During the parting of troops between the Six-Bead Bodhisattva and Xie Xie, the Bodhisattva once posed a piercing question to this deputy general of Liu Zhou:
“Aren’t you afraid that even if the two of us hold Linyao and Fengxiang, the failure of the 20,000 monk soldiers to reinforce Liu Zhou in time might lead to the fall of Qingcang City?”
Xie Xie’s response at the time was quite intriguing: “With Kou Jianghuai there, it’s impossible.”
The Northern Liang border army had always harbored a habit of excluding outsiders. Deputy Commander of the Infantry, Gu Dazu, had already earned a formidable reputation during the Spring and Autumn Wars, yet within the Liangzhou frontier, he never reached the heights he deserved. Even with the overt backing of the young Prince of Liang, he couldn’t escape this awkward predicament. Zhou Kang, the “Brocade Partridge,” had once openly clashed with him in the Zhongzhong military town. For instance, if another deputy infantry commander like Chen Yun Chui needed to discuss matters with the Liangzhou Left and Right Cavalry or borrow personnel, a mere letter might suffice—or even brazenly poaching from the cavalry ranks. From Yuan Zuo Zong to He Zhong Hu and Zhou Kang, none would dare protest beyond a few grumbled curses during meetings. But when it came to Gu Dazu, despite his status as a veteran of the Spring and Autumn era, firmly etched in military history and revered as the progenitor of strategic theory, he never received such leniency within the Northern Liang border forces.
This exclusion wasn’t limited to Gu Dazu. Even among the younger generation, Yu Luandao initially faced adversity, forcing him to transfer from Liu Zhou to serve as a cavalry commander in Youzhou rather than rising through the Liangzhou border cavalry. Before the Youzhou cavalry’s string of victories beyond the Hulu Pass, they had been mockingly dubbed the “Embroidery Cavalry” by the haughty Liangzhou border riders, privately ridiculed as “Old Marshal Yan Wen Luan’s daughters”—good at embroidery, perhaps, but utterly unfit for battle.
Then there was Kou Jianghuai, the Liu Zhou general stationed beside the Longxiang Army. After the first great Liang-Mang war, when the Longxiang Army needed reinforcements, whether it was He Zhong Hu, Zhou Kang, or even the young cavalry officer Cao Wei—who had no prior frontier experience—the Liangzhou border cavalry, though grumbling, ultimately complied with the young Prince’s orders. Only Kou Jianghuai, nominally a general of a province, faced resistance. Though the entire Northern Liang officialdom knew he was a once-in-a-generation military genius with illustrious achievements in Guangling Dao, his forces were largely composed of displaced youths. Even after painstakingly assembling a ten-thousand-strong cavalry, the Qianli and Tianjing pastures in Lianglong were reluctant to provide them with quality warhorses. Only under the stern orders from the young Prince at Qingliang Mountain did they refrain from delivering subpar mounts.
Kou Jianghuai’s plight was shared by Xie Xie, the other half of the famed “Twin Jewels of Chu.” Before his temporary promotion to deputy general of Liu Zhou (ranked third-tier), while coordinating with Cao Wei’s elite cavalry at Miyun Pass, his forces were a motley crew—mostly Western Desert bandits from Fengxiang and Linyao, supplemented by the two to three thousand cavalry recruited by Chai Dongdi and Han Wenbao. Such ragtag troops wouldn’t even earn the scorn of the Youzhou cavalry, whom the Liangzhou border riders already looked down upon.
Whether this deeply ingrained habit could change depended somewhat on the new Prince of Liang’s personal prestige, but not enough to shift overnight.
And yet, the young Prince seemed to possess near-arrogant confidence in this regard.
In truth, neither Yu Luandao—who had been recommended by He Zhong Hu for promotion to second deputy commander of the Left Cavalry—nor the somewhat misaligned Liu Zhou general Kou Jianghuai had ever disappointed Northern Liang.
Xie Xie, who had already aided Cao Wei in securing victory at Miyun Pass, was no exception.
Before Xie Xie’s troops arrived, Fengxiang Military Town already had two thousand defenders—half displaced youths, half Youzhou infantry. Compared to Qingcang’s low walls, the Great Feng Dynasty had clearly prioritized Fengxiang, which could reinforce the Western Protectorate at a moment’s notice. Its walls matched those of central plains commanderies, and unlike the ancient towns of Linyao and Qingcang, Fengxiang’s officials—equal in rank and salary to the other two towns’ governors—numbered over two hundred, far exceeding Linyao and Qingcang’s one hundred twenty. Whenever the Western Protectorate lost control of its forty-some vassal states, defeated and fleeing Western nobles would inevitably pass through Fengxiang before choosing to enter the central plains via the old Northern Liang or turning southeast to seek refuge in Shu Zhao.
Thus, Fengxiang’s history, like its walls, was far weightier than Qingcang or Linyao’s.
Without Xie Xie’s ten thousand monk soldiers as the backbone, Fengxiang would have inevitably fallen to the ten thousand Southern Dynasty infantry and the three thousand cavalry waiting outside. At best, they might have taken down a few more Northern Mang barbarians before the town was lost, forcing Northern Liang to relinquish this strategic stronghold covering nearly half the Western Desert. If Liu Zhou suffered a crushing defeat against Huang Song Pu’s western forces, the loss of Fengxiang and Linyao might not have mattered much. But if the stalemate persisted, control of these two towns could drastically alter the war—either providing a secure rear for Yu Luandao and Cao Wei’s cavalry or serving as a rallying point for Southern Dynasty reinforcements to bolster Huang Song Pu. And if Liu Zhou’s cavalry miraculously triumphed and broke through the Southern Dynasty’s border defenses to march north into Gusai Province, losing these two towns could prove fatal for Northern Liang.
The ten thousand Southern Dynasty infantry, fearless in their assault, fought fiercely. Yet, as this was a surprise attack meant to secure quick victory, they lacked the cumbersome supplies and siege engines that would slow their advance. Even these elite infantry—considered by Northern Mang to rival Northern Liang’s Youzhou foot soldiers and Liyang’s Ji’nan infantry—struggled. Though their archers displayed astonishing accuracy despite the disadvantage, many displaced youths, despite warnings to stay low between volleys, still fell victim, their bodies dragged off the ramparts. With Xie Xie minimizing the use of the Nantuo Mountain monks, waves of shield-bearing, blade-clenching daredevils repeatedly scaled the walls, only to be repelled by the Youzhou infantry and displaced youths at great cost.
From noon to dusk, the infantry lost nearly two thousand men, most dying on the walls before being hurled back down.
During this time, Xie Xie deployed the formidable monk soldiers only twice—just twice.
Night battles naturally favored the defenders, and after one failed attempt, the infantry called off the assault.
Having repeatedly breached the walls yet failed to hold them—like a martial grandmaster stalled at the threshold of a breakthrough—they refused to give up.
The next day promised even bloodier fighting.
The defenders stood in grim silence.
All eyes turned to the Nantuo Mountain monks, especially the expressionless young commander, their gazes filled with resentment.
It wasn’t that they feared death—but if that young man surnamed Xie had spared even a thousand monks for the front lines, many fewer would have died.
Even five hundred would have sufficed!
So when the Northern Mang horns sounded at dawn, a Youzhou infantry officer who had become Fengxiang’s garrison commander—already wounded by an arrow the previous day—drew his blade once more and marched to battle.
He left Xie Xie with a parting jest:
“General Xie, rest easy. Sit high on the walls and watch how Northern Liang’s border army repels the enemy!”
In the central plains’ Liyang armies, even a lowly captain or minor general might be flatteringly called “Great General.”
But in Northern Liang, only the old Prince Xu Xiao held that honor. Neither Yuan Zuo Zong and Yan Wen Luan of the cavalry and infantry nor the past and present Northern Liang Protectors Chen Zhi Bao and Chu Lu Shan could claim it.
Aside from the Youzhou cavalry who had once fought alongside him beyond the pass, the new Prince Xu Feng Nian was rarely addressed as “Great General”—mostly just “Your Highness.”
Thus, Xie Xie’s “honorific” was anything but respectful.
As deputy general of Liu Zhou and direct commander of Fengxiang and Linyao, Xie Xie seemed utterly unperturbed by this affront, his face impassive as he watched the officer stride away.
By day’s end, two thousand more Southern Dynasty souls were left wandering a foreign land.
After consulting with their cavalry counterpart, the infantry commander ordered a retreat.
Of Fengxiang’s two thousand defenders, only six hundred remained.
The garrison commander, nearly killed on the walls, was dragged down by a monk. Spitting blood, he roared at Xie Xie:
“Damn you, Xie Xie!”
Of the six hundred survivors, fewer than a hundred were Youzhou veterans—the rest were displaced youths.
Both groups now regarded the unmoving young man with outright hatred.
As the Northern Mang forces teetered between retreat and regrouping, Xie Xie ordered: “Monk soldiers, follow me out. At any cost, delay them for at least three hours.”
Such post-battle maneuvering for credit after standing idle during the fight had not been seen in Northern Liang’s iron-disciplined border forces for twenty years.
Xie Xie offered no explanation.
The Nantuo Mountain monk who had saved the garrison commander hesitated before asking as they descended the walls:
“General Xie, should we notify Linyao? To trap the infantry as well?”
This monk, a top disciple of Nantuo in both doctrine and martial arts, knew from the Bodhisattva’s parting words that Yu Luandao’s cavalry would turn back to assist.
Yet Xie Xie shook his head. “No need.”
Puzzled but obedient, the monk held his tongue.
Xie Xie was, after all, the commander.
The monk had already witnessed Northern Liang’s terrifying military discipline firsthand.
Despite the garrison’s grievances and Xie Xie’s apparent indifference, not a single man had shirked from death!
Baffled, the monk mused: Since ancient times, battlefield commanders—save a scant few fearing their own merit—had always craved greater glory. This young Xie was truly an oddity.
As Xie Xie led the monks out, he glanced back at Fengxiang’s ravaged walls and murmured:
“Displaced people… the people of Liu Zhou, the exiled… Master Li, to wield strategy so ruthlessly, so brilliantly… A war fought on paper twenty years ago still outshines our bloody struggles today.”
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