Chapter Six – Fighting by Stratagem

Letters to the King — From Prince Gao Han

Father,

They’ve just reopened the courier lines, and I rushed to my tent to write you. Though this letter will arrive long after the official news reaches the court, I want to tell you what happened in full, just as I lived it.

We broke camp and rode north to Bei only four days ago. General Yu Qian decided to lead a vanguard of five thousand men himself, and I was asked to ride directly by his side. He has been deeply satisfied with my work and the precision I bring to it.

Since the beginning of our march, the general has been quiet, contemplative. I sensed the immense weight of what lay ahead—the intricate calculations he must be making constantly in his mind. I reported as ordered and fulfilled my administrative duties, but otherwise left him to his reflections.

We reached the outer walls of Bei a day and a half later. Reinforcements were waiting for us there—tough mountain men drawn from nearby towns, miners, and smiths. We joined their camp outside the city walls.

In the middle of the night, a messenger woke me. I was to accompany the general immediately. The runner told me I should bring very little: just my writing tools, a single change of clothes, and my weapons. Still half asleep, I packed my books and supplies into a satchel, dressed quickly, took my sword, and stepped out into the cold moonlight.

The road was lined with hundreds of military chariots. Bleary-eyed men, clearly roused from their beds just like me, were grouped in eights and loaded into supply carts that began rolling without delay.

I found the general near a cluster of six chariots, speaking quietly with his senior officers. He turned to me with a faint smile.

“Ready to start winning the war, my prince?”

Excitement surged through me. Strangely, there was no fear. “Absolutely, General.”

“Ride with me then. We have a long road ahead of us, and we have much to discuss.”

His mood had clearly shifted; he was genuinely enthusiastic. His personal chariot was no different from the others: plain, efficient, and built strictly for purpose, not for comfort.

As we started to move, he simply said, “We will rest for now. We’ll talk in the morning.” I lay down on some thick furs and, rocked by the steady motion of the wheels, fell asleep again.

By dawn, the interior of the chariot was stifling. I awoke drenched in sweat. The general was already awake, quietly reading through logs.

“Good morning, General,” I said.

“Prince,” he replied, without looking up from the page.

I scribbled down notes from the previous day’s movements as he finished reading his reports. Then, he looked outside the canopy and said, “We’ll pause soon—to eat and change the oxen.”

I leaned out of the frame and noticed our direction. We were not heading west toward the besieged walls of Fengyi, but rather due north into the rugged mountains, toward Wen Shu and the infamous Nankou Pass.

No army has ever successfully crossed it. Only smugglers and local traders know those treacherous paths—muddy, narrow, humid, and inherently dangerous. There is no proper road, no cover, and certainly no space for a massed army to maneuver.

Before I could voice my concern, the chariot slowed to a halt.

“Let’s stretch our legs,” said the general. “I’ll see you when we move again. Don’t worry—there’s still much to talk about.”

I smiled and reined in my curiosity, though it lingered heavily.

The temporary camp was a marvel of operational efficiency. By a quiet river, tents were already pitched with distinct zones marked for washing, resting, and latrines. Chariots rolled into designated stables where oxen were systematically swapped and damaged carts were repaired or reloaded. Every minor detail had been accounted for.

We ate a hot, respectable meal—the exact same fare served to the common soldiers and high command alike. I returned to the departure area, where the general’s chariot was being readied for the next leg. He soon joined me, offering a quick word of praise to a nearby logistics officer before stepping inside.

“That was a good meal, wasn’t it?”

“The best in days,” I replied with a grin.

“You’ll need the energy. We won’t stay in these chariots much longer. Soon there’ll be walking and fighting.”

“Are we crossing the Nankou Pass?” I asked evenly.

He raised an eyebrow, visibly impressed that I had deduced our coordinates.

“We’ll talk about our destination once we’re there. For now, what have you learned since joining the camp?”

“A great deal,” I replied. “I’ve learned how an army is assembled, sustained, and supplied.”

“You know the cost, then?” he asked promptly.

“Yes, General. Over a thousand ounces of silver a day once fully mobilized.”

“And where does that silver come from?”

“The royal treasury, funded by taxes.” I paused, seeing his gaze linger. He expected more from me. “By the people’s sweat,” I added.

This answer seemed to satisfy him deeply.

“Always keep the people in mind. They are the true force of the kingdom. Now, how many families will be sweating for this war effort?”

“All of them,” I answered.

He nodded.

“Wars are expensive. Few kingdoms have the resources to afford their upfront costs; fewer still can sustain years of active conflict. That is why the first rule of war is swiftness. A prolonged war drains the state, impoverishes its people, and steals directly from the harvest.”

He paused briefly, as if measuring the weight of his next words.

“Now that the army is on the move, we gain access to a vital new resource: the enemy’s own supplies. Every supply chariot we seize from the enemy is worth twenty sent from home. Logistics over long distances are costly and slow. Foraging is not just convenient; it is essential to survival. The more we take from them, the less strain we place on our own people—and the more strain the enemy puts on theirs.”

He looked toward the road for a long moment before continuing.

“I want to speak now about the theater of war—the earth itself on which this conflict unfolds. As you know, the kingdoms of Liang and Wu are divided by a steep mountain range running east to west, impassable in most places. The only true corridor where armies can maneuver between our two kingdoms is the Red Valley: narrow, treacherous, and highly fortified. If we go there, we can spend years fighting for a single fortress.”

He turned his gaze back at me.

“That is not swiftness. It is a slow bleed of soldiers, silver, and the people’s will. Yet, being the only well-known passage between the two kingdoms, it is precisely where we are expected to go.”

He let that thought settle between us.

“And this is why I’ll be taking the army somewhere else.”

“Yanqin!” I guessed.

The general confirmed the deduction with a single nod.

“And what is Yanqin known for?”

“Its mines of gold and silver… The richest province of Wu.”

“Richest in resources, yes, but the best mines belong strictly to the King of Wu, not to the local people. Being located too far east and surrounded by mountains, Yanqin has rarely been a target of military invasion. The city is poorly fortified, and their false sense of safety will work entirely in our favor.”

He adjusted his cloak slightly, his tone calm and unchanged.

“When we take Yanqin, we confiscate the king’s mines. Their production will fund our army and immediately relieve our own people of the tax burden.”

It all made perfect strategic sense, but one nagging question pressed on my mind.

“But how will we cross the Nankou Pass?”

He chuckled softly.

“We’re headed that way… it doesn’t mean we’ll take it.”

Then, he yawned, stretched out, and lay down to sleep, as though the grand maneuver he had just described required no further thought or worry.

I remained awake for some time, trying to mentally map out the path he saw so clearly. Eventually, rocked by the chariot’s steady motion, I slept.

When I awoke, the sun had already started to set. The chariot was slowing down; we were nearing our next destination. The general was already on his feet.

“Let’s go,” he said, and stepped down.

We joined about forty other idling chariots. The general walked ahead into the dense woods and called out a specific name. Moments later, dozens, then hundreds of men emerged from the shadows of the trees, carrying tools and pushing small wooden carts.

They were met by officers shouting, “Friendlies!” and our soldiers stood down their guard.

Supplies were unloaded quickly, and the empty chariots were sent back south. The men began moving on foot into the deep forest. Soon, squires brought us horses. The general handed me a set of reins, then gestured to a man standing beside him.

“This is Chief Hu Chen. These are his ancestral lands. For eighteen years, his tribe—six thousand strong—has worked in total secrecy on a great engineering project. Officially, they were registered as coal miners for my family’s private estate. The imperial records reflect that truth—though not all of it.”

Chief Hu Chen nodded, his expression reserved and steady.

We rode into the forest, following his lead. The trees were dense and the ground uneven. For a time, nothing distinguished this place from any other wilderness.

Then, the forest began to thin.

Behind the last line of trees, an entire hidden town lay spread before us—houses, workshops, and massive storage halls, all neatly arranged along a wide, stone-paved road that wound north through the mountains.

I said nothing at first. The sheer scale of it defied understanding.

“This, my prince, is where the war begins to turn,” said the general as he continued riding. “By redrawing the map of the two kingdoms.”

I was astonished by the enormity of the moment. For centuries, as far back as memory could tell, there was only the Red Valley corridor. Now, with this secret highway, a world of strategic possibilities had opened.

As we crossed the town, heading north directly toward Wu territory, the general continued.

“War and peace are cyclical; it has been so from the beginning of time. Those who believe in lasting peace are as mistaken as those who believe war can be endless. There are forces at play that forbid either of the extremes from settling indefinitely. And so, they must follow one another.”

“This is why, in peace, one must prepare for the next war. And when fighting, one must prepare for the next peace.”

“I always knew Wu would break the peace. I knew it when they first began preparing for this invasion. But I began my preparations much earlier—on the morning after I returned from the last war. We needed another passage. One we could build ourselves, and keep entirely hidden.”

“My engineers scouted the mountains from east to west, searching for such a location. This one was chosen for its isolation—and for where it leads.”

He looked ahead along the sweeping road.

“Eighteen years later, the work is complete. Through it, eighty-five thousand Liang soldiers will soon pass into lands where they were never expected.”

“But we are here early for a reason,” he added. “There is one vital mission to accomplish first.”

We marched under a generous moon. The road was wide enough for two chariots abreast. It twisted and descended, climbed and curved, but it was never too steep for heavy transport. I found myself imagining the staggering human labor behind it—the countless hands, the years of quiet work, and the absolute patience required to shape a mountain range without revealing it.

By midnight, we had crossed the ridge and looked out over the quiet plains of Wu, sleeping and entirely unsuspecting. Soon after, we reached the end of the stone road. Ahead lay a dense forest; beyond it, barely an hour’s march away, open ground.

We rested there through the remainder of the night, wrapped in thick furs—no campfires allowed. The silence was deliberate and total.

At dawn, we moved again. By the time we reached the forest’s edge, the land of Wu lay fully exposed before us.

The men rested in place. Some slept. Others sharpened their blades or checked their leather gear in silence. No one spoke above a whisper. Even at rest, there was strict discipline.

I joined the general after a short pause. We stood together at the very edge of the tree line, well concealed by foliage.

He pointed toward a narrow dirt road cutting across the open field.

“There. That is the only road running from Yanqin to the rest of Wu. In one hour, Count Ming Jie will pass this way with two thousand men and vital supplies, on their way to join their main invading army. We have been tracking these exact preparations for days.”

His gaze remained fixed ahead.

“We will ambush them here—at the narrowest stretch between this forest and that lake. None must escape to tell the tale. We must avoid raising alarms at all costs.”

He looked at me then, and I understood the stakes.

“For this purpose, five cavalry columns will attack, heavily supported by footmen and archers. We are Column Three, holding the center. Columns One and Five—on the outer flanks—will move first, sealing the road ahead and behind them. Columns Two and Four will follow immediately after, completing the encirclement.”

He paused briefly.

“If our timing is exact, they will not have the time required to form battle ranks.”

“Once escape is completely cut off,” he continued, “we charge—horns sounding, men shouting at full voice. And then, just before physical contact… we give them a choice.”

I must have shown my surprise, for he turned to me.

“We can be seen as bloody invaders and butchers,” he said calmly, “or as magnanimous and just rulers. If we begin our invasion with a sweeping massacre of their count and two thousand of their men, every man from here on will fight us to the death. Domestic resistance will grow until an active rebellion forms, and our supply lines will eventually crumble.”

He gestured toward the distant road.

“Yanqin must yield, not break. The count will be the key to it. Once he sees our true numbers—and understands that his home city lies entirely exposed—he will choose reason. He is known to be a sensible man. And he is no friend to the King of Wu. The silver and gold mines were stripped from his province after the last war. With the right words, he will listen.”

I watched him as he spoke. Nothing in his tone suggested an ounce of doubt—only a calculation that extended far beyond the immediate battle.

We took our tactical positions soon after. The thick forest concealed our presence perfectly.

Then, in the far distance, a plume of dust appeared.

The enemy column approached slowly, unhurried. Their weapons were stowed away. Their formation was loose and casual. They marched as men do when traveling through entirely friendly lands.

The general raised his arm.

Columns One and Five burst from the edges of the forest—utterly silent until the final moment—cutting off the road directly ahead and behind the travelers. The Yanqin column halted abruptly, confusion spreading through their ranks.

Then, Columns Two and Four swept in, taking up positions on both sides of the road, while the cavalry of the first two groups moved rapidly toward the lake, pursuing the few Yanqin men who broke toward the water. The enclosure was complete within minutes.

Only then did Yu Qian raise his sword high.

“Charge!”

We surged forward—hundreds of men and horsemen breaking from the tree line, voices rising in a deafening roar, steel flashing brightly in the morning light.

Orders began to rise frantically among the panicked Yanqin officers—but it was already far too late. The Liang riders closed the distance with terrifying speed.

At ten paces from imminent contact, Yu Qian’s arm rose again, snapping down.

“HOLD!”

The entire line stopped as one. Horses reared, their hooves striking the earth. Dust hung thick in the morning air.

An absolute silence followed.

The circle closed tightly around the men of Yanqin—five converging crescents forming an unbroken, suffocating ring of iron.

Count Ming Jie stood atop his command chariot, scanning the field. His initial confusion rapidly gave way to cold calculation. He counted our riders, then our infantry. He looked to his own men—unarmored, unprepared, and entirely exposed. His officers did the same.

The realization of their position spread quickly.

They could not form ranks. They could not reach their stowed weapons in time. To every eye present, what followed seemed entirely inevitable.

The count remained still for a moment longer than I expected, his gaze moving deliberately across the encirclement—measuring our numbers, weighing the positions, searching for any flaw in the ring.

For a heartbeat, I thought he might choose to fight. But slowly, deliberately, he lowered his sword.

The general called out across the open distance:

“Count Ming Jie! I am General Yu Qian, Commander of the Liang army. You are completely surrounded. Not a single drop of blood need be spilled here today. Yield your men, your city, and your province.”

The silence stretched.

The count stepped down from his chariot and walked forward alone into the space between the armies.

“General,” he called out, “I have heard you are a man of your word. If I surrender, will my men and my people be spared? Will the city and the countryside be left unharmed by your troops?”

“I give you my solemn word.”

“No killing? No looting? No forced labor?”

“None. All private property remains untouched—save for what belongs directly to the King of Wu. Life in the province will continue as normal.”

The count hesitated, just briefly.

“The mines,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “They were ours once.”

“In time,” the general replied smoothly, “they may well return to your people.”

The count studied him for a moment longer, as if weighing not just the explicit words, but the character of the man behind them. Then, he turned back to his army.

“General Yu Qian,” he called, raising his voice so all could hear, “I surrender my army, my city, and my province.”

One by one, weapons were lowered to the dirt. The Yanqin men lined up in silence. The surrender tasted bitter to them, undoubtedly, but they were alive—and returning home on their feet.

That afternoon, we entered the gates of Yanqin. They had been opened wide before our vanguard even arrived. No one greeted us in the squares.

The streets were lined with closed doors and firmly shuttered windows. Here and there, a curtain shifted slightly—someone watching from the shadows, only to quickly withdraw.

We advanced in highly ordered columns. No man broke rank. No voice was raised. The only sound in the city was the steady, rhythmic crunch of hooves and boots against the stone avenues.

I watched closely from my horse. The people were there—I could feel their presence behind the thick walls—bewildered, confused, and deeply anxious for their safety.

We passed through the central avenue without a single incident and made our way to the governor’s palace, where our men immediately took up defensive positions. The night passed without disturbance. No domestic resistance formed, and no looting or disorder came from the disciplined Liang soldiers.

The next morning, the city slowly stirred.

Doors opened—cautiously at first. A merchant stepped out onto the cobblestones, then another. A supply cart was pulled into the street. Voices returned to the avenues in low, cautious tones, measured and careful.

By midday, the local markets had begun to function again. It was not exactly as it had been the day before, but there was no panic buying as words of reassurance came from the Count.

Life resumed, though not without hesitation.

I stood that morning at the edge of the main public square and witnessed an entire city breathing again.

A wealthy province taken, not by violent destruction—but by sheer restraint. There had been no great clashes. No desperate, bloody struggle. No triumph seized desperately at the edge of defeat.

Everything had been decided long before we ever arrived.

More soon,

Han

Chapter 6 Characters
Name	Role
Gao Han	Prince of Liang
Yu Qian	Liang Commander
Gao Ren	King of Liang
Hu Chen	Tribal Chief
Count Ming Jie	Governor of Yanqin