In stark contrast, the pro-war faction led by Chancellor He Su, though seemingly standing upon the lofty grounds of morality and righteousness, found themselves consistently outmaneuvered in their debates with the appeasers—those spineless advocates of compromise. Their voices were notably subdued, overshadowed at every turn. Worse still, even within their own hearts, there lacked true conviction—for had not the Song armies suffered defeat after humiliating defeat on the battlefield? A so-called elite force of two hundred thousand Western Forbidden Troops had been routed in utter disgrace by a mere twenty-thousand-strong Jin detachment during the relief of Taiyuan. Meanwhile, the powerful force of one hundred and twenty thousand guarding the Yellow River had crumbled in panic at the mere sound of the enemy's war drums. With such a feeble and demoralized army, who could place any faith in their capacity to defend the realm?
Perhaps even to the ministers advocating for war, the idea of ceding territory and offering reparations seemed undeniably humiliating; the vast tribute sent to the Jin army certainly stung like a wound to the flesh. Yet if such a price could buy temporary respite from national annihilation, might it not, reluctantly, be worth paying?
Had not the Song once paid tribute to the Khitan Liao for a century to maintain peace? Was it truly so different now, merely replacing the recipient with the Jurchen? From a pragmatic, even emotional standpoint, such a compromise was not wholly unacceptable.
Thus, He Su and his peers were hardly unwavering in their call to arms. For many among the pro-war gentry, the sole reason to resist peace lay in their utter distrust of the Jin's integrity. Who could guarantee, after all, that once the treaty was signed, the Jin forces would obediently withdraw, rather than turn and violate the agreement with impunity?
And on that point... who could say for certain?
Conversely, if the Jin truly meant to honor the accord, take the gold, and depart, the remaining few hawks in the court might well have defected to the appeasers' camp.
Ultimately, most of these so-called war advocates merely wished for the peace faction to issue formal guarantees—a military pledge of accountability. For if the Jin reneged after reaping the rewards, who would bear the blame for such a disgraceful betrayal?
Yet even this modest expectation was beyond the courage of the appeasers. These so-called scholars were ever eager to offer counsel on matters of national consequence, expecting their words to be followed without question, else those in power would be branded tyrants and traitors. But as for the consequences of their advice—whether it led the country to salvation or ruin—they would claim no responsibility. Should their suggestions bear fruit, they would claim the merit. Should disaster follow, it would be the fault of those who implemented their ideas. To hold them accountable? A fantasy.
Ah, these Song scholars—at once laughably timid and tragically shameless.
What truly caught Guo Jing by surprise, however, was that Qin Hui—later to become the very symbol of a traitorous official—now appeared to be the epitome of youthful patriotic fervor. Serving as Deputy Censor-in-Chief, the young Qin Hui had become a rising star of the hawkish faction, engaging in fiery, impassioned arguments against the seasoned appeasers. He debated with such fervor that on more than one occasion, he nearly spat into his opponents' faces.
"…By your reasoning, gentlemen, if we fight, we shall lose; if we seek peace, the Jin may still betray us. And yet, you insist we must humble ourselves in supplication? What absurdity is this! Such reasoning is no better than feeding oneself to a tiger—it is nothing short of a path to national extinction!"
"…Ah, but the Jin are too powerful to resist. To go to war is to court ruin. Defeat will bring shame; victory will empower unruly generals and threaten civil order—both outcomes are undesirable. Hence, peace is our only hope, no matter the cost. We must not fixate on whether the Jin will honor the agreement, but rather examine our own sincerity in seeking peace…"
"…Just as you did earlier, forging military orders to disperse the loyalist armies and allowing the Jin to march unopposed to the capital? That is treason!"
"…Insolent wretch! You war-mongers mouth patriotism while courting calamity. You ignore the nation's decline and recklessly provoke a mighty enemy, dragging the empire into flames. You are the true architects of this crisis! And look now—our heartland is in chaos, rebels rise in every province under the guise of resistance, while the imperial army lies decimated. Yet you still wish to let these martial brutes grow unchecked? Are you even worthy of being called scholars?"
As Qin Hui, the idealistic patriot of the hour, was besieged on all sides by the appeaser faction, Guo Jing finally could not bear to remain silent.
"Gentlemen, I beseech you—still your voices and allow this humble Taoist to speak…"
But the court had already descended into bedlam, a cacophony rivaling that of a bustling marketplace. With no alternative, Guo Jing reached into his sleeve, produced a high-powered loudspeaker, and set it to full volume. He shouted with such force that the ears of all present rang with a deafening buzz.
Before the shocked ministers could protest, he pressed on loudly:
"As this poor Taoist understands it, there are two types of peace accords throughout history. One arises from genuine intent to end conflict—so long as sufficient spoils are gained, the aggressor retreats. The other is a deceitful ruse, a mask for treachery, wherein outrageous demands are made to erode the enemy's strength and resolve, all while preparing to strike.
The Jin's offer clearly belongs to the latter. This is no true peace, but a trap—a strategy to sap our resources, demoralize our people, and lull our armies into disarray. When our forces are scattered and our spirits broken, they will launch a sudden onslaught and butcher us like livestock. Accepting such terms is tantamount to national suicide. They will use our tribute to reward their soldiers and rally their morale, all while bleeding Bianliang dry and biding their time for the final betrayal.
As it happens, I have just divined a revelation: the Jin, even as they send envoys to extort food and treasure, are mustering the forces of Wanyan Lou Shi and Wanyan Huo Nu from Luoyang and Zhengzhou, along with scattered detachments from Hebei and Hedong. Nearly two hundred thousand troops now converge on our capital. Once assembled, they will strike with overwhelming force. Our own reinforcements remain trapped in Chang'an, too frightened to even pass Tongguan… In such a hopeless scenario, what true peace could we expect from the Jin?"
"Precisely because they are strong, we must not defy them! To provoke such a foe is to invite our own destruction!" cried Geng Nanzhong, leader of the appeasers. "Your Majesty, we urge immediate action to deepen negotiations—and punish this sorcerer for his heretical speech and desecration of the imperial court!"
Wang Shiyong, Xu Bingzhe, and a chorus of other sycophants followed suit:
"I second the motion!"
"So do I!"
"And I!"
...
Faced with this shameful tide of cowardice, He Su turned crimson with rage, his limbs trembling, unable to utter a word. Yet he was helpless—for Geng Nanzhong, a trusted companion of the Emperor from his days in the Eastern Palace, remained untouchable despite his blunders that had nearly brought the nation to ruin.
Thus, though now the de facto head of government, He Su could do nothing to check Geng's incessant prostration before the Jin. He could only watch in fury as the staunch appeaser ran amok, hindering every effort to prepare for war.
Meanwhile, Guo Jing—the storm's epicenter—stood calm and unmoved.
"…Tsk, tsk! Look at the lot of you. You do not resemble ministers of Great Song at all, but slaves of the Jurchen! What of the distinction between Hua and Yi? What of the sacred divide between the civilized and the barbaric? Have your volumes of Confucian scripture all been fed to the dogs?"
"Though I dwell outside the mortal world, I know this much: A true man must lay down his life to protect his kin and homeland. The Jurchen cavalry now ravage our lands, butcher our people, abduct our women, and bring ruin to our cities. The damage in lives and treasure is incalculable… Shall we not avenge such grievous wrongs?
When Shi Jingtang ceded the Sixteen Prefectures, he earned eternal infamy. Now you propose we give up Hebei and Hedong? Are you not afraid your bones will be barred from ancestral tombs?"
His voice sharpened as he declared,
"If any of you still consider yourselves men, then show some spine!"
Yet though Guo's words were thunderous, he had clearly overestimated the moral fiber of his audience. These veteran officials, weathered by years in the political mire, had long discarded any sense of shame. Not one of them blushed. Instead, they roared as one:
"Your Majesty, we implore you—execute this heretic at once, to demonstrate our resolve for peace!"
At that moment, Guo Jing gave up all hope for their integrity.
Even betrayal, he thought, ought to wear a mask. Yet these men did not even pretend. Had the Jurchen offered them so much as a crumb of reward? Why then did they yearn so desperately to serve as their loyal lapdogs?
Alas, the Song dynasty had become a paradise for scholars. For over a century, it had lavished its literati with privilege and reverence. And what had it received in return? Nothing but cowardice, corruption, and treachery. When Northern and Southern Song fell, few of these honored men gave their lives for the realm. More often, they stirred chaos or defected. Loyal patriots like Wen Tianxiang were rare as phoenix feathers. At the fall of the Southern Song, ten thousand corpses floated at Yashan—but most were soldiers and civilians, not scholars. The literati, by and large, found new masters in the Yuan court—Wen Tianxiang's own brother among them.
Truly, the Song was an era that most esteemed its scholars—yet birthed the most shameless and degenerate among them.
These scholars, these so-called "gentlemen," ruthlessly suppressed the martial spirit of the Han people, striving to render the nation defenseless. They shamed all who fought, trampling the military into the mud. But when faced with foreign conquerors, they bowed and scraped with slavish delight. It was in their very bones.
"…How amusing!" Guo Jing laughed coldly. "The imperial court has revered you scholars for over a century, and in return, you have become a pack of treacherous curs! Since you so adore the Jurchen, since you long to empty the treasury for their favor, I shall make certain you are disappointed!"
"Tomorrow at noon, I shall ride out and annihilate the enemy beyond the gates. Let us see who dares doubt me then!"
With a flick of his horsetail whisk, he cried aloud, and from his sleeve produced Doraemon's magical artifact—the Somersault Cloud. Mounting the billowing mist, he soared from the palace on high.
As the strange sight of Guo Jing's flying cloud faded from view, even those who moments ago demanded his execution could not help but shudder.
Meanwhile, outside the capital, the Jin army—already tormented by the searing summer heat—was about to face an even greater catastrophe…