Yellow Hordes Blanket the Plains
Sanghyeon Castle's harvest season had not yet arrived, yet yellow blanketed the plains. The seemingly endless horde of 600,000 Yellow Turbans swallowed the verdant fields like a folding screen and blotted out the sky. From atop the watchtower, I methodically surveyed the midday landscape wrought by these human pests.
Observing the Yellow Turbans from the watchtower, I could see they were divided into two large groups. The mass closer to our lines gripped weapons—they were all soldiers. The ones farther back appeared to be civilians, unarmed. The scouts who'd returned estimated 150,000 Yellow Turban soldiers. To my eye, the front group looked closer to 150,000 than 180,000. It fit if they'd culled the 180,000 down to only those with fight left in them.
"Even one fewer is good for us."
The wind swept across the Yellow Turban camp toward ours, carrying the stench of dust, rancid filth, faint blood, and the nearby river. Low murmurs and occasional fanatical shouts rode the breeze amid the odors. Scuffles broke out here and there where their banners wavered. In those spots, several fell, but only some rose again. Tiny red specks dotted the yellow—like bloodstains. That faint metallic tang surely came from such chaos.
"A good omen."
Squinting to pierce the invisible expressions, I saw nothing of their faces at that distance. Yet somehow, I vividly imagined gaunt, hunger-twisted features laced with despair. Surely an illusion, but the mood was palpable even from afar. The banners fluttering among the Yellow Turban soldiers hung limp, half-fallen like their morale. The horde was withering from within. Just as our stratagem predicted, they were self-destructing.
"Hey, Advisor, what're you staring at up there?"
Turning toward the voice, I spotted Hahou Don amid the soldiers below. With nothing pressing to do, he climbed straight up to the watchtower. His arrival cramped the once-spacious platform with us three.
"So, what were you doing up here, Advisor?"
"Checking their formation one last time before battle."
"No way our little Kirin is tense about those locusts, is he?"
"Exactly. Victory's in reach, but who could stay relaxed when anything could happen?"
If things went exactly as we'd planned, we'd win. But when did the world ever follow plans to the letter?
Hahou Don grinned at my admission of tension and pointed below the watchtower.
"Then look at our boys and loosen up."
I shifted my gaze from the horizon to the base of the tower. Jojo's troops stood in perfect ranks, silently holding position. Their eyes burned steady, hands firm on spears without a tremor. Endless brutal drills and battlefields had forged iron wills in them. These were soldiers baptized in blood, inured to death.
"That calms me. Thank you."
I thanked Hahou Don and descended. Now it was time to advance and deliver the finishing blow.
Sweeping my eyes over the left wing I commanded, I assessed the enemy. The Yellow Turbans clustered in disorganized mobs, no proper formation—just as we'd unanimously predicted in the war council and confirmed from here.
—Bwoooo.
A horn blared from the Yellow Turban lines, and they advanced slowly. Their disorderly steps, lacking any rhythm, relentlessly shook the earth.
I fixed on the massive banner marking Guo Wu's position. The Yellow Turbans were a heavenly disaster—mindless devastation without intent. On their dingy yellow cloth fluttered the words "Heaven's Will Shifts, Yellow Heaven Rises," biggest in the center. That banner was their heart and head, making the rabble function as an army. The soldiers trusted their squad leaders, who trusted captains, who trusted the supreme commander. Kill the head, and captains waver; captains waver, squad leaders panic; squad leaders panic, soldiers rout. Like a man with heart pierced and head severed, we had to strike that banner.
—Bwoooo. Boom. Boom, boom.
Our horns and drums urged us forward. Jojo's army advanced in sync. When the left wing advanced fifty paces, the center followed; at a hundred, the right. Each drumbeat step thundered across the ground.
Jojo's army was a man-made disaster—devastation born of intent. Our formation was an oblique order, left wing reinforced: 20,000 strong there, 15,000 each in center and right. Two thousand cavalry hid behind center and right as a feint—actual strength 13,000.
'I'm threading the first needle.'
The vanguard left wing had to punch deep into their right flank, crushing half of it. We'd equipped our most seasoned elites with spears and axes. Spears would thrust long to create gaps, axes rush through.
'Center and right will hold.'
The following center and right had to weather their human wave. One of ours against four of theirs—for the left's breakthrough to matter. Thus, their front lines gripped twenty-span long spears and tower shields. Spaced to fight without touching minimized losses.
Swordsmen ringed the rightmost flank and rear to block flanking maneuvers. Ignoring phalanx weaknesses would be dereliction.
'Cavalry will handle themselves.'
Hahou Don, Xiahou Yuan, Po Sin, and Jo Hong each led 1,000 horse behind center and right. Only Jo Hong's thousand would aid them; the rest had other tasks.
—Bwoooo —Bwoooo.
When left wing and Yellow Turbans closed to fifty paces, both sides drummed the charge. The roar of tens of thousands left ears ringing. Dust clouds from pounding feet blinded us. I couldn't see the collision, but the distant crash and blood reek signaled battle joined.
"Die!"
Jojo's soldiers slammed into the Yellow Turbans, weapons gripped fierce. Their lines rippled like waves hit by boulders. Flesh tore amid screams and shrieks.
"Arghhh! Die!"
Spearmen thrust long, skewering Yellow Turbans; axe-men surged into the gaps without pause. Spear tips and axe blades flashed—bones shattered, blood fountained. Axes cleaved still-living heads. Their front ranks turned corpse-field in moments. Our left waded through bodies and gore.
No one cared whose foot squelched beneath.
"Advisor, we're still ahead."
As battle fatigue thinned ranks, fresh troops filled from behind. When spears snapped amid the fray, men grabbed loose weapons and rejoined.
"Wang Jun, command with E Xin. I need to feed them some arrows."
"Understood."
I spurred forward, nocking a short arrow from my quiver into the tube. My repeating crossbow's target: a Yellow Turban officer. He'd have lasted a corner longer without barking orders.
"Don't retreat! Hold formation—gurk!"
The arrow gifted his throat silence. Short arrows sought officers rallying men or standout fighters.
"First reserves to the center—the line's thinning."
Even sniping, I never fully relinquished command. I scourged gaps, exploited flaws.
"Kragh!"
Short arrows granted no mercy—only brief screams. Some burst from heads or necks, stealing even those.
'How much longer till their gap shows?'
Raising my head to gauge the field, I saw the plains still choked with Yellow Turbans. We'd advanced hundreds of paces, yet they showed no thinning.
'Yes. That's the Yellow Turbans.'
I kept loosing, Jojo's army kept pressing. Arrows and axes culled their officers relentlessly. As command frayed, the horde devolved into a mob. Our left smashed and shattered them.
Center and right faced four Yellow Turbans per man. Naturally, the enemy had no intention of obliging a fair 1:4 matchup.
"Full combat formation!"
Jojo, commanding center, ordered his aide. Soldiers snapped into phalanx: first rank raised massive body shields into a wall. Ranks two through five leveled twenty-span spears into a dense thicket. From six back, spears upright, awaiting.
—Boom. Boom. Boom.
Center and right advanced to the drums. First beat: even ranks thrust. Second: odds. Third: all stepped forward. Cycle repeat. Each beat impaled dozens.
Breaching spear walls needed heavy armor and shields—but the spear-wielding Yellow Turbans had scant heavies.
Their front froze before the spear forest.
"Don't push! Stop push—!"
But oblivious rears pressed on, shoving fronts onto spears. Jagged death piles shook the shield wall, but Yellow Turbans lacked the skill to exploit.
"I don't wanna die!"
Unskewered ones dodged left, shoving comrades. No salvation, but instinct thrashed for moments more. Ripples spread. Pushed men shoved in turn. Their ragged lines skewed toward our right—easing center's advance, weapons never touching theirs.
As center fully engaged, the 4,000 cavalry behind split for tasks. Hahou Don, Xiahou Yuan, Po Sin, and 3,000 veered left of center; Jo Hong and 1,000 right of right.
Jo Hong, emerging from right rear, eyed the fray. Numbers favored Yellow Turbans heavily, yet we held the edge.
Jo In commanded the right from the front, boosting morale. "Zixiao lives up to his name."
Their right was winded before clashing—our left nearly upon them while they lagged over a hundred paces. Yet ordered to charge full force, exhaustion was inevitable. Reinforcements from center fared little better, dodging spears and men, shattering their own lines. They impaled themselves or tripped comrades.
"We flip it in this instant."
But superiority was fleeting. Endless waves would tire us. Sacrifice tens of thousands, and they'd regroup—reversing the tide. Jo Hong's thousand had to avert that doom.
"Charge!"
He thundered into their flank. Unarmored, unformed Yellow Turbans scattered unknowing.
—Crack! Thud! Crunch!
One charge cleared their right rear swarm. Jo Hong paused to rest before the next—dozens more needed, stamina conserved.