Section Six: Each Their Own Choice

In several camps, the Yellow Turban soldiers hurriedly grabbed their weapons, donned armor, and rushed out, forming chaotic lines amidst the commotion.

The Han army was attacking.

“Do what you do best,” Wang Luo instructed calmly.

Thus, the three members of this new small team each took up positions they deemed most suitable according to their own ideas.

Zhou Yingxiong picked up his shield and stood at the front. Yang Wentian took his place in the middle of the formation. As for Wang Luo, after exchanging a few words with a Yellow Turban soldier, he took the reins from the man and mounted his horse.

He positioned himself at the very rear.

To Yang Wentian, this was just another battle. He had already fought through countless engagements; it made no difference to him now. He stood in the center because, in his view, that was the optimal spot—neither as far back as Wang Luo, where opportunities for combat and spoils were too scarce, nor as far forward as Zhou Yingxiong, who, whether out of stubbornness or ignorance, stood at the front with nothing but a shield.

What kind of loot would Han soldiers drop? It was said that the heads of Han officers were key items for many quests, but only if one inflicted more than twenty percent of the officer’s total damage did one have a good chance of obtaining them. If only he could snatch one.

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Zhou Yingxiong could feel the soldiers around him trembling.

To his right was a middle-aged man, a yellow scarf tied around his head, dressed in simple cloth, clutching half of a battered pot and a kitchen knife. To his left, a young fellow, also without armor, gripped a wooden shield, his body shaking uncontrollably.

They were all terrified. Understandably so. But in a team, everyone had their role. Standing at the front with a shield to protect your comrades—was that not an honorable duty?

Why fuss over such things? What a team needed was cooperation. Before, they had no choice; but now, with equipment and skills, it was only right to take the lead.

With this conviction—one that had earned him years of ridicule, endless bullying from bosses and colleagues—Zhou Yingxiong stepped resolutely to the very front of the line.

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Who was the leader of this force? Wang Luo’s eyes swept the scene until he found him.

From the largest camp emerged a group of some thirty cavalrymen, all clad in armor. At their head rode a man bearing a banner emblazoned with the character “Zhang.”

Several cavalrymen didn’t join the main group but instead galloped to deliver simple orders to the other units—all-out attack.

And then? How would they meet the enemy? Which unit would hold the center? How would the flanks support one another? Not a word about basic formations—just a mass charge.

Wang Luo watched the messengers but said nothing in the end.

It wasn’t the time.

He left the formation, spurred his horse up a nearby rise, and surveyed the battlefield.

Perhaps his leadership trait was at work, for no one stopped him.

This wasn’t mountainous terrain, yet it wasn’t a flat plain either. The battlefield lay in a flattened C-shape, with the Yellow Turban camps entrenched on a hillside at the left-center of the C. Around the camps, some slopes had been stripped bare for firewood or palisades. From the open side of the C, the well-ordered Han infantry, with a few cavalry, were advancing. There were about seven hundred Han soldiers—nearly a quarter the size of the Yellow Turban force.

Upon seeing the Yellow Turbans advance, the Han troops halted atop a slope and unleashed several volleys of crossbow bolts.

Why did the Yellow Turban commander choose to attack? Would it not be better to use the high ground of the camp and wait for the Han army to come? Or did their numerical advantage fill them with confidence?

The Yellow Turban charge did not falter under the arrow storm; on the contrary, their pace quickened. Clearly, these were not green recruits. Their ranks were disorderly, their movements chaotic, but they knew what to do.

What drove the Yellow Turban soldiers as they charged? Instinct, physically. But spiritually? What was their aim in fighting? Did they truly believe in Zhang Jue’s vision, yearning to found a new state? Or had hardship and injustice led them to rebellion, with the teachings of that religious leader meeting their needs?

And what of the Han soldiers’ state of mind? Were they satisfied with their lot and their duty? Did they march to war with courage or with dread? Did they fight out of necessity, or mere conformity—simply because everyone else did?

Gradually, the two armies drew near. On the right, from Wang Luo’s vantage, a Yellow Turban force of four or five hundred men had nearly reached the Han’s left flank. The Han lines stood firm, engaging only where the enemy made contact.

Face the reality of war, Wang Luo admonished himself. To win, he must make the most of his advantage—his understanding of people as a collective.

Another Yellow Turban unit approached the Han center. At that moment, the drumbeat of the Han army resounded.

Dong, dong, dong.

The Han soldiers, moving in time with the drums, advanced down the slope. The Yellow Turban soldiers on the right could not withstand the enemy; some fell, but they did not rout. They merely withdrew their line, holding their ground.

Their hope lay in the Yellow Turban ranks behind them. If the other units arrived in time, they could easily encircle the Han. That was why the Han commander chose to attack as soon as the Yellow Turbans engaged, hoping to rout them quickly.

The battlefield—this apex of human conflict, which Wang Luo had never before experienced—unfolded before his eyes.

Howls and roars filled the air. Men charged, screamed, fell. Spears thrust, sabers swung, banners fluttered, and men clashed in mortal combat.

For a moment, Wang Luo forgot this was a digitized, virtual world—his heart surged with emotion.

Not long ago—perhaps only a few generations—these men had been countrymen of the same stock. They were his ancestors, his kin.

Generation by generation, disparities of power and wealth had split them into wholly separate groups. The tensions, accumulating over time, had finally erupted en masse.

On one side, tattered clothes, wielding sticks, hoes, and anything that could serve as a weapon.

On the other, full armor, sharp blades, disciplined ranks, advancing and retreating in order.

One side boasted numbers, but their ranks were loose. The front was held by able-bodied men, the rear by the old, the weak, the sick.

The other side was fewer, but their lines were tight. Behind them stood officers, government, emperor.

But no matter the gap, no matter the cause, the outcome was singular: the stronger side would prevail.

Hundreds against thousands—compared to the larger battles that would follow, this was but an appetizer. The Han commander, bringing only a handful of men to assault this Yellow Turban force, must have been confident of victory. But what was the source of that confidence?

Was it the uniform armor, the strict discipline? Superior tactics? The Yellow Turban commander’s incompetence? What, in the end, did they rely on?