Chapter 83: The Gap Between Ideals and Reality

On the northern hills of the battlefield, a handful of men stood among the withered branches and fallen leaves, using tall grass as cover to observe the ongoing conflict.

The man at the center of the group was a tall, robust figure, his hair bound in a Taoist crown, his body clad in armor. With arms folded, he gazed intently toward the battlefield outside the northern gate.

After a moment, he raised his arm and pointed directly ahead. “Guo Tianxing, who is that leading the charge?”

Standing beside him was Zhang Tianlin, who had only recently spent a few days at Liu’s manor.

“I’ve told you before,” Zhang replied, his eyes drifting toward the riverbank. “He’s a great benefactor from Yan’an Prefecture, a tiger general. He’s covering the retreat for the common folk again—this isn’t the first time. Earlier, when he seized Qinwang Manor, he distributed the grain to the people.”

“Oh, yes, you did mention that… He was chosen as a vanguard from Yansui Town, and his brother took over your post as squad officer.” The man speaking with Zhang Tianlin suddenly understood, then asked in confusion, “But didn’t you say their family bears no rebellious intent? They won’t supply us with provisions, nor will they join forces with us. At most, they’ll let us pass without a clash. Why, then, in less than two months, is he now charging the government forces?”

Zhang Tianlin was equally perplexed. He sighed, “You ask me, but who can I ask? The Liu patriarch is a scholar; both brothers are literati. They were preparing for the military examination, and if not for the old man’s imprisonment, they might now be captains. Why would they rebel? Besides, look at this—he’s clearly seized Yan’an Prefecture’s city.”

The other man, belatedly realizing, slapped his thigh and exclaimed anxiously, “If he’s taken the city, what are we doing here?”

This man’s name was Wang Ziyong, a native of Yanchuan, known as Monk Wang.

Unlike most northern Shaanxi leaders, he had no military background. Wang Ziyong grew up in a Taoist temple. His master was formidable, skilled in geomancy, medicine, funeral rites, exorcisms, drawing talismans, and rainmaking ceremonies.

But in these troubled times, even the dead might not be buried, let alone require geomancy. Disease went untreated; when death came, it wiped out entire families, and none would spend money on funeral rites. The world was so chaotic that ghosts mingled with the living in broad daylight. Rain prayers had never succeeded.

The temple’s reputation dwindled, and his master starved to death.

The Taoist path was a dead end for Wang Ziyong. He had a voracious appetite and was forced to resort to all sorts of tricks to fill his belly. If someone needed a monk, he’d chant Amitabha; if they needed a Taoist, he’d invoke the Boundless Heavenly Respect.

Later, he discovered even the monk’s path led nowhere.

A vague realization dawned on him—all the old tricks for deceiving people were useless. To survive, he had to break away from the supernatural and provide something tangible for his followers.

Coincidentally, some fugitives from the east, who begged alongside him, introduced him to more practical doctrines suited for times of chaos—the Fragrant Sect.

In essence, the White Lotus Sect.

Of course, its suitability for chaos wasn’t just due to its rapid spread.

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No matter how quickly the faith spread, the drought in northern Shaanxi could still starve him to death before he found enough followers to support him.

Instead, as an old rebel cult, Wang Ziyong’s eastern beggar colleagues brought ample experience in insurrection.

Having reclaimed the ritual sword gathering dust at the pawnshop, and armed with learned martial arts, Wang Ziyong began his own rebellion in Yanchuan.

He organized bankrupt peasants from surrounding villages to resist taxes; then led hungry crowds to storm the city, even joining forces with a leader called King Hun to sweep Yanchuan’s government troops away.

Everything went perfectly—until this summer, when Wang Ziyong encountered his greatest calamity during a raid on wealthy households.

It rained in Yanchuan.

The rain his master prayed for three years to no avail arrived within a year of Wang Ziyong’s rebellion.

Thousands of followers, in less than half an hour, rejoiced in the rain and promptly disbanded.

Monk Wang could not restrain them, nor did he wish to. He quietly watched them in the rain and said, “Commit no evil, perform all good deeds. If you don’t return home now, once the rain ends and the soil dries, it’ll be too late to sow seeds.”

He watched as people, full of guilt, knelt to him, then joyfully shouldered his provisions and fled at full speed without a backward glance.

He was both pleased and troubled.

A timely rain after a long drought is one of life’s greatest joys.

But the authorities did not pursue thousands—they only hunted him.

Later, Wang Ziyong joined forces with Zhang Tianlin, who was similarly distressed by the small rain.

After informing Wang Jiayin in the north of their situation, the two decided to migrate to areas still suffering from drought.

They advanced nearly simultaneously with Li Bei, just missing him, and arrived at Yan’an a full ten days later due to constant evasion on the road.

By now, one battle outside the city had ended, and another was about to begin.

The banner army’s formation, once impregnable, collapsed in an instant after being breached.

Wu, the desperate captain, remained remarkably calm in the face of Liu Chengzong’s charge into the ranks.

He had long considered every possible retreat.

None of them allowed him to survive with dignity.

So he ordered the banner army to lay down their weapons and surrender.

Liu Chengzong breached the lines, separated from the government commander by only three men.

The exhausted nearby soldiers dropped their weapons and cowered.

The government commander, helmeted and armored, smiled bleakly at Liu through the human wall, then turned away.

A short sword was held before him, thrust from throat down, piercing between the ribs at the back, pushing up the armor’s heart mirror, his face toward his comrades, eyes open in death.

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He could not choose how to live, but he could still choose how to die.

Dozens of banner soldiers were taken as prisoners; the Lion Battalion’s squad leaders used their equipment to further reinforce the ranks.

Zhang, the thousand-household commander of the western garrison, was very pleased with this result. He stood up and ordered, “Advance! Shatter the rebel army, and tonight everyone will eat their fill!”

The Lion Battalion did not form ranks to face the enemy—their provisions had already been transported across the river during the battle, so they had no need to hold their position here.

“Make ready! There’s no time to strip his armor, carry him away, that armor is yours now.”

Liu Chengzong then issued orders, commanding ten battalions to retreat toward the riverbank. “Each battalion cross the river in sequence. If soldiers retreat without orders, auxiliary troops will behead them; if auxiliaries retreat without orders, the soldiers will; if soldiers retreat without orders, squad leaders will kill them.”

It was a sound plan, and at first, execution went well.

Four battalions crossed the river in order, until the two armies stood three hundred paces apart on the riverbank.

Liu Chengzong kept a close eye on the Ming army.

Zhang Xiong’s troops were still advancing, but somehow three small Tiger squat cannons were brought up from behind, their crews beginning to set up the guns on the riverbank.

The gunners were promptly scolded, then pulled up the gun stakes and carried the thirty-six-pound cannons forward again.

At two hundred fifty paces, the process repeated, and many infantrymen stopped moving.

Zhang Xiong killed a subordinate in front of the ranks, prompting the banner army to advance another hundred paces.

Cao Yao steadied the troops and called loudly to Liu Chengzong, “Tiger General, these are small cannons—meant for volley fire at fifty paces with dozens of guns. They won’t dare a close fight!”

Liu Chengzong believed him, the Lion Battalion believed him, and the recently surrendered banner troops believed him.

They stood with stiff necks, arrayed against the government forces.

But the hungry masses did not.

Three tiger squat cannons anchored on the riverbank—three thunderous blasts, smoke billowing across the enemy lines.

The hail of shot tore through the smoke like rain, three large shells landing at seventy paces, hundreds of small stone shot scattering between fifty and a hundred paces.

Liu Chengzong could guarantee not a single shell would land among his own ranks.

But the formation broke.

Auxiliary troops remembered their orders, but as soon as they tried to execute those running left, the right side ran as well. Chasing those on the right, the whole unit fled.

Five battalions of the starving masses dropped their weapons, leapt into the shallow river, and fled in chaos.

A hastily organized force could not possibly uphold such strict orders.

Everyone began to retreat chaotically into the river, the government troops advancing in formation, unleashing arrows and muskets to slaughter them.