Chapter 56: The Army’s True Spirit

“You little brat! Amitabha…” When Shen Shi suggested that Bao Zheng arrest him, the monk couldn’t hold back and swore aloud. Realizing what he’d done, he quickly recited a Buddhist blessing and said, “Benefactor, don’t speak such nonsense!”

Shen Shi was not angry. Instead, he addressed the monk, “The Liao dynasty’s use of espionage dates back to the time of its founder, Yelü Abaoji. It is said he once used spies to learn the true strength of the Shiwei people and dealt them a crushing defeat. After acquiring the Sixteen Prefectures of Yan and Yun, the Liao’s intelligence network reached deep into the heartland of the Central Plains. According to the Five Dynasties chronicle, ‘Idle Tales from the Jade Hall,’ during the Later Jin, there was a woman in Bianliang—beautiful, but with no legs—who begged on the streets with her ‘father.’ The authorities later discovered she was the leader of a Liao spy ring, and their street begging was a cover for gathering intelligence…”

“Liao spies disguised as monks often traveled the Song lands under the pretext of wandering ascetics or, after ordaining at Mount Wutai, would remain there to collect information…”

“What do you say, Master?” Bao Zheng asked, now visibly suspicious, for Shen Shi’s words were precise and even cited the source. Wang Chao and Ma Han closed in, ready to prevent the monk’s escape.

“Amitabha! You slander me so—do you not fear the Buddha’s wrath?” the monk cried, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He had no idea how Shen Shi could know all this. Even he himself had only fallen in with the Liao after a few instances of smuggling with them.

But he had only ever smuggled goods, never served as a Liao spy.

His conscience was already uneasy; what he did was far from righteous. Now Shen Shi had heaped this further accusation upon him, and he was furious.

“Hahaha, monk, which of us the Buddha will judge, who can say?” Shen Shi looked at him coldly.

Suddenly, on the outskirts of the crowd, there was a chorus of screams. Someone shouted, “Liao dogs! Liao dogs!”

Before the words had faded, five or six mounted men charged into the crowd. They were giants, their shoulders broad, their bodies packed with muscle. They wore dogskin caps, sheepskin robes, and wielded swords and sabers with savage force. In a flash, five or six militiamen were down.

As one of the warriors spun, his cap fell off, revealing a shaven crown ringed with stubble.

“They’re Liao dogs!” someone cried.

That hairstyle proved their identity beyond doubt.

At first, Shen Shi did not intervene. After all, his side had the numbers—over a hundred men—while the Liao had only five or six riders. Victory should have been assured.

But the result was a massacre. The five Liao warriors cut through the ranks of Guobei County’s militia as if they were nothing. Blood sprayed as swords rose and fell.

Even the militia leader, when he collided with one of the Liao, found his opponent unmoved while he himself staggered back five or six steps, his chest about to burst.

His foe closed in and felled him with a single punch, blood trickling from his lips.

It all seemed unreal—like the difference between classes in a game. The Song side were mere beginner militiamen and captains, while the Liao warriors were advanced, perhaps even elite.

In the profession of battle, the Liao utterly dominated.

The hundred militiamen could only surround and retreat. They were farmers—on the fields, perhaps, they could outdo the Liao by miles, but in slaughter, it was the reverse. Many of their legs had gone weak. They wanted to flee, but none dared take the first step. Behind them, Bao Zheng stood tall and resolute, hands behind his back, as if untouched by the chaos before him.

So long as the leader did not turn and run, the ranks would not break. Though overmatched, they stood their ground. They did not flee.

Shen Shi stood at Bao Zheng’s side, noticing a subtle difference in the bearing of the two sides—a difference that explained why a hundred could not overcome a mere five. That difference was qi—the martial spirit.

Were the people of Song born cowards, sheep doomed to be slaughtered by others? No! The true reason was the loss of that “martial” spirit. The Confucians spoke of ending war to achieve martial virtue, but in truth, it is through righteous battle that martial virtue is attained. Heaven and earth possess righteous qi—cultivating it leads to transcendence, abandoning it leads to evil.

The Song had not cultivated evil, merely favored the civil over the martial to excess.

But perhaps, Shen Shi thought, there was more. He felt on the verge of grasping some profound truth of heaven and earth.

Just then, one of the Liao warriors—massive as a mountain, yet agile as a fox—suddenly broke away, charging in the opposite direction. In a dozen steps, the militia surged to block him. He spun, his blade bent from use, and brought it down with force. One militiaman’s skull collapsed, blood streaming from every orifice as he fell. Another was sent flying by a fist the size of a mortar. Before he landed, a heavy boot stomped on his belly, using him as a springboard. The Liao warrior stretched out his enormous hand—

His target: Bao Zheng!

“Die!” he roared. In his eyes gleamed a predator’s savagery. He was a lion, his prey helpless—yet, to his confusion, this prey showed not a hint of fear.

It was remarkable. But he wasted no time, intent only on twisting off Bao Zheng’s head.

His claws were less than three inches from Bao Zheng’s neck. Bao could feel the heat of his breath, the stench of it. His heart blazed with fury: Why should the descendants of Yan and Huang, the chosen of Heaven, suffer slaughter at the hands of barbarians?

At the instant when Bao Zheng was about to die, the warrior’s body jerked aside, avoiding a vulnerable spot, and a fist struck his belly, sending him rolling. In a flash, he leapt up and glared in fury.

It was Shen Shi who had struck—the scholar, dressed in the garb of a student.

Such attire was always deceptive. In a single instant, the Liao warrior was humiliated—a mere Song scholar had not only struck him, but had sent him rolling. An outrage!

Gnashing his teeth, he charged again.

This time, his attack was fueled by hatred—a single, brutal punch, full of force. Shen Shi, however, did not care. He casually slapped it aside.

At that moment, Shen Shi sensed a qi within the warrior—a force not his own, but something from heaven and earth itself.

While Shen Shi pondered what kind of qi this was, and why it was there, the Liao warrior who’d taken his blow could no longer stand.

Crack—

That thin, almost imperceptible layer of qi could not withstand Shen Shi’s strike.

Fortunately, there was more than one Liao warrior. Without hesitation, Shen Shi sought out the second. He opened his eyes wide.

The man’s presence was too faint—Shen Shi’s eyes could not see it clearly. Without thought, he raised his foot and kicked.