As expected, Guo Jing—the so-called Immortal Guo—faced neither censure nor resistance for razing the temple to the ground.
—After all, with the city on the brink of war and danger looming on every front, everything was to yield to the necessities of battle. Even the Taihu rocks from the imperial gardens of the Song court had been smashed into projectiles for the catapults, used to hurl at the encroaching Jin forces beyond the walls. Thus, when Guo Jing casually claimed that he had merely been rehearsing the "Maoshan Five Thunders True Method" in preparation to strike down the Jin invaders—only to accidentally demolish the building—his audience simply nodded in reverence and dispersed with expressions of awed admiration.
By now, the eastern sky had begun to pale. Beneath the eaves hung rows of glistening icicles; the courtyard was adorned with crystalline blossoms of frost and snow. Pavilions, towers, groves, gardens, pools, and rocky knolls—all were cloaked in a delicate veil of snow, transforming the scene into a dreamlike realm of ethereal beauty.
As the distant chime of Xiangguo Temple's morning bell echoed through the air, brilliant and solemn, the resplendent and flower-laden Kaifeng Prefecture ushered in yet another dawn.
Amidst this silvery landscape, this legendary city of a million souls revealed its splendor to the visitor from a thousand years hence:
From Xuande Gate to Nanxun Gate stretched the Imperial Avenue, ten li in length and two hundred and twenty paces wide. Even in the shadow of siege, the thoroughfare teemed with life—merchants, peddlers, laborers, and passersby bustling in endless flow. Though dawn had only just broken, the streets were already abuzz with movement, shoulder to shoulder in cheerful chaos.
Stalls lined every alleyway, shopfronts flanking the roads beckoned common folk with steaming offerings. On the counters hung roasted chickens and ducks, stewed pig and lamb heads. Outside, large iron cauldrons simmered with porridge and soup, releasing an oily aroma mingled with sweat and dust. Many ordinary residents of Dongjing took all their meals outside, much like modern urbanites of a later age—never bothering to light a stove at home. Some stalls even sold washing water—merely boiled water—used by early risers too lazy to build a morning fire, to wash their faces and rinse their mouths. In every sense, this was a flourishing, urbanized, and highly commercialized society.
Flanking the Imperial Avenue were two ribbon-like rivers, each five zhang wide, their banks lined with polished jade stone that gleamed under the morning light. Alongside them grew peach, plum, pear, and apricot trees—though winter's chill had stripped them bare, one could still envision the avenue in springtime, bursting into a riot of color beneath the blossoms of myriad flowers.
This was Bianliang, capital of the Great Song. This was Kaifeng Prefecture, where legends were born, the most opulent and majestic convergence of the realm.
Standing atop the treasure tower of Tianqing Temple, gazing down upon the vibrant city of Kaifeng in its Song Dynasty prime, Wang Qiu felt his soul stirred and vision blurred, as if scenes from Along the River During the Qingming Festival, Justice Bao, Water Margin, The Case of the Execution of Lady Yu, and The Five Rats Trouble the Capital had all come vividly to life before his very eyes.
Yet all this grandeur, all this prosperity, would vanish like smoke in a mere month or two.
…Though no savior, Wang Qiu still could not help but grieve the thought of such splendor and civilization being reduced to ash by death and savagery.
Just then, a sudden clamor arose at the gate of Tianqing Temple—it was Guo Jing's servants, returning from the street with the morning's breakfast.
They came bearing armfuls of food, bundles wrapped in lotus leaves of various sizes, their rich aromas drifting faintly on the breeze even from afar. By the time Wang Qiu descended the tower and arrived at the temple's dining hall, the table was already piled high with steaming treats—fried snacks, pastries, and delicacies of every sort. Doraemon and Nobita were already seated, utterly unreserved, shoveling the fragrant breakfast into their mouths with unrestrained delight.
As for Commissar Guo Jing, he too sat there with a beaming grin, wolfing down the food while proudly introducing the fare to his guests: "...This one is a sweet fried cake—though a bit light on sugar; and here, this is a 'pan-fried pouch'—definitely best when eaten hot; this is roasted pork rind, quite a famous dish... Oh, and this is Granny Cao's meat pie—one of Bianliang's most beloved specialties! The queue was unbelievably long!"
Watching them devour the food so ravenously, Wang Qiu stared in astonishment before letting out a loud cry, "How could you leave nothing for me?!" He then dove forward, snatching up bowls of liver porridge, spiced duck eggs, sesame fritters, donkey meat flatbreads, and more—unhesitatingly joining in the feast. One bite, and he was amazed—these natural, unpolluted flavors far outshone the bland soybean milk and fried dough sticks of later times.
In no time, the table was picked clean. Wiping their mouths, they each downed a bowl of peppered soup tea—a warming drink much like the spicy broths of future generations. In the deep cold of midwinter, drinking it was enough to bring forth sweat and delight alike—a genuine pleasure.
With breakfast complete, Tianqing Temple gradually grew livelier. Idlers from the marketplace began arriving to enlist in Guo Jing's "Six Jia Divine Troops," while clerks sent by the authorities came to record the names and details of the recruits... For such mundane matters, Wang Qiu, Doraemon, and the others had no role to play, and Guo Jing too showed little interest. Instead, he ordered a carriage readied and set off to visit the bustling Grand Xiangguo Temple.
Though known as a temple, Xiangguo was in truth an enormous complex, comprising eight distinct courtyards, each with its own abbot—the Two Meditation Courts and the Six Law Courts spanned several streets and covered vast tracts of land. The temple's central Cloud-Piercing Pagoda rose three hundred feet into the sky. Within, murals by Wu Daozi and sculptures by Yang Huiwen dazzled the eye, while outside stood tablets engraved with the names of every successful examination candidate, arranged in orderly rows from the founding of the dynasty to the present day.
In front of the temple stretched the city's most famed commercial avenue, a street that rivaled Nanjing Road in Shanghai or Wangfujing in Beijing of future times. This market opened five times a month and was a veritable ocean of craftsmen and traders, hawking treasures and curios from all corners of the realm. "Every merchant and traveler gathered here; those seeking to sell or buy passed through this place." As recorded in A Dream of Splendor in the Eastern Capital, the market within Xiangguo Temple was the heart of national commerce, a flourishing hub of prosperity.
Though wartime martial law had shuttered most shops and paralyzed trade, even now one could feel the echoes of that vibrant bustle. The few businesses still open sold everything from textiles and jade to sweets and sundries. The streets and storefronts were clean and orderly—no different from the commercial districts of small modern cities. Immigrants from Liao, Western Xia, India, and even Arabia had settled here, most making their living through trade. These foreigners added a colorful diversity to life in Bianliang, transforming this political, economic, and cultural heart of China into a world-renowned cosmopolitan metropolis.
Yet the marks of war were unmistakable. In snowy corners of the city, the frozen corpses of destitute refugees lay strewn—faces blue with death. Even more wandered the streets, gaunt and desperate. Though they had fled the Jin blades and found shelter within Kaifeng's walls, their coin soon exhausted, they succumbed to hunger and cold all the same.
Even the long-time residents of Kaifeng were barely getting by. With land and river routes severed by the Jin siege, industry ground to a halt. Jobless and income-starved, the people watched helplessly as prices soared:
One dou of rice—800 wen.
One dou of wheat—700 wen.
A jin of donkey meat—1,300 wen.
Mutton—1,200. Pork—1,100.
Each day brought higher costs, more absurd than the last.
As if heaven itself had abandoned the Song, this winter proved the coldest in a century.
With the siege dragging on, Kaifeng's million citizens not only lacked food but fuel—no firewood, no coal. Every day, hundreds died of hunger and exposure. The court's relief efforts were but a drop in the ocean.
"...The city's industries are dead, yet prices rise daily. That breakfast we just devoured—at normal times, the cost would've covered a full banquet!" Guo Jing sighed, gazing at the snow-covered corpses of paupers. "...Why do you think my seven thousand Divine Troops were so easy to recruit? Everyone's starving, desperate for a soldier's rations."
"...In that case," Wang Qiu mused, a gleam in his eye, "should I try smuggling in a load of grain? I could earn a fortune—and win the gratitude of both soldiers and citizens! Surely, food must be the most coveted treasure during a siege!"
But Guo Jing shook his head, disapproving. "...I strongly advise against it. You'll make dangerous enemies—powerful ones."
"...What? Kaifeng's under siege, and yet people don't want food brought in from outside? That's absurd!" Wang Qiu exclaimed.
"...Well, how shall I put it?" Guo Jing's eyes twinkled with cryptic amusement. "Did you truly think this city... is really short on food?"