogance from the warlords. He knew that if no one stepped forward, there would be no common folk left to save. He said in a low voice, “In times of chaos, one must behead the wicked and open a path with blood.” The wind carried the words away, yet they were carved into his fate. From that moment on, he was no longer an ordinary warrior. What he bore was not only the hatred of his nation, but also the pain of all under Heaven. He created the “Fire-Mountain Spear,” thirteen forms, spear shadows like dragons, cold light like lightning, strikes like wind, force like thunder. This spear art later spread for a hundred generations and became the root of the “Yang Family Spear.” With the strength of one man, he slew bandits, repelled foreign foes, and guarded the northern frontier, his name shaking the four quarters. People called him the “Fire-Mountain King,” because he was like a raging volcano, burning without end, erupting with heaven-shaking force. But what truly inspired awe was not his spear, but that heart which would never bend. Yang Gun walked through the snowy wastes of a chaotic age, his back lonely yet resolute. He knew full well that this road was covered in thorns and drenched in blood; yet still, step by step, he walked toward the destiny that was bound to burn. His blood, his spirit, became the root of every Yang clansman who would come after him. In that root lay iron, lay fire, and lay a soul that would never be extinguished. Later generations would say: “The Yang clan’s loyal martyrs, heroic souls for a hundred ages.” And their bloodline all began at this moment— that night, on Fire Mountain Ridge, amid wind and snow, a single roar split heaven and earth. A true hero’s legend thus begins. Dusk grew heavy, and the wind rolled the clouds. Beneath Yongning Mountain west of Xining, the rocks of Yangjia Ravine gleamed with a blue-black chill in the cold wind. The setting sun shone upon a courtyard—that was the former residence of Golden-Blade Yang Hui. Outside the courtyard, pines and cypresses stood in solemn ranks, and the shadows of blades and spears flickered in the sunlight, as if guarding something that would never perish. This old general of Yangjia Ravine had once guarded Tong Pass for ten years. In his hand was a nine-ringed eight-loop saber, its cold gleam like lightning, its edge drunk on a thousand kinds of blood. The army all called him the “Golden-Blade General,” undefeated in a hundred battles, his might shaking the Three Qins. Yet heroes grow old, and so does the fortune of a realm. The last Emperor Xizong was dim and incompetent, favoring eunuchs and indulging the warlords. Those regional military governors each held their own armies, plundering Tong Pass, leaving the people unable to survive. Yang Hui submitted memorials many times to remonstrate, yet instead earned suspicion. In a battle at Tong Pass he refused to join the traitorous ministers, angered the powerful, and was stripped of his command and dismissed back to his homeland. That day, he stood atop the pass, gazing at the surging river, tears streaming down his face. He let out a long sigh and said, “I, Yang Hui, have spent half my life in war, cutting down ten thousand foes, yet today I cannot even protect one city’s people! If there is no longer a worthy ruler in this world, I shall never take up arms again!” With that, he plunged his blade into the ground. His oath thundered like thunder, shaking the mountains and passes. After returning home, he washed away all worldly dust and lived in seclusion on Yongning Mountain. He farmed at sunrise and sat in stillness at sunset. His only joy was the young son at his knees, Yang Gun, styled Jun’ai. This child had delicate brows and eyes, yet his gaze was remarkably steady. At five or six years of age he already carried himself with discipline; when he saw his father bow, he bowed, and when he listened to instruction, he did not speak. Yet by nature he was hot-blooded, despising letters and loving arms. Whenever village children played and scuffled, he would always pretend to be the commander-in-chief, ordering them into formations, shouting commands. Though his young voice had not yet changed, it already carried a killing aura. Every time Yang Hui saw this, he nodded silently. “This child is truly of a general’s blood.” He often murmured in his heart, “The bloodline of my Yang clan must not end with me. When he grows up, I must teach him to take the blade as his bones and loyalty as his soul.” Time flowed like water, and in a blink Yang Gun had reached seven years of age. That day, the western hills were calm and the dusk haze just beginning to fall. Yang Hui sat upon a stone bench in the courtyard, stroking his saber in deep thought. Looking at the courtyard full of autumn leaves, he suddenly felt the press of years. The battle spirit that had lain dormant for so long stirred faintly once more. He called Yang Gun to him, his voice gentle. “My son, are you willing to study martial arts?” Yang Gun froze for a moment, then his eyes lit up. He had long yearned for blades and spears, yet because his father had never mentioned it, he dared not speak. Now hearing these words, even at his young age he could not suppress his excitement. He clapped his hands and cried, “Father! Your child is willing! The eighteen kinds of weapons—I want to learn them all! If I learn one, I will practice it until I am the best!” Yang Hui looked at him, the corner of his brow lifting slightly, a long-lost smile rising in his eyes. “What bold ambition! But remember—learning many weapons is not as good as mastering one. To be a general, you must not be greedy for clever tricks. Your father once relied on a single blade to establish countless feats. With the nine-ringed eight-loop saber in hand, who would dare offend Great Tang? This saber art I shall pass on to you. You must remember—it is not a technique for killing, but the martial soul that protects the realm.” With that, he slowly drew his blade. The saber flashed, its cold air pressing outward; even the withered leaves on the ground were swept up by its wind. The nine rings clanged together, like the cries of dragons and phoenixes, as if recounting the glories of old.