Chapter Seventeen: The Place of Death

The new camp was not far from the main road, beside a small river.

This time, at Wang Luo’s request, the camp was not scattered; instead, all three thousand soldiers gathered together, establishing a large encampment designed to accommodate ten thousand men.

That evening, after the camp was set up, Wang Luo dispatched over five hundred men to search for and collect fleeing soldiers from elsewhere, as well as to gather provisions, cattle, horses, and iron ore for supplies.

The rest, regardless of gender, age, or strength, assembled into a large square formation to assist their leaders with forging, while also conducting drills and practicing battle cries.

Naturally, these were not the Yellow Turban slogans.

“The Han dynasty is doomed, Heaven punishes the unrighteous!”

“Work together, fight side by side!”

“The powerful seize all the land, unjust and greedy!”

“Charge bravely, destroy the elite!”

“Distribute the land, equalize wealth and nobility!”

The members of the Yellow Turban uprising were diverse, but few wealthy landlords ever participated. The slogans were not ideal, but they were more persuasive than mystical religious rhetoric.

With the cooperation of twenty-five hundred men, production time was reduced to thirty seconds per item; smelting iron ore into ingots took around twenty seconds. Still, even if all the iron ore and ingots were used, only about a thousand could be fully equipped.

After careful consideration, Wang Luo decided to produce only three items: shields, armor, and short swords. With these, a soldier could be adequately armed.

After two hours, the troops were dismissed to rest. Wang Luo checked his forging skill—it had risen to 182 out of 10,000.

During equipment crafting, it would occasionally increase a little. But when an item mutated or gained attributes, the skill always improved. Perhaps as skill points rose, he could forge better equipment. But... without knowing more, there was no need to dwell on it.

“We’re running low on food.” After the troops dispersed, Su Si approached Wang Luo with several trusted guards. “Guo’s main camp doesn’t have much either. At current numbers, we can last about a week.”

“I understand,” Wang Luo replied.

“You had Tie Zhu, Liu An, Zhang Xiong, and Bai Erjin shout orders and command the troops. None of them were very pleased.”

“Let them be. If the Han army attacks and we can’t hold them off, we all die together. Do they really have the luxury to fuss over such trivial matters?”

“True enough…” Su Si shook his head. “Word is the Han army won’t accept our surrender. If captured, all will be beheaded.”

---

“Not enough food, surrender isn’t allowed, and there are many elderly, weak, and sick—we can’t even escape,” Wang Luo toyed with a short sword. “If we want to live, there’s only one way: defeat the Han army.”

“Defeat…” Su Si’s face was filled with astonishment. “You mean break through the northern camp, then charge past?”

“If we send someone to lure them out, will the Han soldiers leave their position?”

“Impossible,” Su Si replied. “They’re stationed at the crossroads. As long as they hold it, our troops can’t break through, and reinforcements from the Grand Teacher can’t reach us. Luring them out is unlikely.”

“Then we wait. Repair armor, train the soldiers, and once we’ve gathered detailed intelligence about the surroundings, we’ll decide our next move.”

---

After dinner (two wheat cakes), Wang Luo lay on his bed and picked up the rough map he’d drawn.

This was a deathtrap.

The Yellow Turban commanders, for reasons unknown, had ordered small detachments to disperse and camp separately. As a result, the Han army—whose numbers were not overwhelmingly superior—could defeat them one by one. And to the north, the key route toward Guangzong was left without any troops.

Wang Luo couldn’t help but suspect: the orders for camp placements were actually given by the enemy. Contract holders who had joined the Han army could easily do such a thing—no need to doubt it.

So, were there other contract holders from their side still in the area? In a military confrontation arranged like this, surely there must be some balance—to make it entertaining for them.

Perhaps they were elsewhere, or perhaps they’d fled after defeat. Just like the Yellow Turban soldiers in other camps—some killed, some scattered.

He had no worries about his own Yellow Turban soldiers’ fighting spirit; they had no other choice.

Either fight and survive, or die outright.

Faced with such a choice—when surrender means death and fighting is the only option—if training, equipment, and morale are handled well, the greatest disadvantage might well turn into the greatest advantage.

No need to fear; Guo Da’s situation was a clear example. Overvaluing those who seem strong but are actually weak only exhausts oneself and forfeits victories that should have been won.

What one desires is limitless, but energy is finite. If I put my efforts into preparing supplies, mediating among subordinates, or investigating trivial issues… then I’ll have less focus for the most important task—winning.

Such distractions could cost me victory that was within reach. Even if all the small issues are resolved, losing on the battlefield renders everything else meaningless.

Rest well, recover strength, prepare for battle, prepare to win.

With that mental reassurance, he drifted off to sleep.

---

Zhou Yingxiong raised his shield with both hands, blocking the attacks of several Yellow Turban soldiers before him.

He moved left and right, sometimes using skills, sometimes shifting the shield to deflect blows. His opponents—the subordinates Wang Luo had assigned him—attacked from the front and sides, following his instructions.

After a while, the sparring partners grew tired, and he beckoned. A few soldiers carrying double shields came over, standing on his left and right.

Across from them, several Yellow Turban soldiers with long spears also lined up.

Such training improved the soldiers’ combat skills. In fact, several “Yellow Turban bandits” had, after training with Zhou Yingxiong, advanced to “Yellow Turban soldiers.” But Zhou had no command points and didn’t notice.

He paid no mind to the overall situation. To him, every unit should fulfill its role, and his task was to improve his skills—help others do the same if possible—and complete his assigned mission.

---

Yang Wentian dodged the blade that slashed toward him.

He panted heavily, struggling to his feet, knife in hand, ready for the next attack.

Two Yellow Turban subordinates had already fallen to the enemy. Now, he too faced the same fate.

His abdominal wound was bleeding. In a digitized body, ordinary attacks shouldn't cause such effects; the fact it did meant the enemy's weapon carried special attributes.

But that was as far as it went. Yang Wentian had enough experience to assess his foe’s strength—this enemy was just a shade stronger than himself. Escaping from his hands was still possible.

Yet, he hadn’t learned any secrets—just seen a few people inside. Why was he chased for over ten kilometers?

The enemy’s blade came again. Yang Wentian raised his knife to parry, spun backward, retreating to widen the gap.

“Thwack!”

A large net flew over, enveloping him and binding him tightly.

He struggled, but in the next instant he saw the blade and gun muzzle closing in. Yang Wentian sighed, shut his eyes, and awaited death.