Chapter Sixteen: Issuing Orders

So this is all it amounted to. The seemingly formidable enemy, in truth, was so weak.

“It’s my fault, I have let everyone down!” After making such a statement in front of the soldiers, Guo Da collapsed to the ground, his face contorted with anguish.

Wang Luo, together with his teammates and a few other Yellow Turban officers, helped Guo Da out, finally able to breathe a sigh of relief. This time was different—not like before, when hiding behind the scenes meant that whatever happened would never truly harm him. Now, he had faced it all in person.

His suspicions had been correct after all.

Afterward, Wang Luo ordered the weapons and armor from the commander’s camp to be distributed among the soldiers in each unit, basking in their cheers.

Amidst the jubilant cries, several generals unanimously elected Wang Luo as the new commander.

The situation seemed settled.

Or so it appeared.

Yet Wang Luo’s heart had grown calm.

Soldiers who were confused, poorly trained, and ill-equipped? It mattered little.

Generals with their own agendas, lacking sincerity, unwilling to obey orders they disliked, or preparing to push him forward to bear Zhang Bao’s wrath? It mattered little.

Guo Da’s strange behavior, suggesting possible sabotage, and the same dangers looming over himself? The conflicting ideals between the Yellow Turbans and his own, hinting at future discord? The shortage of supplies? The prevalence of the old, sick, and weak, slowing their movements? The dwindling iron ingots? No notice of promotion, meaning his official rank remained “Yellow Turban Captain”?

Now that he held the reins, these were trifles.

Success breeds confidence. Especially when every judgment turns out right, and after falling into unknowing fear from inexperience, one realizes their correctness and achieves victory—this, too, is a breakthrough.

Even with discontent in their hearts, they would obey orders that benefited themselves. And once authority was established, initial compliance would, in time, become habit, subtly influencing subordinates with lesser ambitions.

And orders that benefited their subordinates but not themselves could fracture their factions—especially among the loosely organized Yellow Turbans.

But those concerns could wait. For now, the most pressing task was understanding the surrounding situation.

“Yang Wentian!” Wang Luo issued his first command in front of the troops. “Select twenty men from the various units and scout the area! Find out how many enemies and allies are nearby, where they are stationed, and the current military situation. Report back as soon as you learn anything!”

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Yang Wentian stood up. “Yes!”

“The Han army could attack again at any time. Everyone, return to your camps and prepare. Once we receive news, we’ll move out and find a secure place to settle.”

The Yellow Turban generals and captains offered no resistance; they accepted the order, as it served their interests.

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Relieved to have finally found a worthy comrade, Yang Wentian felt hope for the future for the first time since entering this world.

He assigned the recommended scouts from each unit in groups of three along every road, then, taking two subordinates with him, rode east along a narrow path for several miles before turning south on the main road.

The narrow path was difficult, but the main road was in better condition. Had the hundreds of Han soldiers passed through this small path before? If Old Zhu hadn’t used that artifact, would they still have come this way?

It must have been a grueling march.

As he pondered, he saw a group of a dozen people ahead—men, women, young and old. Two men wore yellow scarves.

After questioning them, he learned they had originally been in another Yellow Turban leader’s camp. When the Han army attacked and broke through their encampment, they had no choice but to flee.

Yang Wentian tried to gather more information, but the group was terrified and confused, knowing nothing. Seeing this, he simply directed them to his own camp.

Further ahead, he encountered more fleeing Yellow Turban soldiers and their families. Yet not once did he see any Han soldiers pursuing them.

Did the Han army disdain pursuit? Or was there another reason?

Yang Wentian pressed on for another forty or fifty miles, eventually coming upon a Han military encampment.

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Around seven in the evening, the officers of each unit gathered in Wang Luo’s tent to hear new reports from the scouts and discuss military matters.

“There’s a Han force of about five thousand stationed to the southeast. In recent days, they’ve launched attacks in all directions, defeating four or five generals nearby. The ones who attacked us earlier came from this army.”

“There are over a thousand Han soldiers in the west, at Guangcheng.”

“To the north, along the road to Guangzong, the Han army has a major camp there as well, numbering over three thousand.”

“There’s nothing to the south, but that’s the route we took to get here.”

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“Previously, we were to go to Guangzong to join the Great Virtuous Teacher, heading northeast. But after reaching this place, we received orders: the Han army was pursuing us, so we were to camp here, gather our strength, and after defeating the Han army, move north together.”

“Nonsense! Had we set out earlier and reached Guangzong, we wouldn’t be chased like this.”

“Exactly! We’ve waited here half a month for reinforcements, and none have come! What do we do now?”

“Why not send someone to the Great Virtuous Teacher for help, ask him to send troops to escort us?”

“Will it be in time? By the time reinforcements arrive, the Han army will have slaughtered us all!”

“And if we’re slaughtered? We’ll fight to the death, at least we’ll be worthy of the Great Virtuous Teacher!”

The tent erupted in chaos—officers complaining, cursing, shouting. Suggestions flew everywhere: plead for help, make a desperate stand, wait for rescue.

These men lacked fighting strength, but they were not incapable of battle.

Numbers, after all, were on their side. If those commanders couldn’t use this advantage, could he?

What did these foolish, fervent men—deceived by religion, battered by defeat, nearly driven to despair—value most?

Wang Luo spoke slowly: “Most of our allies nearby have been defeated by the Han army. They are our comrades—we cannot abandon them.”

“Tomorrow at dawn, we’ll break camp and head east, raise our banners, and send out scouts to gather as many scattered soldiers as possible.”

“We’ll also send envoys to Guangzong, to ask the Great Virtuous Teacher for help. We are surrounded by enemy forces, and escape is difficult. But even so, heroes are born in this world; if we must die, so be it. But can we ever abandon our companions?”

“Good!” A burly man rose to his feet. “My brother was right to recommend you as commander!”

This was one of Zhang Stone’s men. Four or five others echoed their support, while the rest stayed silent.

Wang Luo made a mental note of who supported him and who opposed him, then stood. “Everyone, return to your camps. Whoever rescues the most will have first pick of armor and weapons; the officer will be credited with the merit.”