A horse carriage leisurely made its way toward Sancang. The coachman was Song Kelǐ, the refined-looking young apprentice who once served as a bookboy. Inside the carriage, Yuan Benxi kept the curtains raised, gazing at the V-shaped formation of wild geese flying southward across the sky, lost in deep thought. The saying goes: “The first bird to stick its head out gets hit by the storm.” Yet whether it is a family, a clan, or even a nation, there must always be someone who steps forward.
After Song Kelǐ left Weize County, he no longer had access to official court bulletins. However, Master Yuan would occasionally summon him for long conversations, subtly revealing insights that Song naturally accepted without doubt. The Battle of Sancang marked the first major defeat suffered by the current Emperor since ascending the throne, occurring in the southern territories of Tai’an City. During the Yonghui era, two southern expeditions against Nanzhao ended in stalemate, though over a dozen battles were fought with alternating victories. But in the cavalry battle of Sancang during the first year of the Xiangfu era, General Yan Zhēnchun perished, and his elite force of thirty thousand cavalry was completely annihilated—an embarrassment that could not be hidden. The entire court of Liyang was shaken. If Yang Shenxing’s predicament could be attributed to overconfidence, then the direct clash between Yan Zhēnchun’s cavalry and the Western Ch’u rebels, without any deception or trickery, ending in utter defeat, forced the imperial ministers and officials to reassess the true strength of Western Ch’u. Deeply patriotic, Song Kelǐ was filled with anxiety until Master Yuan finally spoke plainly to him, allowing this young Song heir to truly grasp the treacherous nature of court politics.
“Have you noticed something? Yang Shenxing’s four thousand veteran soldiers from Jinan, along with his newly formed five or six thousand cavalry, and Yan Zhēnchun’s original three thousand elite cavalry guarding the capital—aren’t they all, in essence, private armies of a certain individual?”
Song Kelǐ exclaimed, “But isn’t the cost too great?”
Yuan Benxi smiled faintly and said, “On the imperial side, particularly within Gu Lu’s Ministry of War and the ‘Study Bureau’ where the chroniclers reside, no one expected Yang Shenxing and Yan Zhēnchun, two veteran generals, to suffer such a crushing defeat. They were supposed to lose only after the Western Ch’u’s main strategist, Cao Changqing, made his appearance. However, since the capital’s military strength has ‘seemingly’ suffered a heavy blow, what reason does Prince Guangling Zhao Yi have to remain inactive?”
Song Kelǐ sighed, “First suppress the military, then weaken the feudal lords—that is an open and clever strategy.”
Yuan Benxi neither confirmed nor denied, hesitated slightly, and then added with self-deprecation, “I have read many military treatises, but I have never dared to claim mastery over military affairs. Therefore, I have always avoided interfering in battlefield strategies unless absolutely necessary. A wise man knows his own strengths and weaknesses. Often, as long as you don’t make mistakes, opportunities will come. Yang Shenxing lost not on the battlefield, but in the court. Otherwise, with the balance of forces along the Kuixiao front, if Yang had been allowed to fight cautiously and methodically, he might have gained the upper hand. But after a lifetime of battles, in his later years, Yang failed to see himself as a regional governor, instead imagining himself as a mere court official. In the end, he lost not on the battlefield, but outside of it. Song Kelǐ, this is a lesson you must heed.”
Song Kelǐ nodded earnestly.
Yuan Benxi continued, “Yan Zhēnchun, dragged down by Yang Shenxing, was forced to rush southward to Sancang in haste. There, he was ambushed by the Western Ch’u cavalry, which had been lying in wait. Unexpectedly, three thousand heavy cavalry intervened at a crucial moment, catching Yan unprepared. The more disciplined Yan was in commanding his troops, the more determined his soldiers were to fight to the death, and the deeper they fell into the Western Ch’u trap. Yan must have suspected that the two thousand light cavalry of Western Ch’u had hidden reserves behind them, but he could not have foreseen that those two thousand riders would exhaust his three thousand cavalry to the point of collapse. One mistake by the court led to a chain of errors, while one success for Western Ch’u led to a cascade of victories. It seems the Western Ch’u has found worthy successors. The Ministry of War maintains a record of a dozen young talents, among whom four stand out. Two of them have already emerged: Pei Sui, scion of the Pei clan, who oversees the affairs of Kuixiao, a young man of great maturity and scholarly background, though somewhat lacking in brilliance; and Xu Yunxia, the cavalry commander who led the two thousand light cavalry in a fierce battle against Yan Zhēnchun, a bold and aggressive fighter, yet unable to judge the precise moment to deploy the heavy cavalry. Therefore, the planning of the northern front must be the work of either Kou Jianghuai or Xie Xiechui, the other two among the four.”
Song Kelǐ said slowly, “I have heard of Kou Jianghuai. His ancestors were all great generals of Western Ch’u. He himself is deeply versed in military strategy, having been an extraordinary figure at the Shangyin Academy in his youth. Before reaching adulthood, he became a respected scholar at the Jishang Academy, possessing both literary and martial talents, as well as the courage to lead from the front. As for Xie Xiechui, I have never heard of him. Master Yuan, could the northern campaign of Western Ch’u truly be the preordained strategy of the Confucian sage Cao Changqing?”
Yuan Benxi shook his head and said, “Without these outstanding young men, how could Cao Changqing dare to attempt the restoration of his nation?”
Suddenly, Yuan Benxi burst into loud laughter, something rare for him. Song Kelǐ was momentarily startled, for in his memory, Master Yuan was always composed, possessed of near-superhuman wisdom, and rarely showed genuine emotion. After his hearty laughter, Yuan took a swig from his wine flask and said, “All my life, I’ve been stuck in the Hanlin Academy, listening to the lofty discourses of famous scholars. Though many were pedantic, they were also among the most learned people in the world, with much to offer. I’ve either dealt with shadowy figures behind the scenes, men of exceptional insight and talent, skilled in meticulous detail or possessing foresight that could plan ten steps ahead. But this journey outside the capital, staying in roadside inns and listening to the idle chatter of poor scholars and country folk, has revealed a completely different flavor.”
Song Kelǐ was both amused and at a loss for words, not daring to comment rashly. On this journey southward, he had indeed overheard many absurd opinions from narrow-minded people, most of which he dismissed with a shrug. Yet Master Yuan seemed to enjoy every word, sipping wine and eating heartily with increasing delight. For instance, some commoner claimed that Cao Changqing, the Western Ch’u’s famed strategist with the nickname ‘Guanshi,’ was too foolish not to sneak into the capital and assassinate the current Emperor. After all, he had already tried three times—why not a few more? That would be better than idling around the Guangling Road. Others offered even more ‘practical’ suggestions: if they were Cao Changqing, they would station martial heroes along the northern front and kill a few thousand enemy soldiers every few days, marching all the way to Tai’an without losing a single soldier. Some even raised a valid point, questioning why the court did not offer large rewards to the top martial artists listed in the Wuping rankings, sending them all at once to attack the Northern Mang. If so, what need would there be for General Gu Jiantang’s border troops or the elite cavalry of Beiliang? There must be some hidden rules in this world that ordinary people do not understand. Yet when pressed for answers, these people could not provide a coherent explanation. With the uprising of Western Ch’u and the raising of the Jiang banner, the hoped-for swift victory by the Liyang imperial army did not materialize. The war dragged on, and the streets and alleys buzzed with passionate, even heated debates.
Yuan Benxi smiled softly and asked, “Are you thinking that the common people, far from the center of power, are narrow-minded and ignorant?”
Song Kelǐ did not hide his thoughts and nodded, “That is indeed what I believe.”
Yuan Benxi shook his head and said, “I have indeed considered organizing the martial sects, but the late Emperor’s order for Xu Xiao to crush the martial world set a bad precedent. Although the court later reserved many official posts for martial artists within the Imperial Guards, and the Ministry of Justice and Zhao Gou distributed numerous protective charms and copper-yellow embroidered carp bags, compared to the Northern Mang Empress’s boldness, it still seems pale. Although it may be a fantasy to expect the most arrogant and fearless martial experts to unite and assassinate a certain individual, it is not difficult to reduce the deaths of soldiers in a war. However, two things completely dissuaded me. One was the Emperor’s obsession with the orthodoxy of literary tradition, combined with the interference of the eunuch Han Shengxuan and the domineering attitude of Liu Haoshi within Tai’an. The second was Xu Xiao’s collection of all martial secrets into the imperial archives and the establishment of the rule that any martial artist who caused trouble would be publicly executed, thereby setting the precedent that the court and the martial world should remain separate, preventing the kind of integration seen in the Northern Mang’s rivers flowing into a great stream.”
Sighing, Yuan Benxi shook his wine flask and gazed at the young Song Kelǐ, saying solemnly, “A wise man undertaking great deeds does not necessarily require complex methods; often, simplicity suffices. But there is one crucial requirement: both the distant vision and the path beneath one’s feet must be correct. The true difficulty lies in the word ‘difficulty’—knowing is easy, but acting is hard. Your ancestors, both literary masters, dominated the literary world and suppressed others, perhaps not unaware of the harm this caused to scholarly traditions. Why did they do it? Because they could not let go of their family’s honor and disgrace. The current Emperor’s refusal to adopt Li Dangxin’s new calendar may not stem from a lack of compassion for the people. Why? Because he cannot let go of the rise and fall of his own dynasty. Even I, Yuan Benxi, admire Cao Changqing’s brilliance. That great strategist has entered the palace several times. As long as he does not kill recklessly, neither I nor that old friend would oppose him. In fact, we turned a blind eye on two occasions. Why? Because Cao Changqing could not let go of one person, and I and that old friend could not bear to see the elegance and brilliance of our Confucian scholars scattered by the storms of time.”
With heartfelt emotion, Yuan Benxi sighed, “When a person holds onto something, he becomes obsessed, and thus becomes genuine. The good and bad of it—how can it be fully expressed in just a few words?”
As Song Kelǐ was about to ask further questions, Yuan Benxi had already lost the desire to speak. He murmured to himself, “The martial world has, for the most part, already been judged. The court of this dynasty will also reach its conclusion. In the future, strategists like myself, Li Yishan, and Nalan Youci will become relics of the past. As for the Emperor’s teacher, that too will become a distant dream.”
The rest of the journey southward was calm and uneventful. General Yan Zhēnchun and his thirty thousand cavalry had become history. The court was still mobilizing troops, but no battles were imminent. Even the bandits vanished overnight. The carriage traveled safely and smoothly, arriving unimpeded at the battlefield of Sancang.
Yuan Benxi stepped out of the carriage but did not immediately head toward the site where fifty thousand cavalry had clashed. Instead, he went to the place where the Western Ch’u heavy cavalry had once gathered. Liyang only had large horses from Beiliang, Jinan, and the Two Liao regions. The horses of Western Ch’u were naturally inferior. Moreover, the deployment of heavy cavalry could not be as dramatic as imagined—galloping in full force. They required many pack animals and supporting infantry. Before entering the battlefield, the heavy cavalrymen remained unarmored and mounted, hiding quietly at a location neither too far nor too near, waiting patiently for the right moment. Once the heavily armored cavalry launched their charge, the accumulated momentum would be unmatched. In a way, the heavy cavalry were like the most cherished beauties in a general’s harem—yet also the most terrifying rivals any enemy commander would dread.
Following the route taken by the heavy cavalry during the battle, Yuan Benxi walked slowly until he reached the final battlefield. He squatted down and closed his eyes.
Before him, scenes of that cavalry battle unfolded—heroic and tragic.
When the light cavalry were nearly exhausted, the Western Ch’u heavy cavalry charged forth.
Covered in blood, having changed horses multiple times, General Yan Zhēnchun, with only a handful of surviving personal guards, charged forward to meet the heavy cavalry head-on.
Those still mounted launched one final charge.
Those who had lost their horses formed infantry formations, standing together to face the unstoppable tide of iron-clad riders.
Once the outcome was decided, the weary Western Ch’u light cavalry continued their pursuit.
Yan Zhēnchun fell first, not even leaving behind a complete body.
His officers followed.
Many of Yan’s soldiers, too exhausted to fight, stared blankly as enemy lances pierced their bodies or as Western Ch’u “infantry” swung their great swords downward.
Numerous blood-soaked banners fell to the ground.
One cavalryman, in his final moments, desperately reached out to grasp the corner of a fallen banner.
After the battle, the young Western Ch’u commander, who had not personally entered the fray, calmly issued orders to his subordinates for the aftermath. The young man did not rejoice at having achieved fame through a single battle. He sat alone on the ground, gazing silently at the battlefield, lowering his head, and wiping away tears with his sleeve.
He wept for the sons of Western Ch’u—and for the fallen soldiers of the opposing Yan cavalry.
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