On the wintry night of the ninth day of the intercalary eleventh month in the first year of the Jingkang era (1126 AD), the Northern Song capital—Dongjing Bianliang, present-day Kaifeng—lay shrouded beneath a vast, swirling blizzard.
In this mighty metropolis of a million souls, all was engulfed in flames and ruin. A great city, once vibrant and thriving, now cowered beneath the iron hooves of war.
Darkness cloaked the city of Bianjing. Every household extinguished its lanterns and barred its gates. The once-resplendent night market at the Zhou Bridge—its myriad lights mirroring a fallen Milky Way—had vanished into gloom. The revelry and music of Fan Tower, that once endured till dawn, was now but a memory. Only the flicker of torches on the city walls remained, casting wavering shadows of barren trees across lifeless rooftops.
Save for the occasional silhouette of patrolling sentries, this luminous Eastern capital now lay eerily still, a dead city in all but name.
Who could have foreseen that a mere two years after the collapse of their northern adversary, the Liao Dynasty, and the triumphant reclamation of the Yanyun Sixteen Prefectures, the magnificent and bountiful Great Song would so swiftly follow in Liao's footsteps—its territory sundered, its capital imperiled?
And all of this, all the calamities to come, stemmed from a small, obscure tribe nestled in the remote wilds beyond the White Mountains and Black Waters, more than a decade prior.
In the spring of 1114, a Jurchen chieftain by the name of Wanyan Aguda, no longer willing to endure Khitan oppression, raised the banner of rebellion. His forces dealt the Liao army repeated defeats.
By 1115, the Emperor Tianzuo of Liao, in desperation, gathered the full might of his realm to personally campaign against the Jurchens. Yet at the Battle of Hubudagang, his army was utterly annihilated—dead bodies littered the plains for a hundred miles. The emperor fled in disgrace, and rebellion ignited across his fractured kingdom. Liao's eastern territories descended into chaos.
The meteoric rise of this newly emergent power in the northeast stunned the Song court. Rejoicing in Liao's unraveling, the court believed they could ally with the Jurchens, strike the Khitans from both north and south, and finally fulfill the long-cherished dream of reclaiming Yanyun.
Soon after, the Song and Jin dynasties signed the Alliance of the Sea, agreeing that the Jin would attack from the west while the Song launched a northern expedition, the spoils of Liao to be divided.
While the Jin campaign thundered with relentless momentum—toppling Shangjing and Zhongjing in succession—the Song's offensive floundered. Under the inept command of Tong Guan, plagued by internal discord, the Song forces suffered disastrous defeats at the hands of Liao's remnants. The supposedly elite troops were decimated, and the northern expedition became a national farce. In the end, it was the Jin who seized Yanjing while the Song merely redeemed the city through gold and bribes—achieving only a nominal victory.
Yet even as Emperor Huizong staged grand ceremonies on the southern outskirts of Bianliang, proclaiming his "glorious military triumph" in recovering the Yanyun territories, he remained oblivious to the grim fate about to befall him: he would soon become the next quarry of the Jurchen iron tide.
In the spring of 1125, with the capture of the last Liao emperor in Yingzhou, the Liao Dynasty was officially extinguished. The Song court had little time to celebrate this triumph before horror dawned—the Jurchens, having vanquished the Khitans, now set their gaze upon the Song.
In October of that year, the Jin launched a two-pronged invasion: Wanyan Zonghan led the western army toward Taiyuan, while Wanyan Zongwang pressed south from Yanjing. Their goal: to rendezvous at Dongjing and bring about the downfall of the Song.
Zonghan's campaign stumbled at Taiyuan, where Zhang Xiaochun and Wang Bing mounted a valiant resistance. But Zongwang's eastern forces swept forth like a storm. As he arrived in Yanjing, the defending Song general immediately surrendered. The Jin surged southward, ravaging Hebei. Tens of thousands of Song troops crumbled before the advancing Jurchens, surrendering en masse or fleeing without resistance. In an unstoppable wave, the Jin marched toward Dongjing.
Terrified, Emperor Huizong contemplated fleeing south. Yet many officials urged him to stand firm and appoint capable leaders to defend the capital.
Amidst the chaos, Huizong abdicated, yielding the throne to his son, Zhao Huan. The new emperor ascended as Emperor Qinzong, declaring the following year to be Jingkang. Huizong retreated from power, adopting the lofty title of "Retired Emperor and Celestial Master of the Dao," and fled south.
The power transition sowed confusion, allowing Jin forces to cross the Yellow River with minimal resistance. Qinzong, newly enthroned, entrusted Li Gang, a leading hawk, with the defense of the capital. Rising to the challenge, Li Gang swiftly fortified the city: placing twelve thousand troops along each wall, dividing the army into structured corps, securing food stores and chokepoints—all in just four days.
Meanwhile, Zongwang's eastern army reached the city gates. He pillaged the outskirts and launched a fiery assault via riverboats upon Xuanzemen. Li Gang responded with two thousand death-defying warriors, long hooks, and barrages of stones. The river was barricaded with felled trees and boulders, sealing the enemy's advance. Over a hundred Jin soldiers perished. For the moment, the city's defenders had blunted the enemy's momentum.
Reinforcements soon arrived. Over 200,000 troops from across the empire, including famed generals like Zhong Shidao, converged on Bianliang. The Jin forces—only 60,000 strong and stretched thin—found themselves besiegers in foreign land, wearied by extended campaign.
Seeing the balance tip, Zongwang withdrew north. Yet Emperor Qinzong squandered this rare opportunity to strike. Instead of pursuing victory, he proposed ceding three key prefectures in exchange for peace. The Jin, seeing weakness, agreed—temporarily.
Thus concluded the first siege of Dongjing. It was a pitiful affair, yet the Song had bought themselves a brief reprieve.
But the year that followed revealed the Song court's utter incompetence. Emperor Qinzong imprisoned his own father, fanned factional strife, and alienated his ministers. In foreign policy, he vacillated—sometimes waging war, sometimes suing for peace—offering land and bribes that only deepened Jin enmity and demoralized his own troops. A series of blunders drained the capital's defenses.
In August of Jingkang Year One, Jin Taizong launched a second invasion. Once again, Zongwang and Zonghan led twin columns. In September, after 250 days under siege, Taiyuan finally fell. The defenders were slaughtered or driven to suicide, and nine-tenths of the population perished.
With Taiyuan lost, Zonghan swept across Fenzhou, Jinzhou, and Shouyang. Zongwang defeated Song forces at Jingxing and captured Zhendifu, annihilating organized resistance in Hebei.
With the north collapsing and the gates to Dongjing wide open, panic gripped the Song court. They hastily assembled 120,000 troops under Zhe Yanzhi to hold the Yellow River crossings. Zonghan, seeking glory before Zongwang could arrive, led a small vanguard to the river. Seeing the Song army prepared on the opposite bank, he refrained from attacking and instead ordered drums beaten through the night to simulate strength.
That drumbeat shattered the Song's fragile morale. In terror, Zhe Yanzhi fled, and the massive army disintegrated overnight—many trampled to death in the rout, leaving behind vast stores of supplies for the jubilant Jin.
One night's drums routed 120,000 men—another ignoble page in Song history.
By late November, the Jin had crossed the river unopposed and once again encircled Dongjing. The capital teetered on the edge of collapse. The court's orders to halt reinforcements and its obsession with peace talks left the city isolated and its people despondent. Loyal armies were turned back mid-march, disbanded by decree.
Not until the eve of the second siege did Emperor Qinzong awaken to the crisis. The city's garrison, depleted by years of mismanagement, now mustered only 70,000 soldiers. Reinforcements were nowhere in sight. Over 100,000 Jin troops now closed in from every direction.
In desperation, Qinzong dismissed the appeasers and appointed Helü, a war-aligned official, as chancellor to lead the defense.
But this erudite scholar, brilliant in letters yet naive in warfare, found himself helpless in the face of overwhelming odds. Lacking men and means, he turned to superstition…
Thus emerged a string of so-called mystics.
Sun Fu, Minister of War, while reading a prophetic poem—rumored to foretell the future—was inspired by the names "Guo Jing, Yang Shi, Liu Wuji." A search ensued. They found Liu Wuji among the commoners and Guo Jing, a low-ranking officer, among the palace guards. Word spread that Guo Jing could summon spirits and conjure phantom armies. Sun Fu rejoiced and presented him to the court as a living talisman of hope.
Absurd though it sounded, desperation begat faith. The emperor believed. The chancellor believed. The people believed.
Guo Jing, robed and solemn, claimed he could summon victory and drive the Jin to the ends of the earth. The court granted him funds to raise a sacred army of 7,777 men.
Soon, charlatans from all trades—herbalists, butchers, even street performers—paraded as military sages, filling the city with empty boasts and false hope.
Up to this point, history proceeds as recorded. Guo Jing's "divine army" would fail disastrously, and with it would collapse the last vestiges of the Northern Song. The tragic farce would soon reach its bitter crescendo—the shame of Jingkang.
But just then, unseen by history, an anomaly emerged.
In Bianliang's Tianqing Temple, within the quarters of the so-called "Immortal" Guo Jing, a different soul now occupied his body...
By the dim glow of an oil lamp, the man in blue robes sat cross-legged, nursing a cup of tea. Before him lay the imperial decree naming him "Martial Strategist and Prefect of Yanzhou"—a title grander than even that of Wu Song, the tiger-slaying hero.
Yet he seemed unmoved by such honor. Eyes fixed on the black digital watch on his wrist—a device wholly foreign to this era—he muttered with unease:
"Damn it… what now? How am I supposed to bluff the emperor? How do I fend off the Jurchens?"
It was clear: this so-called Immortal, hailed as the Song's last hope, was no longer the Guo Jing of history…