In the final years of the Dayin dynasty, heaven and earth collapsed. The dragon banners fell, the Nine Tripods sank, and flames of war swept from north to south, scorching three thousand miles of the realm.
Xu An, a lowly yamen runner from Huaian Prefecture, rose with only a single horse and eight hundred men, riding through the chaos.
First, he crushed the Hu and Qiang tribes on a snowy night, weapons flashing against iron armor. Then he pacified Jiangnan amid the spring tides, its ships reduced to smoke and ash. At last, he subdued the court amid thunder and rain, and the high officials bowed their heads.
Surviving a hundred battles, his bones were forged in blood and fire, and his name was carved by the lives of a million people.
The old emperor burned himself to death, the new dynasty had yet to be established, and the world lay shrouded in darkness.
That day, Xu An stood astride his horse before Zichen Hall, saber in hand, its blade reflecting the setting sun. He asked only one question:
“Can the realm be at peace?”
Where his iron hooves came to a halt, it was not before gilded halls and jade steps, but above the hearth smoke of ten thousand homes. His goal was not an emperor’s throne, but the nightly cries of children and the morning fires of old women preparing food.
The court historian held his brush, daring not to record his ambition. Only a fragment remains, its ink still fragrant, preserving these words:
Xu An brought peace to the realm, and the realm brought peace to Xu An.
