Chapter 250: The Game (Part II)

Director Liu Tan Tan pondered: "With so many in the delegation, a small fleet won't suffice."

He turned to Feng Feng Feng Yiling: "Uncle Feng, can we use large ships? Or prepare more small ones?"

Feng Feng Feng Yiling said: "Impossible. This stretch of water is shallow and narrow, no deeper than a few zhang, and in places only five chi deep; the widest point is about fifteen to sixteen zhang, and at Tiger Head Shoal it narrows further—any vessel drawing more than three chi cannot pass. As for small boats, only two or three can sail side by side, each no more than a zhang wide. The shoal is too small to anchor more than a few."

Director Liu Tan Tan pressed: "How many can it hold at most? Even if side-by-side is limited, we can line them up front to back. The delegation has 128 people—Uncle Feng, calculate how many boats we need."

Feng Feng Feng Yiling's face darkened; he struggled to articulate an answer.

Wang Yang said: "It's not about how many boats we can fit—it's that too many boats hinder stealth and water combat. Even if we reduce soldiers and leave empty space, ignoring the risk of drawing attention, a long line of ships, bow to stern, is a fatal flaw in water warfare. The river is cramped; if the enemy sets fire, or one or two ships sink and block the channel, the front ships can't retreat, the rear ships can't advance, leaving us helpless, exposed, and at their mercy..."

Feng Feng Feng Yiling immediately said: "Exactly!" He was secretly startled: he knew from his years campaigning with the Duke that the Second Young Master's words were impractical, yet he couldn't explain precisely why—yet this noble youth spoke with such clarity. The Wang clan of Langya truly was extraordinary—no wonder...

He had no time to dwell on it; he listened as Wang Yang continued:

"... Even if the boats move smoothly, so many clogging the shoal will slow us down. When everyone scrambles to board, the barbarians chase from behind—best case, both sides exchange arrows, staining the Ju River with blood; worst case, boats collide and run aground, barbarians board and seize them—how many will escape is anyone's guess."

Director Liu Tan Tan bowed respectfully to Wang Yang: "I oversimplified. My apologies, Brother Wang."

Wang Yang smiled: "Brother Wang? Just call me Zhiyan."

Director Liu Tan Tan was older than Wang Yang, yet after hearing his words, his age faded from mind—hence Director Liu Tan Tan had instinctively called him "Brother Wang," and Feng Feng Feng Yiling had unconsciously replaced "Young Master" with "Noble Young Master" in his thoughts.

Director Liu Tan Tan nodded and asked directly: "Zhiyan, what's your plan?"

"My plan: here and now, speed is vital, bulk is fatal. Light boats excel in speed—fewer boats, a small elite team, swift in, swift out, flexible in advance and retreat."

Director Liu Tan Tan frowned: "With so many in the delegation, how can so few boats manage the evacuation?"

Wang Yang paused, then said: "Only two of us need extraction." He thought a moment: "Perhaps a few more—but not many."

Director Liu Tan Tan and Feng Feng Feng Yiling froze.

Director Liu Tan Tan asked, puzzled: "What about the rest of the delegation?"

"You don't need to worry about them."

Director Liu Tan Tan's expression changed sharply: "How can that be? Over a hundred people—how can we abandon them?!"

Among these hundred, some may be enemies—and they may not need your help at all.

Wang Yang didn't spell it out; he countered: "How would you plan to help them?"

Director Liu Tan Tan fell silent, then quickly said: "You and your uncle must be rescued—but the others too! I cannot stand by while our delegation is slaughtered!"

Director Liu Tan Tan naturally assumed "two of us" meant Wang Yang and Wang Yi. Wang Yang said nothing, only thought: My uncle may not need your rescue either...

Earlier, Xiao Baoyue had told Wang Yang to blame everything on Wang Yi, and Wang Yi had willingly helped conceal Wang Yang's identity—so one possibility was that Wang Yi and Xiao Baoyue were aligned.

If they were, Wang Yi likely knew the secret of the Prince of Badong—and likely knew the Prince intended to silence Wang Yang. So when the Prince of Badong proposed Wang Yang's mission, Wang Yang immediately sensed danger. And Wang Yi, aware of the full context, must have sensed it too—yet he still endorsed the Prince's plan, pushing hard for Wang Yang's dispatch. His motives are suspect.

Moreover, if Wang Yang dies during the mission, it may not harm Wang Yi—in fact, it may benefit him. The same logic applies to Wang Tai: a dead fake Langya Wang is far easier to manage than a living one.

So no matter how deeply Wang Yi feigned affection for Wang Yang, or how lavishly he praised him before others, Wang Yang's guard had never once lowered. He even suspected Wang Yi's six-day charade was meant to lull him into complacency, to drown him in the illusion that "my uncle values my talent, we stand on the same side"—until the final moment of his life. In this situation, trust could be fatal.

Precisely because of this, no matter how Director Liu Tan Tan pressed, Wang Yang never revealed that the mastermind was the Prince of Badong—he couldn't be sure what Director Liu Tan Tan would do upon learning his enemy was the Prince of Badong.

He also never told Director Liu Tan Tan that his vigilance wasn't just against the hidden ambushers—but also against his uncle. His uncle might be an ambush too—only one already in plain sight.

Director Liu Tan Tan knew none of this; he only thought Wang Yang cared nothing for the delegation's fate. After pacing a few steps, he asked Feng Feng Feng Yiling:

"Uncle Feng, if we don't rush off, but instead land troops to block the ambushers and cover the delegation's boarding—would that work?"

"This..."

Feng Feng Feng Yiling began considering the plan. Though he'd fought alongside Duke Liu, he'd never been a decision-maker—he was accustomed to executing orders. If the Duke now commanded him to hold Tiger Head Shoal, he'd obey without question; whether to do it, or why not do something else, never crossed his mind.

Seeing Feng Feng Feng Yiling genuinely pondering a landing and counter-ambush, Wang Yang spoke:

"Impossible. The shoal is small, and transport is slow. Too few troops won't resist the enemy; too many take too long, inviting attack mid-crossing. Even if we land hastily and form ranks, the panicked delegation will stampede toward our lines—causing chaos!"

Since ancient times, great generals have emerged from battlefields—for without battle, one cannot prove true generalship.

Yet among great generals, two types exist. One rises from the ranks, seasoned by countless battles, forged into a blade, standing alone. Like Di Qing, Yue Fei, Han Zhong Zhong Shizhong, Xu Da.

The other has never set foot on a battlefield, yet upon receiving command, becomes renowned—his strategy firm, as if he'd commanded for decades. Like Ban Chao, Chen Qingzhi, Yu Yunwen, Wang Yangming.

The first type is easy to understand: exposed to the perils of battle, enduring life-and-death trials, all knowledge gained from the field—practice yields truth. Thus, they begin by fighting, then grow accustomed to it, finally mastering it.

The second type is more complex. Outside battle, one learns warfare through three main paths (specifically command in cold-weapon warfare): first, instruction from seasoned veterans; second, insight into military doctrine; third, study of historical campaigns. Auxiliary methods like analogical reasoning are excluded.

Of these three, the first needs no explanation—it's clear. Qi Jiguang came from a military family; Hannibal from a warrior lineage—like a martial artist with family tradition and a master, progress is swift. But most lack this advantage. No matter: Heaven leaves gaps; the art of war endures. The remaining two paths require only literacy and comprehension.

Thus throughout history, scholars appointed as generals have never been rare—some lost armies and became jokes; others won fame in one battle, commanding like gods. The difference cannot be summed up in phrases like talent, luck, timing, or application.

As for Wang Yang, his case is unusual. Born in the modern age, he had no seasoned general to instruct him in cold-weapon warfare—but he'd read many scholarly treatises, some authored by modern military officers. In his view, some researchers truly grasped the principles of command; others still wandered at the threshold, missing the point. Yet all were beneficial.

More valuable still were the ancient military texts. Compared to modern studies, classical treatises were primary sources. Whether Chinese or Western, for the cold-weapon era—except for a few lacking official Chinese translations (looking at you, Nikephoros II's Praecepta Militaria, still untranslated)—Wang Yang had read most, and the more he read, the more he saw the fundamental unity of Eastern and Western warfare—even minor tactical details aligned unexpectedly.

As for battle examples, he'd read far more: from the blood-soaked fields of Towton, to Sigfrid's assault on Paris; from the desperate charge at Xiangji Temple, to the Xiang Army's campaign in Jiangxi...

So though Wang Yang had never fought, his mind held armies long. He knew real combat wasn't like TV dramas—where commanders shout "Charge!" and both sides roar forward, clashing in a chaotic mass. Such loss of formation was a grave battlefield taboo; even pursuing routed troops, a seasoned commander halted after a few hundred steps to reform ranks, fearing a counterattack. The Wu Jing Zong Yao stated: "When pursuing victory, advance no more than three hundred steps before reforming." The Lian Bing Shi Ji said: "When chasing fleeing enemies, halt at one li—listen for the cymbal's ring, reform ranks, lest the enemy turn and fight back." It emphasized that the main unit's commander issued the order independently—no need to report to the central command. (Ming dynasty: one li = 360 steps.)

Why reform ranks?

To maintain the battle formation.

Whether Chinese or Western, real battlefield combat was built on "formations."

Here, "formation" meant not the fictional arrays of yin-yang and life-death gates from romantic novels, nor the elaborate grand formations like Emperor Taizong's Ping Rong Wan Quan Array or Maurice I's mixed infantry-cavalry array (the very "formations" Zong Ze questioned Yue Fei about)—but tactical sequences: organized units unified under command.

If unclear, imagine from a soldier's view: alone charging forward, he faces threats from all sides—easily wounded, terrified, prone to flee. But within a formation, surrounded by comrades, backed by support (and a barrier against desertion), under the watch of officers—he cannot easily break ranks, and must advance with the column. (This logic applies equally to squads within battalions, small formations within large ones.)

Moreover, command in cold-weapon warfare was imprecise—orders went not to individual soldiers, but to their units. Soldiers must stay in formation to receive orders and execute tactical intent.

Thus, in normal combat, if one side lost formation—like TV scenes of chaotic brawls—it usually meant defeat. Soldiers who didn't flee quickly would be slaughtered by the enemy's orderly ranks. Hence "surround the enemy but leave an escape," or "cavalry charge the formation"—both aimed to shatter the enemy's cohesion.

Yet mutual chaos did occur—common in stalemates where neither side knew the outcome, or when both sides' discipline collapsed and lines entangled; or when small units clashed intensely, especially agile probing squads; or due to terrain, special conditions, or specific campaign phases. Also, cavalry fighting infantry could descend into chaos—rarely advantageous for cavalry.

Hence military doctrine stresses "strike while half-crossed." "Strike while half-crossed" doesn't mean attacking when troops reach the river's center, but when half the force has crossed—when the formation is fragmented and vulnerable, unable to advance or retreat.

Likewise, even if Director Liu Tan Tan's troops landed smoothly and hastily formed ranks, the fleeing delegation might disrupt their lines—and disruption is often the start of defeat.

——————

I know some readers won't read the latter half of this chapter, while others will read it most carefully. The chapter's core and essence lie entirely in this latter half—it's essential groundwork for the story's future and the characters' logic, a unified whole. Hence I didn't split the nearly 4,000 characters into the next chapter. Why expend so much effort for little reward? Those who understand will know my intent.