Chapter 33: Striking Mid-Crossing

The campsite was set up near the Yangtze ferry, making logistics exceptionally convenient. In no time at all, light boats were prepared, and five thousand troops readied for the crossing. Everyone busied themselves with their respective duties—except for Zhang Chi, who found himself with nothing to do.

Since his arrival in this world, Zhang Chi had always struggled to fit in, no matter the task. Though he had entered the army camp with the others, the three monks of Dao Xuan quickly found their places, leaving Zhang Chi idle and adrift. He was, in name, the commanding general of these five thousand men, but in truth, all responsibilities had been handed to Du Ximing, and Zhang Chi was left with nothing to oversee.

Even if he wished to involve himself in military affairs, Zhang Chi knew nothing of such matters.

At present, he stood at the water’s edge. The old Daoist beside him asked, “If you could defeat these eight thousand light cavalry, the cost would be grave. Yet to deal a blow to the famed Northern Garrison would make your reputation thunder across the land. In the face of such a battle, do you choose to fight or not?”

Zhang Chi pondered for a long while before shaking his head. “No, I will not fight.”

“And why is that?” the old Daoist asked, puzzled.

Zhang Chi replied, “To trade a thousand lives for one man’s fame—even if I know I would become renowned, it is not something I could bring myself to do. Besides, to become famous too soon is not always a blessing. Better to lie in wait, casting my line beneath the moon, than to squander the five thousand men who may prove the capital I need to survive among the great powers. How could I let them be lost so easily?”

In truth, Zhang Chi had never been given to overthinking, but the current circumstances left him no choice but to be cautious. Many people do not become famous not for lack of ability, but because they are not placed in a position where fame is possible. Were it not for the pressures of the time, he would have preferred a life of carefree wandering, rather than exhausting himself for the sake of the world.

War and conquest held no appeal compared to the joys of roaming mountains and rivers, yet fate had cast him into this world as its so-called “Tianji.” Zhang Chi could not help but feel a wellspring of emotion at the thought.

The mighty Yangtze rolled ever eastward. In the age of cold steel, the river was the greatest natural barrier in all of China—one stretch of water worth more than a hundred thousand soldiers. Countless heroes had gazed across its expanse with a sigh, their grand ambitions halted by this very river. Cao Cao’s defeat, the fall of Former Qin, the Eastern Jin’s survival in the south—all owed their fates to the presence of the Yangtze.

Du Ximing had readied the boats for the crossing, and the troops began to board in turn. In ancient times, the river was even wider than today; five thousand men crossing at once covered only a small part of it. Zhang Chi sat in the boat, looking about: it was indeed a scene of a hundred vessels racing with the current.

“Didn’t you say, Daoist, that the path we take today is one of seeking life amidst death?” Zhang Chi joked with Zhan Taiqi. “Why, then, has it all been so peaceful? Where is the danger you foretold?”

“Patience, my lord. We have yet to reach the perilous place. Before danger comes, all is calm. But when it arrives, I fear it will be startling indeed,” the old Daoist replied, stroking his beard.

What’s the rush? No danger is good, Zhang Chi thought to himself.

The old Daoist was a charlatan at heart, able to converse with people from all walks of life. Though new to the camp, he had already blended in, save for Dao Xuan, who could not stand him. This was understandable. The rivalry between Buddhist and Daoist practitioners went back centuries; Daoists often sought to disrupt Buddhist affairs, and the two sects were forever at odds. Thus Dao Xuan regarded this charlatan Daoist with undisguised disdain.

“I fear your words are nothing but nonsense,” Dao Xuan snorted.

The conflict between the two faiths was so old that it could not be resolved overnight, and it was little wonder Dao Xuan rolled his eyes at the Daoist. The old Daoist, however, took it in stride, chuckling, “Whether my predictions are accurate, you’ll soon see for yourself.”

Santong, on the other hand, was utterly convinced by the old Daoist, ever since their encounter in Huainan City, where his predictions had proven true. He hurried to chat with the old man, eager to glean more wisdom.

As they spoke, the fleet reached the far bank of the Yangtze. The soldiers began to disembark, when suddenly, a deep blast of a horn echoed across the waters. Zhang Chi, unfamiliar with military customs, could not help but ask, “Is it customary to sound the horn when landing?”

Santong, in conversation with the Daoist, burst out laughing at such a naive question. Fond of boasting, he seized the chance to show off. “I may not be a soldier, but even I know that horns are only sounded during a charge, not when coming ashore.”

“Oh?” Zhang Chi replied. “Then what’s the meaning of this horn?”

Santong was taken aback. There really wasn’t any custom of sounding the horn when landing. He glanced about, scanning the water’s calm surface, until he saw clouds of dust rising from the distant land. His face blanched. “This is bad! That’s the enemy’s horn—they’re launching a charge against us!”

Everyone leapt up in alarm, craning their necks to see. With half the troops ashore and the rest still on boats, if the enemy was indeed charging them, the situation was perilous. Sweat broke out on many brows, though Zhang Chi remained calm. “Why all the panic? If they come, we’ll meet them. What’s the worst that can happen?” he asked.

Ding Yizhi, calm as ever, spoke four words: “Attack them mid-crossing.”

This ancient tactic exploited the moment when an enemy force had only half its troops ashore and had not yet formed ranks—an ideal time to strike. The result for the side caught off-guard was often disaster.

Gao Yazhi, the youthful general with a fair face, had long since committed such strategies to memory. Seated on horseback, he watched his eight thousand light cavalry surge toward the riverbank, a sneer on his lips. “This riverbank will be Zhang Chi’s grave. Let’s see how he remains the ‘Tianji’ now.”

Gao Yazhi bore a grudge from the day Zhang Chi mocked him before Miss Wang: “The general’s sword? I’d like to see what sort of sword you have.”

His words were not spoken to himself, but to another—a man who had once met Zhang Chi at the Daochang Temple in Jiankang: the Daoist Shouyin.

“General, do not underestimate him. If he dares call himself ‘Tianji,’ he may have some real skill,” Shouyin said, calm as ever, a far cry from his earlier self.

“Rest easy, Daoist. Zhang Chi is just a frail scholar, devoid of martial skill or courage, nothing more than a guest in Miss Wang’s chambers—a pitiful man propped up by her alone,” Gao Yazhi scoffed.

Shouyin merely replied, “Let us hope events unfold as you predict.”

The wind of eight thousand cavalry swept forward, just as the old Daoist had warned—an awe-inspiring, chilling sight.

In such a situation, swift decisions were needed. Du Ximing had already made his analysis. “My lord, judging by the banners, it is Gao Yazhi of the Northern Garrison. Do we fight or flee? Their cavalry is strong, and your safety is paramount. If we fight on shore, our chances are slim.”

His meaning was clear: abandon those already landed, and retreat with the rest. It was perhaps the best option.

Zhang Chi knew the urgency. He looked at Ding Yizhi, who met his gaze and declared, “Brother, we must fight.”

Four words, forceful and stirring, sent a rush of wildness through Zhang Chi.

“If you follow me, you are my men. How could I stand by while my own are slaughtered?” he declared loudly. “Go ashore! Face the enemy!”

“My lord, think carefully. This is the Northern Garrison—eight thousand cavalry!” the old Daoist reminded him.

“I don’t care who they are,” Zhang Chi spat. “On the battlefield, we are brothers. I will not abandon my own for the sake of my own life!”

Santong’s blood was stirred. “That’s the spirit! Enough talk—look, the enemy is nearly upon us. Get ashore and fight!”

The old Daoist Zhan Taiqi smiled in silence. With the crisis unfolding, no one paid him any mind, but his face was serene, even pleased, as he stroked his beard and nodded.

When troops are attacked mid-crossing, half are on land and half still on water, making it impossible to form ranks or respond swiftly. Du Ximing understood this all too well, and once Zhang Chi ordered the counterattack, he knew their only hope was to rush the shore and form a defensive line. Those already ashore had to gather quickly, or the enemy cavalry would scatter them.

The boats neared the bank, but not close enough for comfort. Du Ximing’s anxiety was understandable—the Northern Garrison’s reputation was hard-earned, and now, as the enemy charged, he was still on the boat. He took a deep breath, tensed his legs, and leaped three zhang to the shore.

By now, the eight thousand cavalry of the Northern Garrison were thundering closer.

Zhang Chi was impulsive—he could not deny it, especially when swept up by passion. Now, as the cavalry surged toward them, he felt the crushing weight of imminent disaster.

“Are you afraid, my lord?” Zhan Taiqi grinned.

“Afraid?” Zhang Chi’s defiance only grew stronger at the taunt. For all his gentle scholarly appearance, provoke his wildness and he would risk life and death. Seizing a saber from a nearby soldier, he declared, “I’ve chosen to fight, and I do not know the meaning of fear!”

“The Northern Garrison is no easy foe. They outnumber us, they’re cavalry, and they’ve caught us mid-crossing. This is a battle to the death if ever there was one. My prediction was that you would seek life amid certain death—and so far, I am right,” the old Daoist said, quite pleased with himself.

Zhang Chi found it curious how untroubled the old Daoist seemed. “You said that with your company, there was hope even in direst peril. But now, with eight thousand cavalry striking at our five thousand infantry mid-crossing, where is our hope?”

“Life amid death requires first being placed in deadly straits,” the Daoist replied nonchalantly. “If you can hold out, I have a hundred thousand troops lying in ambush nearby, ready to save you.”

“Didn’t you say your Tianji Sect has only four people? Where are these hundred thousand troops coming from?” Zhang Chi retorted.

The old Daoist rolled his eyes, insisting, “Daoist magic is beyond your understanding. I can summon an army from a handful of beans—what’s a hundred thousand men?”

A hundred thousand beans aren’t so easily found, Zhang Chi thought. He’d already labeled the old Daoist the king of charlatans. As the boat finally reached shore, Zhang Chi’s mind turned to a famous precedent. He called out, “Those ashore, scuttle your boats before disembarking!”

He was thinking of Xiang Yu’s burning of the boats before battle—not caring if the omen held, but preferring to follow it nonetheless.