Volume One: In an Age of Chaos, Is There Any Path for Mortals? Chapter 15: A Thousand Miles Ⅶ

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Staying up late every day—if not for merit, at least for the hardship—please, I beg for your votes!

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Deng She sprang to his feet. Wen Huaguo hadn’t noticed and was busy massaging his arm, so he was flung several paces away. He hurriedly ran back to grab him. Deng She, unaccustomed to movement, felt numbness in his legs and nearly stumbled. He paid no mind to Wen Huaguo and only asked his personal guard, Zhao Guo, “Where is my saber and spear? Bring them.”

“What are you doing?” Wen Huaguo anxiously stopped Zhao Guo and questioned Deng She, then raised his voice to call for Chen Hu, “Old Chen! Old Chen, come here quickly!”

Brother Huang Donkey, who had also come to visit Deng She, tried to persuade him not to get agitated. “When the rabbit dies, the fox grieves.” Even though Brother Huang Donkey usually disapproved of Deng She’s ways, serving under Guan Duo’s banner made his consolation and admonition sincere.

Deng She’s face was expressionless as he spoke in a low voice, “Commander Huang, Uncle Wen, I am already calm. However—” His eyes, not large by nature, suddenly widened, radiating a murderous intent that sent chills down Wen Huaguo’s spine. “If a son does not avenge his father, is he still a son?”

Chen Hu galloped over, heard these words but remained silent for a long time, then finally nodded. “Commander Wen, let him go.” He leapt off his horse and saluted Commander Zheng, who was busy selecting soldiers. “I am willing to fight at the vanguard alongside Commander Deng.”

It is said that a grieving army is bound to triumph. Chen Hu’s request to lead the charge suited Commander Zheng perfectly, and he agreed at once. “I assign you command of Deng’s thousand-man unit, and I will also dispatch Guan Shirong’s troops to join you.” After a moment’s thought, he ordered Wen Huaguo and Luo Guoqi, “Lead your men to form up behind Commander Chen as a surprise force.”

A surprise force could reinforce, ambush, or support the main army—in essence, a mobile unit and a reserve. Positioned outside the main formation, it reassured their own men that they had support at their backs, spurring them to valiant action, while also exerting psychological pressure on the enemy: “The foe has fresh reserves, ready to strike at any time.”

The sun had climbed high in a clear sky, the light dazzling. The surrounding plains offered no concealment for troops; there was simply no way to stage an ambush or a surprise attack. Thus, the formation Commander Zheng arranged this morning differed from last night’s; it was a formal battle array, ready to meet the enemy head-on.

Deng She and the others took their positions. Li Zifan returned with water, and the cooks hurried to boil water and prepare food. The enemy was still fifty li away; if they rushed, they might manage to prepare some hot food, so the soldiers—hungry from a sleepless night—could have something in their stomachs before the next battle.

To restore their horses’ strength, soldiers dismounted at their positions, feeding them fodder and gently stroking their flanks so the animals could lower themselves to rest.

Commander Zheng directed his personal guard to move Lady Wang’s carriage to the rear, leaving two or three dozen men to defend it. He ordered Monk Li and Brother Huang Donkey to patrol the flanks for support, then stood with his own two hundred men behind Luo Guoqi and Wen Huaguo, forming the third line.

Three thousand versus eight hundred—the Red Turbans were vastly outnumbered. Both sides had marched through the night and were equally exhausted. The Tamma Akun army had more horses, giving them superior cavalry, but the Red Turbans, having just won a battle last night, had the advantage in morale. Overall, the odds did not favor the Red Turbans.

There was no way to escape. Commander Zheng could only hope that the enemy’s two thousand reinforcements would be as untested as last night’s troops.

He rode around the battle lines, shouting, “Brothers, life or death will be decided here! Last night, we broke a thousand with four hundred; today, we’ll break three thousand with eight hundred! Let’s see whose head is harder—the Tatars’ or our blade! Win this, and you’ll return to Shangdu with great honors—I’ll recommend you all for promotion! By blood brotherhood and oath, I pledge myself as your brother. Promotions and riches, we’ll share them together!”

He raised his arm and cried out, “We fight on until every drop of blood is spilled—no surrender until death!”

His own troops were first to echo, “We fight on until every drop of blood is spilled—no surrender until death!”

A roar swept the ranks, blades raised, spears bristling like a forest. Monk Li led dozens on the flanks, their gallop kicking up clouds of dust, shouting hoarsely, “We fight on until every drop of blood is spilled—no surrender until death!”

Amid the sunlight glinting off weapons, the curtain of the carriage was lifted, and a woman emerged—Lady Wang, graceful and elegant in a willow-green Tang skirt, embroidered sash fluttering, gripping her skirt-dagger.

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The entire army turned as one, gazing toward her radiant figure standing before the newborn sun, her brilliance dazzling, almost ethereal. She spoke a few words, and a personal guard immediately raised a flag and rode forth, announcing, “The lady has spoken: If I win, I shall toast the heroes with wine; if I lose, I will end my life by my own dagger.”

Her brief proclamation inspired the troops far more than Commander Zheng’s offer of brotherhood. In the distance, smoke and dust rolled; the Tamma Akun army’s banner unfurled at the horizon. Blades, spears, swords, halberds, powerful bows pointed skyward—the soldiers tossed aside their half-eaten food, mounted up en masse, pounded weapons against breastplates, blood boiling, shouting in unison, “We fight on until every drop of blood is spilled—no surrender until death!”

The shouts echoed to the heavens. Deng She bit his lip, unmoved while the whole army turned to look at Lady Wang. He kept his eyes fixed ahead, sweat slick on the spear in his grip. He searched for the Yuan army’s command banner—closer, closer. The Yuan army was once again in a textbook field formation.

He could almost see the grim faces of the enemy vanguard, but he would never find the enemy’s commander’s banner. The ever-cautious Buddhist Slave would never reveal his position, inviting attack.

At the rear, Commander Zheng raised his flag and beat the drums. At the first beat, the vanguard raised their spears; at the second, they reined in and prepared to charge; at the third and final beat—between the two armies, separated by several li—Chen Hu barked at Zhao Guo to guard Deng She closely. Two hundred and fifty men surged forward with a battle cry.

Compared to last night, the enemy’s vanguard was much larger, numbering a thousand. Facing four times their number, exhausted from continuous fighting, it was no longer feasible to split the enemy’s ranks—the Red Turbans were simply too outmatched. Therefore, Chen Hu arranged his men in five-man squads: three in front forming a triangle, two behind in a line, ready to rotate. The point man led the charge, bearing the brunt of the attack, shielded by the two at his sides—the fiercest among them took this position. If he faltered or fell, those behind would take his place.

A ten-man unit consisted of two such squads; five ten-man squads formed a “Nine-Lock Chain” formation. The nine squads supported each other, while a tenth stood in the center as a reserve.

Two Nine-Lock Chains combined to make a hundred-man team. Chen Hu and Guan Shirong each led one, riding abreast; Deng She led fifty men, charging valiantly at the very tip—forming a sharply pointed triangular wedge.

Through the arrow storm from the rear ranks, the vanguards of both armies crashed together with a thunderous clang—spear against spear, saber against saber, horse against horse. Spears drove deep, sabers flashed, each thrust drew blood, each cut cleaved flesh. The grisly sound, mingled with the wounded’s cries, was unbearable to witness or hear. The grief and fury pent up in Deng She’s heart seemed, bit by bit, to grow lighter.

Hatred can only be cleansed in blood—there is truth in these words.

The Tamma Akun vanguard was a fresh force; the Red Turbans fought desperately, but after advancing only a few dozen meters, many had already fallen. Deng She ducked a severed arm spinning through the air, wiped blood from his eyes, and saw Chen Hu close behind, while Guan Shirong’s unit had slowed under pressure.

The Red Turbans’ horses and men were exhausted, trying to do much with little, and the enemy’s thousand-man unit was still intact—it was proving extremely difficult.

Deng She himself was weak; his wounds had not fully healed, he was running on willpower alone. As the battle dragged on, pain flared from his wounds, several had reopened, and blood streamed down. At this rate, defeat was certain. He parried a few incoming spears, pressed his knees together, stood in his stirrups, and spotted the enemy’s vanguard standard.

Spear spinning, he dropped back to the saddle and called to Zhao Guo, “Follow me!”

In the chaos, Deng She and his men veered off toward the enemy’s command banner. Chen Hu, always watching Deng’s movements, instantly understood his intent: “Shoot the horse before the rider, seize the king before the soldiers.” Instead of following Deng, Chen decisively ordered his men to spread out, expanding the attack front to draw the enemy’s attention and relieve pressure on Deng’s group.

With the pressure on Deng She lessened, Chen Hu’s own risk increased. When surrounded and outnumbered, a fan-shaped assault was almost suicidal—he couldn’t hold out long. In a blink, two or three more brothers fell.

The Yuan vanguard commander spotted Deng She.

But he remained unflustered; he had two reserve hundred-man teams at his side, while Deng She had only thirty or forty men and over two hundred meters to cover. The Yuan commander sounded his horn and waved his banner—a hundred-man team moved to intercept Deng She.

“Zhao Guo, veer left!” Deng She shouted, leading his men forward dozens of meters, then suddenly swerving right, as if intending to bypass the enemy’s new hundred-man team from the side. The team followed, shifting direction to block him. With this team lured away, Deng She glanced back—no one noticed Zhao Guo, who dashed ahead heroically, felling over a dozen scattered Yuan soldiers and closing to within twenty or thirty meters of the Yuan commander.

Deng She relaxed, spurred his horse, and shouted, “Back! Seize the enemy commander!”

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The thirty-odd men wheeled around and charged back. The Yuan commander sat tall on his horse, exclaiming, “Who is this young warrior—such ferocity!” A lasso dropped from the sky, snaring his upper body. Before he could react, the rope tightened, hoisting him into the air.

Skimming over the helmets and armor of dozens of Yuan cavalry, he landed on the ground. Deng She and his men arrived just as Zhao Guo reined in; Deng She leaned down, grabbed the commander, and flung him onto Zhao Guo’s horse. With a backward thrust of his spear, he skewered the quickest Yuan soldier rushing to rescue. Laughing loudly, he shouted, “Go!”

All thirty or so men cried out together, “We’ve captured the Tatar general!”

Galloping back, Chen Hu changed formation on the fly, closing ranks tightly and linking up with Deng She. They met Guan Shirong’s unit midway, the two hundred-man units forming up before and behind Deng She, joining into an elongated, shifting serpent formation—if attacked at the head, the tail would support; if at the tail, the head would respond; if in the center, both head and tail would come to aid.

They withdrew smoothly from the Yuan lines.

With their vanguard commander lost, the Yuan thousand-man unit fell into chaos. The brave rode to rescue him, the timid fled, the panicked froze in place. Crowded together, they became a disorderly mob. Commander Zheng, observing from afar, waved his flag; Wen Huaguo and Luo Guoqi spurred their horses and seized the chance to charge into the enemy’s ranks.

Chen Hu’s men, following flag signals, did not turn back to pursue but instead returned to their own lines, forming up behind Zheng’s two hundred as both a reserve and a guard against flanking attacks.

Seeing this, the Yuan rearguard’s Buddhist Slave cursed the vanguard commander’s incompetence while listening to his officers urge him to abandon the vanguard and strike from the flanks at the enemy’s rear.

He accepted the suggestion to abandon the vanguard but utterly rejected the idea of a flank attack. Still haunted by last night’s ambush, he reminded himself: caution, above all.

As the front ranks fell into chaos and the Yuan army crumbled, he slowly shifted formation—the rearguard transformed from a square into a circle within a square, forming a defensive-offensive array.

The sun rose high; the battle raged fiercely.

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1. Willow-green: a forbidden color. In the Yuan dynasty, not only were Han Chinese forbidden from wearing yellow, but also from using any bright colors—most wore dark, somber clothing.
2. Tang skirt: a floor-length skirt tied above the waist, popular in Han regions, said to be modeled after Tang dynasty women’s attire.
3. Skirt-dagger: Han men carried a garment-pressing knife (ya-yi knife), and Han women had a similar accessory called a skirt-dagger.

From Water Margin, chapter 20: “He was strangled in life… and the knife found was Song Jiang’s garment-pressing knife, which could be used to question Song Jiang.”

From Qujiang Pool, act four: “What face have I to remain in this world? Better to end it with my skirt-dagger!”