The Third New Tokyo Metropolis

Above his head stretched a luminous, crystalline sky; beneath his feet drifted a tiny floating isle formed of condensed clouds.

Against the howling northern wind, the fantastical airborne fortress—The Third New Tokyo—glided slowly across the vast, boundless sea of clouds.

—Since, at the behest of Emperor Zhao Huan of the Song Dynasty, "New Tokyo" and "The Second New Tokyo" had already been built in Bianliang, this newly constructed cloud-bound citadel by Doraemon was, by sequence, christened a name that made Wang Qiu inwardly sigh: The Third New Tokyo.

Compared to the aerial city "New Tokyo" above Bianliang and the subterranean royal prison "The Second New Tokyo," Doraemon's latest creation was considerably smaller in scale. The entire floating island, conjured from clouds, spanned merely a dozen or so mu. Yet in terms of grandeur, architectural splendor, and martial vigor, it surpassed them both—boasting an aesthetic as flamboyant as imagination allowed, with vividly painted walls and dazzling glazed tiles that could dazzle and overwhelm the senses.

Most astonishing of all, it functioned as a mode of transportation, endowed with the capability of long-distance flight... The only aspect that Wang Qiu found lamentable: why had Doraemon not crafted a dreamy European castle among the clouds, but instead opted for a Japanese-style fortress adorned with tenshukaku, flying eaves, and bracket sets?

—Standing atop the tenshukaku of "The Third New Tokyo," Wang Qiu gazed at Doraemon, now sporting an exaggerated Sengoku-era warlord helmet and waving a command baton called "saibai," while Nobita, wearing a samurai wig, stood nearby. Wang Qiu could not help but mutter inwardly.

A few soldiers, bundled in thick garments against the cold, were taking turns operating one of Doraemon's wondrous inventions at the rear platform: the Wind God Fan, a magical device rivaling the legendary Banana Leaf Fan of Princess Iron Fan. With each mighty gust it produced, the airborne castle crept steadily northward, crossing the Yellow River.

—Admittedly, "The Third New Tokyo's" propulsion system did lack a certain elegance or technological flair. It looked less like a marvel of futuristic design and more like something crudely cobbled together.

In truth, most of Doraemon's fantastical devices bore a similar air of quaint absurdity.

It was the depth of winter, the harshest of the cold season. Even on the ground, the biting chill was enough to make one shiver. Now high in the sky, though the sun shone brilliantly, the temperature plummeted even further. The ornamental moat Doraemon had added was frozen solid, transformed into an ice rink. The piercing winds atop the tenshukaku were intolerable to any but Doraemon himself, a robot immune to the elements.

Thus, after reluctantly enduring the biting wind with Doraemon for a while, Wang Qiu fled the drafty tenshukaku, descending to the lower levels to huddle by a fire for warmth.

Despite the castle's majestic outward appearance, its interior was barren—devoid of decoration, furniture, or even the semblance of comfort—resembling a concrete structure in some third-rate children's amusement park. The three hundred soldiers and their mounts found what space they could, warming themselves by portable braziers, drinking and exchanging idle banter. Meanwhile, the more dutiful among them—Qin Hui, Zong Ze, and Guo Jing—gathered in the lowest level of the fortress, peering through a large circular observation window in the floor, using telescopes to survey the desolate landscape below in a half-hearted attempt at reconnaissance.

—The wintry North China Plain lay still and desolate, devoid of travelers or hearth smoke, prompting Wang Qiu to frown.

He knew this great alluvial plain beneath his feet was once among China's most developed and densely populated regions—villages interlinked, fields neatly ordered. Yet now, it was as empty as the wilderness. On rare occasion, a township might appear, but a closer look revealed a scene straight from the inferno: corpses strewn across narrow streets, ruins everywhere, and wild dogs gnawing on bodies. Some buildings still smoked faintly, lending the ruins a grim and mournful atmosphere.

Outside one burning village, Wang Qiu witnessed a harrowing scene of plunder unfolding in real time—flames engulfing thatched cottages, corpses scattered in grotesque disarray, pools of blood winding like rivulets, women and children fleeing in wails. Savage men with twisted faces brandished blades as they ransacked the village, slaughtering any who resisted, dragging women from their hiding places, stripping and violating them, then hanging crying children from trees as if they were livestock. It was only when a lookout spotted the floating citadel above that chaos briefly erupted; a whistle rang out, and the brigands swiftly scattered, leaving behind a few stunned survivors who stared blankly at their burning homes.

"...Could those be Jurchen cavalry out on a foraging raid?" Wang Qiu asked, pointing at the atrocity below.

"...No. Their clothing is of Song origin, and they ride few horses. Most likely rebel militia," replied Zong Ze, who had recently arrived from Hebei, with a sigh.

"Militia? Impossible! Look at their savagery—they're nothing more than bandits!" Wang Qiu exclaimed.

"Ah, what can one do?" said Qin Hui, the imperial inspector, stepping forward at some point. "Where there are soldiers, there is disaster. These rough warriors always bring ruin. Not just these self-funded militias, even the imperial troops who draw state salaries behave like brigands once on campaign.

"In the days of Tong Guan, when he led the Western Army south to suppress Fang La, those savage men from Shaanxi began slaughtering innocents even before encountering the enemy. They blamed it all on Fang La, but who was truly fooled? They claimed to have slain a million rebels, but how many innocents perished instead? They ravaged the land, seizing women, violating them at will, and when bored of them, hanged them by the roadside. For nearly a hundred li along the road from Hangzhou to Muzhou, the corpses of young, naked women swayed in the wind. Even the Jurchens would pale at such cruelty."

Hearing these bitter words, Wang Qiu suddenly found himself less inclined to fault the Song literati for their disdain toward the military class.

—After the Jurchen twice invaded southward, leaving the Song's northern territories in ruin, the refugees, defeated troops, and local clans of Hebei had each begun raising private armies under the banner of "defending the homeland." Some, like Wang Yan's Eight-Character Army, were indeed paragons of loyalty and courage—but many were undisciplined rabble, preying on the people they claimed to protect.

In truth, many so-called "militias" were unworthy of the name. Stripped of their patriotic façade, they were little more than mobs and marauding bandits—bullies who dared not face the Jurchens, yet plundered the countryside like locusts. Wealthy families were slaughtered and looted, women violated, the poor robbed of food and shelter, then forced to march with the army as beasts of burden or cannon fodder. During battles, these unfortunate souls were driven like livestock into the fray, while the militia elites watched from behind, ready to flee at the first sign of danger, leaving the innocents to perish in their stead.

Of course, even the imperial army often acted no better—its ranks riddled with disorder and greed. In times of scarcity, murder, pillage, and rape became all too common.

Thus, under the trampling feet of Jurchen invaders, Song troops, and roving militias alike, once-prosperous Hebei was reduced to a ravaged wasteland, and the common people left to suffer an unspeakable torment.

—In the face of this chaos, where bandits and soldiers became indistinguishable, and friend was barely discernible from foe, those aboard the Third New Tokyo could only look on in helpless silence.

And so, the first stop of their journey northward was drawing near.