Volume One: In Troubled Times, Is There Any Path for Humanity? Chapter 12: A Thousand Miles III

New author, new book—it's truly hard to break through. Recommendations are rare and difficult to come by. I humbly beg for your support, my brothers and sisters. Thank you!

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The vanguard of the Buddhist House's forces surged forward, their eyes fixed on a line of Red Band soldiers waiting silently. When they came within bowshot, both sides unleashed arrows. The Red Bands fought as they retreated, while the scout cavalry of the Crimson Army pressed boldly onward.

Buddhist House was stationed at the center, surveying the battle. With each command he issued, the central and rear troops gradually unfolded their formation. The flanks widened slowly, waiting for the moment to accelerate and encircle the enemy. He noticed that among the cavalry charging at the front, a few suddenly slowed, fumbling to discard their bows and regain control of their mounts.

“Merely some caltrops,” he thought, closing his eyes. He could easily guess what the vanguard had encountered. In haste, he doubted the enemy had time to scatter enough caltrops to disrupt his advance. Of the twenty or so cavalrymen at the front, only four or five fell victim—hardly a serious affliction. The soldiers whose horses lost control were promptly picked off by the concentrated fire of Red Band archers, and the unlucky ones were trampled by the following riders.

Buddhist House remained unmoved—just a few fallen men.

Once past the caltrops, a handful more cavalry stumbled, their horses stepping into small pit traps. This time, the Red Bands did not need to shoot; the riders were thrown to the ground along with their mounts.

Buddhist House observed the Crimson Army scouts slowing after these setbacks, and as more horses and men fell, their formation began to unravel. He noted, too, that after several rapid salvos, the Red Band archers were clearly attempting to hasten their retreat.

“Hardly more than a rash,” he muttered unconsciously, his mind racing. Something was wrong—after all, the enemy numbered eight hundred. If they were truly desperate... Years of defeats at the hands of Yuan cavalry across the riverbanks, countless comrades and generals slain—these memories flickered through his mind like a lantern show. His cautious nature prevailed. He seized his messenger: “Send word! The vanguard is to halt.”

But it was too late.

Like a whirlwind, two squadrons of cavalry burst out from behind the Red Band archers. At the forefront rode a burly man wielding a mace, followed by another brandishing two heavy hammers, both thundering through the ranks. These squadrons plunged straight into the two hundred Crimson Army scouts.

It was Deng San and Wen Huaguo.

Years of battle had left Deng San with many scars. His left foot bore missing toes from a stone thrown by a catapult, making his gait uneven. His right arm had been pierced by a musket ball, which pained him in rainy weather. Other wounds from blades and arrows were too numerous to count.

He was truly a survivor of a hundred battles.

He never minded his injuries. On the contrary, he took pride in the dense network of scars covering his body. A true man, he believed, should revel in vengeance and loyalty, feast when alive and be cooked in a cauldron when dead. Yet the troubling thing was, at only forty-three, still in his prime, he had begun to feel his strength waning since last year.

Especially these past few days—unceasing combat and exhaustion made even wielding his thirty-pound mace feel burdensome.

Perhaps years of blood loss had sapped his vitality, he mused. If this continued, one day he would no longer be able to swing his mace or fight on the battlefield. In this chaotic world, he would become useless—a cripple.

Whenever these thoughts arose, even this rugged man felt sorrow and anxiety. He lamented for himself, and worried for Deng She. Deng She was only sixteen, still too young, and had been somewhat simple-minded as a child. He dared not imagine what would become of Deng She in this cannibalistic age without him there.

He had to persevere, even if he could no longer fight, at least until Deng She grew up. He remembered the last words of his sworn brother—Deng She’s real father—who had sacrificed himself to cover their retreat. Moreover, he genuinely liked Deng She, long regarding him as his own son. He sensed, vaguely, that Deng She was different from himself and everyone he knew, though he couldn’t say how.

That little rascal would surely make something of himself one day.

A gentle smile played at the corner of his lips, oddly out of place amidst such carnage. The Crimson Army scouts hesitated at the sight. Deng San suddenly roared, his face fierce: “Your Lord Deng is here!”

He swung the mace, blood splattering, as two horses passed each other. Wen Huaguo, shouting loudly, followed close behind, and with every swing of his hammers, a Yuan soldier fell.

Buddhist House breathed easier—a mere hundred men, however fierce, posed no real threat. He altered his orders, letting those two squadrons of Han soldiers absorb the Red Band’s momentum. He recalled his messenger, continued directing his flanks to spread, confident that once the encirclement was complete, crushing the enemy would be as easy as flipping his hand.

Deng San had arranged his charge in squads of ten, divided into four lines: three men on each flank, two in the center lines. Between the left and right lines, a gap of three horse-lengths; within each line, a gap of one horse-length. This maximized their ability to slice through the enemy. But the key was that the two lead riders on the flanks had to be exceptionally brave.

He and Wen Huaguo fit this role perfectly, and their formation worked as intended.

Like arrows, they pierced through the Crimson Army’s front ranks in an instant. Before engaging the reserves, they deftly turned left and right, circled half the vanguard, then plunged through the center again, regrouped, and burst out once more.

Deng San called out: “Guan Lao’er! It’s up to you now.”

Their tactical coordination was superb, thanks largely to the seasoned ex-cavalry leaders among them. These men, veterans of countless battles, had long worked together, forging a surprising cohesion in this hastily assembled cavalry unit.

Guan Shirong, silent and focused, urged his refreshed mount forward, raising his broadsword and charging into the disordered second wave of Yuan cavalry.

Buddhist House’s flanks were nearly deployed. Deng San, panting like a bellows, watched Guan Shirong intently. His own horse snorted and stamped at the earth.

“Brother?” Wen Huaguo noticed Deng San’s rapid fatigue and called anxiously.

—

Deng San did not look at him, scanning the surroundings. “Damn it, where are Yellow Mule and Monk Li? If we don’t move soon, the Tartars will spread their wings and we’ll have a hard fight.”

Before he finished, the sound of hoofbeats echoed. Concealed by night, the units of Yellow Mule and Monk Li accelerated from several miles away, charging forward. Deng San’s face lit up with joy. He turned and shouted, “Everyone, be ready! Wait until Yellow Mule and Monk Li engage the Tartars, then we charge again. After that, whatever happens, we all run for the woods!”

Buddhist House’s face changed drastically. Struggling to steady his formation, he barely glimpsed how many enemies approached. A single thought seized him: “Red Bandits are cunning. It’s an ambush, an ambush.”

He raised flags and beat drums, coordinating his troops through messengers, summoning reserves to bolster the flanks and block the Red Bands, while urgently rallying his personal guards for a potential retreat.

—Buddhist House’s ancestors had been Mongol nobles and heroes; his great-grandfather was a beloved general of Kublai Khan, who earned great merit in the conquest of the Southern Song. His great-grandfather’s father and grandfather were trusted lieutenants of Genghis Khan, their achievements legendary. But those were the glories of his forebears; since the founding of the Yuan dynasty, his family had not seen battle for fifty years.

The distance was quickly covered. Yellow Mule and Monk Li’s forces, like two fists, struck fiercely and plunged deep into the Yuan flanks.

“Spur your horses!” Deng San shouted, kicking his mount forward, leading the second charge into the enemy. Wen Huaguo, unable to keep pace, trailed behind, calling loudly, “Brother! Brother!... Chief! Wait for me!”

Deng San didn’t hear him. One more charge and they could retreat. The Yuan formation had collapsed; with only four or five hundred Red Bands, annihilation was impossible, but they could at least rout the enemy. If the Tartars refused to give up and chased them to the woods, the firelocks would scatter them, and two or three hundred fresh troops would emerge, delivering a harsh lesson—he wondered if they’d dare pursue any farther.

They were intimidated by the reputation of the Crimson Army scouts. He had never expected these Tartars to be so unable to withstand battle—even worse than Bolotemur’s ragtag units.

Deng San strode easily toward the scattered Yuan soldiers. An errant arrow slipped through the gap in his armor and pierced his body.

Stunned, he frowned, trying to speak, but his strength drained away in an instant, like water rushing from a breached dam. His mace fell to the earth; his body slackened and he toppled from his horse, mouth full of mud.

He heard Wen Huaguo screaming desperately, the voice distant then near, then far again, echoing faintly from the heavens. The cries of battle, hoofbeats, the clash of weapons—all faded into silence. In his last moment, he thought not of Deng She, but of his father, who had spent his life plowing the land, honest and hardworking, only to be starved to death by the Tartars’ grain demands.

He struggled to turn over; blood splattered as he gazed up at the deep blue stars. He longed for the happiness of working the fields alongside his father in his youth. He spat out some mud, murmuring, “Damn it, this earth is truly fragrant.”

And then, he died.