Chapter Seven: Their Separate Paths

Most of the Yellow Turban forces had already drawn near the Han army.

The two armies clashed.

Of the two units that had engaged earlier, the one in the center still held firm, but the one on the right had already retreated in defeat. The Han army’s left wing, having pursued the fleeing enemy, was now slightly advanced, but the overall formation remained unbroken.

At this moment, if a Yellow Turban unit were to attack from the flank, it would surely put immense pressure on the Han army. Yet the Yellow Turban troops merely gathered together and charged headlong from the front.

The battle raged fiercely.

Zhou Yingxiong raised his shield, blocking a saber swung by a Han soldier before him.

He panted heavily. The fight had not lasted long, but he was already weary.

He had done nothing special—only raised his twin shields, fending off the enemy’s attacks again and again.

Indeed, in the chaos of melee, those beside him had fallen. So Zhou Yingxiong discarded the small dagger he had held in his right hand and snatched up a wooden shield, larger than his own small iron shield.

Twin shields in both hands.

When faced with especially strong attacks, he would use his parry skill. Though he could only employ it with his original shield, it proved quite effective.

He could not attack the enemy—but that hardly mattered. He had no intention of striking anyone. Besides fending off the enemy’s weapons, the only other thing that concerned him was his position.

He advanced and retreated, shifted left and right, adjusting himself according to the movement on either side. Most important was to ensure that the enemy could only attack him from the front. Along the way, he could also shield his comrades when they were in danger.

That was all there was to it—a job, nothing simpler.

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Yang Wentian seized an opportunity and drove his blade into the neck of a Han soldier before him.

A vital strike.

Blood spurted forth. The Han soldier stared wide-eyed, unable to utter a sound, and fell.

At last, he had killed one. Yang Wentian furrowed his brow, checking the combat information.

This time, he had inflicted twenty-three points of damage. Striking a vital spot had its benefits—it bypassed the armor and shield's damage reduction. Iron armor was a huge nuisance; a slash against it would deal only three or four points of damage. Hitting a shield, there might be only a single point of forced damage!

It was almost unplayable.

The loot was hardly worth mentioning. This kind of opportunistic kill could only hope for the damage from the finishing blow. In the end, he earned only eighty general points and a pair of bracers with three points of defense.

He silently withdrew to the rear, searching for the next Han soldier who might expose a fatal flaw—a target he could kill in a single stroke.

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In Wang Luo's eyes, the chaotic yet valiant Yellow Turban army and the resolute, outnumbered Han soldiers had already taken on entirely different forms.

The Yellow Turban army was a chaotic conglomerate. It was composed of a kind of blind courage, with many such fragments of bravery now gathered together like a surging river, crashing against the Han army—a collection of “skill” formed by a tight formation and orderly armor.

One could not say the Yellow Turban fighters lacked courage—regardless of how poor their attributes appeared. Later, their morale might shift in unpredictable ways, but at this moment, the collective still retained its fighting spirit.

How did the situation stand? Wang Luo pondered in his mind.

Fatigue was beginning to spread through the courage of both sides. The limitation of stamina was a reality for any human group. This fatigue would affect morale, and once it reached a certain point, cowardice would overwhelm bravery.

Whichever side succumbed to this first would lose.

Could the Han army hold out? After all, their numbers were much fewer.

Faced with a surging tide of humanity—even one made up of the weak—there was still fear to be felt. Exactly—those Yellow Turban soldiers were probably feeling the force of their own massed strength, inspired by it to charge with such ferocity.

The Han soldiers before them were built for slaughter, machines of war—yet surely those Han soldiers were inexperienced as well. Would they waver? Would they tire? Would they stumble and fall? Would they lose faith in the comrades beside them, throw down their weapons and flee?

The Yellow Turban general leading his men in a full assault was counting on just that. Though he might not have analyzed the situation in detail or drawn any further conclusions, this was his goal.

It was not hard to understand. The real question was: if I were commanding the army, what would I do?

In the age of cold steel, what should a general do? What should a commander do?

The two sides in this battle were both human. Setting aside the grand scope of war to look only at a single skirmish, the goal was to defeat the enemy in that particular fight. Therefore, the task was to do everything possible, in this small patch of land, to kindle fear, cowardice, confusion—all negative emotions in the foe, and force them to waver; at the same time, to preserve the positive emotions in one’s own troops—honor, camaraderie, and so on.

All the “arts of war”—formations, equipment, training, tactics—their core aim was this. In the conflict between men, what else can one attack but the inherent weaknesses of people as a group?

Too heavy casualties would cause the survivors' morale to collapse, plunging them into terror and robbing them of the will to fight; chaos would leave soldiers unbalanced and at a loss. The Yellow Turban side, unable to overcome its own flaws, sought to drag the enemy into the same state.

And to become their leader, one had to grasp the state of the battlefield, observe the emotional shifts of both sides, and judge which way victory and defeat were tending.

Then, one would do what one could.