Supplies Nearly Exhausted

“Report! Great Chanyu, the Xiongnu have driven off their cattle and sheep and left without a word!” The urgent shout of the messenger who burst in abruptly broke Budugen’s brooding.

With a violent cough, a mouthful of blood that had long been stifled surged up, and Budugen’s once upright figure seemed to wither in an instant, as though he had aged years in a single moment.

Steadying himself against the table to keep from collapsing, Budugen let out a hoarse, exhausted roar: “We attack again tomorrow! My tens of thousands of Xianbei warriors shall not have died in vain! Wang Bo, that whelp! I will capture you and sacrifice you before the banner…”

That night, with the Xianbei army diminished by more than ten thousand departed southern Xiongnu, the remaining forces consolidated and, as long as the Han army’s waterborne raiders did not approach, paid them no heed. Nurturing a desperate belief that an army in mourning is destined to triumph, they stoked their own resolve.

Meanwhile, having regained his composure, Budugen gathered the chieftains of all the tribes and publicly declared: “Whoever breaches Yunu Pass tomorrow shall march unopposed into Xinghan City. All spoils seized shall belong wholly to your own tribes—my own clan will not take a single coin!”

The next day, the Xianbei attacked with even greater ferocity, tens of thousands of soldiers unleashing their full might.

The cavalry ceased their circling maneuvers and stood tall amidst the Han’s rain of arrows, unmoving, mechanically firing volleys at the pass and the upper hidden bunkers, disregarding whether their own men were caught in the barrage. However many fell, just as many filled the ranks, their numbers densely crowding both sides at the foot of the pass.

The infantry battered forward in shield formations, charging to the ladders without glancing at the boulders crashing down from above, swarming up the cloud ladders like leeches. When they reached the upper bunkers, many bloodthirsty warriors flung themselves straight at the openings, dying simply to win a chance for those who followed.

Under this relentless onslaught, the Xinghan army suffered unprecedented pressure—the carnage exceeding even the previous day. For an entire hour, the defenders atop the pass could barely hold their ground, forced to cower behind the low walls. The spearmen who once repelled Xianbei scaling the ladders were devastated by the cost-no-object arrow storms from the Xianbei cavalry below, at times leaving the pass entirely undefended. Wang Bo, gritting his teeth, had to fill the gaps with crossbowmen who could not otherwise join the fray.

More than once, the Xianbei breached the summit, but under the repeated slaughter led by Xu Chu and Chen Dao with the Wolf Owl Guard, they could never sustain a sizable assault—each incursion lasting but a few moments before their momentum faded and they were driven back. Yet the Xianbei, crazed with bloodlust, pressed upward regardless, the blood spraying from the ramparts turning the once pale stone slabs a deep crimson; the fallen arrows made the ground so slick that the careless slipped and tumbled.

This ferocity did not abate until the Hour of the Sheep, late in the afternoon.

At last, seeing his efforts had failed, Budugen steeled himself and sent in his elite personal guard. But when the Wolf Owl Guard slaughtered them to the last man, the spirit of the previously fearless Xianbei collapsed as if their spines had been snapped, and they became mere husks, numb and resigned to death.

Witnessing this, Zhang Liao immediately advised: “While the enemy’s morale is broken and they retreat in vain, let me lead the cavalry in a pursuit—one charge will decide the outcome!”

Standing atop the gate tower, Wang Bo scrutinized the enemy camp: The once sprawling encampment that stretched for more than ten miles, now depleted by days of battle and the Xiongnu’s flight, was no longer so dense or orderly. To speed troop movements, a wide passage had been left through the camp’s center—perfect for cavalry. On the east bank, the narrow outposts that once watched over each other had been destroyed by Chen Dao and the Wolf Owl Guard and abandoned by Budugen. The riverside defenses, half burned by last night’s raiders, had not been restored in Budugen’s haste to attack…

Gazing at the deathly silence of the Xianbei rear camp, Wang Bo pondered for a few heartbeats, then turned with resolute expression and gave the command to sally forth.

Xu Chu, with the Wolf Owl Guard, would take the lead. As soon as the Xianbei gave the order to retreat, the gates would be thrown open and the attack launched. Once inside, they would not linger in skirmishes but push straight through, then wheel back to strike the central command tent and capture Budugen alive.

Zhang Liao and Niu Feihu, with five thousand Xinghan heavy cavalry, would follow in two columns to scatter the hastily rallied Xianbei horsemen.

Liao Hua and Chen Dao would lead all Xinghan infantry in the final assault, sweeping through the enemy camp with the cavalry providing support at the flanks, determined to shatter the Xianbei in one thunderous blow.

Lastly, disregarding all objections, Wang Bo himself would lead his personal guard and several thousand auxiliary troops to press the attack from the rear.

Once all was arranged and he had consulted with Zhang Liao, Liao Hua, and the others for any oversights, the generals, taking advantage of the enemy’s waning assault, withdrew from Yunu Pass to prepare.

As time crept on, over another hour passed and the Xianbei assault weakened further, posing virtually no threat to Yunu Pass, devolving into a one-sided slaughter. The spears and arrows from the Han atop the pass likewise slackened.

Budugen, barely able to lift his pale face, cracked open bloodshot eyes and swept a glance at the silent, hesitant tribal leaders in his tent. With a feeble wave of his right hand, he muttered, “Order the retreat.” Then he slumped onto his tiger-skin couch.

A deep, low horn sounded, and the exhausted Xianbei, revived by its call as if by a spring breeze, flung aside their burdensome weapons and sprinted headlong back to their camp.

The same horn, too, reignited the spirits of the Han cavalry waiting behind the gates. Amid the clash of armor and weapons, the air filled with murderous intent. As the gates slowly opened, their fury was unleashed in a flood that swept straight ahead without end.

The luckier Xianbei, fleeing with heads down, did not dare look back, but from the panicked cries of cavalry nearby, sensed danger was upon them. They summoned every last ounce of strength, wishing they had a foal beneath their feet, but two legs cannot outrun four. Whether they shed their armor or kicked off their boots, it was futile: before the camp gates even came into view, the thunder of hooves behind them—so familiar to Xianbei raised with horses—spelled a cruel truth: the enemy’s horses were already at their heels.

The cleverest could only, in desperation, crouch with heads covered, pressing themselves as small as possible to the ground, praying for the Xianbei gods’ mercy. But most, driven by the Wolf Owl Guard, were herded along the wide central passage, running for their lives until they could run no more.

Behind the Wolf Owl Guard, thousands of heavy Han cavalry formed interlocking wedges, trampling and slashing their way through the ranks. They burst through the Xianbei cavalry, flattened the tents, and swept up countless Xianbei who failed to catch their horses, charging straight for Budugen’s command tent and leaving devastation in their wake.

Countless Xianbei soldiers, having narrowly escaped the hooves, crept from hiding, grateful to survive, only to be terrified anew by Han warriors hot on their heels before they could even recover their gear or mount up.

At the front, heavy shield-bearers advanced, countless spearheads gleaming before them. Among them, swordsmen with small bucklers pressed forward, and behind, archers, under their officers’ orders, loosed volley after volley into the densest enemy throngs. To the beat of heavy boots and deafening battle cries, they swept through the Xianbei camp.

The surviving Xianbei, legs trembling, looked to one another helplessly. A timid hand dropped a saber, and soon most followed suit, though a few hotheads rushed forward, only to become steaming corpses in an instant.

Those who surrendered were forced to their knees, hands clasped behind their heads, as Han auxiliaries frisked and bound them, lining them up in long rows along the river and at the foot of the mountains, awaiting the victors’ judgment. The Han cavalry paid them no heed, pressing on in pursuit.

On the river, the Han waterborne raiders deployed in force, a dozen sturdy boats surging forward, heedless of their own losses, to strike at the Xianbei camp’s riverside rear. From black gunports, bolts whistled out, each one a wind-driven spear of destruction.

In the Xianbei command tent, the utterly exhausted Budugen had just dozed off for a moment when the thunder of battle cries roused him. He sat up with a start, about to ask what was going on, when an attendant rushed in: “Disaster, Chanyu! The enemy is in the camp!”

Enraged, Budugen struggled to rise and arm himself, but seeing the situation was dire, his attendants and officers dragged him away toward the rear to escape.

The rout concluded in less than two hours, its ease exceeding Wang Bo’s expectations.

He’d thought he might need to lead from the front and rally the troops if things went poorly, but it turned out he’d underestimated these legendary generals of the Three Kingdoms. Then again, with Zhang Liao, Xu Chu, Chen Dao, Liao Hua on his side, was it any wonder they dispatched tens of thousands of steppe warriors as if it were nothing? If he couldn’t even manage this, he might as well throw himself into the river from Yunu Pass.

Looking at his wolfish, tiger-like army and the shivering captives along the roadside, Wang Bo called Niu Er over to give a few instructions, then tightened his fur cloak with a satisfied sigh and, before the battle had fully ended, mounted up and returned to Yunu Pass.

Back inside his command tent, he gave brief orders and promptly collapsed into a deep sleep.

When he awoke, it was already the third quarter of the hour of the Snake on the following day. Stretching, he kicked the snoring Xu Chu beside him, cursing inwardly: This oafish bodyguard! Sleeps even heavier than I do. With your vigilance, you wouldn’t notice if someone buried you alive! Clearly, you need more training.

He walked out with head held high.

The results were in: After several days of fierce battle, over sixteen thousand steppe warriors had been killed, and nearly thirty thousand more captured in the final engagement. As for those who drowned in the darkness or whose bodies were returned to their tribes, the numbers were incalculable. The Han army had lost thirteen hundred combat soldiers, with countless more lightly wounded; the auxiliaries and conscripts had suffered over three thousand casualties; the cavalry brought by Zhang Liao had lost just over a hundred.

The casualty ratio was an astounding ten to one in the Han’s favor—a decisive victory.

Material losses were immense—nearly all the iron, arrows, and supplies stockpiled beforehand were gone, and food was running low after a month without merchant caravans. But the spoils were bountiful: armor, arrows, grain, cattle, and sheep beyond counting, over thirty thousand warhorses—most well trained—and even more pack animals.

Wang Bo’s first act upon waking was to have the heads of more than ten thousand captives severed. Aside from those used to reconstruct the victory mound destroyed by the Xianbei, the rest were mounted on stakes along the valley path outside Yunu Pass, spaced every few feet for more than ten miles, christened “Victory Mound Road.” He ordered Zhou Xiu to bring the captives to witness the display, giving them a vivid lesson to quash any thought of resistance.

The remainder—burying fallen comrades, sorting loot—he left to others. Let us speak now of Zhang Liao.

Zhang Liao, leading the Han cavalry and Wolf Owl Guard, pursued the routed Xianbei, leaving those who surrendered for the rear to handle. The Xianbei force had been so immense that the chieftains, escorting Budugen, continuously sent gathered soldiers to block the tireless Han pursuit. Thus, the fleeing Xianbei, trying to regroup, were scattered again and again, most ending up as prisoners for the Han cavalry following behind. Sometimes, a mere dozen Han horsemen would guard hundreds of Xianbei captives—quite a feat for men once deemed timid.

With stragglers and rearguard delaying them, Zhang Liao and the Wolf Owl Guard never managed to catch Budugen, even after passing through the misty gates of Wujin County. When Niu Er arrived with Wang Bo’s strict orders, they reluctantly turned back. Zhang Liao temporarily stationed his troops in the now-deserted Wujin County, awaiting Chen Dao’s arrival with infantry to garrison the place.

When Wang Bo received word that Zhang Liao had taken Wujin, he was delighted. He immediately ordered Zhou Xiu and Wang Qi to take some auxiliaries and conscripts to the mountain pass at the mouth of the valley near Wujin, fortifying a camp there to form a mutual defense with the county—a strong position.

Once the aftermath at Yunu Pass was handled, several days later, Wang Bo left Chen Dao and Niu Feihu to garrison Wujin, while he led the victorious army back toward Xinghan City, escorting thousands of Xianbei prisoners and carrying the coffins of fallen heroes.

On the road, seeing the army’s mood weighed down by the loss of so many comrades, Wang Bo began singing his favorite rousing ballad from his former world, the lyrics slightly altered:

Smoke of war rises, gazing northward to the rivers and mountains,
The wind roars, horses neigh long, sword gleams like frost;
Heart like the Yellow River, vast and boundless,
For years we have roamed, who can withstand us?
Hatred burns wild where the long blade points,
How many brothers’ loyal souls are buried in foreign lands…
…
I vow to guard our land and reclaim lost ground,
Let the mighty Han’s glory be honored by all the world!
…

At first, the soldiers found Wang Bo’s strange tune awkward, but as they grasped its meaning and catchy rhythm, they came to love it. By the end, all were singing with tears streaming down their faces, voices hoarse yet unyielding.

Before they even reached Xinghan City, they saw crowds lining the roads outside—virtually the entire garrison and populace, young and old, had come out to welcome their triumphant heroes.

Among them, Zhang Ning, surrounded by the women, stood out with her striking beauty and eager gaze. Yet no one dared stare for long; even the usually boisterous Ping Han and Xu Chu, after glimpsing her, would only sneak glances before grinning bashfully—for Zhang Ning was not only the "Yellow Turban Saintess" in their eyes, but also the future lady of their lord.

After a few days back in Xinghan City, having dealt with accumulated affairs and the aftermath of the battle, Wang Bo received word: the southern Xiongnu, who had submitted in the western regions of Bingzhou and Shuofang, had sent an embassy to Xinghan City, seeking to meet with him.