Volume One: How Can There Be a Path Through a Chaotic World Chapter 4: Collapse I

The group merged together, with Deng San’s men at the front and Brother Huang the Mule bringing up the rear. They slipped out of the small woods and hurried along the night road in silence. Whether man or horse, after battles and escapes—even with brief rests—they were all exhausted by now. The men Deng Hu and Brother Huang the Mule had sent ahead each rode two horses, so now there were pairs riding a single mount, slowing the pace. Deng San kept glancing back as they rode, uneasy. With the victory at Fengzhou already settled, would Bolotemur redeploy his cavalry for another lightning attack?

The fires of Fengzhou gradually faded from sight, leaving them in utter darkness. The fields along the road were pitch black, most long abandoned, withered grass poking through the snow. The clatter of hooves echoed sharply in the silent night, carrying far into the distance.

The only blessing was the warm spring that year. In years past, the wilderness beyond the passes and in Liaodong would be like an ice cave at this time, hands and feet numb and useless. Many of his brothers had lost ears, noses, and fingers to the freezing weather during years of campaigning.

In the latter half of the night, the moon rose, its pale light shrouded by drifting clouds, casting a dead, mournful glow.

Finally, the moon sank in the east and the first streaks of dawn appeared on the horizon. Day was about to break. By the horses’ pace, Yunnei Prefecture could not be far. The group visibly relaxed; if Yunnei were surrounded, the area wouldn’t be so quiet. Even if distant, there would be subtle clues, hints of abnormality—sparrows on the treetops, enemy scouts released ahead.

Deng She, too, breathed easier, but forced himself to stay alert and reminded Deng San, “We’re almost there, Father. Tell the brothers to make ready—better safe than sorry.”

Deng San nodded, turning to call out, “Stay sharp, everyone! Warm your blades and spears. If you’re hungry, eat something. Don’t dismount—and feed the horses some fodder as well.” He looked back once more, scanning the road and the surroundings with a touch of anxiety. “Damn it, it’s too quiet.”

Including Brother Huang the Mule’s men, everyone began to warm their weapons. This ritual meant wrapping the hilts in soft cloth, using body heat to take the chill out of blades and spears, drawing and sheathing swords, stringing bows, and flexing arrows in their quivers. The weather beyond the passes was brutally cold; in sudden skirmishes or ambushes, it wasn’t uncommon for sabers to freeze in their scabbards, arrows to clump together with frost, or gun handles to freeze to the skin.

Brother Huang the Mule spurred forward to ride abreast of Deng San.

In his bones, he looked down upon Deng San’s band. They believed in neither the Maitreya nor the Bright King, were rough in their ways, brave in battle but fiercer still in plundering. In the end, they were just horse thieves—hopeless rabble. Yet now, he felt he ought to set aside some of his pride; after all, they had suffered together, and as a hereditary commander of a thousand, he felt duty-bound to encourage them.

“When we reach Yunnei and link up with Dongsheng Prefecture, you’ll see—we’ve still got thirty or forty thousand men in those two prefectures. We’ll hit them with a feint and a counterattack, inside and out. Bolotemur, that Tartar, will suffer another defeat just like in Henan.” His words drew little response from Deng San; clearly, the blisters on his face were more interesting to Deng San than his speech.

Brother Huang the Mule felt a flicker of annoyance—Deng San’s gaze made him uncomfortable. Deng She appeared at the right moment. “Hungry, Commander Huang? I’ve got some rations here—take some.”

This boy, Deng She, wasn’t bad. Growing up among horse thieves, he’d somehow avoided picking up their coarsest habits and was well-mannered. With a nod of approval, Brother Huang the Mule accepted the food. Deng She seemed to understand and flashed him a smile before wheeling his horse to the rear. “I’ll check the back, make sure no one’s lagging.”

To survive in troubled times, there is a simple truth: without men and horses, you are nothing; with men and horses, you are the master.

Deng San was a rough man, but ever since Deng She’s father—the bandit second-in-command—had died, Deng She had stepped up, taking care of the brothers. Though still young, he’d done well enough, thanks to his past-life social skills. He was too young for true respect, but the brothers had grown fond of him.

The entire group was checked over, not a single man missing, even among Brother Huang the Mule’s subordinates. Though weary, everyone’s spirits held up. After tending to the wounded, Deng She distributed some of his own rations among Brother Huang the Mule’s men, making sure everyone got a share before eating himself.

Up ahead, a few scouts appeared. Moments later, thousands upon thousands of cavalry seemed to materialize before the group. The earth trembled with the thunder of hooves—a vast army on the move.

In the midst of the host, a great banner bearing the character “King” marked the forces of Marshal Wang Shicheng, garrisoned at Yunnei. Clearly, they’d received news and were marching to aid Fengzhou. The overwhelming momentum of the cavalry swept away the shadow of defeat and loss in an instant.

They were no strangers to grand scenes, but after a rout, witnessing the might of their own side felt entirely different—beyond comparison.

Brother Huang the Mule let out a joyful laugh, eager to speak, but the scouts had already reached them. Without waiting for Deng San, he spurred forward and shouted, “We are under the command of Fengzhou’s Guan Pingzhang—we broke out to bring word! The previous messengers were my men!”

The ground shook more violently, like an earthquake. Snow and leaves fell from the trees, and sparrows had long since fled. With the snow stripped bare, even the trees trembled. The men could hardly breathe. Deng San heard Deng She shouting from behind, but couldn’t make out the words.

He turned to see Deng She urging his horse forward, saw the brothers behind shift from joy to panic, a wave of fear sweeping through the small party.

He snapped his head forward again and lashed his horse with the whip. “Tatars! Tatars! Tatars!”

The panic passed from him to Brother Huang the Mule, then to the nearby scouts, spreading like wildfire. The opposing cavalry halted briefly. The great banner waved; the commander seemed about to form a charge, but it was too late. Behind Deng San’s party, ten li away, the Yuan army’s banners grew from tiny to vast, from indistinct to unmistakable.

This was a rare large-scale cavalry encounter—one side rushing to rescue, the other to strike swiftly. Their scouts hadn’t gone far, so they met suddenly here. The terrain was ill-suited for cavalry: the road was narrow and the thawed fields soft and treacherous.

Deng She realized that Wang Shicheng’s cavalry was doomed. First, the Yuan army, fresh from victory, had high morale; Wang Shicheng’s force, ambushed while marching to rescue, would only grow more panicked. Second, Wang Shicheng’s hesitation in forming ranks was fatal—in a narrow pass, victory goes to the bold, and the Yuan troops wasted no time, accelerating straight into battle.

These thoughts flickered through his mind and were gone. His focus shifted: What about those of them caught between the two armies?

“Forward! Forward!” Brother Huang the Mule shouted desperately, pressing low to his horse’s neck. His voice was swept away by the wind and drowned in the thunder of hooves.

Yunnei’s troops abandoned their formation. Several officers spurred to the front to lead the charge; by their attire, most were commanders of a thousand, and one even of ten thousand. But this would only disrupt their own assault; with such senior officers at the front, would Wang Shicheng let them break through to the rear? They’d likely be shot down by their own side in the chaos.

What now?

Sweat broke out on Deng She’s brow. He knew what to do, but couldn’t bring himself to decide. Breaking through to the rear was just as fatal for his exhausted, wounded men.

So be it—put to death and survive anew. Besides, the Yuan troops, shifting so abruptly from marching to battle, would have their own weaknesses. Deng She wheeled his horse just as Deng San shouted the order: “Spears! Blades! All men, turn around—charge!” At such moments, it’s not wisdom, but the ruthless instinct forged in blood and battle, that makes the right choice fast enough.

Three li behind them was the Yunnei relief force; five li ahead, the Yuan troops from Fengzhou.

“Wen Laosi, stay with me! Three riders to a line, those sharing horses at the back, archers up front! Damn it, aim straight at my face when you shoot!” Deng San surged to the front, flanked by Wen Huaguo and Deng She. He tried to push Deng She back, but Deng She stubbornly refused.

Caught between two mountains, even hiding in the heart of this band meant nothing. Perhaps he would die here. Deng She found the thought darkly amusing—what a disgrace for someone from his old world. Look at what he’d done since arriving here: wandering, killing, burning, horse thief, rebel. First, he’d watched his father and godfather risk their lives for a meal; now, he followed his godfather, again risking his life for others’ bread. Not a single promising thing had he achieved.

A mere commander of a hundred, unable even to protect his own life.

His thoughts swirled in chaos. The Yuan army drew ever nearer. He hadn’t studied much history in his previous life, so he didn’t know the fate of this northern expedition, but he knew full well the ends of the Little Bright King and Liu Futong. One drowned by Zhu Yuanzhang in the river, the other—how did he die? In any case, none survived.

But then again, what could a man do in this world?

Deng She knew himself well. He lacked historical knowledge, and as for technology—he’d only learned the basic formula for gunpowder here, from a musketeer! In this, he was less than a native. He knew a little poetry, but what use was that in these times? Of the ten ranks of men, eight were prostitutes, nine were scholars, ten were beggars—sons of sages barely ranked above the lowest.

If he hadn’t grown up among horse thieves, learning to ride, shoot, wield spear and saber, he’d be utterly useless.

He’d never thought himself fit to carve out a realm or vie for the world—he only wanted a few good days. Maybe, if he survived this, he should seek a chance to join Zhu Yuanzhang in the south? Word had it things were going well for him in Jiangnan. “Amass grain, build strong walls, keep your ambitions hidden”—had anyone given him these nine words yet? If not, that might be his key to entry. The iron hooves thundered closer, Yuan lances glinting in the dawn. Deng She closed his eyes.

The newborn sun blazed crimson, and Deng She noticed another disadvantage. They faced the rising sun, while the enemy had it at their backs.

Staring hard at the Yuan formation ahead, Deng San led the charge, constantly adjusting their direction—waiting for their own main force to catch up, seeking a weak point in the enemy line. Arrows fell before the horses; within Yuan range now, it was a matter of luck.

Fortunately, Bolotemur’s army had its roots in his father’s southern local militia—mainly tenant farmers and ruffians. Compared to Mongol and Semu cavalry, their mounted archery was far inferior. Their formation was loose, and the arrow storm was much less deadly.

Deng San, Deng She, and Wen Huaguo wore decent armor—not full plate, but with iron and hide in key spots for both men and mounts. The arrows that weren’t dodged or blocked did little harm.

A needle plunging into a stone.