Chapter Eight: Struggle

About to suffer defeat.

The attack continued, the shouts and screams had not diminished. The Yellow Turban forces pressed on, but the Han army held their formation as firmly as they had at the start of battle. Yet, from the impatience in the voices of officers mounted on horseback, and from the soldiers whose faces shifted from excitement to calm, Yang Wentian, relying on his long years of experience, concluded: this battle was almost certainly lost.

Yang Wentian glanced behind him; there was no reserve force holding the rear. The Yellow Turbans were not a highly organized group—their fighting skills barely surpassed those of a mob. So, as he had done before, he discreetly moved toward the back of the formation.

The Han army opposite was not particularly strong either; they could not break the Yellow Turban lines. This was not the end—he could not be the first to retreat, or else he would have trouble explaining himself after the battle.

He waited. Patience was his virtue. When the collapse began and no one could pay attention to him, that would be the best moment to escape.

—-

Zhou Yingxiong felt no fear.

On the faces of the soldiers on both sides, Wang Luo saw terror, confusion, excitement, and fervor—but none of these appeared on Zhou Yingxiong. What did he have? Responsibility, cooperation, the most ordinary sense of duty. He did not know how long the fight had lasted; he was physically exhausted. Yet he felt exhilarated.

This exhilaration eased his fatigue, making the enemy’s attack seem weaker.

Once, he had been as vulnerable as a child before his wife; but here, on the battlefield where life and death hung in the balance, he was transformed into a mature man.

He held his shield high, blocking another enemy strike, feeling a tightness in his chest.

“Ahhhhhh!”

At some point, a dozen men had gathered around him—some he had rescued with his shield, others seeking safety after seeing an opportunity. Together, they formed a line, rarely attacking, barely retreating. Around them, Yellow Turban soldiers began to rely on this group to fight.

Hearing Zhou Yingxiong’s roar, the others echoed his cry.

For a moment, their voices reached the heavens.

——

“All of you, follow me. We’ll circle behind and outflank the Han army.”

Of the two squads who first engaged the Han troops, some had fled to the middle ground between the battle line and the camp. They neither returned to the fight nor retreated to the camp, but lingered, watching.

The Yellow Turban commander, himself fighting at the front, sent no one to manage them. When Wang Luo approached, he mounted his horse and gave them this order.

He had considered carefully. Back at the camp, he had proven that some soldiers would obey his commands.

The best order is usually one that the target already wishes to carry out, but is held back by some constraint.

Thus, the command becomes their perfect excuse. For the commander, his prestige rises with the obedience; for the followers, their interests are justified.

These soldiers who had withdrawn lacked the courage to return to the battlefield and the face to go back to camp. Now, they were offered a chance—either to redeem their shame or to shift responsibility.

After issuing the command, Wang Luo rode toward the left flank of the battlefield (not an easy task—it demanded much of his energy). Behind him, people followed in ones and twos, then by the dozens, then over a hundred.

Using a turn to glance back, he confirmed that both his authority and psychological appeal were working—enough men had joined him. Wang Luo looked toward the battle line.

The Yellow Turban side was stronger than expected and could hold out a while longer. So, the pressure shifted to the Han army.

In actual combat, the men behind him would not be reliable. They had already tasted defeat, their spirits were fragile. His command had leveraged their scant sense of shame; if they truly faced the Han army, collapse at first contact was likely.

Thus, the target was the enemy’s morale. To attack with so few men, their commander must be experienced; this place was not of great importance, so the Han army’s best would not be stationed here; they had not used massed crossbows against the poorly armored Yellow Turbans, and had maintained their formation throughout.

New recruits. This was a unit of fresh soldiers led by a courageous, shrewd officer.

He would likely notice Wang Luo’s small flanking force and sense danger.

If so, he might choose to retreat. If a flaw appeared during the withdrawal, they could strike; if the formation stayed tight and they withdrew, it would not matter.

But the worst possibility could not be dismissed—the enemy might have reinforcements. If Wang Luo and his men reached the rear, only to be met by another wave of Han troops...

He hesitated no longer and urged his horse forward.

Behind him, over a hundred defeated soldiers followed, fragile as candles flickering in the wind, forcing themselves forward.