The Vanguard's Fatal Fall
Before setting out, Jojo introduced me to the Left Commander of the Guards, Huangfu Song.
"This is the young man who, even after witnessing the chaos of the Yellow Turban Rebellion, didn't flee but came forward to aid the army."
"I am Left Commander Huangfu Song. I've heard you came to donate grain."
Huangfu Song addressed me—a mere green boy—without condescension. Yet, like a candle before the sun, I couldn't help but shrink in his presence.
He's the complete opposite of Jojo—overwhelming in his own way.
Huangfu Song commanded the atmosphere through benevolence and integrity. It was fundamentally different from Jojo's sharp dominance, which seized the air around him. And yet, in his unapproachable aura, he evoked the image of a converged evolution.
"I am Jang Myeong, here to donate three hundred dan of grain."
"We have no shortage of provisions. I'll accept only your loyalty to the Han."
Huangfu Song, insisting supplies were ample, decided to receive just my sincerity.
"Then I'll discard it on the way."
But I needed to score points with Jojo, so I bluffed instead. It worked because Huangfu Song was renowned for his incorruptibility, even in the histories. Had it been someone like Dong Zhuo, I'd have lost my escorts instead.
"If the pacification fails, someone like me is as good as dead. Please accept it."
"But taking the goods like this would tarnish my reputation."
After a brief back-and-forth, we settled on Huangfu Song purchasing the supplies. Since I wasn't losing out, I expressed my gratitude and agreed.
During the march, Jojo kept striking up conversations on various topics. It seemed I'd left a good first impression on him—truly fortunate.
"By the way, you're using stirrups in a peculiar way."
"Attaching them to both sides of the saddle makes handling the horse much easier. They're simple to make, so they'll be useful for training cavalry."
"I see. I'll remember that."
Chatting idly with Jojo eased my tension bit by bit.
"Captain of the Guards. The Left Commander summons you."
"Jang Myeong, wait here a moment."
Jojo was called to Huangfu Song, and shortly after, the punitive force veered diagonally in its advance. There seemed no reason to change direction—it felt odd.
What is it? This is something even I don't know.
"Young friend. What are you pondering so deeply?"
"Ah, Captain. I was just wondering why we're circling back."
As I mulled over the change in course, Jojo returned and addressed me. It wasn't something to hide, so I answered promptly.
"Don't call me Captain of the Guards. Just call me Jojo."
Jojo, staring straight at me, seemed displeased with the formal title and suggested an alternative. It cost me nothing to switch, so I agreed.
"So, do you know the reason?"
What might have been a casual puzzle for Jojo was a must-solve for me. A breeze brushed the back of my neck as I racked my brain furiously.
First, bundle it up. Since it's worldly affairs, think in terms of timing, terrain, and harmony.
Borrowing from Mencius, I narrowed it to three possibilities. Two were quickly eliminated.
Not timing or harmony.
Heaven's favor was beyond human control, so unlikely as the answer. Harmony among men wouldn't be a question the asker expected us to know.
That leaves terrain.
The area was plains; changing direction wouldn't alter the topography. Ambush was impossible without cover or approach paths.
With no answers from the ground, I lifted my gaze higher. Methodically eliminating options left just one.
"A fire attack?"
"Exactly. Against disorganized foes like the Yellow Turbans, fire is ideal."
Jojo explained that for a fire attack, you turn to put the wind at your back, directing the flames toward the enemy. He didn't mention it, but our numerical inferiority likely factored in too.
To think the man who knows this so well gets his massive army roasted at Red Cliffs.
I harbored a blasphemous thought inwardly. Jojo, focused on explaining, didn't notice.
The imperial forces and Yellow Turbans met on the plains as the sun passed its zenith. By the banners, the rebels outnumbered us; by formation, our veterans seemed superior. Waist-high reeds surrounded the field—perfect for fire.
The Yellow Turbans, spotting our disciplined lines, didn't charge first. Nor did we advance, preparing our own fire assault.
"You scum won't even reach the Yellow Springs before you die!"
"Shut your trap, you filthy bandits!"
Soldiers from both sides hurled insults to match fighting spirit. The rebels' crude rhetoric drew equally vulgar retorts from ours.
After an hour of verbal sparring in the tedious standoff, a change occurred. A mounted general burst from the Yellow Turban lines.
Calling himself vanguard Peng Qiao, he wagged his tongue between the armies.
"Dogs of Han! How do you not know the Yellow Heaven descends? Heaven's mandate is here!"
Normally, some hot-headed officer would charge out for a duel, but all the skilled ones were in council. Outside, the highest rank was an adjutant commanding the direct guard—no one wanted to step up.
"That bastard!"
"We must endure. Military law forbids it."
Many ground their teeth, but held back.
I could just shoot him with an arrow.
Not being at the rear, Peng Qiao was just over a hundred paces away. Tricky if he galloped wildly, but his pauses amid prowling were shootable. Still, as an outsider acting without orders, I'd lose my head—so I waited.
"You treat the Emperor as father yet claim two? Did your mothers spread their legs for two men?"
With no response, Peng Qiao's provocations escalated, slandering soldiers' parents and even the Emperor with flashy vulgarity. He could almost cut scholars with his tongue alone.
"I can't take it anymore! I'll chew out that bastard's heart!"
A department head not summoned to council exploded from our lines, face beet-red, roaring an unintelligible name. He and Peng Qiao thrust spears simultaneously.
Clang! The clashing poles bounced wildly up and down.
The department head, lacking a horse, targeted Peng Qiao's mount to unseat him. Peng Qiao used his longer spear to keep distance and parry.
"Haha! Your skill shows the Han's level!"
"Shut up, you prancing flea on horseback!"
After a dozen exchanges, the gap widened. The department head tired chasing on foot; Peng Qiao, circling, remained fresh.
"You scum!"
Seizing a chance, Peng Qiao roared and closed in. The department head rolled to dodge, but Peng Qiao's spear pierced his chest first. As he twitched, Peng Qiao withdrew and decapitated him.
Splurt! The head, eyes still wide, flew into our lines.
For a leader of hundreds, such a pathetic end showed Peng Qiao earned his vanguard spot.
Our morale visibly plummeted; theirs erupted in cheers. Unease crept in—death felt possible—and my fingers fidgeted.
"Tch. Foolish move dropping our morale."
"Jojo, is the council over?"
"Just ended."
Seeing my restlessness, Jojo clapped my shoulder reassuringly.
The generals took positions among the troops, attack preparations complete.
"Mind taking a shot with arrows?"
"Not my place to decide."
Jojo eyed my bow and arrows. I demurred, citing military law.
"It's fine. I got permission from the Left Commander myself. As long as you don't shoot our men or run, do what you want."
Huangfu Song wouldn't renege, nor Jojo pull a prank like Cao Pi. I took it as truth.
"Killing their secure vanguard would flip their morale."
"True enough."
Peng Qiao, sensing movement, retreated to what he thought safe. Killing him there would shatter their spirit.
"Jojo, permission or not, hitting isn't guaranteed."
Problems remained: distance was vast. Now hugging their lines, he was 130 paces off—worrying if the arrow would even reach.
Jojo's gifted armor hindered drawing, despite adjustments for our similar builds.
"Want a bet? Hit him, and when I return to court, I'll boast of the master archer Jang Myeong."
The sudden wager ignited my competitive fire. Impossible with standard arrows, but not without options.
"Jojo, don't take back those words."
I drew my saddle-mounted bow and arrows. The arrows were too short for the string; instead, I loaded a hollow tube onto it. My well-practiced repeating crossbow.
"Shoot with those tiny arrows?"
"Enemy general first; explanations later."
I slotted a short arrow into the tube and drew. More finicky than normal arrows—could nick my thumb or allies if mishandled.
I can do this. I can do this.
Aiming at Peng Qiao, I released. The short arrow tore through air straight ahead, faster than a full arrow, dead on his head.
Thwuck! Hit in the skull, Peng Qiao staggered then toppled headfirst. Falling inverted guaranteed death—even before, the headshot sealed it.
Moods flipped instantly.
"Waaah!"
Our unease turned to cheers. Few saw the arrow clearly; most thought heavenly punishment struck him down.
"Wh-what?!"
The Yellow Turbans' vanguard's sudden death tanked their morale. Frontline wavered visibly from afar.
"F-fire!"
Our prepared forces ignited the assault. Flames from the reeds raced toward them. Leaderless amid encroaching fire, their chaos doubled.
The battle was a rout—like wolves among sheep, we slaughtered them.
Ping!
"Gahk!"
I targeted frontline commanders and officers. Positioned back, horseback vantage made spotting easy.
"Tch."
But targets were always 100 paces, armor snagging—aiming tough.
Neigh!
"Stop moving, damn it."
Troops jostling horses dropped my accuracy below thirty percent. At least only enemies nearby; misses harmless.
I kept loosing arrows at the foe until the battle ended.