Chương 86: Chapter 87 — The End of the Battlefield

Before the sun rose, the battlefield was already over. The fight, which had begun at the edge of night, had not lasted long, yet its aftermath stretched far across the plains. The shouts of men had faded, and what remained were scattered footprints, trampled snow, and the things left behind upon it. Generals such as Choe Gong-ui, Hyeong Yeong, Yelü Bulyu, and Xiao Gaship were dead. Countless weapons and supplies had fallen into their hands. When counted, the enemy's numbers exceeded ten thousand.

At first, they had been said to be seven thousand, yet the number of those killed or captured surpassed that. Such things were common in war. No one lines men up and counts them one by one. Numbers are judged by the mass of bodies gathered. After the battle, counts become more precise, for merits must be divided. Yet once carried by rumor and written into history, those numbers grow to ten times their size. Overturned carts lay scattered across the field.

Broken wheels were half-buried in snow, and dried grain spilled from shattered loads. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Horses that had snapped their reins and fled now stood still, breathing heavily. A long line of prisoners stretched across the ground. Their bound hands dragged uneven steps behind them. Some turned to look back, but there was nowhere left to return to. What was useful was taken, what remained was left behind.

Candles, grain, weapons, and equipment emerged in endless quantities. The battle was over, and hands moved busily. Yet not everything had ended. From the distant road, the sound of hooves still continued. Cavalry pursued the scattered enemy toward Alonrak (斡論灤). Those who fled could not stop. Those who stopped did not survive. One by one, the traces along the road disappeared. Light slowly rose. Things unseen in darkness revealed themselves— broken lines, scattered formations, severed paths.

The army had vanished from that place. Only the marks of its passing remained. Wanyan Aguda reined in his horse. Without a word, he looked over the field. The long tracks across the snow, and all that lay scattered upon them, entered his sight at once. Behind him stood the cavalry. Their number had grown beyond what it had been at the beginning. One battle had called men together. There was no need for words.

The cavalry that had crossed the river, the battlefield they had split apart, the army that had lost its flow and could not be restored— that story would spread far. Those who had not yet come would hear it and come of their own will. Aguda lightly pulled the reins. His horse turned. The army followed behind him. Hooves struck the plain once more. Their number had now reached ten thousand. The battlefield was emptied, and in its place, a new current had risen.

In later chronicles, this battle was recorded as follows: They crossed the river, split the enemy's depth, pressed both flanks and broke its flow, and when the rout began, pursued without pause as far as Alonrak. Through this battle, the name of Wanyan Aguda spread widely among the Jurchen, and many tribes submitted of their own accord, swelling the army at once to ten thousand.

In the second month of that year, the three prefectures of Hangzhou, Binzhou, and Shangzhou surrendered, and the Tiele and Olya tribes also submitted to the Jurchen.