The Fields of Xiaoxiuwu
The Battle of Hanei. The gates of Gong and Ji swung open, and a vast army began its march. The distance between Shanyang and Ji—both strongholds seized by Qin—was a mere two hundred li, roughly eighty kilometers. Mo and Zhu, the next cities to fall into Qin's hands, lay halfway between them, reachable in just over a hundred li. Thus, on the second day after the armies emerged from their walls, the two forces caught sight of each other.
Between them stood Xiuwu, flanked by two cities east and west. The western district, known as Xiaoxiuwu, would become the killing field where the armies would clash.
"The people in that city must be thrilled," someone muttered. "They've got front-row seats to watch hundreds of thousands slaughter each other."
"Hmm. I doubt they're thrilled," another replied. "More likely they're terrified we'll drag them into it."
The plain stretched flat and featureless, devoid of dense forests or towering mountains. Blessed by the Yellow River, its rich soil and abundant waters had once nourished golden waves of grain, feeding the people of Wei and Han. But not this year.
The sprouts that had pushed through the earth were trampled beneath the boots of over half a million soldiers. The careful labor of farmers lay crushed and wasted. What would be sown here was not seed and water, but flesh and blood. The harvest would not be grain to sustain life, but the lives of countless men themselves.
As if the land itself understood its fate—transformed from a cradle of life into a graveyard—the ground trembled beneath the advancing armies, its shuddering like a mournful wail.
"There they are," Yeo Hong-seong said.
Just as she spoke, a dark tide rippled across the horizon from the opposite side—the black-clad legions of Qin. There was no turning back now. Qin and the Alliance. Five hundred thousand souls would soon swing blade and spear to butcher one another in a fratricidal slaughter.
I closed my eyes, then slowly lifted my lids. Both armies had halted. The air itself seemed to quiver under the weight of tension. In that brief, suffocating silence, I turned to Sima Shang.
"Shang. Any regrets?"
"Regrets about what?"
"Coming here to Hanei instead of staying with General Li Mu in Taiyuan."
"Don't be ridiculous."
Even Sima Shang could not remain untouched by the scale of this battle. Her usual casual tone had grown stiff and formal. She seemed to dismiss the question outright, but then added, forcing her old bravado back into place:
"None. I told you before. Until the old man calls for me, I'm your retainer. And he hasn't called. So my place is right here beside you."
It was the first time she had ever spoken like that. Even Sima Shang could not stay calm in an atmosphere this taut, ready to explode at any moment. Yeo Hong-seong, ever composed, let out a soft, impressed "Oho." The moment she heard it, Sima Shang realized what she'd said. Her face twisted in irritation.
"What are you making me say?"
"I didn't make you say anything. You volunteered it yourself."
"Forget it. Focus. They're moving."
Neither Yeo Hong-seong nor I had time to tease her further. Sima Shang's warning was no idle distraction. If the earth had trembled beneath their footsteps, now the sky itself would shake.
Trumpets blared. Drums thundered. The battlefield sang its song, declaring that offerings of blood would soon be made to the heavens. At this crossroads that would decide the fate of the world, the battle began.
§
"Tch. Those Qin bastards fight well," Xiang Yan growled during the commanders' meeting after the first clash. As the leader of Chu's vanguard—the force that had fought hardest—she spat the words with raw contempt.
The Alliance army had rested at Gong and Ji before advancing. Qin, by contrast, had already fought three battles in succession: at Gaodu, Shanyang, and then Mo and Zhu. The difference in fatigue was obvious. The Alliance had tried to exploit that advantage with a swift opening strike, but gained little. Zhang Tang and Biao Gong had held the line well, and Meng Wu had quickly reinforced them.
"Still," someone offered, "at least our soldiers now know Qin bleeds just like we do. That alone is worth something. Too many were paralyzed by fear of the unknown."
"Hahaha. We must also consider the opposite," another countered. "Seeing how viciously they fight—as if their own lives mean nothing—will only deepen the terror in some."
Xin Yuanlian and Fang Nan offered opposing views, but most agreed the former carried more weight. A known fear was preferable to one born of ignorance. That was why Xinling Jun had risked an early skirmish despite both sides being underprepared—to test the waters.
"It seems they have no intention of withdrawing either," Ji Xin said. I nodded in agreement.
The Yan army included many riders of nomadic descent, men with exceptional eyesight. Though they lacked the disciplined cavalry formations of the Hu, their individual horsemanship was among the finest in the world. For that reason, reconnaissance had largely fallen to Yan.
According to their reports, Qin had not retreated to Mo or Zhu. Instead, they had joined Meng Wu's main force and established camp.
"They don't want to drag this out any longer than we do," Xiang Yan snorted, her voice thick with disdain. "Everyone knows how obsessed those bastards are with military merit. If anything, they're probably glad we came out to fight."
Qin's unnatural obsession with merit stemmed from their brutally strict military code. Those who brought back heads were rewarded; those who did not were punished. The system was simple, yet merciless. Bringing heads raised one's rank and status. The lowborn could escape corvée labor; the highborn received stipends. In a state where the twenty-rank system rigidly defined every social stratum, military service was the only real path to advancement.
The penalties were equally savage. Company commanders and battalion leaders who failed to secure heads were beheaded. If a commander fell, his surviving soldiers' treatment worsened. Units that missed their quotas faced collective punishment. Those who met them received rewards—but the pressure never eased.
Qin also maintained suicide squads of eighteen volunteers who led assaults on city walls or guarded the rear during retreats. Failure to bring back the required five heads meant execution of the squad leader; success earned every member a promotion in rank. Those who hesitated in battle were torn apart by chariots before their comrades' eyes. Anyone who tried to intervene had their nose cut off or their face tattooed, the punishment carried out in full view of both armies.
Under such ruthless discipline, Qin's combat prowess had become the strongest among the states. They truly fought as if throwing their lives away. Over a century, this code had hardened into culture. Every Qin soldier was a battle-mad fanatic. Those who could not adapt were eliminated—by the enemy or by their own side.
"Savages who know nothing of refinement or propriety," Fang Nan spat. "How can we speak of righteousness with such men? Their only music is the beating of drums."
Xiang Yan was not alone in her contempt. Yet I felt compelled to speak.
"Their fighting strength, however, is beyond dispute. We may scorn their culture, but we cannot afford to underestimate their power."
"Worry not, Crown Prince of Yan," Xinling Jun replied calmly. "Such mistakes will not happen here."
She was right. These were not the sort of people to let arrogance blind them. I bowed to her and stepped back. She returned the nod, then began arranging pieces marked with the names of the allied states across the map.
"In this battle, Qin placed Biao Gong on their right wing and Zhang Tang on their left. They will likely use the same formation again."
Biao Gong's force, heavy with cavalry, would favor the right to maximize maneuver room. Qin's left wing had to account for the northern city of Gong—if we had left troops there, they could strike the flank mid-battle. The right wing faced no such threat; any flanking maneuver from Ji would require a far longer detour.
Having marked Qin's expected positions, Xinling Jun reached for the pieces representing our own forces.
"Now I will explain our deployment."