The frigid wind howled down from the northern steppes, sweeping across frozen rivers and charred farmlands. It carried not only the stench of burning wood and scorched grain but also the bitter whisper of defeat. Word of the sack of Baiyuan was spreading like wildfire across dry underbrush, and with every passing league, the shadow cast by the nomadic horsemen seemed to stretch farther and grow darker.
But not all who dwelled in the northern regions were prepared to be swallowed by fear.
Within the stone-strong walls of the fortified city of Jinhai, General Shen Ruolin, supreme commander of the northern defenses, stood tall like an old oak weathering a gathering storm.
Lean and upright, with his silver-flecked beard neatly trimmed and his hair tied back in the style of veterans long past their prime but far from obsolete, Shen Ruolin was a man forged in old wars. His spirit had been tempered not only by countless battles, but also by betrayal, political neglect, and the slow rot of bureaucracy.
For years, he had been cast aside by Luo Wen and the imperial court—relegated to what was thought to be a pacified, irrelevant frontier.
But now, that very disregard became his strength. His isolation, his obscurity… his freedom to act.
On the third evening after the fall of Baiyuan, just as the sun disappeared behind a shroud of blackened clouds, Shen Ruolin gave his first command. He did not sit, nor did he falter. He summoned every military official in Jinhai to the war council chamber. There, beneath faded maps and wavering candlelight, he spoke in a tone that cut through the air like a drawn sword:
"We will conscript every hand that can hold a spear. Citizens, farmers, merchants, smiths—even the beggars. No one is to be left behind."
A young captain, clearly taken aback, raised his voice:
"What about the regular troops?"
Shen Ruolin fixed him with a gaze as hard as tempered steel.
"What troops?" he asked."The bulk of our forces were sent south. All we have left are the bones of an army—and the flesh and blood will be the people. We have no other choice."
Within two days, the streets of Jinhai transformed into a whirlwind of furious preparation. Peasants were drilled in basic formations. Blacksmiths worked without pause, melting even household tools and broken nails to craft crude spearheads. Women carried water, treated wounds, and cooked in enormous cauldrons for the endless flow of recruits.
The entire city became one enormous camp.
By the dawn of the fourth day, General Shen Ruolin had assembled a force of one hundred and twenty thousand men.
It was no army of shining banners or immaculate discipline. It was a patchwork of desperation and willpower. Some wore no shoes. Others gripped hayforks hastily bound with iron, their tips barely sharp. But their eyes burned with defiance.
Because they all knew one thing with terrible clarity: if Jinhai were to fall, there would be no other city between them and the imperial heartland.
Shen Ruolin, however, harbored no illusions. He knew his makeshift force—despite its numbers—was ill-equipped, poorly trained, and entirely unprepared for a head-on clash with the swift, brutal cavalry of the nomads.
And so, he turned to an ancient strategy: total defense.
He ordered the digging of moats in front of Jinhai's walls, the construction of secondary palisades, the setting of hidden traps along the approach roads. All city gates were sealed, save for two, which remained under heavy guard, their entrances narrowed like the throat of a beast ready to snap shut.
Jinhai itself would become the bait.And the trap.If the nomads wanted to pass, they would have to swallow the city whole… or break their teeth on its ramparts.
On the fifth night, as the wind howled and torches flickered in the battlements, Shen Ruolin penned a letter. His calloused fingers moved with calm precision, his words simple but urgent. Once finished, he sealed the message with wax and his own blood.
Then he summoned three messengers—each to ride a different route, each accompanied by seasoned riders who knew the terrain like the backs of their hands.
The message was addressed to a single man: Luo Wen.
"To the Lord Chancellor,Baiyuan has fallen.The northern line is broken.But Jinhai stands.With great effort, I have rallied one hundred and twenty thousand souls.We will fight. But not for long.If this city falls, so too shall the North.I request reinforcements—not for my sake,but for the sake of the Empire.Your loyal servant,Shen Ruolin."
He sent a copy to General Zhao Qing, hoping that his legendary cavalry might intercept the nomads from behind. But in his heart, Shen knew both men were focused entirely on the western front—the campaign against Wei Lian.
"Let someone, somewhere, choose the right priority," he muttered bitterly.
That night, standing atop the northern wall of Jinhai, Shen Ruolin gazed into the distant horizon. There, far beyond the line of torches, the sky shimmered orange and red.
Villages burning. Caravans lost. The heavens painted with the stain of plunder.
Beside him, a young officer trembled visibly.
"Sir… do you believe they'll come tonight?"
Without turning his gaze from the flickering flames in the distance, Shen Ruolin replied:
"No. They want us afraid. They'll wait.They'll strike when they think we've broken."
He closed his eyes briefly, inhaled deeply, and whispered to himself:
"But not yet. Not tonight."