129. Only Owed to the West Wind

At dawn the next day, the booming of drums echoed from the gates of Changshe. Under the morning light, the rebel host launched a desperate charge against the city.

Huangfu Song and Zhu Jun ascended the walls in person to command the defense. Bows and arrows rained down like a summer tempest, reaping the lives of the rebels with ruthless efficiency. Thousands of rebels, shielded by wooden planks, advanced rapidly through the hail of arrows, covering the siege towers and the comrades carrying scaling ladders behind them. Yet, just as they cleared the arrow storm and reached the base of the walls, a series of sharp, whistling sounds tore through the air.

Logs and boulders plummeted from above, shattering wooden shields into splinters and crushing the flesh and blood of the rebels into a sickening pulp. The scene was one of carnage, gruesome and unbearable to witness.

The rebels yearned to retreat. They had seen such brutal fighting many times over the past few days. Er Gouzi, for instance, had been crushed by a boulder; when his body was retrieved, half of his torso was caved in, as if savaged by wolves. Then there was Da Wazi, who died even more wretchedly—a falling log had struck his head with such force that his skull was driven deep into his chest cavity.

These memories filled the rebels with terror, but worse still was the knowledge that the imperial troops had not yet poured down the boiling oil.

As the thought crossed their minds, the oil arrived. With a roar of "Whoosh," the scalding liquid cascaded down. With a boiling point exceeding two hundred degrees, the oil scorched the flesh of the rebels instantly. A crackling sound filled the air as countless blood blisters erupted; a mere touch caused patches of skin and muscle to slough off their bodies. Groups of rebels wailed in agony, their faces melting away to reveal ghastly, bared teeth.

Such is the cruelty of war. After leaving behind over three thousand corpses, the rebels finally managed to prop eighteen scaling ladders against the walls—less than half the number they had started with. The soldiers who had carried the rest were buried in the sea of arrows.

Just as the ladders touched the walls and before a single climber could ascend, a chorus of "Swish, swish, swish" rang out. Hundreds of fire arrows descended from the sky, striking rebels and the ground alike. Fire met oil, and in an instant, the base of Changshe transformed into a sea of flames. The rebels, their bodies slick with oil, shrieked and rolled frantically on the ground. Finally overcome by terror, they broke ranks and fled in a chaotic rout.

As Huangfu Song and Zhu Jun watched the rebels retreat, they heaved a sigh of relief. They looked up at the banners fluttering in the wind, but they were still pointing west; the long-awaited westerly wind had yet to arrive. Though the wind was absent, Bo Cai, having learned of Luan Yi’s reinforcements, had arrived—and with a ferocity that bordered on madness. The morning’s defeat had not dampened his resolve; instead, it had ignited his animal instincts. A second wave of attacks followed, and after that, a third.

His intent was clear: he sought to take Changshe quickly before turning back to deal with Luan Yi.

But could Huangfu Song allow Bo Cai to take Changshe so easily? Absolutely not! He organized the city’s residents to assist in the defense, going so far as to dismantle buildings—including the county magistrate’s office—to replenish their supply of logs and boulders. He mobilized the citizens as laborers to transport provisions and drafted the able-bodied into the ranks to man the walls.

Could Luan Yi allow Bo Cai to take Changshe easily? Impossible! His church army maneuvered constantly, creating trouble behind Bo Cai’s lines, both real and feigned. This forced Bo Cai to divert troops to guard his rear, which, to an extent, eased the burden on Huangfu Song and Zhu Jun. Consequently, all seven attacks launched by Bo Cai over the following day ended in failure, and it was not until nightfall that the fighting finally ceased.

Huangfu Song and Zhu Jun finally found a moment of reprieve, but fearing they might miss the arrival of the westerly wind, they dared not sleep. Instead, they sat atop the battlements, playing a game of Go to keep their spirits alert.

Seeing Zhu Jun staring blankly at the flagpole without making a move, Huangfu Song complained, "Gongwei, what are you daydreaming about? It’s your turn!"

Zhu Jun, looking vexed, tossed his piece onto the board. "No more, no more. I’ve lost three games in a row! It’s no fun at all!"

Huangfu Song chuckled softly. "A wandering mind is the bane of a commander. It’s no wonder you’re losing!"

"You can still laugh!" Zhu Jun paced rapidly along the wall, casting another glance at the flagpole. "It’s been over a day. Why hasn't the west wind come? If it doesn’t arrive soon, Changshe won't hold! Look at this..." He pointed to a corner of the wall. "It’s already cracking. If Bo Cai decides to focus his next assault here, the wall will collapse. How are we to respond then?"

"Calm yourself, Gongwei. Sit down, let’s talk," Huangfu Song said, pouring a cup of boiling tea and placing it before him. "Warm yourself first."

"Oh!" Zhu Jun was frantic. "Yizhen, how can you be so unconcerned? This involves the lives of thousands of soldiers and civilians!"

"Who says I’m not concerned?" Huangfu Song retorted, finally showing a trace of agitation. "But does worrying help? If worrying could summon the west wind, I would worry myself to death. But it is useless; it only makes us anxious. So, rather than fretting blindly, we must sit and wait in peace."

Zhu Jun, knowing he was in the wrong, ceased his complaints and sat down to drink his tea. Yet, his eyes still strayed instinctively toward the flagpole. "Yizhen, do you think Luan Ziqi’s prediction is accurate?"

"Accurate in what way?"

"That the west wind will surely come within three days!"

"It is accurate, certainly." Huangfu Song gave Zhu Jun a resolute look. "From what I know of Luan Yi, though he is young, he is steady in his dealings. He would never speak of such things without certainty."

"Oh! That’s good then!" Relieved, Zhu Jun reached for the piece he had thrown down, intending to continue the game, only to realize he had already lost three of the four corners and his center was in shambles. The game was lost. "I’ve lost again! No more!" Muttering to himself, he stood up and walked toward the gatehouse.

"Where are you going, Gongwei?"

"I can't beat you! I’m going to find a book to read!" Zhu Jun stepped into the tower, rummaged through his belongings, and finally chose a book before returning.

"What book is it?" Huangfu Song asked curiously.

"Here..."

Huangfu Song squinted and saw it was *Strange Tales from the Chatel*, written by Luan Yi. "Reading that at night—doesn't it give you the creeps?"

"That’s exactly what keeps me alert!" Zhu Jun opened the book and began to read: *A scholar named Wang from Taiyuan was walking early in the morning when he met a young woman carrying a bundle, walking with great difficulty. He hurried to catch up and found her to be a beauty of sixteen. Smitten, he asked, "Why are you traveling alone at this hour?" The girl replied, "A traveler cannot resolve their own sorrows; why bother asking?" Wang said, "What troubles you? Perhaps I can be of service." The girl said sadly, "My parents were greedy for money and sold me into a wealthy household. The mistress is jealous and abuses me morning and night. I cannot bear it, so I am fleeing."*... It was the story of "The Painted Skin."

Zhu Jun read on until he reached the passage: *Suspicious of her actions, he climbed over the low wall and peered through the window. He saw a hideous demon with green skin and teeth like a saw, spreading a human skin on the bed and painting it with a brush. It then threw down the brush, lifted the skin, and draped it over its body, transforming into a woman. Terrified, the scholar crawled away, fleeing in horror to find the Taoist priest.* As he read this, his hair stood on end. He felt a cold breeze constantly creeping toward his neck, as if a female ghost were standing beside him, blowing on his skin.

He turned his head instinctively. "Good heavens!" There was indeed someone blowing on his neck, but it wasn't a ghost. It was Huangfu Song, who had leaned over his shoulder to sneak a look at the story.

Huangfu Song smacked his lips. "I must say, Luan Ziqi writes a compelling story. I’ve read it before, but it’s still fascinating."

"Get away with you!" Zhu Jun shoved him, fuming. "You old man, don't you know you can scare someone to death? Go away, I’ll lend it to you when I’m finished!"

Huangfu Song rolled his eyes and obediently squatted back in his seat to drink his tea. Zhu Jun turned his focus back to the page.

As the plot deepened, Zhu Jun’s heart pounded, and a chilling wind seemed to swirl around his spine. In the midst of this, Zhu Jun, whose senses were heightened to the limit, suddenly stiffened. "Hmm?" Something was wrong... what was it?

The cold wind had been circling clockwise across his back, but now it had reversed... reversed? It had reversed! As he looked up, he saw Huangfu Song staring at the flagpole as well. "The wind... it has shifted!"

"Haha... the west wind is here!" Zhu Jun leaped to his feet, tossing *Strange Tales from the Chatel* to the ground. The two exchanged a triumphant smile. Zhu Jun shouted his order: "Pass on my command! Form ranks, move out!"

The imperial troops, stifled for so long, finally had the chance to wash away their shame. The massive city gates swung open, and over forty thousand soldiers, equipped with sulfur, dry hay, and other combustibles, surged out. Huangfu Song led his contingent out the South Gate, while Zhu Jun took his through the East Gate, driving straight into the rebel camp.

By this time, the imperial troops, emboldened by their defensive success, were at their peak, while the rebels, having suffered defeat all day, were utterly exhausted. From the moment the fighting began, the scales of victory tipped in favor of the imperial army.

The forty thousand soldiers killed whoever they saw and set fire to everything that would burn. The rebel camp, built amidst piles of dry hay, was quickly engulfed. Fanned by the westerly wind, the inferno spread across the entire camp, driving the rebels into a panic. Thousands were trapped in the sea of fire, their bodies ablaze, their screams heart-wrenching.

The air was thick with the stench of charred charcoal, the pungent smell of burning leather, and... the aroma of roasting meat.

The rebel camp fell into chaos. The rebels scrambled for their lives, crowding together in such a frenzy that some, in their desperation, drew their blades against their own comrades to carve a path to survival, only to be cut down in turn. They trampled over corpses and lives alike; some died in the fire, others were crushed in the stampede, and many perished at the hands of their own kin.

A cruel and desperate flight played out among the rebels.

The imperial troops skirted the flames, seizing the opportunity to slaughter the fleeing masses. Wherever they passed, blood flowed like a river, and the ground was carpeted with bodies.