Chapter Five – Trapped

The dawn after the battle broke sharp and cool over Fengyi, sunlight glancing off blackened roof beams and the splintered remains of the barracks.

Gao Wei strode through the city, his cloak billowing and boots crunching over ash and debris. At every step, soldiers and civilians called his name. Basking in their gratitude, he waved like a conquering hero. The city’s wounds were still raw, but its spirit was ablaze with victory.

A perfect trap, he told himself.

Over fifteen hundred enemy bodies had been counted within the walls—and many more, he was assured, lay scattered in the forest and along the riverbanks. The royal guard and city watch had lost fewer than a hundred men. Gao Wei felt his reputation swell with every whisper and bow.

At the eastern gate, a row of heads greeted the sunrise atop pikes: the governor, the six ministers, the garrison commander, and his lieutenant. Clustered beside them were the heads of Wu’s fallen leaders. The message was intended for the Wu spies and informants who would carry tales of the carnage back to Han Xun, but it spoke equally to Fengyi’s entire population—this was the immutable price of treason.

At Gao Wei’s side walked Captain Huang Jian, whose whispered counsel had made the ambush possible. He had proposed allowing the Wu plan to unfold naturally, only to reverse the surprise by trapping the Wu infiltrators inside the walls.

Before his execution, the governor had confessed every detail: the lantern signal from the palace window, the agent on the wall transmitting it to the forest, the precise timing of the city guard commander’s march to the gate, and the role of each conspirator.

Gao Wei now considered the captain worthy of a grand reward—perhaps even a sprawling estate carved from the confiscated lands of the executed traitors. The prince had already stripped the conspirators’ families of all wealth and privilege. He would have exterminated them entirely, down to the youngest child, but Huang Jian had advised restraint, warning that too much cruelty would only invite rebellion.

Gao Wei had accepted the advice, executing only the male heirs. Still, he took immense satisfaction in knowing no descendant would ever reclaim the lands he had acquired for the crown.

By midmorning, nobles from the surrounding region gathered at the late governor’s palace to congratulate the prince. One after another professed their loyalty, denounced the governor’s crimes, and praised Gao Wei’s cunning and ferocity. Reclining on silken cushions, the prince listened to poetry and songs composed in his honor, tossing silver coins to the minstrels—and even a single gold coin to the boldest performer.

By midday, more good news arrived. The rest of the royal guard, spurred by tales of his triumph, were making forced marches to reach Fengyi. Two thousand would arrive the next day, with the final five hundred not far behind. Gao Wei congratulated himself on his timing. Had he waited for the main body, the gates might have been closed forever. Now, he would welcome his men in glory.

That evening, the city pulsed with celebration. Tales of the ambush were told and retold around cookfires; wounded soldiers became instant heroes; the songs of poets echoed from balconies and watchtowers.

By nightfall, even greater tidings arrived. Scouts had spotted the banners of Liang’s great army, only three days’ march away. Two messenger pigeons flew into the courtyard—one bearing Yu Qian’s formal congratulations, the other containing rare words of approval from the king himself.

The prince reveled in it all. His standing had never been higher. He imagined Yu Qian’s measured acknowledgment, and he pictured his court rivals finally silenced. He fell asleep dreaming of further glory—of the enemy general Han Xun kneeling before him in chains, and of a future where he would no longer answer to any man.

The next day, the eastern gates opened to admit two thousand more men of the royal guard. Their armor gleamed and their morale soared as the people of Fengyi greeted them with cheers and vivid retellings of the night battle.

But as dusk fell, the city’s mood began to shift.

The patrols that had pursued the fleeing Wu attackers returned—bloodied, breathless, and bearing grave news. They had not been hunting a shattered remnant. Instead, they had been hunted by the disciplined vanguard of Han Xun’s army.

Forty thousand men, perhaps more, were on the move, and they were only a day or two away.

Yu Qian will be late, thought Gao Wei, a sudden knot of unease tightening in his chest. Yet he forced his expression into one of absolute confidence.

He gathered three of his officers, including Captain Huang Jian, whom he now regarded as his right hand. Spreading a map of the eastern approaches before them, he proposed his plan: to lead a swift sortie of the royal guard, supported by Fengyi troops and volunteers, to block the Wu forces from crossing the river.

The two subordinate officers, long accustomed to agreement, praised the plan at once. The bridge, a natural chokepoint, was the ideal place to halt the advance. If held, the Wu army would be forced to cross farther west, delaying their approach to Fengyi by much longer routes.

The numbers were counted: two thousand archers, twenty-five hundred pikemen and swordsmen, three hundred riders, and two thousand men held in reserve—nearly two-thirds of the total forces defending the city.

Huang Jian took part in the preparations but spoke very little. When the other officers were dismissed, Gao Wei turned to him.

“You have not given your opinion,” the prince noted.

Huang Jian chose his words carefully. “It is a bold maneuver, Your Highness—but one conceived in haste. The enemy’s forward troops will reach the crossing tomorrow. We will not have the time required to prepare the ground properly.”

“Should we simply let them cross?” Gao Wei replied, irritation clipping his words.

“No, Your Highness. The surest way to delay them would be to destroy the bridge. It would slow their encirclement by days, buying enough time for our reinforcements to gather.”

“The bridge leads to Jingzhou. We will need it when we advance,” Gao Wei said sharply. “I will not destroy it. We will make them pay to cross.”

“They will pay dearly,” Huang Jian agreed quietly. “But we would be committing a large part of our force outside the walls, when Fengyi’s true strength lies within them.”

“I will not cower behind stone walls when I have the chance to strike the enemy,” the prince answered.

Huang Jian inclined his head. “Then we ride at dawn and reinforce the crossing as best we can. But if we are pressed, Your Highness, we must be ready to retreat in order.”

“If that happens,” Gao Wei cut in, “you have my word. We will withdraw.”

Before dawn, the Liang troops gathered and marched out from the eastern gate. The bridge lay an hour away. As they approached, a lone rider was sighted fleeing across to the opposite bank; their approach was now known to the enemy.

The troops deployed quickly. Shields were raised along the near side of the river; archers formed disciplined ranks behind them. The position was prepared, though it remained far from fully fortified.

By nightfall, the vanguard of the Wu troops appeared on the far bank, making camp just beyond arrow range. Huang Jian doubled the watch. Throughout the darkness, scattered attempts were made to cross the river unseen—figures slipping into the dark water, only to retreat under a hail of arrow fire when discovered.

At first light, fresh enemy troops advanced.

Arrows fell in sheets as the Wu infantry moved forward under a canopy of shields. Their losses were heavy, but the pressure did not break. Step by step, they secured a foothold on the northern side, pressing across the narrow span of the bridge in relentless waves.

The fighting settled into a brutal, bloody rhythm. The royal guard held the line, rotating fresh men forward as others withdrew to tend to their wounds. The archers’ arms grew heavy and the defenders strained, but they did not yield. The toll was far greater for the attackers, and Gao Wei took immense satisfaction in the sight. The crossing held. The enemy paid in blood for every step.

Then, a scout forced his way through the rear lines, reporting directly to the prince.

“Your Highness—the enemy has crossed upstream. Boats and rafts. Two thousand men at least, with more behind them. They are less than a few hours away.”

Gao Wei’s expression hardened. “Bring the reserves to the flank. We will meet them in the field.”

“Your Highness, our sole advantage is the bridge chokepoint,” Huang Jian intervened at once. “This is where the odds favor us. Facing the Wu soldiers in open ground greatly diminishes our strength. They are coming in great numbers, and we will soon be fighting on two fronts.”

“We hold the high ground, and we are already in strong defensive positions,” Gao Wei insisted, gesturing to the ridges.

“They will grow stronger by the hour,” Huang Jian replied. “We hold the advantage now—but not for long. This is the exact moment for a safe withdrawal.”

The prince hesitated, his gaze shifting from the bloody struggle at the bridge to the distant, dust-shrouded movement beyond the river. Thousands of Wu soldiers were arriving in reinforcements, forming massive ranks to secure the bridgehead.

“They have suffered heavily,” Huang Jian almost pleaded, his voice low. “We have done our part. Let us withdraw while the path remains safe.”

Gao Wei exhaled slowly after a long, tense silence.

“Give the order,” he said at last. “We withdraw. The operation has been a success.”

The retreat was executed in an orderly fashion. The archers fell back in alternating lines, covering the infantry’s withdrawal. The enemy did not pursue, content to secure the crossing they had bought so dearly.

By nightfall, the army returned to Fengyi. No celebratory crowds awaited them this time; there were only anxious families searching the ranks for their loved ones.

Official reports spoke of thousands lost in the enemy’s ranks. Gao Wei knew the real number was far lower, yet in his mind, the exchange remained highly favorable.

That night, countless torches flickered in the hills and forests just beyond the walls. Wu’s advanced troops had begun seizing the high ground, controlling the vital river crossings, and positioning themselves for a protracted siege. Their movements were steady, cold, and deliberate.

The prince watched from the ramparts, his jaw set. He raged internally at Yu Qian’s delay, even suspecting it to be a deliberate slight against his royal person. Yet even in his anger, he clung to the expectation of arrival—of perfect coordination, and of his triumph restored at the final moment.

After hours of brooding, he wrote a long, frantic message to the general, outlining bold strategic designs—where Yu Qian should strike, how they would coordinate, and how they would trap Han Xun between a hammer and an anvil. He sealed it with his personal signet and dispatched it with a sense of certainty he chose not to fully examine.

Morning brought the last of his soldiers. The final five hundred men of the royal guard limped into Fengyi—haggard, dust-streaked, but resolute. All hands turned to strengthening the physical defenses. Rumors of the coming siege spread through the quarters, but morale held under the weight of the walls.

As the sun climbed to its meridian, a rider arrived from the Liang vanguard: Commander Xi Jiao would reach Fengyi before dusk, bearing direct orders from Yu Qian himself. Gao Wei dressed meticulously, rehearsing what he would say, how he would present the tactical situation, and how he would firmly assert his supreme command.

As the sun started setting to the west, the Liang vanguard entered the southern gate to thunderous cheers from the citizens—fourteen thousand fresh, unwearied soldiers, their banners snapping in the wind, followed by hundreds of supply chariots loaded with weapons and provisions.

Commander Xi Jiao dismounted, offered a formal salute to the prince, and handed him a sealed scroll.

Gao Wei broke the heavy wax seal. As his eyes went through the text, his expression darkened, turning to ash.

“Governor?” he said, his voice laced with pure disgust. “I am the commander of the royal troops! Not some administrative court figure!” he added forcefully.

“That is General Yu Qian’s explicit will, Your Highness,” Xi Jiao replied, his voice calm and entirely immovable. “He believes your talents serve Liang best as the city’s civil governor.”

“He dares to sideline me after all I have achieved?” Gao Wei’s voice rose, his carefully practiced restraint evaporating.

“General Yu Qian has entrusted me with the military defense of the city,” Xi Jiao said evenly. “With the royal guard and Fengyi’s garrison, we can hold against any siege Han Xun attempts. These stone walls will be the graveyard of his army, should he decide to launch an assault.”

Gao Wei’s fury trembled on the very edge of eruption. “The king will hear of this arrogance!”

“The king is well informed, Your Highness,” Xi Jiao replied smoothly. “Now, if you will excuse me, the officers and I must prepare the city for a long siege.”

That snake Yu Qian will pay for this, Gao Wei vowed silently, his brief taste of triumph curdling into something cold and venomous.

Struggling to keep his voice steady, he called out, “Where is the general now?”

“General Yu Qian seldom shares his locations or his overarching plans,” Xi Jiao said over his shoulder. “But I am certain he is putting our main forces to great use.”

As Xi Jiao strode away to take command of the battlements, Gao Wei remained standing in the courtyard—surrounded by the cheers of the crowd, yet no longer at their center. His dreams of immediate conquest dimmed, and the long shadow of Han Xun’s army crept ever closer to Fengyi’s gates.

Chapter 5 Characters
Name	Role
Gao Wei	Crown Prince
Yu Qian	Liang Commander
Huang Jian	Liang Captain
Han Xun	Wu Commander
Xi Jiao	Liang Vanguard Commander