Heaven and earth lay in silence. Only endless darkness seemed to devour all things. A cold mountain wind wailed past Two Wolves Mountain, and the encamped Liao soldiers—like some great beast slumbering in the void—breathlessly held their killing intent beneath stillness.
Inside the camp, bonfires crackled feebly. Soldiers huddled close in threadbare coats, their faces haggard, their eyes hollow. Their hands clasped around their knees for warmth, listening to the firewood hiss and snap. Hunger and exhaustion had drawn their faces long and thin. They looked like they could topple over at any time.
Yang Qilang had donned his armor. Standing at the edge of the camp, he looked back. His eyes brimmed with reluctance, with burning urgency. He knew what awaited them—father, brothers—now cornered, flanked on all sides. Survival was nothing more than a gambler's toss.
"Father, let me break through and fetch reinforcements," said he, voice bold—though a faint tremor glinted beneath it.
Yang Jing stepped forward, gripping his shoulder: "Alone against a thousand—you may not break through. Let me escort you a distance." The two leapt onto horseback, galloping straight for the Tiger's Jaw Pass.
The mountain echoed with the din of shouts and steel as riders charged.
Liao soldiers moved in response, but strangely—they held back. Caution. Hesitation. A sliver of doubt sparked in Qilang's heart: "Brother… they're letting us through?"
"Someone's pulling strings," Yang Jing muttered.
Sure enough, ahead at the pass, a mounted figure turned his steed—Yang Yan-shun, the eighth brother. Feigning assault, he led the enemy forces astray, leaving a hidden path for his brothers through.
No words were needed among them—all was understood.
Yang Jing turned himself into a decoy, drawing troops away. Qilang spurred his horse, arrow-like, piercing the chaos behind him. Arrows hissed like rain overhead. He did not glance back.
Only one thought beat within him like a war drum:
"I must survive. I must call for aid."
Yang Jing galloped back into camp.
"Father—the Seventh has broken through!" he reported, chest rising with relief.
The Old Marshal's face flickered with a faint smile, but his gaze remained fathomless, burdened as a stone. His sons still breathed—but the siege tightened. Hunger and time were finishing what the Liao had started.
For three days, they had eaten horses and scraped bark. Men slept in armor, waking only to swallow their dried lips. No fight left. No hope of aid yet.
And still, in the bitter dawn, Yang Jiye climbed to the highest ridge, staring toward the distant road, counting the hours since Qilang fled. Each time, only wind returned.
At last, on the third night, a breath escaped him:
"I miscalculated… should not have let him go."
His son looked up: "Father?"
The Old Marshal's voice was faint: "Pan Bao died by his hand. Pan Renmei harbors a viper's grudge. I fear… they've let him go to die."
Even before the sentence ended, pain seized him. He slumped forward, half-conscious.
Yang Jing threw a cloak over him, eyes burning red—but held his silence.
That night, the Old Marshal dreamed. Qilang stood before him—drenched in blood—silent, smiling. He ran to him, shouting:
"Seventh! You've returned—and the army? Qilang—speak!"
"Father!" Yang Jing shook him awake. Jiye's eyes snapped open—seeking, then fading.
"…Gone," he whispered. Then, clutching his son's hand, murmured:
"Three regrets I leave…"
"Father, don't—"
"Listen."
"One. The land not yet reclaimed—I failed my emperor.
Two. The Seventh—fate unknown—who'll gather his bones?
Three. Pan Renmei—snake-hearted—will not rest until you sons lie beside me."
He pulled a cloth-wrapped sword from beneath him. Its scabbard worn. Its edge dulled.
"This sword was your grandfather's—passed to me when I was seventeen. By it, I carved our name into history. Now its time is past. Take it. Protect the country. Protect the family. Protect Qilang's soul."
Yang Jing knelt. "I swear by Yang blood—I will not fail."
At dawn, the drums of war sounded.
Han Chang's army surged from the shadows—armor gleaming like scales of a serpent—and the mountain shook under their assault.
Jiye tried to rise, but strength failed. His body, starved and sick with wound fever, trembled. He nearly fell.
Yang Jing rushed out, seized broth from the cooktent. Only one bowl remained—a thin stew of roots, flecked with grains wrested from starving hands.
Carrying it back, he offered it: "Father, drink. Gather breath."
Jiye sniffed—it was bitter and thin. But he drank. At the bottom, a few grains clung.
He paused, and then handed the bowl back.
"Eat this. You will fight later. I… have fought enough."
Then, he walked outside. The mountain ridge blazed crimson with morning frost.
The last stand began.
"We have no arrows! No stones!" cried a sergeant.
A pause.
"Then throw iron!"
With that cry, the cook's iron cauldron crashed down, crushing a dozen men. The old cooks, grinning through cracked lips, fell too—with arrows in their backs.
After a while—no more food, no more arrows—only blood. When the cauldron fell silent, and even the rocks ran out, only breath remained. And then not even that.
By midday, only sixty men remained.
"Brothers," said Jiye, hoarse, mounted upon his faithful white stallion, "none need stay. If life pulls stronger than loyalty, ride away. If not, stand. Die with me."
The answer shook the clouds.
"We stand!"
The rest was blood.
When the Liao saw the end nearing, they mocked:
"Let Yang Wudi kneel and be spared!"
Jiye laughed. His bowstring snapped—like a heartstring torn.
His stallion fell under him—wounded beyond rescue. He stroked its mane.
"My old friend… we rode the world together. Now… we end together."
He walked away.
Through thorns and snow, to an old ruin.
The Temple of Su Wu.
There—in the ruined hall—he found the broken statue of the shepherd-patriot who endured nineteen years without bending knee. Outside, hidden in the grass, a half-buried stone.
"Tomb of Li Ling."
The rebel. The traitor.
He knelt. Gazed upon the cracked stone.
Then laughed aloud, defiant, ringing.
"To be jade and broken, not tile and whole. I would die as Su Wu—not live as Li Ling!"
He charged.
And shattered his forehead upon the stone.
Blood bloomed like a scarlet peony on cold grey slate.
When Yang Jing reached him, snow had already begun to fall.
"Father—"
He cradled the silent frame. No cry came—just the wind.
No sound but the rattling in his throat.
"Rest now, Father. I will finish what you began."
He buried him with his own hands, atop the mountain, beneath the broken stone.
Then turned south—toward home. Toward vengeance.
Thus perished Yang Jiye, the Unyielding.
Two Wolves Mountain remembers—
The wind mourns still.