Pushing the Yellow Turbans Southward
Last year, I'd gathered intel using scouts, and now I passed it along to Tao Qian.
"Can I really accept this without offering anything in return?"
"This is about purging bandits from the realm. How could I pursue personal gain?"
Of course, I didn't forget to put on a show for the others in front of Tao Qian.
With my information guiding him, Tao Qian dispatched his scouts, and the Yellow Turbans scattered across Xuzhou became crystal clear. They had set up camps in suitable spots and were hunkering down, their forces gradually swelling.
"Reminds me of when we crushed those Qiang tribes. Smash one clan, and the others would come swarming out."
Trying to root out Yellow Turbans entrenched like moles across the land was impossible. Wipe out one band, and the survivors scattered in every direction. Then you'd be bogged down chasing remnants until everything fell apart.
"So we have to encircle them step by step."
That's why the plan was to sweep them toward Guangling like brushing dust off a table with a broom. Guangling offered no escape routes thanks to the Yangtze River and the sea, making it perfect for wiping them out in one go.
As early summer hit, Tao Qian launched the suppression campaign, and my five hundred militiamen joined in. But folding private troops like ours into the official army structure wasn't simple.
After much deliberation, Tao Qian appointed me as a Colonel and let me keep command of my original militia. It was a clever compromise: stripping me of command would look like poaching soldiers, while leaving it alone would undermine military hierarchy.
The militia mostly handled supplies and patrols, rarely seeing frontline action. In situations where the regulars could manage, throwing in militia risked turning a retreat into a rout—better not to at all.
Of course, we weren't just lounging around like idlers.
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Waaah!
When Yellow Turbans tried sneaking into camp at night, the militia threw up a makeshift spear wall on the escape routes.
"Don't fall back! Show your back to even one bastard, and I'll take your head right here!"
Under Wang Jun's fierce threats, the soldiers braced shoulder-to-shoulder behind their shields. When fleeing enemies appeared, they thrust out their spears on the drill sergeant's command—clumsy, but effective. Spears pierced several Yellow Turbans, breaking their momentum as they scattered into the dark.
The sergeants grabbed legs and barked orders, keeping deserters to a minimum. In this campaign, the militia steadily built real combat experience.
By the time the sun fully crested the horizon, the battle was over. The din filling the fields had vanished.
Blood soaked into the soil, hardening into dark crimson scars that stretched from the camp. Shattered weapons and corpses littered the wounds. A breeze swept over them, carrying the stench of blood far away.
We timed the ambush perfectly.
The Yellow Turbans had heard we were coming and tried pulling out at dawn. But the regulars struck like lightning in the pre-dawn gloom. Fire arrows lit the night, and with three sides sealed, the bandits bolted in the one open direction. The army chased, tearing into their rear and finishing them off.
"Far fewer losses than last time."
Tao Qian surveyed the field from a hillock. The quiet plain, splashed in red and yellow, felt all too familiar. His inhaled breath carried the grudge of the dead; his exhale, the dry spark of new life.
"At this rate, we'll wrap up the suppression before harvest season."
His adjutant continued excitedly. "Keep this momentum, sweep the bandits, bring peace— which clan wouldn't rally behind you then, Excellency?"
If things stay this way, it'll be hard to win clan support.
But Tao Qian was lost in darker thoughts. Would the clans really thank him for clearing out those yellow pests? They might not stab him in the back, but they'd whine about lost supplies and withhold support. Persuading them gently was for the weak.
And Tao Qian, with an army at his command, was no weakling.
In a world like this, soft tactics don't work.
Gratitude fades fast, but fear etches into bone. Force submission first, then bestow favors. Reverse the order, and nothing works.
Setting an example is quickest.
Clans that sent empty excuses were thick around Habi and Guangling—areas with fewer Yellow Turbans nearby, so they had it easy. Perfect candidates for a lesson.
The army, ready to scoop up even piss puddles if they were yellow, suddenly halted. The rank-and-file cheered at the rest, but not everyone.
"What is it?"
I shot an annoyed look at the captain who'd galloped up. He was supposed to be on sentry duty—no reason to show up here otherwise.
"Troublemakers at the camp gate. Too high-status for the guards to handle."
So some bigwig was kicking up a fuss. These things had to go up the chain, landing on me.
"Lead the way. If it can be settled, I'll handle it."
I sighed at the sudden chore and followed him. As we neared the gate, fat, pompous voices grew louder.
"Those the ones?"
"Yes, sir."
Squinting, I saw silk-robed men clamoring beyond the perimeter. Guards held them off with spears, but that was it. Status made blood taboo.
"What's this about?"
I kept my irritated face. Spotting someone worth yelling at, they erupted.
"Why rush the suppression like this?!"
Listening, I pieced it together: clans left outside our encirclement. Watching their red-faced rant, I pondered inwardly—sneer and mock, or play dumb and slip away?
Sneering would feel good; playing dumb would end it clean. Settling on the latter, I plastered confusion on my face.
"My apologies. My rank's too low to decide such matters. Tell me one by one, and I'll report to my superiors."
Past-life experience shone here. I could let them spew nonsense without flinching.
"The Yellow Turbans are right on our doorstep…!"
"You sent a detachment to Huaiyang County, but…!"
"Dragging it out like this means losses…!"
I let it flow in one ear and out the other, focusing on my expression. A line or two would suffice for the report—no need for details. After pretending to listen for a spell, I headed to the command tent.
I relayed the sanitized complaints, and Tao Qian scowled deeply.
"Talking like they've been put in charge of the army."
"Utterly insolent," one general spat. The staff officers piled on.
"Excellency, do we really need to help those pests?"
In the uproar, I raised my hand. "May I speak?"
Tao Qian eyed me curiously. "Does the Colonel have a stratagem?"
"Yes."
Time to show a bit of talent. He studied me, then nodded.
"Mix two facts. One: they already harbor grudges against us—thieves demanding what they never gave, but grudges all the same. Two: spoils from the suppression are yours to claim, Excellency. No one will complain."
"Sound logic." He gestured for more.
"Our forces wait. Let the Yellow Turbans raid those fools' estates. Then we sweep in, reclaim the spoils. You've already sent detachments near cooperative clans—no splash damage."
"Benefits?"
He liked the option—maybe he'd already decided, but that was fine. I just needed to flash some skill.
"One: neutralize hostile clans. Two: gain supplies without losing face. Three: bandits weaken biting clans, we rest and recover—battles get easier."
And it sets an example for the uncooperative.
I skipped that last bit—beyond my pay grade.
"Ha! Excellent—truly excellent."
Tao Qian laughed, clapped, and scanned the tent. "Any oppose the Colonel's plan?"
No one dared after that. The army rested another fortnight. Screams overflowed southern Xuzhou as Yellow Turbans pushed south, but they were too distant for our camp—or any militiaman—to hear.
Zhongping 4th year (187 AD), tenth month, twenty-first day. Confirming the remaining clans stripped bare, the army pressed south. Well-rested, they crushed the bandits even more easily.
Tao Qian's forces netted every Yellow Turban fleeing north. Sensing the noose tightening, bandit reactions split: some fought to the death, others surrendered their leaders' heads.
Four major battles, seventeen skirmishes, dozens of clashes. Once the militia had some seasoning, Tao Qian fed them into minor fights—defensive positions mostly, nothing complex.
Like today.
"Our first solo mission, not support."
"Blocking the retreat—isn't that support?"
"Fair point."
The militia's task: hold a narrow mountain path for fleeing Yellow Turbans. I arrayed spears and shields as a wall at the choke point, waiting.
"Don't overextend to catch them. Hold here, and the regulars finish it."
I steadied the men, prepping for battle.
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Hwahk! Spare me!
Soon, hundreds of Yellow Turbans burst into view, howling. The front ranks hesitated at our sight, but those behind shoved them tumbling forward—like rats too panicked to avoid traps.
"Keurk!"
They slammed into the shield wall; groans erupted from the front. But our braced line held firm.
"Second rank—thrust!"
Second and third ranks jabbed long spears through gaps. Charging bandits crumpled without swinging once.
I nocked arrows at any competent leader or fighter, each shot finding its mark.
"Hit the rear!"
The arriving regulars smashed the bandits' tail, encircling from behind. Trapped front and rear, the Yellow Turbans bolted into flanking woods—but thick brush stalled them after a few steps.
We broke formation, pursuing the broken rout. With fight gone from them, no counterattacks to fear.
The ragtag militia from recruitment day had sharpened into something formidable.