Section Eleven: A Not Necessarily Accurate View of History

Here, it was impossible to know what the outside world was like, to grasp the entire battlefield, and thus no judgments could be made.

This was the greatest problem. In the previous scenario, the major advantage lay in a certain degree of understanding about that company, about the Americans’ nature—the entire plan was constructed upon those “known” facts as starting points.

Now, there was no way to devise a plan, no way to look for flaws, weaknesses, or opportunities from an overall perspective.

According to the terrain, it was possible to camp at the gap in sector C... but at this point, such an order could not be given. To have over two hundred men hold a narrow pass and resist the enemy alone—these men would not obey.

Retreat was still possible; there was time. The Han army would come through the pass, so they could cross the mountain instead. Then, should he seek out Guo, the commander, and suggest a full retreat? Or find some officers from other camps and withdraw together with them?

Or, perhaps, lead his own men in retreat? That route would be difficult without supplies. Still... not retreating was also an option. If the Han army came and scattered this Yellow Turban force, he could gather the defeated soldiers—in that moment, they would all become his.

This idea was tempting. But if there were other Yellow Turban forces nearby, or if Commander Guo was actually waiting to join with another Yellow Turban unit, then posturing now would only result in looking like a fool...

“We cannot retreat.”

In the commander’s tent, Guo Da was drinking and feasting with several officers. “A command has come from the Great Virtuous Teacher. The iron mine here is valuable. We must hold this position and wait for General Ren Gong’s reinforcements!”

“I hear the blacksmiths in your camp have made dozens of shields? See that they’re not stolen or damaged—send them to my main camp! Later, I’ll have someone select some to send to the Great Virtuous Teacher.”

The other officers showed various expressions upon hearing this command. Guo Da offered no further explanation, nor did Wang Luo ask.

“The shields have already been distributed to the soldiers. As a newly-appointed officer, I fear I can’t simply command them to hand them over.”

“I’ll send some men to fetch them,” Guo replied with a wave of his hand. “There are still iron ingots in the main camp. Send your men to collect them and have them forged. The rest of you,” he said, pointing at the surrounding officers, “if you have any, send them over as well!”

“Yes, sir!” the others replied in unison.

Thus, Wang Luo could only return to his camp with five of the commander’s men and watch as they relayed the order.

Yang Wentian was deeply dissatisfied. In truth, most of the soldiers were reluctant to hand over their iron shields.

Very well, but it wasn’t enough—this reluctance had not yet reached a critical point. Wang Luo thought that when the time came for him to order the death of these envoys and the soldiers would obey, then it would be sufficient.

No matter, there was no need to rush this. It could wait. What mattered now was not this, but clarifying the overall objective.

The Han army would not arrive for another hour. Wang Luo returned to his tent and took out a book from his breast.

This book had become part of his equipment, but it could still be read as normal. Wang Luo turned to his most frequently read chapter, “On Contradiction.”

What needed to be done was to set a clear goal—thoroughly investigate all the forces and contradictions in the environment—then, at every stage, take the initiative, unite all possible friends, and strike at isolated enemies.

In the previous scenario, his goal had been to save those people from the crisis of turning into zombies. In this world, what should the goal be?

To participate in the struggle for supremacy? No, he could only stay for thirty days. Besides, crossing over to bully children in kindergarten was hardly a glorious endeavor.

To help the Yellow Turbans win? No, he was Chinese by blood, inherently skeptical of gods, and had no wish to serve a religious force.

Wang Luo rose and paced the tent. Yes—people.

As a human collective, if the struggle was for survival and development, it possessed an innate and supreme sense of justice for all people.

All the lesser forms of justice—the desire to mate with certain members of the opposite sex, the clever exploiting loopholes, the longing for self-fulfillment, the contempt for others’ stupidity—all these, so long as they did not hinder this overarching principle, were insignificant. But in the face of this greatest justice for humanity, they were worthless.

Did the Yellow Turbans possess such justice? In Wang Luo’s view, to some extent, yes.

Their legitimacy stemmed from their members. Most participants were poor and helpless, unable to survive in that era. Because the organization relied on religion, many opportunists were inevitably drawn in, but as long as the majority genuinely wished for a better life and were willing to work toward it, they were worth helping.

Why, then, did the Yellow Turbans fail in history?

Because throughout five thousand years of Chinese history, one truth remained constant: “Knowledge is power.”

In various eras, those who mastered knowledge bore different titles.

Sometimes they were righteous, sometimes wicked. But no matter when, they were always powerful.

In ancient times, books were only made of bamboo slips, with a limited audience, which gave rise to the Hundred Schools of Thought. In the Eastern Han, the invention of printing brought forth the aristocratic clans. Between the Tang and Song dynasties, the spread and popularization of printing created the literati class.

The Hundred Schools were progressive, moving civilization forward. In their hands, knowledge led to the most brilliant period of Chinese culture.

The aristocratic clans were decadent and backward, but by relying on the power of knowledge, even through the chaos of the Five Barbarians and the devastation of war, their influence endured for centuries.

The literati were conservative, seeking balance and stability—even in their eventual decline, they still ushered in an era of glory.

This era was the prelude to the birth of the aristocratic clans, the darkest period yet to come in Chinese civilization. If, if one could set things right, strangle the aristocratic class in its cradle, give them no chance to be born—wouldn’t that be far more meaningful than saving a mere few tens of thousands of Americans?

After pondering this for a while, Wang Luo could not help but feel a surge of excitement.

The goal was set—this was it.

Next, the contradictions had to be sorted out.

Contradiction exists in the development of all things. Clearly, the Yellow Turban Uprising was part of “all things.” In this rebellion, the main contradiction lay between the primitive religious system, which had evolved into a primary religious institution, and the feudal monarchy system, which had arisen from blood ties and kinship—these two forces were at odds.

Following this, there was the direct confrontation between the Han army and the Yellow Turban forces. This was the principal contradiction, while others—his conflict with Guo Da, his rivalries with other officers, the soldiers’ discontent toward Guo Da—were secondary.

At present, the chief task was to defeat, or at least repulse, the Han army.

To achieve this, it was necessary to unite with the soldiers and other officers capable of fighting.