From the battlements, one could gaze down upon the enemy lines: though the Jurchens had temporarily withdrawn from the base of the city wall, they had erected countless trebuchets one by one. Bare-chested and drenched in sweat, groups of burly Jin soldiers strained to turn the heavy winches. The loaders shouted in rhythm as they heaved massive boulders into the bamboo slings at the ends of the war machines. At a single command, these millstone-sized projectiles would be hurled without hesitation toward the walls of Bianliang.
—It was almost laughable. The Jin army had marched thousands of miles from Youzhou in a swift campaign, bringing no heavy siege equipment in their haste. Yet, due to the Song court's indecisiveness and complacency—its ministers indulging in leisure and neglecting war preparations—the capital had been caught unready. When the enemy reached the gates, the Song troops barely managed to shut them, leaving hundreds of newly forged trebuchets and heavy war implements abandoned outside the walls. Thus, the Jin army, upon arrival, conveniently seized an arsenal of siege engines ready for use—turning the Song's own weapons against them.
To the invaders, it was as if heaven itself favored them: "No food, no clothes? Let the enemy deliver them. No guns, no cannons? Let the enemy forge them for us."
Around these trebuchets, rows of Jurchen soldiers sat cross-legged on the frozen ground, their armor arranged neatly before them like a low barricade. Their spears rested by their sides, whistling ominously in the bitter wind. Truly, this was an elite army.
To look upon these well-drilled, high-spirited troops outside the walls, and then turn to the disorderly, trembling Song guards atop the battlements—some even losing control of their bowels—was enough to fill Zhang Shuye with profound despair.
The so-called hawkish ministers who now dominated the court were full of patriotic rhetoric, vowing never to coexist with the "barbarian scourge." Yet in truth, they were scarcely less harmful to the realm than their appeasement-minded counterparts. With the city's defenses already on the brink, these fanatics still clamored to take the imperial army out for a direct confrontation with the ironclad Jurchen cavalry—all to preserve the "grandeur" of the celestial empire. But did these useless soldiers within the walls even possess the capacity for such a feat?
By Zhang Shuye's own estimate, the imperial troops might be coaxed into some semblance of courage if penned within the city with no path of retreat—perhaps three men could fight like one. But if ordered to engage in open field battle? It would not be a mere rout; they would flee at the first sight of the enemy.
—Indeed, the imperial guard had already attempted a sortie. Commander Wang Zongchuo had led over ten thousand troops from the southern wall in a surprise attack while the Jurchen forces were still settling. But this so-called elite force barely skirmished before dissolving in panic, vanishing without a trace. Over a thousand Jin soldiers took the opportunity to assault Nanxun Gate, and only the desperate resistance of Zhang Shuye and inspector-general Fan Qiong barely managed to repel them.
Later, even a group of five thousand volunteers raised in Shandong to aid the capital was wiped out by a mere detachment of the Jin army in the outskirts of Bianliang.
These failures made it clear: the Song army was barely capable of defending the city, let alone surviving an open battle.
Regrettably, the self-styled strategists at court—who fancied themselves masters of war after reading a few military classics—were blind to this reality. Eager for a grand turnaround, they grew desperate and threw their hopes upon a man named Guo Jing, a charlatan parading as a mystic. They even gathered a band of idle street folk, claiming they were "Divine Troops of the Six Jia," and intended to use them to repel fifteen thousand battle-hardened Jurchen cavalry.
Alas, as the saying goes, "When a nation is about to fall, omens and monsters arise." Divine troops? The emperor must be dreaming. If the gods truly existed, and their favor could drive back invaders, we'd need only burn incense and chant scripture—why bother with armies?
Zhang Shuye, a traditionally-minded Confucian general, placed no faith in Guo the Immortal's miraculous feats—such as summoning wind and rain or conjuring soldiers from beans.
Just as he sighed in weariness for the doomed city, a long and ceremonious cry rang out in the distance:
"...By imperial decree—Martial Strategist and Prefect of Yanzhou, Protector of the Realm, the Revered Immortal Guo arrives~~~!"
Zhang Shuye started in surprise—had he not just been thinking of the man, and now the so-called savior arrived at his gate?
…
"…By imperial decree—Martial Strategist and Prefect of Yanzhou, Protector of the Realm, the Revered Immortal Guo arrives~~~!"
With a powerful announcement, Guo Jing, bearing his horsetail whisk, strode confidently toward Dongshuimen Gate, accompanied by Wang Qiu and his companions.
As a famed "immortal" of the capital, Guo Jing indeed presented a convincing image. His face was rosy, his teeth white, and his eyes bright beneath a pair of sharply arched brows. His demeanor radiated sanctity, as if untouched by worldly dust.
As the saying goes, clothes make the man, and monks shine in golden robes. Guo Jing's Daoist attire was no ordinary garb but a resplendent and luxurious ensemble—far removed from the austere robes of later dynasties. Song-era Daoist robes bore elaborate cloud patterns and even included a short cape-like shoulder piece called a xiapei, embroidered in dazzling colors. His purple ceremonial robe, bestowed by the emperor himself, was adorned with intricate embroidery and opulent ornaments—a true mark of celestial grandeur.
Of course, such honors were reserved only for the Immortal himself. Wang Qiu and the others, mere attendants, wore plain long tunics.
At first, Wang Qiu had attempted to don a suit of armor, only to blanch at its weight. Composed of interlinked lamellar plates layered like roof tiles, the armor was clearly formidable—this Song buren jia, evolved from Tang-era scale mail, consisted of 1,825 metal leaves and weighed over fifty jin. For someone of modern constitution, it was practically unbearable.
—Though Wang Qiu had once enhanced his physique in the Infinite Space with reward points, the collapse of the main system had reverted him to the form of an ordinary university student. Naturally, such weight left him flustered.
In the end, he settled for wearing a bulletproof vest beneath his tunic. Nobita and Doraemon, true to form, had not prepared any protection at all—presumably, their cockroach-like luck would see them through even a monster invasion.
As they made their way toward the southern battlefield, Wang Qiu and his companions began to witness the true devastation of war.
Though the siege had only just begun, the Jin trebuchets had already been bombarding the city for days. Tens of thousands of stones had rained down, flattening entire neighborhoods near Fengqiu Gate and Dongshuimen. Civilians fled in terror, and the closer they drew to the gates, the more desolate the streets and shattered homes became. Some had been destroyed by Jin bombardment—but far more had been dismantled by Song defenders, who tore apart dwellings to salvage bricks and beams for defensive use, or simply to burn for warmth.
—Wang Qiu's heart ached as he watched soldiers split priceless heirlooms—rosewood screens, sandalwood tables, fragrant camphor and ebony furniture, and even coffins carved from golden nanmu—just to feed the fire. With a pained cry, he urged Doraemon to invoke Guo the Immortal's name and confiscate the goods… and the debt-ridden robotic cat, now burdened with a ¥300 billion deficit, had no choice but to abandon his pride and beg the guards for supplies.
Fortunately, in besieged Bianliang, Guo the Immortal's name still carried weight. With a few casual threats, Wang Qiu's party managed to secure a bounty of rare timber—luxuries in peacetime, but now worth little amid fire and steel. Better to curry favor with the Immortal than hoard treasures destined for ash.
…
At the base of the wall, Song troops had erected rows of makeshift thatched huts along the interior side, serving as shelters for resting soldiers and makeshift infirmaries for the wounded. Such arrangements were common during prolonged sieges. But in this frigid season, with snow swirling through the air, even beggars were freezing to death in abandoned temples—many had no choice but to huddle in the city's sewers, preferring stench over death.
The wounded, their flesh mangled and lives hanging by a thread, were left to languish in these wind-ravaged huts without medicine or proper care. The lucky ones found spots by the fire; the rest were at risk of freezing alive. Wang Qiu saw corpses being carried out, their beards and brows encased in icicles, their skin blued by the cold…
A gust of icy wind made Wang Qiu shiver as if submerged in freezing water, his organs clenched in frost.
"…Minus eighteen degrees Celsius… My god! Water freezes on contact! Since when could Henan get this cold?"
Checking his pocket thermometer in secret, he was deeply shaken by the reading.
Even those uninjured soldiers off-duty looked like they were on the verge of collapse despite their decent equipment.
—To be fair, the Song dynasty, though branded as weak and scholarly, invested heavily in its military, spending over 70% of its national revenue to maintain a professional standing army of 800,000 men—an unprecedented undertaking in Chinese history. Its equipment was top-notch. In the Spring and Autumn period, soldiers had to supply their own gear. In the Ming, conscripts were reduced to serfs, and rags-and-stick troops were common sights on the battlefield.
But under the Song, at least the Kaifeng garrison wore uniform iron armor, and the soldiers were impressively tall and strong. This was no accident—Emperor Taizu had once decreed, "Let all camp women be chosen for their height, so that their sons may be tall and valiant, generation after generation." As a result, generations of elite guards were bred from sturdy stock. Many stood taller and broader than Wang Qiu, himself 180 cm tall.
Regrettably, for all their imposing stature and bulging muscles—like modern bodybuilders—these men lacked any semblance of true battlefield ferocity.
Strangely enough, since the dynasty's founding, the Song had been almost constantly at war: against the Liao, against Western Xia, and now the Jin. Any other dynasty would've forged a hardened army and a battle-scarred populace. Yet until its final fall, the Song remained steeped in decadence and appeasement. Could it be that prosperity itself was a poison?
As Wang Qiu silently mused beneath the battlements, the defending commander Zhang Shuye dusted off his cloak and came down to meet them. Though he held little respect for Guo the Immortal and his theatrics, basic courtesy was not to be neglected.
Guo Jing respectfully bowed and spoke, "This humble Daoist greets Scholar Zhang."
(Zhang Shuye had just been appointed Scholar of the Zizheng Hall and acting head of the Bureau of Military Affairs, holding supreme command of the capital's defense.)
Noting the mystic's measured tone and demeanor, Zhang Shuye was slightly relieved.
"The enemy presses hard upon our walls, the capital quakes by night. I wear my armor day and night without respite. Might I ask, to what end has the Immortal come?"
—Polite on the surface, the meaning was plain: the situation is dire—please, don't make it worse.
"Naturally, I have come to lend my humble strength," Guo Jing replied calmly, unfazed by the cold welcome. "Having received such great favor from the court, I must serve in kind. Though the Divine Troops of the Six Jia are not yet fully trained and cannot yet sally forth to drive out the invaders, I cannot stand idle while the capital suffers."
"Fine words, Immortal. But what aid can your arts provide us?"
—Zhang Shuye's tone remained skeptical, though he feigned interest.
"Scholar Zhang," Guo Jing said solemnly, raising his whisk, "it is well known that this bitter snow falls unrelenting. The Jurchens, born of the northern wastes, are hardened to the cold. But our soldiers, less so, lack firewood and warmth. Even with padded coats, many freeze by night—some lose fingers, others their lives. The snow hinders our defense."
"Thus, I shall perform a modest rite to disperse the storm clouds and summon clear skies, relieving our soldiers from wind and frost… What say you, Scholar Zhang?"
Though Zhang Shuye's face betrayed disbelief, the nearby soldiers—ever eager to place their faith in divine protection—erupted in cheers.
…
With the soldiers' help, and taking advantage of a lull in the bombardment, Guo Jing and his "divine troops" quickly erected a makeshift altar beneath Dongshuimen Gate.
Atop a three-foot-wide altar stood a banner of yellow brocade trimmed in black, inscribed in bold characters: Responsive to the Heavens, the Ninefold Sky…