Chapter Seventy-Nine: The Art of Command

A resounding clang echoed as blades collided, sending sparks flying. Gan Ning leaped into the air to attack, while Yue Jin swung downward with all his might; both fought with reckless abandon, wagering their lives in each blow. Their blades met mid-air, clashing like needlepoint against awn, a direct confrontation between two madmen.

Yet Yue Jin held an advantage: mounted atop his warhorse, he could absorb the shock, whereas Gan Ning, airborne, could only be knocked downward by the force. Thus, after this exchange, Gan Ning fell from the air, retreating several steps before his personal guards steadied him.

Yue Jin, eager to press his advantage, found himself immediately beset by a surge of Gan Ning’s troops, who nearly overwhelmed the formation around him. Here, the perils of being outnumbered became starkly apparent.

All along the left bank of the Yu River, chaos reigned as Cao’s forces and Gan Ning’s men battled fiercely. Local villagers had long since abandoned their hoes and shoulder poles, fleeing as far as their legs could carry them, caring little for the ruined bridge.

Meanwhile, the other half of Cao’s army stood helpless on the opposite bank. The river ran swift, and, unlike Gan Ning’s aquatic pirates, most northern soldiers couldn’t swim. They could only watch anxiously from the shore, unable to offer Yue Jin any aid.

Once Gan Ning tore open a breach in the northwestern flank of Yue Jin’s formation, his outnumbered troops began to yield, step by step. When Yue Jin tried to fill the gap himself with his personal guard, he encountered Gan Ning head-on. Though he gained a slight advantage thanks to his horse, he was grievously short of reinforcements, while Gan Ning’s soldiers surged forward like floodwaters, nullifying any edge Yue Jin might have gained.

But war is never a contest of fairness; any means to destroy the enemy are valid. Gan Ning had no intention of fighting fairly and again closed in with ruthless intent.

Far off, Shen Chen sat astride his horse, observing the clash from a distance. Never before had he witnessed this kind of small-scale, direct engagement—when they faced Cao Ren, the enemy had kept to their stockade, avoiding open battle. For now, Shen Chen merely watched. He saw Gan Ning break through the Cao army's line, their forces now locked in desperate struggle, with Gan Ning’s men pouring in without end. Victory was but a matter of time.

Yet, even with over six thousand against just two thousand, Gan Ning’s side merely held the upper hand—it was not an instant rout. This gave Shen Chen his first sense of Cao’s army’s true strength, leading him to ponder the reasons for their resilience.

“Great-uncle, how long has the battle been raging?” Shen Chen suddenly asked Deng Hong.

Deng Hong glanced at the sky. “I’d say about an hour and a half has passed.”

Shen Chen gazed into the distance. “How is it that Cao’s force, barely two thousand strong, can endure so long?”

Deng Hong replied, “It’s said Cao’s troops are veterans, hardened in a hundred battles—no doubt each man is a matchless fighter. Didn’t Governor Tao nearly lose everything to Cao Cao at Pengcheng, even with similar numbers?”

Shen Chen shook his head. “Having elite soldiers is part of it, but I believe Uncle Xingba’s men and our own troops from Huangmen Pavilion are not inferior. The key lies in their formation.”

Deng Hong was curious. “Chen, I recall you weren’t much interested in military texts. Have you taken to studying tactics and formations now?”

“I did glance through the ‘Six Secret Teachings’ and ‘The Art of War’ with Brother Zhuge recently, and gained some insight,” Shen Chen nodded. In the Han dynasty, under Confucian rule, those seeking advancement focused on the Seven Classics; military texts were usually reserved for the aristocracy. However, the Zhuge family owned many such works. Zhuge Xuan had married off his two nieces and served as an official under Liu Biao, making his family a minor aristocracy in Jingzhou, so acquiring military treatises was no challenge. The Xiangshan Academy also had such books.

Previously, Shen Chen had focused on Confucian learning to establish himself in Jingzhou, where luminaries like Liu Biao and Song Zhong were renowned scholars. Only now, having achieved some standing among the literati, did he turn to the study of warfare.

It’s a fallacy to believe a modern man can instantly become a brilliant strategist upon traveling back in time. Warfare in the age of cold steel is a far cry from the gunpowder battles of later eras. Even the logistics of an army—marching, encampment—require deep knowledge.

Zhuge Liang, for instance, was meticulous every time he campaigned north; his strategies and tactics were refined to perfection. Despite facing difficulties—whether from blundering allies, or the likes of Ma Su and Li Yan—he always managed to withdraw safely, avoiding catastrophic losses to Shu’s manpower or governance. Compared to him, Jiang Wei, though capable, fell far short.

Several times, Jiang Wei’s northern expeditions drained the state’s resources without matching Zhuge Liang’s results, increasing internal exhaustion. Mastery of warfare in the cold steel era was thus a profound art: a true master was a Zhuge Liang; a poor student, a Ma Su.

Shen Chen was still in the phase of studying military texts, not yet tested in real combat. His victory over Cao Ren owed more to the latter’s overconfidence and ignorance of the value of a skilled architect. Had Cao Cao himself come, sending thousands to scout Huangmen Pavilion’s valley, he might have devised a countermeasure. Even if the Qionglong fortification could withstand even the red-cannon artillery of the Qing, it could be starved out, as provisions would eventually run short.

This was why Shen Chen considered today’s battle a valuable lesson in real warfare. He watched as, though Yue Jin’s position was dire, the Cao army’s formations allowed them to resist and even counterattack at times, enlightening him greatly.

“So this is what the ‘Art of War’ means when it says: ‘The momentum of the skilled warrior is like rolling a round stone down a thousand-foot mountain—such is the force.’” Shen Chen murmured, “Yue Jin is a true warrior, fighting with his back to the river, forcing us to assault his spear wall from three sides. We’re like a tiger meeting a curled-up hedgehog—strong, but unable to find a place to bite.”

Deng Hong remarked, “Didn’t Xingba already break a gap?”

“Indeed.” Shen Chen’s eyes lit up. “Great-uncle, you are a genius.”

“Ah?” Deng Hong was baffled.

But Shen Chen wasted no time, ordering the nearest soldier, “Go! Tell my uncle to lead all our Huangmen Pavilion troops and charge in from the northwest breach.”

“At once.” The soldier galloped off.

Gan Ning had seized the main assault for himself, so the Luyang garrison spearheaded the charge, while the Huangmen Pavilion troops lingered on the flanks. The enemy’s main force already showed signs of collapse, only holding on under Yue Jin’s command. The battlefield was strewn with corpses—fields, riverbanks, villages—fighting raged everywhere.

Deng Zhao and Shen Zhen had not joined the main assault, as their six thousand surrounded two thousand, averaging three to one, leaving little room to intervene. When Shen Chen’s order arrived, and after confirming the direction, they spied the breach and immediately commanded the Huangmen Pavilion soldiers to charge.

By now, the fight between Gan Ning and Yue Jin had reached its climax. Yue Jin was historically known for his valor, a first-rate general, his prowess even greater than Yu Jin’s. Though later wounded by Gan Ning at the Battle of Ruxu, he had fought Ling Tong to a draw in fifty bouts—and Ling Tong, in turn, had drawn with Zhang Liao.

Ling Tong had repeatedly sought single combat with Gan Ning to avenge his father, only staying his hand at Sun Quan’s behest. Thus, Ling Tong’s martial skill was not far below Gan Ning’s.

Comparing further, among Cao Cao’s five best generals—Zhang Liao, Zhang He, Xu Huang, and Yue Jin—were all first-rate, with only Yu Jin ranking second. But even among first-rate generals, Yue Jin was on the lower end, while Gan Ning was higher, perhaps two or three points stronger.

Thus, though they fought fiercely, Yue Jin at first managed to fight Gan Ning evenly for over twenty bouts thanks to his horse. But Gan Ning had the advantage of numbers, his soldiers all around, while Yue Jin’s guards fell one by one, the Jingzhou army nearly surrounding him, their spears and broadswords raining down relentlessly, forcing Yue Jin onto the defensive.

By the fortieth exchange, as Yue Jin fended off the spears thrust at him, Gan Ning seized his chance and struck the leg of Yue Jin’s horse. The wounded beast neighed and collapsed.

Normally, the side with the upper hand in war avoids harming enemy horses, as they are valuable spoils—worth more than several prisoners. But Gan Ning had no choice. The cavalryman’s height gave him too great an edge; he had to be brought down.

The saying “shoot the horse to hit the rider, capture the king to subdue the bandit” had been the wisdom of warfare for a thousand years.

As his horse toppled, Yue Jin fell. Normally, the surrounding soldiers would have overwhelmed and captured him. But Yue Jin’s reflexes were extraordinary; in the instant he landed, he lunged to his right.

He rolled through the mud, heading for the one direction where he remembered a handful of his guards still fought desperately. He scrambled into their midst, and his comrades shielded him as they withdrew. But the pressure on the Cao army’s formation was immense, the rear packed with panicked soldiers.

“Kill them all!”

“Charge that way!”

“Break through!”

Yue Jin had been sent to seal the breach but was now locked in desperate combat with Gan Ning. After losing his mount, he darted back into his formation, trying to rally his men.

But suddenly, a flood of enemy soldiers surged in through the breach—Huangmen Pavilion’s forces poured into the gap, shattering the deadlock. Blades clashed in a cacophony.

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Over a thousand enemy troops burst in, tearing apart Cao’s formation. The soldiers on the outskirts, already barely holding on, began to waver and fall back. Those behind pushed forward, leading to chaos and trampling.

In the beginning, Cao’s two thousand men had formed a tight formation, but Gan Ning’s first assault had already decimated the outer ring of spearmen. Inside, about a thousand shield-bearers had huddled together in a circle—a classic defensive formation.

Though Gan Ning broke the formation, the circle still held, barely. But Shen Chen, recognizing the moment, sent the Huangmen Pavilion troops to deliver a fatal blow from the northwest, slicing into the heart of Cao’s formation.

It was like a flower blossoming from the center, piercing the enemy’s core and spreading outward. With Gan Ning’s men attacking from without, the Cao army collapsed from both sides.

“Run!”

“We’re defeated—run!”

“I surrender!”

“Spare me, please!”

In an instant, the will to fight was gone; some died, some fled, others surrendered. The field was a scene of utter rout.

From a distance, Shen Chen watched, at first surprised, then lost in thought. At first, Yue Jin’s defensive formation had held. Had his own numbers not been three times greater; had he not destroyed the bridge as the enemy crossed; had this been a field battle, six thousand against five thousand, perhaps the outcome would not have favored him. Gan Ning’s men lacked discipline, while Yue Jin’s were tightly organized.

But nothing is absolute. Once a way to break the enemy is found, the tide of battle shifts in an instant. No wonder the military classics say, “There are no constant dispositions in war, just as water has no constant form.”

Sometimes, a battle seems won, yet a single factor can change everything. In that moment, Shen Chen understood: the classics teach foundational principles—formations, methods, ways of thinking. But what truly determines victory is the ability to seize fleeting opportunities—something no book can impart.

Had the bridge not been destroyed and the armies met on equal terms, the battle might have dragged on, testing both commanders’ ability to grasp the fleeting moment that swings the balance.

Now, Shen Chen felt fortunate indeed. Today’s victory came from timely decisions—destroying the bridge, then, with Deng Hong’s prompt, seizing the critical moment to defeat Yue Jin. For him, this was an invaluable lesson—one to remember for a lifetime.