This Battle Is Not Over Yet

The Heavenly Sword hummed softly at his waist.

"Wang Hao, what are you thinking about?"

"About something," Wang Hao said, his voice calm. "I've fought countless battles in my life, buried countless schemes, taken countless lands. But I've never truly stopped to think—war means people die."

"Obviously. War means death."

"No, it's different. Before, it was enemies dying. I didn't grieve. This time, it's my soldiers, my people. Flying in from Nan'an City, I saw the shattered armor fragments drifting on the sea, the mangled bodies being gathered at the harbor, the young men in the infirmary missing arms or legs—"

He stopped, unable to finish.

The Heavenly Sword was silent for a moment, then said something Wang Hao had never heard from it before.

"Wang Hao, I've existed for less than two years, but you've taught me one thing—when you kill, you kill, and you don't look back. Look back, and your blade grows heavy."

"Is your blade heavy now?"

The Heavenly Sword said nothing. A long pause, and then it finally uttered a few words.

"...A little."

Wang Hao smiled. The smile was faint, barely perceptible, but a smile nonetheless.

"Then it's settled—my blade's heavy too. Relax, I'll teach you how to lighten the load—slaughter a few more Aberrants. Negative times negative makes positive."

The Heavenly Sword made a sound that was both laughter and a sigh.

At Chen hour the next morning, the walls of Zhennanguan were packed with people.

The soldiers wore clean uniforms—not new ones, but old uniforms laundered the night before. Some still had patches that hadn't been finished, but every tear had been stitched neatly.

The wounded stood in the back rows, supported by their brothers-in-arms—legs wrapped in bandages, arms suspended in slings, heads swathed in gauze with only one eye exposed. Those who could stand, stood. Those who couldn't lay on stretchers, carried by their comrades into the formation.

The naval soldiers lined the harbor pier, behind them the battle-scarred warships. The hulls still bore bullet holes and cracks untouched by repair, but from every mast flew a newly hoisted black dragon banner.

The representatives of the South Sea Dragon Clan stood at the southernmost end of the wall. Ao Guang led the clan chieftains of the Thirty-Six Houses, dressed in their most solemn ceremonial mourning robes, white mourning bands wrapped around their heads.

A million and nine hundred thousand elderly and young dragonfolk crowded the harbor, unable to see the wall but able to hear the voices rising from it. Every one of them raised their heads, facing the direction of the wall.

Wang Hao stood at the highest point of the gate tower, clad in black ceremonial robes, a twelve-tassel crown upon his head. He had not brought the Heavenly Sword—today, he had left it back at his residence.

The Sword-bitch had complained vigorously, insisting that it wanted to come too, but Wang Hao shut it down with a single sentence: "If you come, you'll open your mouth and say something smart, and I won't let you ruin my memorial ceremony."

Before him stood an altar, and on the altar lay the register of the fallen—three thick volumes, nearly five thousand names. Beside the register sat a jug of wine, three wine bowls, and a drawn dagger.

Wang Hao picked up the register and opened the first page.

"I am Wang Hao, Emperor of Great Xia," he began. His voice was not loud, but every word carried clearly to the ears of everyone on the wall. Through the silk thread of the Ten-Thousand-People Heart-Lantern, the people of Nan'an City, five hundred miles away, seemed to hear his voice as well.

"I have reigned for three years, and I have fought for three years. In the north, against the Nightmares. In the Central Plains, against the Holy Land. In the south seas, against the Aberrants. I have fought my entire life, but I have never stood here and read out so many names."

He flipped to the middle of the register and read the first name.

"Zhang Erlang. From Dengzhou Prefecture, Beijiang Province. Third Battalion, Seventh Company, Left Guard of the Imperial Army. Age nineteen."

On the wall, in the ranks of the Imperial Army's Left Guard, several soldiers bowed their heads.

They had been Zhang Erlang's comrades, transferred together from Beijiang to the southern front.

Three years ago, they had snuck drinks of gaoliang liquor with him in the recruit camp, got caught by the drill sergeant, and were punished with a thirty-lap run around the training ground. By the end, Zhang Erlang had vomited three times, but after vomiting he'd grin and say, "Sergeant, you just wait—old Zhang will run forty laps one day."

Zhang Erlang would never run forty laps now.

Wang Hao continued.

"Li Laosan. From Zhennanguan, Nanjiang Province. Second Company, Fourth Battalion, Zhennanguan Border Army. Age thirty-seven."

In the ranks of the Fourth Battalion, the old soldier with three missing fingers on his hand flinched hard.

Li Laosan had been his recruit, and he'd trained him from the Bone-Tempering realm all the way to the Meridian-Opening realm.

Last night he'd dreamed of Li Laosan—in the dream, Li Laosan was squatting by the barracks entrance polishing his battered blade, grinning up at him: "Captain, what's for dinner tomorrow?" He couldn't find the words to answer, and only when he woke did he remember—Li Laosan had died yesterday at dusk.

"Zhao Tiezhu. Third Battalion, East Sea Fleet Navy. Age twenty-four."

"Wang Fushun. First Battalion, Right Guard of the Imperial Army. Age forty-one."

"Qian Dayong. Nineteenth Guard, Local Nanjiang Garrison. Age twenty-nine."

Name after name spilled from Wang Hao's mouth. His pace was measured, each name enunciated with absolute clarity, as if he were trying to carve every single one into his own memory.

Cries began to rise from the wall.

The cries were soft, throat-constricted sobs forced down behind clenched jaws. The old soldiers' eyes were red, but they refused to let tears fall—they thought it shameful. The young soldiers covered their mouths with their sleeves, shoulders heaving, weeping like children.

When Wang Hao finished the last name, he closed the register.

Then he picked up the drawn dagger and sliced across the index finger of his left hand. Golden Martial God's blood welled from the wound, dripping into the first wine bowl. He pressed a bloody fingerprint onto the register—the emperor's blood oath, the oldest memorial rite of Great Xia, for it was said that when a ruler swore with his own blood, the souls of the fallen could find their way home.

"I swear upon the blood of the Emperor." Wang Hao raised the first wine bowl, his voice suddenly soaring, like a drawn sword cutting through the sky:

"Every soldier who fell in this battle—I will support their parents, raise their children, and provide for their widows. Sons, I will fund their education and cultivation to adulthood. Daughters, I will provide their dowries. For elderly parents, I will issue monthly pensions until the end of their natural years. This oath of mine—let heaven and earth bear witness, let sun and moon be the judge. Should I break this vow—"

He raised the bowl to his lips and drained it in one go. The liquor was harsh, burning his throat, but his voice did not tremble in the slightest.

"Let heaven and earth destroy me together!"

"Let heaven and earth destroy us together!" The generals' roars rose from the wall in unison, a single thunderclap that split the clouds above Zhennanguan.

"Let heaven and earth destroy us together!" The soldiers' shouts followed, shaking loose stones and dust from the battlements.

"Let heaven and earth destroy us together!" The wounded screamed with everything they had from their stretchers; some coughed blood streaking after the shout, but they kept on screaming—as if only by shouting could they vent some of the stagnant grief that had festered in their chests for the past three days.

Wang Hao filled the three wine bowls to the brim, one after another, and then, one by one, poured them out onto the stone of the city wall.

The wine seeped into the cracks between the stone bricks, trickling down the fissures of the city wall like three translucent streaks of tears.

"I toast to you." Wang Hao's voice dropped low, but every word still rang clear.

"To every drop of blood you spilled for Great Xia, to every danger you shielded the people from, to the spine you never bent in the face of the abominations. I owe you a life—one I can never repay in this lifetime, so I'll carry it into the next."

He straightened and turned to face the soldiers on the wall. The look on his face was no longer the bright, carefree grin he usually wore; it was a cold, almost fierce solemnity that no one had ever seen on him before.

"But I didn't come here to cry. Weeping won't solve anything, and neither will sacrifice. Let me tell you now—this war isn't over yet."

He raised his hand and pointed toward the dark mist slowly receding over the sea to the south.