Volume One: In a Chaotic World, Is There Any Path for Humanity? Chapter 16: A Thousand Miles (Part VIII)

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Wen Huaguo and his companion charged through the chaos, scattering the Yuan soldiers in every direction. The clever ones slipped around the rear ranks and found a way out; the foolish, darting this way and that, could not escape the blade falling upon their heads. The Buddhist servant exhibited remarkable patience, simply watching without moving. Centurion Zheng, fearing that excessive slaughter would provoke the Yuan army into a desperate rescue, waved his flag and voluntarily withdrew his troops.

The Buddhist servant pointed with his riding whip. “Look, look! How can those who have gained the upper hand retreat? There must be deception here. Fortunately, I did not heed your advice and recklessly attack.”

A centurion, seasoned by several battles, could not help but say, “Sir, it’s only eight hundred men—what trick could they possibly play? In my opinion, the Red Rebels are timid, afraid we’ll press forward and swallow them whole.”

“There’s reason in what you say.” Hearing this, the Buddhist servant pondered for a moment, his heart stirred. He gazed far into the distance, where the Red Turban camp was clearly visible; the main force in the center, flanks extended, seemingly without any sign of ambush. Stroking his beard, the defeat of the previous night still cast a heavy shadow over him. As he hesitated between attack and caution, unable to decide, the young commander who had previously charged forth from the Red Turban ranks galloped out once more.

He swaggered at the front, wielding bow and arrow, taking aim at the fleeing Yuan vanguard. Three arrows in rapid succession, three men fell. He cast aside his bow, seized a long spear, and rode between the armies, loudly challenging for battle.

“Would eight hundred men dare such bravado?” The Buddhist servant immediately decided to hold firm, secretly thinking, “Could it be the Red Rebels have joined with some routed soldiers and grown strong?” He issued orders, sending out scouts to reconnoiter the surroundings for signs of enemy forces.

“Li Guang’s old stratagem,” the centurion remarked. “Sir, please order an attack—this is mere bluff.”

The Buddhist servant snorted twice, casting a sidelong glance at the centurion. “Even you know Li Guang’s trick—how could I not? And the Red Rebels surely know as well. Warfare is ever a dance of feints and realities; what seems false may be true, what seems true may be false. Are you so certain the Red Rebels are only bluffing, and not waiting for us to walk into their trap?” He rebuked, “Shallow! Stand down.” Resolving to first clarify the situation before making any move.

The centurion retreated, disgruntled and helpless, eyes fixed on the front, watching the Red Rebel commander gallop to and fro.

Deng She challenged repeatedly, but not a single Yuan soldier responded. His horse grew weary, and he picked up his bow to shoot a few arrows before returning to the ranks. Several officers gathered around Centurion Zheng, conferring about their next move. Lady Wang stood nearby.

Deng She dismounted, his waiting guards leading away his steed for care. Someone brought him food and water to restore his strength. He had eaten nothing from last night until now; the pent-up frustration in his chest had dissipated during the fighting, leaving only hunger. He accepted the provisions, choosing not to join the group around Centurion Zheng, instead sitting with Zhao Guo a few paces away, eating while sipping water.

He had emerged from his grief and, as reason returned, he felt as though stepping off a cliff’s edge, unsure where to go next. Ever since arriving in this world, though life had been harsh and bloodshed frequent, first his own father, then Deng San, had cared for him, protecting him always.

They were not only his guardians in this world, but also his guides. While they lived, he never had to worry about his path forward. Even when he occasionally thought about the future, glancing at his teenage body and remembering his ignorance of this era’s history, his self-awareness quickly dispelled any unrealistic dreams.

But now, things were different.

From the perspective of bloodline and family, he was left without support; in spirit, as someone from a later age, he felt lonely and empty. He did not wish for death; he wanted to live. In fact, he wanted more than mere survival.

Years of observation had shown him countless instances of Han people suffering discrimination and abuse. As a fellow Han, he hated the Tatars just as much as these Red Turbans did.

His own father had been killed by Tatars; hundreds of old comrades who had cared for and protected him were also slain by them. With Deng San’s death at their hands, his hatred reached a peak.

It was more than hatred—it was an acute sense of shame. On the sacred land where Han people had lived for generations, the people called ‘nationals’ were no longer Han.

It was a disgrace. Thus, his fervent and urgent desire to see the Han nation rise again was so intense that he could scarcely believe it himself.

He wished to contribute his strength as a Han to this cause.

Vengeance and restoring Han dignity—these two ideas were aligned. But how could they be realized? Should he “ask Wang Shicheng for help,” as Centurion Zheng suggested? Seeing how Deng San died, it was clear: without power, not only could he not help others, he couldn’t even protect his own life.

Deng San died because he was not the commander; Centurion Zheng survived because he was the actual commander. Of course, perhaps in the end, none of these Red Turbans would escape the Yuan army's pursuit. But he was certain that if it came to that, the last to die would be Centurion Zheng and Lady Wang.

“Better to live ten years less than spend a day without power.” He recalled the song he had heard among the mounted bandits—it was true!

Lost in thought, a faint fragrance drifted by. Deng She looked up; Lady Wang was approaching gracefully. Upon closer inspection after disembarking from her carriage, she was of modest stature, her skin darkened perhaps from years accompanying Wang Shicheng’s campaigns. Fine brows and a straight nose, her beauty matured and elegant.

She crouched, lifting her skirt hem, and bowed. Deng She hurriedly stood and returned the gesture, “My lady, there’s no need for this; I am unworthy.”

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This was Lady Wang’s first close look at Deng She, and his youth surprised her. She concealed her astonishment well, showing nothing. Calmly, she surveyed him from head to toe before speaking, “First, I thank Deng the Centurion; he died because of me, and I will always remember this great kindness. Second, I thank you, young General Deng. Without you leading the charge today, we could not have prevailed. Your challenge at the front showed great courage, frightening the Tatars and winning our army a precious respite.”

Each word she spoke was clear and smooth, as if rolling off her tongue, like glass marbles tumbling through scented rouge—bright and charming.

Deng She was acutely aware of the sweat, blood, and dust clinging to him, and stepped back a few paces. Avoiding the subject of Deng San’s death, he responded only to her praise of today’s charge. “My lady overstates the case. The greatest credit today belongs to Centurion Zheng for wise leadership; second, to Centurion Chen for tactical command; third, to my guard Zhao Guo, who single-handedly captured a Tatar general amidst the enemy ranks. Zheng for organizational courage; Chen for tactical courage; Zhao Guo for valor. I am not their equal.”

Lady Wang smiled radiantly, pointing to Zhao Guo, who had stood up beside Deng She. “Is this the brave man who captured the Tatar general single-handed?” She had seen Zhao Guo when he handed over the captive to Centurion Zheng. Without waiting for him to reply, she took a gemstone pendant from her skirt. “A hero deserves a sword. When we reach the capital, I’ll reward you further. This Central Asian gem is for you.”

Zhao Guo was young, about twenty. His father, an old comrade among the mounted bandits, had died in battle ten years ago; Deng San had taken responsibility for raising Zhao Guo, and the two had grown up together.

He hurriedly wiped his hands, blushing as he accepted the pendant. He was shy and tongue-tied, managed a simple thank you, and just grinned foolishly.

Lady Wang’s gaze lingered only briefly on Zhao Guo before turning back to Deng She. Solemnly she said, “Young General Deng, your merits are great, but I have nothing to give. Wait until you meet my husband—fame and fortune will be yours for the taking.”

Deng She, of course, did not take her words to heart, nor would he sell his life for them. He betrayed no sign of his thoughts, courteously seeing her off. Turning to Zhao Guo, he said, “Come, let’s hear the council of war. It’s not yet noon; my challenge at the front may not keep the Tatars at bay for long. Let’s see if our next move is battle or defense.”

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1. Better to live ten years less than spend a day without power. A true man’s fate is ever uncertain. If someday Heaven grants his wish, he will rival Tian Wen, hosting three thousand guests.

—Yan Zhongji, “Tianjingsha”

2. Central Asian Gem: A gemstone from Central Asia.