Volume One: The Hidden Dragon in the Abyss Chapter 73: Deployment of Troops

With his recollections of historical glory and his vivid depictions of the present landscape, the poet imbues the tale of the martyred wild geese with an immortal significance. In ancient times, this region by the Fen River was a place of imperial revelry, yet now all is desolate: sparse forests stretch away, thin mists weave through the fields. According to the Records of the Grand Historian, Emperor Wu of Han once led his court here to offer sacrifices by the river. The emperor composed the “Song of Autumn Wind,” with lines such as, “Sailing towers cross the Fen River, white waves ripple in the current, pipes and drums sound, and oar songs rise.” Clearly, in those days, music and merriment echoed through the valleys, a scene of boundless festivity. But today, cold mists and withered grass stretch as far as the eye can see—a stark contrast between past and present, prosperity and decline, clamor and solitude. By recalling the fleeting glory of Emperor Wu’s visit, the poet sets in sharp relief the eternal endurance of true feeling.

Yet Emperor Wu is long dead; calling his spirit back is futile. In “The Mountain Spirit” from Songs of Chu, the sorrow of a goddess abandoned in the mountains is plaintively expressed. Here, the mountain spirit’s weeping is in vain, for the dead are beyond recall. With this allusion, the poet further highlights the undying devotion of the martyred geese. Their fidelity is so profound that even Heaven is moved to jealousy; unlike mere orioles or swallows, these lovers will not simply return to dust. Their names will endure beyond life and death, immortal in the world’s memory. The poet’s reversal thus elevates the geese’s sacrifice to the pinnacle of nobility.

In the end, the poet’s imagination soars: in the ages to come, there will always be poets and kindred spirits, as devoted to love as he and his companions, who will come seeking this humble mound, offering tribute to the souls of these lovers. Are we not such visitors now? The depth of people’s emotion is movingly portrayed. The poem concludes with a profound lament for those who died for love, extending its reach across centuries and raising its theme to sublime heights.

Though titled as an ode to an object, the poem is pure expression of feeling. The author’s imagination ranges freely, employing metaphor and personification to portray the story of the geese’s tragic love in vivid, painstaking detail, set within an atmosphere steeped in tragic grandeur. Thus are the geese transformed into emblems of unwavering fidelity, composing a mournful, lingering elegy to love that moves the heart. Their tragic fate symbolizes the pure love of youth, and through them, the poet gives voice to his progressive ideals of love. By contrasting the vanished splendor of the emperors with the undying memory of the Geese Mound, the poet proclaims that true love holds the highest place in his heart—a reflection, too, of his simple, human-centered philosophy. The refusal to let the martyred geese decay like common birds is an insistence on the immortality of their spirit. Standing at the vantage of history, the poet affirms that such devotion will never be extinguished, inspiring admiration for his extraordinary insight.

The poem’s plot is not complex, yet its structure is dynamic and varied. Beginning with two probing questions, it unfolds layer by layer. It contains the joys of the geese in life, the sorrows of their death, recollections of the past, and visions of the future. The narrative is interwoven, the emotional undercurrents both tender and grand, containing philosophical reflection amid the language of feeling. Its style is pure and elegant, gentle and reserved, of high artistic merit. The poem is at once majestic and profound. With a powerful pen, the author crafts a tale of softest feeling, blending masculine vigor with feminine grace—supremely delicate yet deeply forceful. How could such a poet remain unknown?

At last, the party reached the banks of the Fen River, arriving at the modest, newly-raised mound.

“So this is the Geese Mound, birthplace of an immortal song,” the head scholar sighed. “Such genius, unrivaled in the world—yet fated never to be met.”

…

“It’s Yizhou!”

On the Qingzhou army’s side, a messenger arrived with urgent news. “Yang Hao’s provisions are all being dispatched from the Yizhou border, under the guise of a supply mission. The general believes the Jin army is running low on food—this move is surely a feint; they mean to strike straight for Yizhou and rest there! The Yu Kingdom will not allow us passage, but will permit the Jin army through. The general requests you intercept them at all costs!”

The same orders were relayed to the Chuzhou army.

The Qingzhou troops pursued from the south, Chuzhou from the east, and from the north came the imperial guard from Luocheng. Gradually, soldiers from all the prefectures converged, forming a formidable force.

Yet the west was left unguarded—only a handful of local militia defended that direction, the weakest and solely infantry.

Now the scouts reported that the Jin army was moving rapidly westward. The news of Yang Hao’s provisioning from Yizhou sent a shock through the ranks.

The Jin army meant to strike hard at the western defenders, to escape west—seeking refuge first in the Yu Kingdom.

This Jin crown prince was living up to his reputation; the Wei officers still remembered how he once fled Luocheng. Always plotting to slip away, he would seize any chance to bolt—faster than a hare.

They had forgotten the west. That route, too, was open plains—ideal for a cavalry dash of a thousand miles.

No one had imagined Wang Chuan would flee in that direction; all had assumed he was set on attacking Luocheng.

It was a ruse—they were doubling back.

“All light cavalry, cast off your heavy gear! Head for the Qingshui River and annihilate the Jin army!” the Qingzhou general ordered.

They could only hope the western defenders could hold out a while longer; with so few men, a direct clash with the Jin cavalry was hopeless.

Now, they had no choice but to trust their comrades.

With the Jin’s sudden movement, all the other Wei forces shifted as well. Cavalry detachments were dispatched from every direction to reinforce the western front.

If they could just pin the enemy down, the main army would soon arrive—and then the Jin army would have no escape!

“The Jin army is coming this way.”

The western commander shaded his eyes with his hand, peering into the distance.

He watched as a mist of dust floated above the horizon—broad and diffuse.

“Cavalry, about five thousand in the vanguard! The dust is sharp and high,” his subordinate reported, scanning the field.

The Wei forces were advancing steadily toward the enemy. It was said that just the imperial guard from Luocheng numbered twenty thousand elite, and with provincial forces gathered along the way, their army was some sixty or seventy thousand strong. The column was said to stretch more than two hundred li—a reflection not only of the security of marching in their own territory, but also of the urgency demanded by the Jin cavalry’s swift advance.

They had never regarded the Jin as worthy opponents; their haste was driven by the wish to crush these invaders quickly, lest cornered enemies lash out at Wei’s people.

Now, the Jin were breaking through the weakest link—attacking the west. The defenders had no choice but to meet them head on.

At all costs, they would hold the line!

The eastern, southern, and northern armies must surely be on their way as well, rushing to reinforce.

Not one soldier showed fear.

“Brothers, have you forgotten the shame of Yanzhou? We cannot let the Jin roam freely in our lands again! Make sure they do not return—let them learn that Wei is inviolable!”

The military law officers relayed the order down the line, ensuring every soldier heard it.

Their spirit soared to the heavens.

The western army formed up, watching the enemy draw near on the narrow banks of the stream.

With so few men, they could only form two lines, close to the water’s edge. The front line was set twenty paces from the first stream, hoping to catch the enemy mid-crossing.

“The Crescent Moon Formation,” Duan Changfeng observed from afar as the Wei vanguard arrayed in a curved line not far from the water.

Centered on the commander, the wings extended forward in a crescent, allowing the general to oversee the field and dispatch reserves at will. When attacked, the forward wings could strike at the enemy’s flanks—a solid defensive stance.

“The western commander is no novice—trained since youth, once routed a bandit stronghold…” Within moments, Tian Xingzi had already gathered the foe’s background.

Truly formidable.

They had wanted to block the enemy at another crossing, to make it harder for the Jin to ford the river.

But Duan Changfeng had seized the initiative, leading twenty thousand Jin troops across first, ready to encircle.

The Jin thus chose the breakout point, leading to terrain ill-suited for infantry and putting the Wei at a further disadvantage.

“Men, charge!” The Jin officers led their troops forward.

“Defend Wei!” the Wei commander shouted, as several large wagons rolled from the center to form a line. Each was loaded with great oxhide drums, and burly soldiers raised their mallets—the thunder of war drums filled the air.

The young western commander faced the oncoming cavalry, raising his long blade and shouting, “Barricades!”

The first ranks of spearmen leveled their weapons, eyes fixed on the enemy. The foremost shield-bearers knelt with shields braced on their shoulders, while the rest raised bows and crossbows.

“Loose!”

At thirty paces, crossbows on both sides loosed their bolts, felling soldiers like wheat, their places instantly filled.

The Jin, all light cavalry, and the Wei, caught off guard, lacked powerful bows. There was only this one exchange of missiles—then the distance vanished, and no chance for a second volley.

“SLAUGHTER!” shouted the Wei commander, charging ahead and leaping high, blade sweeping down on an enemy’s shoulder.

“Stab!”

“Kill!”

The spearmen thrust at the chests, thighs, and bellies of horses. The most skilled riders reined in their mounts to a halt just half a foot from the spearpoints, causing the soldiers to miss and hurriedly reset their formation.

Some Jin or their horses were struck down, beyond rescue.

Long spears punched holes through men and horses alike.

The surviving Jin crossbowmen dropped their bows and seized long spears.

The first Jin ranks, all armed with long spears and mounted, charged with such force that their lances pierced two or three at a time, lifting Wei soldiers like straw men.

Fierce hand-to-hand battle erupted along the riverbank, the water running red with blood.

Suddenly, the Jin line opened slightly, forming a rectangle—yet to the eye it seemed a seamless whole.

The Wei commander was puzzled; if he were leading a cavalry charge, he would always break through with a wedge, arrow-like, to smash the center.

Had these been heavy cavalry, he would have had confidence in breaking the infantry lines.

The ground here was flat and open, perfect for a cavalry assault.

He had prepared to cut off the Jin, to bite through—strike their weak point as one would a snake at its seventh inch.

Why, then, would the famed Duan Changfeng deploy his men in this way? Had he forgotten his tactics, or had he somehow discerned the Wei commander's intentions?