Chapter 24: Bloody Battle at Dawn

As Zhang Chi and his companions made their way back, the sun was already setting. The old man asked Bing’er to escort Zhang Chi for a short distance. Bing’er was reluctant, but she didn’t wish to go against her grandfather’s wishes, so she accompanied the three men to the narrow gorge at the village’s edge and said to Zhang Chi, “Take this path out of the village. If you dare return, beware—I’ll shoot you dead with one arrow.”

Zhang Chi gave a wry smile. Clearly, Bing’er harbored deep hostility towards government soldiers. Yet, having just heard the recluse’s account of her story, he understood her well. If he had lived through what she had, he doubted he could change his view of the military so easily.

He cupped his hands in farewell to Bing’er. “Then I bid you goodbye. I hope fate allows us to meet again.”

“It’d be best if we never met again,” Bing’er replied coldly, turning back to the village.

Zhang Chi’s warm-hearted gesture was met with icy indifference, but he simply chuckled and felt no embarrassment. He took up Snow’s reins, mounted his horse, and together with San Tong and Dao Xuan, rode out along the hidden path. The scenery in the gorge remained unchanged, but Zhang Chi’s mood was altogether different.

He reckoned it had been some time since he crossed into this world. Zhang Chi had always taken life as it came, never ambitious, wandering throughout China before his arrival. His desires were simple: wherever he was, so long as he could drink, he never worried about the future. “Drink today, live for today”—that was his motto.

Even in this era, his nature remained unchanged—character is not easily altered.

But today, after hearing the old man’s tale of fate, he found himself pondering as never before since his arrival.

He had never believed in destiny, yet, paradoxically, he had crossed worlds. He found it amusing—such an event defied scientific explanation and could only be attributed to fate.

So fate brought him here—but for what purpose? Was it, as the recluse implied, to save the suffering masses of this chaotic age?

A savior? Zhang Chi quickly dismissed the idea. With his weak shoulders and hands, how could he be the salvation in this world of heroes? “I’m not starring in a blockbuster,” he thought, forcing another smile.

San Tong, still mulling over the recluse’s mysterious words, asked, “Brother Zhang, could it be that you truly are a child of fate? No father, no mother, born of heaven, speaking from birth, with only a future and no past?”

It wasn’t San Tong’s fault for being curious—the recluse’s words had been so enigmatic.

Zhang Chi was lost in thought, but at San Tong’s question, he answered absentmindedly, “Choked.”

“Choked? Who choked?” San Tong found Zhang Chi’s words increasingly incomprehensible.

“When I say ‘choked,’ I mean ‘yes.’” Zhang Chi finally roused from his reverie, teasing San Tong, “If I’m fate itself, then my words are fate—how could ordinary folk understand them?”

“Then say some more words of fate, let me learn a few.” San Tong suspected Zhang Chi was playing with him, so he pressed for more.

“Dog, dog, dog.” Zhang Chi, amused by San Tong, flicked his whip, and Snow shot forward like an arrow.

San Tong hurried after him. “Where’s the dog? What do you mean?”

“‘Dog’ means hurry up. The sun’s setting—we’d best return to the main force.”

“You said just one word, yet it means so much? Besides, dogs aren’t fast—why say ‘dog’?” San Tong pondered a moment, unconvinced. “Well, you’re certainly trying to fool me.”

Dao Xuan laughed heartily, urging his horse alongside Zhang Chi, and together they raced out of the gorge.

By then, Ding Yizhi and Du Ximing had already settled the troops, but Zhang Chi and his companions were nowhere to be seen, and they were about to send a search party when they saw Zhang Chi galloping in the lead, with Dao Xuan close behind. Du Ximing rushed up and said, “Young master, the scouts reported—they found traces of bandits, around a thousand men, their lair just a few miles ahead on a hill. Should we launch a night raid tonight?”

Zhang Chi nodded. “Brother Du, you have experience. I’ll follow your lead.”

He paused and then asked, “Brother Du, you know much—do government soldiers ever plunder the people?”

Zhang Chi recalled the recluse and Bing’er’s warnings, feeling compelled to verify.

Du Ximing looked embarrassed, his face reddening. “Actually, soldiers plundering the people is not rare. But they seldom sack villages—mostly they prey on refugees. The armies of all the great clans have done such disgraceful things.”

“Brother Zhang, if these bandits turn out to be government troops, do we still attack?” Dao Xuan couldn’t help asking.

“Attack!” Zhang Chi was no coward—when angered, he could be reckless. Upon hearing that soldiers might rob their own people, he declared, “If they can’t defend the country and instead plunder the people, such soldiers are best killed.”

San Tong, stirred by Zhang Chi’s spirit, echoed, “Yes, if these bandits are soldiers, kill them all! Instead of fighting invaders, they bully the poor—such scoundrels deserve nothing less.”

A night raid didn’t mean attacking at midnight; the best time was just before dawn, when people slept most deeply. At that hour, sentries were drowsy and exhausted—a prime opportunity for surprise.

History was full of dawn raids, often with stunning results—the enemy’s camp reached before their general could don armor.

Du Ximing knew this well. He ordered food at midnight, departure before dawn, and they arrived at the hill the scouts reported, just before daybreak.

Du Ximing had everything ready. Seeing Zhang Chi mounted and prepared to ascend, he hurried over. “Young master, these thousand bandits can’t escape. Killing chickens with ox knives is unnecessary—better you watch from below.”

Zhang Chi smiled. “I’m a soldier now—if I don’t go up, the troops will mock me for cowardice.”

“Better you wait below for victory news. Weapons have no eyes—I fear stray arrows might harm you,” Du Ximing advised.

Ding Yizhi suddenly spoke calmly from the side, “Whether you ascend or not, brother, I fear we’ll face a hard battle.”

Ding Yizhi rarely spoke, but Zhang Chi knew that when he did, it was always prescient.

“If you know it’ll be a hard battle, and danger is certain, why come with me?” Zhang Chi asked.

“I intend to follow my brother in campaigns henceforth,” Ding Yizhi replied, cupping his hands. “War is perilous by nature. If I can’t take this first step, how could I ever help you conquer the realm and achieve greatness?”

This cousin thought far ahead. Zhang Chi smiled and shook his head—yet, following him was surely a mistake. Zhang Chi knew his own nature well—easy-going, never ambitious. What greatness could possibly be achieved under his leadership?

Du Ximing, hearing Ding Yizhi’s warning, readied himself, ordering the army to march silently, keeping horses muzzled and troops quiet to avoid alarming the enemy. All preparations complete, they advanced quickly towards the hill.

The terrain wasn’t difficult, and the roads to the hill were plentiful, so their march faced no obstacles.

The army moved quietly. Soon, they neared the hill, and Du Ximing spotted the bandits’ camp in his sights. Knowing this was the critical moment, he raised his spear, shouted, “Attack!” and led the charge into the enemy camp.

Five thousand elite soldiers surged forward like a tide.

The sentries were still dozing, but the noise woke them. Seeing the mass of men and horses storming the camp, one shouted, “We’re under attack!”

But he got only that single cry out—Du Ximing, leading the charge, reached him first and stabbed him through the throat, silencing him forever.

Du Ximing’s valor set the tone—ancient warfare depended on the general’s presence, and seeing Du Ximing like a god, the soldiers’ killing intent soared. In a moment, they slaughtered the hastily resisting sentries.

Morale peaked, and facing such an overwhelming force, the remaining guards fled in terror.

There’s an old saying: “Catch the bandit, seize the king.” Du Ximing understood this well. He pointed his spear at the main camp, shouted, “Seize the leader!” and charged ahead. With Du Ximing leading, the soldiers followed, pouring towards the central tent.

The din of battle shook the heavens. A general, hair disheveled, stumbled out of the main tent, still unarmored—clearly awakened from sleep. He bellowed, “Where are you from, daring to raid my camp?”

Yet his men had already scattered in panic. The general grabbed a soldier’s sword, struck down two fleeing men, and roared, “Military law is absolute! Flee in battle, and you die!”

His tactic worked—the soldiers froze, not daring to retreat further. Despite this, most had been killed or routed. The general hastily mounted his horse, brandishing his blade, and though unarmored, cut an imposing figure. He shouted, “Enemy attack! Light the signal fire!”

Du Ximing led his men to the main tent and saw the enemy was disciplined—not bandits, but likely regular government troops. He hesitated, turned to Zhang Chi, who had caught up, and asked, “Young master, you may be right—these could be imperial soldiers. How should we proceed?”

“Kill them,” Zhang Chi answered without hesitation.

He despised those who oppressed the people. If they had strength, why not use it against the northern invaders? That would be true manhood. Unable to defeat the invaders, yet bullying the poor—such men were a scourge.

Du Ximing heard Zhang Chi’s order and prepared to attack, but the enemy general rode forward and demanded, “Whose soldiers are you? Why raid my camp?”

Zhang Chi estimated the enemy’s numbers—originally less than a thousand, now reduced to a few hundred near the main tent. His side had the advantage, so he replied, “We are imperial soldiers.”

“So we are kin,” the general said, naming himself, “We too serve the empire, gathering supplies by order. Why do you attack us?”

“Why do you rob the people?” Zhang Chi retorted.

“We’re merely gathering supplies by order. The people belong to the empire—its vast army relies on their support,” the general argued.

Nonsense! Zhang Chi couldn’t help but curse. “Soldiers must defend home and country. Imperial soldiers are the people’s soldiers—how can they turn and plunder their own?”

“That’s not so. The people belong to the empire, but the empire does not belong to the people,” the general countered, as righteously as Zhang Chi. “If we are both imperial soldiers, why do you attack us? Are you rebelling?”

“You’re no kin of mine,” Zhang Chi spat. Hearing the general call plundering “gathering supplies” enraged him. He saw the signal fires rising behind the main tent—reinforcements would soon arrive. He turned to Du Ximing, “Kill them all first.”

“You dare!” the general roared, eyes blazing. “I am a retainer of the Wang clan of Langya. My master is Lord Wang Xun, Chancellor of the Imperial Court.”

“Why not?” Du Ximing was infuriated—mention of the Wang clan only fueled his anger, and with Zhang Chi’s order, he raised his spear and commanded, “Attack!” leading the charge.

The enemy, though surprised and scattered, were trained soldiers. With their general present, morale rose, and the two sides clashed fiercely.

But the numbers were lopsided—Zhang Chi’s troops outnumbered the enemy by several times. Victory was only a matter of time.

Dao Xuan stayed close to Zhang Chi, knowing he lacked martial skills and needed protection. He turned to see San Tong nearby. “Why aren’t you fighting? You’ll get no credit if you don’t join the battle.”

San Tong replied, “Why aren’t you fighting?”

“My task is to protect Brother Zhang. As long as he’s safe, I’ve done my duty,” Dao Xuan laughed. “But you’re different—the moves I taught you need practice. Now’s the perfect chance.”

San Tong had learned much from Dao Xuan lately but had never practiced. Hearing this, he grinned, “True, true. I didn’t feel it until you said it—now my hands itch.”

Dao Xuan had taught him only hand-to-hand combat, useless on horseback, so San Tong dismounted, grabbed a blade at random, and plunged into the fray against the enemy foot soldiers.