Day had broken fully. Feng Wuzheng disembarked. His attendant offered to carry the wooden box, but he pushed him away. Before him rose a sheer cliff face thousands of feet high; behind him raged the torrential river. There seemed no way forward.Then, a creaking sound came from above. Looking up, he saw a city built into the cliff face. People atop it were lowering a wooden platform resembling a bamboo raft by rope. When the platform reached the cliff's base, Wuzheng and his attendants stepped onto it. Those above turned the winch, and in no time, they were hoisted to the cliff's summit.Looking back down, everything appeared minuscule beneath the vast expanse of misty waves, stirring the soul.
Two youths, no more than thirteen or fourteen, greeted them atop the cliff, still panting from operating the winch. After a brief bow, they led the way to the city's administrative center. Wu Zheng's party followed, surveying the surroundings as they walked: the city was built against the mountains and beside the river, facing enemies directly while backed by sheer cliffs, with rivers encircling three sides—a stronghold easy to defend but hard to attack.The walls stretched over two hundred zhang in both length and width, rising five zhang high, with watchtowers at each corner. Within the city, the great banners of Qin lay felled to the ground, replaced by the flags of Zhao. Along the streets stood wooden cages, prisoners inside murmuring pleas for mercy in the Qin dialect. Commoners hurried about the thoroughfares, panic etched on their faces.Able-bodied men were organized into ranks, drilled by sergeants; women and children dug earth and stone to reinforce the walls, forged weapons and armor, or carved timber for defensive equipment; in smithies, hoes, plows, and even cooking spatulas were being melted down;Most dwellings had been dismantled, their timber carried to the base of the walls for future use—everywhere one looked, signs pointed to imminent warfare.
Wu Zheng arrived at the city's administrative center, where a Qin-style government office stood starkly different from the surrounding Zhao-style dwellings.It was clear the wooden building had once been three stories tall, but like the houses, it now lay in disarray. The top floor was gone, the lower two riddled with holes. The plaque above the doorway had vanished, replaced only by hastily written characters in ink: "Jiangcheng Administration." The calligraphy wasn't in the Qin style. There were no guards at the entrance, no eunuchs or attendants in sight.Only then did Wuzheng understand why two young boys were operating the winch: all adult men and women had been deployed to guard the city walls.
As the youth entered to report, Wuzheng waited outside and glanced up at the ramparts. Suddenly, he noticed the defensive layout bore a striking resemblance to Moist principles: every two paces, stones, trenches, flails, and long axes were positioned; every five paces, leather basins filled with water were arranged; every ten paces, a pile of firewood; every twenty-five paces, a cooking hearth; every fifty paces, a sand mound; every hundred paces, a guard post.Ten men formed a shí unit, each with a shí leader standing by; officials, soldiers, civilians, men, and women wore distinct colors for easy mobilization in battle—all Moist fortification principles. Beneath the craftsmen's axes and chisels lay Moist crossbows and iron thistles;Beside them, several wooden mannequins engaged in mock combat—winding mechanisms that advanced, retreated, dodged, parried, and struck with movements rivaling real soldiers, their ingenuity beyond imitation. Suddenly, he sensed a premonition: a disciple of Mo would emerge from this government office. As he surveyed the scene, a familiar voice called from within the gate:
"Young master, how have you been?"
The speaker was an elderly man in his fifties, clad in coarse hemp garments patched with cloth in all the worn and torn places. His straw sandals were caked with mud, and his skin, darkened by the sun, was as black as ink. Every inch of skin not covered by his clothes bore scars.
"Master!"
Feng Wuzheng recognized the man before him as none other than his childhood tutor and swordmaster, Deng Lingzi, the scholar-official. He hastily knelt to pay his respects, but the master swiftly helped him up and invited him into the government office.They crossed the front courtyard and entered the main hall. Wuzheng set down the wooden box he held in his hands, then prostrated himself to the ground—once, twice, three times. When he rose, his eyes were brimming with tears.When he was thirteen, his father, the King, had fallen out with the Mo School, causing Deng Lingzi to depart. Now, at thirty-five, master and disciple had been separated for twenty-two years. During that time, he had often carved wooden statues of his teacher based on his imagination. Now, looking at it, it bore a striking resemblance to the real man—only the deep furrows on his face were missing, and the calluses on his hands and feet were absent.
"You've drifted for twenty years, young master," Deng Lingzi glanced at the wooden box beside Wuzheng. "And lost your dearest friend. You've truly suffered."
At these words, the pain surged back into Wuzheng's heart. He stifled a sob and replied:
"I had thought I had bid farewell to my Master forever. To see you now, healthy and well, with hair and teeth intact, brings great comfort to this disciple. But I wonder, since leaving the Kingdom of Feng, where exactly have you been all this time?"
He recalled that when his master first arrived in Feng Kingdom, he was in the prime of his life. He defended the kingdom's borders, repeatedly repelling enemy forces, and earned the deep respect of the king. Eventually, other nations saw no advantage in attacking Feng and ceased their incursions. Yet, within Feng, conscription grew ever more frequent, and gradually, the kingdom turned its aggression outward.The Master admonished the King of Feng with the doctrine of non-aggression, urging frugality and restraint in spending. This gradually earned the monarch's displeasure. Compounding this, the Master widely accepted disciples. All Feng subjects who entered his tutelage embraced universal love, showing no partiality toward their homeland. Thus, the King of Feng rebuked the Master, accusing him of inciting the people, and ordered his expulsion.As for the years that followed, Wu Zheng surmised that the Master likely continued his ways as before.
"This old man has merely traveled among the states. In larger kingdoms, I urged rulers to abandon aggression; in smaller ones, I assisted in defense. Yet in twenty years, I have achieved nothing. Instead, Qin has run rampant across the Central Plains. My heart is filled with shame."
Deng Lingzi's eyes dimmed. After a pause, he added:
"Your swordsmanship, I imagine, has greatly improved."
"Master flatters me. Though I am slow to learn, I practice daily without slackening. May I ask why you are here?"
"I was invited by the elders of this city to lead my disciples in resisting Qin. This city of Jiang originally belonged to Zhao. Five years ago, Qin forces laid siege but could not breach its defenses. Yet three years ago, a traitor secretly opened the gates, allowing enemy troops to surge in, slaughtering the populace and seizing the city.Now that the State of Zhao has fallen, the people of this city deeply resent the Qin's harsh laws and heavy taxes. They would rather die than become subjects of Qin. So they killed the governor, imprisoned the Qin officials, and now hold the city, awaiting reinforcements.The brutal Qin are a nation of wolves and tigers, oppressing the weak and slaughtering countless souls. Wherever they go, they leave a trail of devastation. When the city fell, every household here wore mourning clothes and held funerals. Every man and woman you see within these walls today is an enemy of Qin. Though their forces are mighty, the people of Zhao refuse to surrender. What have we Mozi disciples to lose by sacrificing our lives?"
Deng Lingzi paused briefly before continuing:
"In the matter of resisting Qin, should your mission succeed, it would be the greatest achievement for all time, bestowing upon the Eastern States the favor of reviving the fallen and preserving the extinct. Do you know why you have come to this city?"
"I am unaware, Master. I humbly request your guidance."
"Half a year ago, your father, the King of Feng, sent me a letter revealing his plan to assassinate the Qin ruler. He asked me, out of old friendship, to craft a deadly trap for you to carry into the Qin palace and strike down Ying Zheng. At the time, I did not fully believe him. But now, seeing you here in person, I know his words were true. On behalf of all under heaven, I first offer my deepest gratitude for your noble cause!"
Having spoken, Deng Lingzi turned to face Wuzheng, straightened his robe, and bowed deeply. Wuzheng hurriedly helped him up, saying:
"I act only by the command of my sovereign and father. How could I claim credit? Besides... I know not if Heaven's will is with me..."
As they spoke, a disciple of the Mohist school arrived to report: "The envoy from Qin is now outside the city."
Deng Lingzi ordered, "Admit them. What did the wise shaman say?"
"The wise shaman observed the atmospheric signs and foretold an impending headwind."
Deng Lingzi's expression darkened. He waved the Moist disciple away, then turned to Wuzheng and said:
"Your arrival is timely. Qin forces have arrayed themselves outside the city, intending to attack, yet they first sent a Legalist to urge surrender. This man will surely speak with the eloquence of rivers and rivers, his tongue capable of moving mountains. You may ascend to the upper floor to hear how he defends the tyrannical Qin. When the Qin army assaults the city shortly, I shall instruct the Moist disciples to guide you down the rear cliff."
He then glanced at the wooden box and added:
"Please hand this object over to me at once. I shall have my Moist disciples construct a mechanism within it, ready in no time. Should Ying Zheng himself open it someday, it will be utterly foolproof."
Wu Zheng wondered what kind of mechanism could possibly fit inside this wooden box: its interior held no empty space. Could it be hidden within a false wall? Though puzzled, he obeyed his teacher's words, handing the box to the Moist disciple before ascending the stairs to the second floor.The Qin-style tower's design featured upper panels that, when closed along with the windows, plunged the interior into darkness. Those below could only see pitch blackness when looking up, while those above enjoyed a clear view down below.
At that moment, curses erupted from the street below—the Qin envoy had entered the city. Deng Lingzi composed himself downstairs, straightened his robes, and waited in silence.Though Wu Zheng observed from above, his heart had shrunk to the size of a bullet: too many events had unfolded over the past dozen days. Before he could process one, another would abruptly arrive, overwhelming him. And now, the city was suffused with the scent of sand mixed with metal, a constant reminder that a great battle loomed—he truly did not wish to witness another drop of bloodshed.
The courthouse gates swung open as two Qin envoys entered—one elder, one younger. The older man, the chief envoy, was in his fifties, roughly the same age as the Master; the younger, the deputy envoy, was only in his twenties. Deng Lingzi seemed utterly startled, his eyes fixed on them in astonishment. After the envoys completed their formalities, the elder spoke:
"The Qin nobleman, Minister Xiangli Yin, accompanied by his disciple Yang Hui, has been dispatched on official business. We humbly convey our regards to the Master of the Black School, Deng Lingzi, wishing him well."
The title "Grand Minister" denoted the seventh rank in Qin's nobility, roughly equivalent to a lower-level minister. Deng Lingzi returned the bow and said:
"I had assumed Qin would send Legalist figures as envoys. I did not expect two Moists. Though we share the same lineage, I regret I cannot show favoritism."
"Why must you yield to sentiment, Senior Brother? We once served the Grand Master together in Qin. After his passing, you refused to serve Qin, abandoned your office, and dedicated yourself to traveling among the states. For over twenty years, you have personally practiced the teachings of our late Master Mozi—practicing frugality, enduring hardship to establish your cause. Who am I to thwart your resolve?"
As he uttered the words "frugal and thrifty, forging ahead with great difficulty," Xiang Li Zi eyed Deng Ling Zi's tattered garments with a slight lift of his lips, his disdain evident. Yet the young deputy envoy beside him, Yang Hui, wore an expression of genuine discomfort. Though he responded to the elder with submissive nods, his face betrayed no trace of mockery.Only then did Wuzheng notice that both envoys wore ornate hats and robes, their attire resplendent. The sight of the three sharing the same room felt like a peacock and a crow coexisting, or autumn orchids growing alongside weeds.
Deng Lingzi, catching the implication in the other's words, merely smiled and replied:
When our late master was alive, he wore coarse garments and ate simple meals, laboring tirelessly with calloused hands and feet to benefit all under heaven. Now my junior brother holds a high office in Qin, neglecting the tilling of the soil while adopting the ornate trappings of a Confucian scholar—he must have forgotten his roots.
"Not so. Master Mo said: 'Without high rank, the people will not respect you; without ample salary, the people will not trust you.' We accept the sovereign's rewards not for ourselves, but to set an example for the world—this is precisely our late master's intent in honoring the virtuous.If the virtuous go without meat, travel without carriages, and toil like laborers, how can they inspire others to pursue virtue? As for the Confucians—knocking on ten city gates yet finding no welcome, wandering the roads like lost dogs, uncertain of their next meal, clad in patched garments—are they not more like you than me?"
These words made Deng Lingzi's face flush with anger, though he forced himself to suppress it. He said:
"If what you say were true, why did our venerable Master Mo live his entire life in coarse cloth and straw sandals? This single fact alone proves your words are mistaken."
"When Master Mo first founded his school, he had not yet gained favor among the feudal lords. Had there been a wise ruler like the present King of Qin back then, appointing him as a high minister, who can say our master would not have worn a jeweled cap and jade sash?"
Deng Lingzi nearly shattered the table with a single palm strike, roaring, "You unworthy disciple who dishonors your master and betrays your ancestors! How dare you speculate about our late master and twist the great Way to suit your own ends?"
The young deputy envoy was genuinely startled by the blow. Hastily bowing to Deng Lingzi, his face half-smiling, half-ashamed, he tried to smooth things over:
"Please do not be angry, Master. According to Qin law, there are twenty ranks of nobility, each with strict regulations for robes, sashes, and headgear that cannot be violated. It is not that we have forgotten our roots, but rather that we have no choice."
Upon hearing this, the chief envoy Xiang Li Zi burst into laughter and remarked:
"This youngster has followed us for years, yet still finds himself caught in the middle."
The youth flushed crimson and bowed his head in silence.
Xiang Lizǐ continued: "After our Master passed away, Senior Brother left Qin. Now the Mohist school is divided into two: those who follow me are the Western Mohists, and those who follow you are the Eastern Mohists. Yet the position of Grand Master rests with me, and seven or eight out of ten Mohist disciples throughout the land follow my lead.Between you and me, who is the true Moist and who is the false Moist? Is there any need to say more? Why does my senior brother not return to Qin, so that the two Moists may unite and not cause our late master to turn in his grave?"
"You aid Qin in its tyranny, oppressing the weak with strength, severing ancestral rites, and slaughtering fathers and sons. Having abandoned our Master's doctrine of non-aggression, you are certainly not the true Moists."
"My senior brother is mistaken. Master Mo did not advocate 'attacking,' but he did not oppose 'punishing.' By 'punishing,' he meant punishing and destroying nations that are chaotic and tyrannical—a just war.Since Shang Yang's reforms, Qin's people have devoted themselves to farming and warfare, eschewing debauchery—truly exemplary citizens. Yet in the eastern states, rulers indulge in excess above while subjects revel in pleasure below, pursuing trivial commercial gains while despising the toil of agriculture. Our great Qin wages righteous war, punishing extravagance with clarity, thus gaining an overwhelming advantage. How does this contradict non-aggression?"
Wu Zheng, listening from the upper floor, perceived the Qin envoy's words as sharp and laden with insinuations of aggression. It seemed he had come not to persuade surrender, but to vie for supremacy with his former peer. Deng Lingzi countered:
"Peace and leisure are what the people desire. The people of old did not lack this love, but they could not attain it due to scarcity of resources.Today, the eastern lands are rich and prosperous. Their people all play zithers and harps, gamble, and play games. Yet the people of Qin alone cannot do so—not because they do not wish to, but because they are intimidated by harsh laws and dare not. The King of Qin seizes what the people desire to strengthen his armor and weapons. Thus, the stronger his military becomes, the more suffering the people endure.A people trained only for warfare, though sharp-clawed and fierce, are but the eagles and hounds bred by a tyrant. A people allowed to retain their natural instincts, though tranquil and uncontested, are like white cranes soaring freely across the four corners of the world. Now, the tyrannical Qin seeks to turn all under heaven into its eagles and hounds. It is most deserving of punishment, yet it seeks to punish others instead. How utterly absurd!"
"Senior Brother, comparing the states east of the Pass to white cranes—such high praise! Can you bear it without shame?Since King Ping of Zhou moved eastward, over four centuries, feudal lords have fought ceaseless wars for personal gain, devouring one another. Millions have perished—is there a single realm among them that has suffered unjustly? Now, Great Qin acts as Heaven's executioner, ridding the people of scourges, ending tyranny, and restoring peace. This aligns perfectly with the Way of Non-Aggression."
Deng Lingzi laughed heartily and said:
When you entered the city, did you notice the cemetery on the outskirts? From the day this city was built until three years ago, spanning two centuries, the cemetery covered only sixty or seventy mu. Three years ago, when the Qin army breached the city, it expanded instantly to over one qing. The number of lives lost in that single battle equaled the total from the preceding two hundred years.At Yique, the Qin army beheaded 240,000; at Changping, they buried alive another 400,000—their mounds of skulls still stand today! In ancient times, conquering a state meant executing its chief criminals, not boasting of mass slaughter. But the brutal Qin reigns differently: their sole purpose is annihilation. Each battle demands the complete extermination of enemy soldiers, leaving no one left to wield halberds or swords—only then are they satisfied.From the Xia to the Zhou dynasties, which era witnessed such horrific warfare? Among Qi, Chu, Zhao, and Wei, which state inflicted such brutal slaughter? The profound suffering endured by the common people is all due to Qin, yet Qin dares to claim it has restored peace—truly the height of shamelessness!"
"Senior Brother, you are mistaken once more! This calamity stems from the eastern states defying Heaven's will, stubbornly resisting, and refusing to surrender—thus inviting disaster upon themselves. Moreover, while the realm remains un unified today, no matter how brutal the slaughter, it is but a temporary affliction. Once the four seas are united under one rule, warfare shall cease forever. This permanent solution—does it not surpass the endless strife among the states, which has raged for ten thousand years?Even if it were true, as you claim, that the Qin army's single battle claimed as many lives as the previous two centuries combined—dare I ask whether the casualties from a thousand years of feudal wars match those of five unifications? Now, the Great Qin needs only one unification to bring eternal peace to future generations. Over thousands of years, how many lives would this save? By this reckoning, even if eight or nine out of ten people in the world were killed today, it would still be worthwhile if it meant unifying the realm."
Deng Lingzi, hearing his junior brother utter such barbaric words, was filled with fury. Yet he could not refute the logic behind the numbers, and suddenly found himself speechless, unable to respond. He recalled how his teacher had been tormented by this very dilemma throughout his life: only through great unification could the sight of a million corpses be avoided, yet only a million corpses could achieve great unification. Must peace truly be born of slaughter?In his early years, his master could not bear witnessing the warlords' mutual slaughter, so he joined Qin to aid in subjugating the other states. In his later years, he could not bear witnessing the mighty Qin's unrestrained slaughter, and wished to leave, yet could not bear to abandon his past achievements. Throughout his life, he wavered, wanting to leave yet staying, all because he could not resolve this question.Now, Denglingzi himself could not resolve the question. He could only respond with hesitant words, his voice no longer resonant:
"This concerns matters yet to unfold. Whether they shall come to pass or not, we cannot know."
Seeing his senior brother gradually lose heart, Xiangli Zi raised his voice, rising from the bed and pacing as he spoke:
"This is the natural order of things. Even a three-year-old child can foresee it. How can you say we cannot know? Once the Great Qin sweeps away the feudal lords, unites the Central Plains, and has the four seas revere one sovereign—where, pray tell, would the seeds of war arise? It is like one person—could they possibly have their left hand fight their right?"
He glanced at Deng Lingzi. Seeing no rebuttal from his senior brother, he continued:
"Moreover, this aligns implicitly with our Mohist doctrine of Shangtong. If people harbor divergent thoughts—one person with one principle, ten people with ten principles—they will attack each other and fail to unite their strength. Shangtong means the lower aligning with the higher: the people's thoughts must align with the officials, and the officials' thoughts must align with the ruler. Those in authority declare what is right, and those below dare not declare it wrong, lest they be punished.How can unity be achieved when feudal lords rule in isolation? This clearly demonstrates our late Master Mozi's desire for a unified realm. Since his time, two centuries of turmoil have passed. Now, only the Qin state possesses the capability to achieve this. We must diligently fulfill our late Master's wish and aid his success. Otherwise, we would truly be, as you say, 'unworthy disciples who betray their teacher and dishonor their ancestors.' Master Brother, is there any error in my reasoning?"
"It seems sound."
Deng Lingzi sat quietly, listening and watching as his former junior brother paced before him, gesturing with his fingers and speaking with great eloquence. He did not wish to admit it, yet he could find no way to refute it. The young deputy envoy named Yang Hui appeared even more flustered than Deng Lingzi, several times wanting to interject but finding no opening. It seemed only he remembered that their purpose here was to persuade surrender, and that overly harsh words were unwise.
Xiang Li paused briefly, then suddenly composed himself. A sorrowful expression crossed his face, and his tone softened as he spoke slowly:
We Mo disciples all rise from humble origins—most of us were brickmakers, potters, plasterers, and tile-layers, long despised by the powerful and privileged. How could you forget the humiliation we endured in days past? When Qin subdued the great clans of the royal court, officials were appointed not by birth but by merit alone, thus enabling countless Mo disciples to rise to positions of influence. Among the states east of the Pass, none have undertaken reforms as thorough as these.Heaven has used Qin's hand to spread the Moist doctrine across the four seas, elevating it above all other schools. The day we achieve our aspirations draws near—would you not wish to witness it? You wander from state to state, making defense your trade, facing arrows and stones, seeing disciples fall. Yet the moment the enemy retreats, you are cast out by the ruler. What benefit does this bring to our Moist Way?"
These three questions pierced Deng Lingzi like a volley of arrows. He closed his eyes tightly, recalling his childhood envy of the robes and chariots of the nobility, remembering his master's dying wish to spread the teachings of Mozi, and the heart-wrenching pain of returning his disciples' remains to their parents. His heart felt as though it were being torn apart.Deputy envoy Yang Hui, observing his senior master's expression, wore a look of utter anxiety—among the three, he alone seemed to take the surrender plea seriously. He hoped his master Xiang Li Zi would appeal to emotion rather than use such harsh words; he hoped Senior Master Deng Lingzi would be persuaded at once to lead the people in surrendering the entire city; he hoped the hundred thousand Qin troops encamped outside would withdraw their camp without needing to attack the city.Yet the other two knew full well: that was utterly impossible. Deng Lingzi pondered for a long while before speaking:
"When Shang Yang rose to power in Qin, he made absolute imperial authority paramount in all matters. Yet when the king demanded his death, Shang Yang first attempted escape, then rebelled with his private army against the royal forces. His words and deeds were inconsistent; he brought about his own downfall. He died a laughingstock to the realm. As a Qin official, do you not fear following Shang Yang's path?"
"My senior brother need not worry. King Huiwen was deceived by slanderous words and unjustly executed Lord Shang. I believe the current King of Qin would never act so rashly. Moreover, though Lord Shang perished, his laws endure. If Qin can implement the teachings of Mozi, I would die without regret!"
Upon hearing this, Deng Lingzi rose and bowed, saying:
"Since my junior brother harbors such lofty ambitions, what harm is there in us standing apart in the west and east? Should I fall by the sword of Qin today, I beg to return my remains to my homeland."
With that, he clapped his hands once, signaling the door to open and the guests to depart. Xiangli Zi also bowed deeply, then motioned for his deputy envoy, Yang Hui, to rise and follow. Yet Yang Hui remained seated, his eyes darting about as if he wished to speak but dared not. Xiangli Zi laughed heartily and said:
"Young man, do you still hope to avoid battle? Your master's master has no intention of surrendering—why bring it up at all?"
With matters thus resolved, battle was inevitable. Yang Hui struggled to his feet, walked to stand beside Xiang Lizhi, and with a twitch at the corner of his mouth, addressed Deng Lingzi:
"Yang Hui humbly wishes your master good health and a long life." Then he bowed deeply.
From the moment the two envoys entered the room, Deng Lingzi had been embroiled in a war of words. Only now did he find the time to scrutinize the young man before him. The boy who had joined the Mo School over a decade ago due to his family's poverty had long since honed himself into a master of both eloquence and martial arts.When Deng Lingzi had departed Qin years ago, he had asked the boy if he wished to follow. Yang Hui had agonized for three days and nights, torn between leaving and staying, but ultimately chose to remain.Now that Xiang Li had appointed him as deputy envoy, it was clear he intended to cultivate him, destined to pass on the position of Grand Master in the future. Deng Lingzi, like an old father bidding farewell to his son, looked Yang Hui over from head to toe before returning the bow and saying:
"Serve the Grand Master well. May we meet again."
Thus the two departed the government office and left the city. Feng Wuzheng, listening from the upper floor, had always been devoted to his teacher and despised Qin due to the matter with Hu Yan. He had hoped Deng Lingzi would prevail, yet found Xiang Li's arguments increasingly persuasive. If it were him, how could he have countered? He couldn't think of a way.If he couldn't refute it, wasn't his mission to assassinate the Qin ruler a mistake? Now was not the time for such doubts. Descending from the upper floor, he saw his master still seated on the straw mat, staring blankly at the courthouse entrance. Only when he noticed Feng did the master snap out of his trance, a self-mocking expression on his face. He said:
"This old man intended to refute the Qin envoy to bolster your resolve in assassinating the Qin ruler. Yet I ended up humiliated by a fellow disciple. How pitiful, how laughable!"
Wuzheng didn't know how to respond. After all, he himself had been nearly persuaded. He could only say:
"It is not that your eloquence failed, Master. Truly, the teachings of the Mohist school do align with certain aspects of Qin's governance."
Deng Lingzi paused, then asked:
"You think so too? I've pondered this for a long time. Yet, who dares question the teachings of our late master Mozi..."
He added, "After hearing the Qin envoy's words, do you still wish to assassinate the Qin ruler?"
"Assassinating the Qin ruler is my father's command. I must go, regardless of the envoy's words. But... might I ask the Master to divine the fortune of this journey?"
At that moment, a fierce wind suddenly swept through the courtyard, rattling the doors and windows with a howling sound.
Deng Lingzi immediately produced divining grass and cast the hexagram: Zhen (Thunder) above, Kan (Water) below, forming Xie (Thunder over Water). The sixth line moved, yielding the oracle: "The noble one finds resolution. Auspicious. He gains the trust of the common people."
Master Dengling declared, "This is an auspicious hexagram, signifying that the noble one can resolve peril and even gain the trust of the petty. Your journey, young master, will surely succeed!"
Upon hearing this, Wuzheng felt slightly reassured, though what he truly sought to divine was not this. Uncertain how to voice his true concern, he looked troubled.Having known the young Feng Wuzheng for years, Deng Lingzi understood his silent blushing. He cast another hexagram, inquiring about the fortune of his life. The result was the hexagram "Kan" above, "Kan" below, "Water," with the first line moving. Its inscription read: "Habitual danger, entering the pit of peril—misfortune."
Master and disciple stood facing each other in silence. Wu Zheng stared at the hexagram text, his gaze slowly narrowing until only the character for "misfortune" remained in his vision. Darkness clouded his eyes, his heart pounded wildly in his chest, his breathing grew ragged, and the rush of blood to his head sent waves of dizziness crashing over him.Suddenly, a whirlwind howled like wolves outside, whipping sand and stones. Though blocked by the house's walls, its fury remained undiminished, forcing the two inside to shield their eyes with their sleeves. When they opened them again, they saw the divining grass had been blown into a different hexagram: Kan above, Qian below—Water over Heaven, Xiu. The sixth line had moved.Deng Lingzi was startled and hastily searched for the corresponding hexagram text. It read: "Wait in blood, emerge from the pit." This meant: "When waiting amidst a pool of blood, one must exert every effort to escape." Deng Lingzi frowned deeply and said:
"If this wind is divine will, then the later hexagram must be correct, though its meaning remains ambiguous. If it is merely chance, then the earlier hexagram holds true—a sign of great calamity. How to interpret this, I truly cannot say."
Just then, drums began beating within the city walls. The drumbeats came in five distinct waves, each more urgent than the last. Between the beats, the clamor of the crowd and the sound of footsteps could be heard, mingled with the commands of military officers and officials. The noise grew fainter and fainter, as if everyone was gathering far away from the government offices.
The whirlwind that had just swept through cleared the confusion in Feng Wuzheng's mind, which had been troubled by the ominous divination. He cast one last glance at the pattern formed by the divination grasses, then gathered them up and handed them to his teacher, saying:
"Wuzheng seeks only to practice loyalty and filial piety. As for life, death, fortune, or misfortune, that is the will of Heaven. I have one final request: In my youth, I studied swordsmanship under you but never formally joined the Mo School. Now, as I depart, would you accept me as a disciple? Wuzheng would die without regret!"
He had expected his teacher to readily agree, but to his utter surprise, Deng Lingzi's face clouded with difficulty:
"The Mo School has its established rules for accepting disciples. Given the urgency of today's matter, we cannot proceed hastily. It would be best to discuss this further upon your return."
Feng Wuzheng was speechless for a long moment. The Mohists valued frugality and practiced simple rituals, unlike the elaborate formalities of Confucianism. Their initiation rites were surely straightforward—there was no reason they couldn't be completed in a moment. With such a momentous event looming, he couldn't understand why his master was unwilling to grant this small wish.
The city grew increasingly chaotic. The gale raged fiercer, occasionally toppling houses with a thunderous crash. Outside the magistrate's office, the clang of clashing weapons mingled with the steady clatter of hooves. The drumbeat from earlier persisted, though now in a different rhythm and from a more distant source—as if echoing from the city walls.
"Master, do you believe I am incapable of mastering the Way of Ink?" Wuzheng sought only clarity, yet his words carried eight parts reproach. Master and disciple were bound by their relationship, but how could the former Crown Prince of Fengguo, a descendant of the Great Emperor Fuxi, suffer humiliation at the hands of a mere commoner?
Deng Lingzi evaded his piercing gaze, lips pressed tight as if holding countless blades that would wound at the slightest opening. Yet Wu Zheng's eyes remained unwavering—he would not rest until he got to the bottom of this. Finally, Deng Lingzi spoke:
In those days, the great strategist Meng Sheng defended Yangcheng for the state of Chu, knowing full well it was futile. One hundred and eighty of his disciples perished. Those who join the Mo School must regard their own lives as worthless, ready to sacrifice themselves without hesitation, dying without turning back. Yet Your Highness has been gentle and weak since childhood—fearful you lack the mettle for the Mo School...Oh, the mechanism should be complete now. Please proceed to the rear cliff, young master." This sentence almost seemed designed to ease the awkwardness between them.
Wu Zheng now fully understood: his master had never been entirely satisfied with him since childhood. Seeing the ominous omen earlier, he had appeared cowardly and clinging to life. His master now suspected he might waver in resolve, retreat in crisis, and bring shame upon the Mozi school. Rage surged within him, uncontrollable. He leapt from the straw mat and stormed out, flinging his sleeves behind him.His father and Grand Tutor Feng Zhong both viewed him thus. He had believed the Mohists, with their principles of universal love and non-aggression, would be different—that Master Denglingzi would appreciate one of peaceful, unassuming character like himself. But he had been mistaken, for the Mohists were also unyielding—a truth he grasped only now.Perhaps his teacher had also heard of his refusal to borrow Qin's power to return and claim the throne, choosing instead to flee. Perhaps he knew of his reluctance to uncover the truth behind his mother's death. All these acts of steadfast loyalty, refusing to stir up rebellion, now served as irrefutable proof of his indecisiveness. Yet his teacher had never once revealed this, not even a hint, which only made him angrier, his chest feeling as if it would burst.
Rushing out the courthouse gate, he was met by a gust of wind so fierce it stung his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the city had transformed: the gates were bolted shut, the streets deserted, every household's doors and windows tightly sealed.Along the ramparts, siege engines stood in orderly rows, soldiers lined up awaiting orders; at the base of the walls, the elderly, women, and children carried stones and earth, basket by basket, to the fortifications. Outside the city, smoke and dust obscured the sun, the thudding of war drums mingling with the marching footsteps of a great army, carried by the wind into the city.
The Qin army had launched their assault!
Only then did he realize the earlier drumbeat had summoned the garrison, and the ensuing commotion stemmed from battle preparations. Just then, Lord Dengling rushed out from the government offices, accompanied by a Moist scholar carrying a wooden box wrapped in white cloth. Lord Dengling declared:
"Today's fierce headwind is unfavorable for defense. The Qin have indeed seized this opportunity to attack. The Moist scholars arrived but recently; the fortifications remain incomplete. The fate of this city is truly unpredictable. The destiny of the realm now rests upon your shoulders, young master. Please depart swiftly. Do not concern yourself with this old man."
With that, he bowed deeply. The Moist disciple presented the wooden box to Wuzheng. Just as he reached out to take it, his hand froze mid-air.Another fierce gust swept through, freezing everyone in place like statues—the Moist disciples still holding the box, Wuzheng with hands suspended, Denglingzi still bowing low with face to the ground. Only the edges of their robes, strands of hair, and leaves brushing their cheeks stirred.Wu Zheng abruptly withdrew his hands, refusing to take the wooden box. Instead, he lunged toward a nearby horse, swung himself onto the saddle bridge, and galloped toward the city walls.
The drumbeats atop the city walls were drowned out by the battle cries echoing from beyond the ramparts. Moments later, he ascended the staircase leading to the ramparts. The guard stationed at the top attempted to block him with his halberd, but he shoved him aside. Standing behind the crenellations, his gaze swept over the Qin soldiers swarming the walls like ants.Scaffolding had been erected against the ramparts, swarming with Qin soldiers scrambling upward hand over foot. On the ground stood numerous siege towers, each three stories tall and slightly higher than the walls. Archers and crossbowmen occupied the top levels, firing arrows relentlessly from their elevated vantage points.On the middle and lower levels, infantrymen were packed together, shields in their left hands and swords in their right, poised to leap onto the ramparts the moment the ladders touched the wall.The iron chains of the drawbridge before the gate had been severed. A battering ram was pushed through the gate opening. Hidden Qin soldiers roared in rhythm, swinging a tree-trunk-thick ram back and forth. The tremors from the impact could be felt a mile away.
The defenders, facing the wind, dared not use fire, fearing it would consume them. They refrained from scattering grain husks to blind the enemy, lest the gale blow them back. Even their arrows lost half their force, often failing to strike their mark. The attackers, however, held all the advantages of the elements. The fierce wind propelled their siege towers swiftly toward the moat. Arrows, driven by the wind, pierced the walls, embedding themselves densely into the stonework.Each Zhao defense squad, led by a black-robed disciple, followed commands: some fired crossbows, others thrust spears, some hacked at scaling ladders with great axes, while others scooped boiling water from nearby cauldrons to pour down.Each command from the ramparts was followed by a chorus of agonized cries below; each chorus of cries was followed by the splash of bodies plunging into the moat.
Wuzheng grabbed a wooden crossbow and fired arrow after arrow at the ladders. The enemy soldiers were heavily shielded; six or seven out of ten arrows from Zhao's troops struck the shields, causing no harm. Only his arrows mostly pierced through the gaps, hitting elbows or thighs, causing the Qin soldiers to fall one after another.After firing a dozen or so, he found the crossbow too slow and grabbed a bow instead. With each draw and release, arrows flew out in a flurry.Gradually, his quiver emptied, and the soldiers beside him fell one by one. Yet the Qin troops scaling the walls did not diminish—they only grew. The moat was already filled with corpses, and the Qin's scaling ladders now stood planted directly in the flesh and blood. Below the walls, a dark mass surged forward, wave upon wave. The rear ranks trampled the backs of those ahead, who in turn trampled the dead beneath them.
The ground beneath Wuzheng's feet suddenly began to tremble. Looking up into the distance, he saw several wooden bridges from siege towers crashing onto the ramparts. Qin soldiers poured out in single file, crossing the narrow planks—barely wide enough for one man—and surged toward the defenders like a tidal wave.Zhao soldiers raised their blade shields—wooden planks studded with spikes, towering above the bridges to hinder crossing—causing the front ranks of Qin troops to hesitate. But those behind pushed them forward, sending them crashing onto the spikes, pierced through and through. Within moments, the shields hung heavy with corpses, burying the spikes beneath.Zhao archers unleashed arrows and spears, sending Qin soldiers tumbling from the bridge like snowflakes. Yet Qin troops still streamed up the ladders of the siege towers like an unstoppable trickle. Wuzheng fired arrows at the city walls while watching the siege towers—the battle was turning against them. Qin forces would breach the walls within moments.
He fired another dozen or so arrows when suddenly, from far above the city walls, a loud shout in Qin dialect rang out: "The first to scale the Crimson City is so-and-so!" The roar carried for ten li, its echoes circling the city walls several times. Instantly, not only did the Zhao soldiers look up in response, but even the Qin troops turned their gaze toward him, momentarily neglecting their weapons.Judging by his attire, the shouter was likely a Qin centurion. He strode with the grace of a dragon and the power of a tiger, towering over the surrounding Zhao soldiers like a mountain. His hands slashed and parried with perfect composure. Under Qin military law, the first to scale the walls claimed the primary credit, so this man bellowed to prevent his comrades from disputing the honor.Wu Zheng immediately discarded his bow and arrows, charging straight at the man. Though his strides were swift as flight, he could not save the Zhao soldiers locked in combat with the giant—one by one, they fell. By the time Wu Zheng drew near, the man crouched on the ground, methodically severing heads. Each severed head was tucked into his belt, to be exchanged for a noble title upon his return to Qin.Wuzheng drew his sword and leapt forward to thrust. The two locked in combat. The giant's legs were rooted like tree trunks; no matter how Wuzheng lunged left or right, he didn't budge an inch. His left hand wielded a massive shield weighing over twenty pounds, blocking high and low as if it were nothing. His right hand brandished a long sword; when he swung it down, Wuzheng blocked with all his might but felt the shock reverberate painfully through his palm.After several exchanges, Wu Zheng's strength began to wane. Though he could parry the blade's edge, he could not withstand its force. Compounding his disadvantage, he had not donned armor in the haste. A sharp pain shot through his left shoulder as warm blood trickled down his arm. Seeing the blood, the centurion tossed aside his shield, gripped his sword with both hands, and swung viciously, intent on ending Wu Zheng's life swiftly before moving on to claim another head.Two blades clashed—his strikes parried, his thrusts deflected. Where steel met, clanging echoes rang out, sparks flying like two serpents, one gold, one silver, locked in a deadly embrace. Though Wu Zheng's sword was bronze, it proved far more resilient than the Qin soldier's common iron blade, slowly chipping away at the enemy's weapon until a gaping notch appeared.Seizing an opening, he delivered a fierce downward strike, cleaving the iron blade clean through at the hilt. As the centurion bent to retrieve his scattered weapons, Wuzheng sprang forward with a leap, thrusting his blade through the man's heart. With a swift pull, the warrior fell backward, blood gushing from his chest like a fountain, spraying over a foot high.
Though the vanguard fell, a breach now gaped in the ramparts. Towering siege engines swarmed like ant nests, spewing waves of Qin soldiers who clashed with Zhao defenders and Mozi disciples atop the walls. The garrison—from white-haired elders to youth with bound hair—formed ranks and engaged the enemy in orderly succession, sacrificing themselves without flinching.Behind each line of fighters, Moist disciples painted a thin red line with lacquer, marking the point beyond which soldiers must not retreat. Thus, the fallen all lay before this line. Even those who fell and crossed it would crawl back to the line before dying. Women within the city scurried up and down, delivering arrows and stones, many of them wounded or killed in the process.
Wu Zheng leapt to the junction where a wooden bridge met the city wall. As Qin soldiers descended, he struck down each one.The pain in his shoulder ignited his bloodlust. Already seething with resentment, he channeled his anguish into every swing of his sword: each thrust carried the injustice of his father's neglect since childhood; each cleave, the grief of his mother's death left unavenged; each slash, the self-reproach for failing to save Fox Yan as he took his own life before his eyes; each chop, the shame of being denied entry into the Mo Sect.His bronze sword whirled and danced around him, leaving a trail of torn armor and spattered flesh in its wake.
Suddenly, a drumbeat sounded from the enemy tower, followed by dozens of Qin soldiers being blown off the wooden bridge by the wind.
The wind had shifted!
On the four corner watchtowers, the Mozi flag-bearers raised banners bearing the character for "fire." Within moments, the city walls below were engulfed in a sea of flames.Zhao soldiers lit bundles of firewood and hurled them down, igniting the mountains of corpses piled below and burning through the scaling ladders. Dense volleys of flaming arrows struck the siege towers; as the oil-filled arrowheads burst, the towers burst into flames. Qin soldiers scrambled to leap out, those unable to escape instantly charred to cinders.A fierce wind carried the rising flames toward the Qin army camp, where the fire swiftly engulfed the parched autumn grass across the open field.
The distant sound of retreat gongs reached the Qin soldiers, who turned and fled. Wuzheng's sword slowly came to a halt. Only when not a single enemy remained on the ramparts did he begin to make his way down, stepping carefully over the corpses littering the ground. His arms were utterly spent, unable to lift even his sword. Its blade was chipped and dulled in places, so he simply let it fall.The ramparts were drenched in crimson. Below, the Mozi disciples' armor was stained with blood, weapons dripping with it. Master Deng Lingzi stood at the head of the formation. The disciple who had carried the wooden box earlier lay dead beside him. Around each fallen Mozi disciple lay seven or eight slain Qin soldiers. The closer to the city gate, the denser the piles, filling the breach torn open by the battering ram.
When Wuzheng entered the city, the sun had just risen; now it was past noon. He looked at his teacher, forcing his arms up to make a slight bow; Deng Lingzi returned the gesture with equal restraint. Neither spoke, neither showed emotion.Wuzheng turned and walked toward the rear cliff. The attendants who had followed from the Kingdom of Feng trailed behind, carrying the boxes—they hadn't come to defend the city, so naturally, they were unharmed. Wuzheng hadn't come to defend the city either, yet because of his master's words, he had nearly paid with his life. He descended from the winch to the riverbank, boarded a small boat, and lay down in the cabin. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he fell into a deep sleep.