Chapter One: The Eunuch Guardian

In the fourteenth year of the Orthodox reign of the Ming Dynasty, at Yanghe Pass in Datong, Shanxi, forty thousand border troops of Datong were routed by the Oirat cavalry, their defeat as overwhelming as a collapsing mountain.

Amidst the chaos, Guo Jing, the eunuch governor of Datong who had served through four reigns, found himself surrounded by mounted Oirat warriors hacking and slashing, while Ming soldiers wailed and fled in panic. The tide of defeat was irrevocable, beyond any hope of reversal. Despair flooded his heart—he thought only of finding a rope to end his life, but in the urgency of the moment, where could one find such a thing? The trusted men he had brought from Datong were either scattered amid the rout or had abandoned him to save their own skins; not a single loyal soul remained at his side. In his helplessness, Guo Jing could only pick up a bloodstained long blade from the ground, his hands trembling as he raised it to his throat.

Though Guo Jing was timid, lacking in great ability, and terribly afraid of death, his heart beat with unwavering loyalty to his sovereign. He knew he must not become a captive of the Oirat; he had to end his life quickly. Since the founding of the dynasty, never had a eunuch governor been taken prisoner. He must not become the first. He could not disgrace the emperor, nor could he bring shame to the Ming.

Today, at Yanghe Pass, would be his tomb—a place where he, Guo Jing, would lay down his life for his country.

“Your Majesty, this old servant takes his leave!”

The shouts of the Oirat grew ever closer. Steeling himself, Guo Jing closed his eyes and prepared to cut his own throat. For a court eunuch, death in service to the nation might be his best fate; thus, his family might still receive imperial grace after his passing.

Yet, although Guo Jing had resolved to die, the blade never quite touched his flesh. It hovered before his neck, unable to cut down. It wasn’t death he feared, but pain. He preferred the white silk noose to the cold steel blade. As the thought occurred, his eyes nearly opened by instinct, but a cry from the distance startled him, driving away hesitation. He murmured a Buddhist prayer, pressed the blade to his neck—one last effort and his loyalty would be fulfilled, joining the tens of thousands of Datong soldiers who fell at Yanghe Pass.

In that perilous instant, an external force struck—someone knocked the blade from his hand, and then tackled him to the ground.

“Damn!” Guo Jing cursed inwardly, his face turning pale, convinced his assailant was an Oirat. He did not mind dying, but dreaded capture, for then even his family would lose the emperor’s favor.

“Let me die! Let me die, you damn barbarian...!”

He did not know where the strength came from, but he struggled desperately, trying to break free. Yet no matter how he fought, he could not escape the person pinning him.

It’s over, it’s over. Why is my fate so bitter? At the outbreak of war, Marquis Song Ying of Xining never respected me, and Zhu Mian, Lord of Wujin, always sided with Song against me. Whatever I said, they opposed. Now both those bastards are dead, yet I alone cannot die. The emperor and Lord Wang may mourn Guo Jing if he’s dead, but never if he lives. Heaven, why won’t you let this wretched man die?

Unable to die, unable to break free, Guo Jing gave up. He ceased struggling and lay there, refusing even to look at his captor. As governor, he would never beg for his life before a barbarian—death, yes; surrender, never. His stance was like that of a street rogue: no money, just a life to give. Compared to those, however, Guo Jing cut a much grander figure.

Unexpectedly, the one who tackled him whispered in his ear, “Lord Guo?”

At this familiar address, Guo Jing felt an unexpected warmth. He looked back to see not an Oirat soldier, but a young man in border troops’ uniform—a Han, perhaps in his late teens, with a square, honest face.

“And who are you?” Guo Jing was sure he had never met this youth.

“I am of the Imperial Guards, assigned as an investigative officer among the Datong troops. This is not a place to talk—please, follow me, and we’ll escape.”

The young man spoke little, his gaze wary as he scanned their surroundings for Oirat patrols. Seeing this, Guo Jing’s will to die faded, replaced by a desperate desire to live. If this youth was truly one of the brocade-clad Imperial Guards, he must have seen Guo Jing at some point and recognized him. If he could find him amid the chaos, perhaps he would not abandon him like the others.

This thought revived Guo Jing’s spirit. The young man was but a minor officer, yet brought him immense hope. If there’s a chance to live, who willingly seeks death? Alone, Guo Jing knew escape was impossible, but with someone to lead him, how could he not try? Even a lowly ant clings to life—how much more so a governor?

Without another word, Guo Jing tried to rise to follow, but found his body unresponsive. Embarrassed, he glanced at the youth, who quickly released his grip with an apologetic look.

Regaining his freedom, Guo Jing—an old eunuch hardened by four reigns—found his body wracked with pain, his legs weak. Only after a long while of rubbing his limbs did he recover his senses.

The young man, throughout, kept a vigilant watch and did not immediately attempt escape. This caution reassured Guo Jing even more. If the youth had dragged him off heedlessly, he’d rather have ended it all—on a battlefield swarming with Oirat cavalry, two legs could never outrun four, especially not an old man like himself. He’d be exhausted after a few steps. The youth’s careful approach, moving only after observing, was the right one. Perhaps, having faced death, or perhaps driven by the will to survive, Guo Jing began to feel a measure of reliance on this young man.

After the earlier slaughter, the battlefield around them was strewn with the dead of the Ming army. Some wounded still moaned in agony, and riderless horses wailed in the dusk. Yanghe Pass had become a tomb for Ming soldiers—countless dead, innumerable abandoned weapons. Decades later, local officials would still report to the court, “At Yanghe Pass, we have found numerous divine spears, countless firearms, and gathered many white bones...”

The two crouched among the corpses for a while, watching as most of the Oirat cavalry rode south to chase the routed troops, leaving the field unguarded. After about half an hour, as the sun began to set, the young man glanced at Guo Jing, nodded slightly, and began crawling toward a patch of reeds to the northeast.

Seeing that they were not heading south but northeast, Guo Jing was momentarily startled, then nodded to himself. The Oirat were focused southward; the northeast, less watched, offered a chance to escape, especially if they could reach the reed marshes and use the cover. The only problem was the marsh lay more than three li away—a considerable distance, with much risk of discovery.

Guo Jing hesitated, but the young man was resolute, already crawling ahead. Gritting his teeth, as he had when seeking death earlier, Guo Jing followed, imitating the youth’s slow crawl through the heaps of corpses.

They dared not rise, for though most Oirat had gone south, small patrols still combed the battlefield, some dismounting to search among the dead.

Guo Jing noticed that the Oirat focused on the armored corpses, confirming identities and checking for survivors. When he’d set out with the army, Guo Jing had considered donning fine armor to show his status, but the weight was intolerable—he was no warrior to fight on the front lines. In the end, he had worn his crimson robe, a mark of his office as overseer.

Now, that robe was filthy, soaked with blood from crawling, its hems and sleeves slashed to rags—no trace of grandeur remained, only the look of a beggar.

Their journey was fraught with peril, but miraculously, they escaped harm. Only once did a wounded soldier spot them, wide-eyed, begging to be taken along. Guo Jing paid him no heed, urging the youth to hurry, lest the man draw attention. The young man, torn by pity, hesitated before finally shaking his head, signaling he could do nothing. They crawled away to the sound of the soldier’s pleas turning to curses.

Moments after they’d moved on, several Oirat riders, drawn by the man’s cries, arrived. From a distance, Guo Jing and the youth could not make out the words exchanged, only hearing the soldier’s last anguished scream before the Oirats remounted and rode off.

The two lay motionless until the threat had passed, their eyes meeting in shared relief and dread. The dying man had tried to betray them, but the Oirat did not understand his words—otherwise, their fate would have been sealed.

Wasting no time, they pressed on. They passed other wounded soldiers who, resigned to their fate, watched them in silence—eyes filled with death. Guo Jing dared not meet their gaze, knowing that if they learned his identity, they would tear him apart. For today’s defeat, he bore an inescapable share of the blame.