Chapter 456: Great Victory at Xiaca

Wang Jun sat steadily atop the high platform from beginning to end, gazing into the distance at the two armies locked in battle, the entire battlefield situation laid out before his eyes. The north wind grew increasingly fierce, howling loudly, adding voice and vigor to the great army's fighting. It blew against his face, damp and cold beyond measure, yet Wang Jun felt as if bathed in spring breeze—the sounds of clashing weapons and battle cries were like celestial music to his ears.

"Commander-in-Chief, the Huainan bandits have lost! Utterly incapable of resistance!" At the moment when the Tang army could no longer withstand the Han army's onslaught and collapsed in defeat, Shen Shihou, his face brimming with excitement, spoke to Wang Jun atop the command platform.

"I saw it!" Wang Jun said very calmly. His gaze had been fixed on the battlefield the entire time, never relaxing for even a single instant.

The tea on the small table had long since gone cold, yet Wang Jun still picked up the teacup and took a slow sip. His slightly trembling hands revealed that his heart was not nearly as unruffled as his outward appearance suggested.

Shen Shihou remained unable to contain his joy, saying: "This battle has shattered the main force of the Tang army, and is bound to affect the entire situation in Huainan. Commander-in-Chief, you have achieved such a marvelous feat in a single battle—your name is certain to resound throughout the realm!"

Finally, a hint of a smile appeared at the corners of Wang Jun's mouth. He looked up at the sky—it had already grown completely dark, and the battlefield was now shrouded in gloom.

His expression turning stern, a faint chill glimmering in his eyes, Wang Jun said: "Transmit the order—have the entire Longjie Army pursue, slaughtering all the way. Wherever the Tang army flees, they chase! The remaining units are to reorganize quickly, raise torches high, and follow behind in pursuit! Tell all the troops: anyone wearing Tang clothing or Tang armor may be cut down, so that they can never again band together to resist the heavenly army!"

"Yes!" Shen Shihou received the order and immediately dispatched men to Murong Yanzhao, who was commanding at the front line.

Looking at the sky once more, Wang Jun could not help but sigh: "What a pity the sky has already darkened—otherwise I could have achieved complete victory!"

The risks of night combat filled Wang Jun with concern; one careless misstep would increase his own side's casualties. But that bit of risk was nothing compared to the abundant fruits of victory.

He entrusted all operational command entirely to his subordinates, then descended from the command platform and returned to the Han camp by the waterside. He had been exposed to the cold wind for nearly an entire afternoon—his rheumatism was about to flare up.

With Wang Jun's orders in effect, the reorganized Han army completely let loose, pursuing and slaughtering the Tang army, inflicting heavy casualties all the way, paying no heed to taking prisoners. Following the path of their advance, they counter-attacked all the way back, pursuing for dozens of li, until they reached the walls of Shouchun.

Along this route, facing the Han army's ferocious brutality and merciless slaughter, many Tang soldiers and civilians, seeking to avoid the blades, leaped into the Fei River, hoping to swim to safety. Even so, they were not spared—some froze to death, some drowned, some were shot dead by the Han army. Of those who survived, fewer than one in ten remained.

Corpses lay strewn across the entire route, floating in the cold river; the blood of the Tang army nearly dyed the Fei River red.

On the Tang side, only Zhang Quanyue's army—the one that had wisely requested to serve as rearguard earlier—saw the situation turning bad and promptly led his men in retreat, ignoring everything else, fleeing straight south. Though it smacked of cowardice before battle, in Zhang Quanyue's view, he could no longer afford to care about such things.

Even from ten li away, the fierce cries of battle could be clearly heard. The situation could well be imagined, and one could not help but feel fear and dread. Zhang Quanyue had not originally wanted to lead his army in pursuit—it was only because he could not withstand Liu Yanzhen's military orders, compelled by him, that he had come against his will.

As for the proposal from some of his subordinate officers to send troops forward to rescue the main army, Zhang Quanyue refused it.

The situation at the Xiacaí ferry crossing was already obvious—it was a Han army scheme. Liu Yanzhen, obstinate and self-opinionated, refusing to heed advice, underestimating the enemy and advancing rashly, had insisted on leading the imperial army into dangerous territory.

The Han army's true strength was unclear. Liu Yanzhen had already gone to his death—how could he lead his own officers and men to be buried alongside him? Rather than take the risk, it was better to preserve some troops for the Great Tang, to defend Huainan.

On the other hand, before the pursuit, Liu Yanzhen had been arrogant and overbearing, interrogating and humiliating him—how could Zhang Quanyue not hold some grudge in his heart?

After only a brief consideration, he gave the order to hold his troops in place. And when news arrived from the Xiacaí ferry that Liu Yanzhen's army had collapsed in defeat, he hesitated no longer—immediately turning southward, he fled at full speed back toward Shouchun.

Zhang Quanyue's withdrawal was quick enough, but the sixty or seventy li of frantic running back and forth had exhausted his officers and men terribly, with many losses along the way. Yet even in their extreme hunger and fatigue, they were never slow when it came to fleeing for their lives. Even so, they were still caught by the Han army's iron cavalry that came pursuing behind them—routed in a single strike, unable to escape the fate of defeat.

A blessing within misfortune: when Zhang Quanyue's army was caught, they were already not far from Shouchun. He concentrated his most elite one thousand troops to block the Han cavalry with their lives, while he himself led the main body fleeing toward Shouchun. Losing nearly half his men, and shielded by the cover of night, he crossed the floating bridge that the Han army had deliberately left unremoved as bait.

Inside Shouchun city, He Jingzhu, upon hearing of the defeat, also led his troops out to receive them. The two men commanded together, relying on the Fei River floating bridge, and gathered over seven thousand defeated soldiers. The Longjie cavalry, ranging across the seventy or eighty li between Xiacaí and Shouchun, eliminated Tang army stragglers back and forth—it became nearly a massacre. Commander Guo Chongwei and Shi Yanchao both refrained from rashly attacking the Fei River floating bridge. It was only when the Han infantry at the very forefront of the assault arrived that He Jingzhu ordered the bridge burned, cutting off the Han army's pursuit route—and also cutting off the escape route for the other Southern Tang soldiers and civilians.

In the darkness of night, the torches held high by the soldiers flickered unsteadily in the winter wind. The Fei River floating bridge was still burning, flames blazing fiercely. Through the firelight, one could see on the opposite bank several hundred Tang soldiers who had been driven to the water's edge by the Han army, mercilessly cut down with swinging blades, without a trace of sympathy.

Pleas, screams, wailing... until the riverbank slowly returned to silence.

The wind by the water grew ever more desolate. The Tang army on the western bank watched helplessly as the Han army on the eastern bank committed their cruelty and atrocities. Many faces showed hatred and anger, many defeated soldiers wore expressions of having survived a catastrophe, but most of all—there was fear.

He Jingzhu's short, stocky figure stood before the army, the flickering firelight imprinting itself on his impassive face. Unconsciously, tears streamed down his aged cheeks. After a long while, he could not help but speak mournfully: "After this battle, how many households in Jianghuai will be draped in mourning white, fathers losing their sons, wives losing their husbands..."

Zhang Quanyue stood at his side, also unable to suppress a sigh, a trace of regret showing through his weary demeanor.

"Do you know what has become of Liu Yanzhen?" He Jingzhu asked.

"I don't know!" Zhang Quanyue shook his head: "The entire line collapsed, and the army scattered in all directions fleeing—who had time to pay attention? Perhaps he got lost and perished, perhaps he fell into enemy hands, perhaps he died in the ranks..."

"This traitor to the state!" He Jingzhu's emotions erupted: "Even a hundred deaths could not atone for his crimes!"

Zhang Quanyue said in a low voice: "Lord He, since things have come to this, how should we respond?"

Upon hearing this, He Jingzhu steadied his emotions as best he could and calmly gave instructions: "Gather the defeated troops into the city, settle them and let them rest, submit a memorial to the throne, send out scout riders to probe the enemy's situation. You and I must prepare to defend the city to the death. With this defeat, the situation in our dynasty's Huainan has changed drastically. Within two or three days at most, the Han army will surely march south again. You and I defending Shouchun cannot avoid a bloody battle..."

And so He and Zhang gathered all the defeated troops from Xiacaí into Shouchun, repaired armor and weapons, boosted morale, and prepared to fight to the death against the Han.

It was not until the latter half of the night that the cries of battle drifting between Shouchun and Xiacaí, along the banks of the Fei River, finally faded completely.

The next morning at dawn, Murong Yanzhao, escorted by a squadron of cavalry, surveyed the battlefield. Riding south along the way, as far as the eye could see, corpses lay strewn across the fields, chaos and debris everywhere.

Han army units of varying sizes and laborers, after resting through half the night, were clearing the battlefield, gathering the spoils, and escorting prisoners back toward the Xiacaí camp to rest and report their merits.

As he surveyed, Murong Yanzhao discovered that some Han soldiers had suffered frostbite or frozen to death. After all, having fought and pursued in the wilds on a winter night for so long, exhausted to the bone, many soldiers had lain down to sleep in the temporary camps and simply never woke up.

If the Han army suffered so, how much worse for the captured Tang soldiers and laborers? They had even less protection, and their numbers of frozen dead and frostbitten were even greater.

The cruelty of war displayed itself in full before Murong Yanzhao's eyes. The battle at Luancheng back then had also been a slaughter that filled the fields with corpses, but even that scene did not weigh on Murong Yanzhao's heart as heavily as this one did.

"After this battle, the situation in Huainan is settled!" As a commander, Murong Yanzhao quickly suppressed that softness in his heart, swiftly restoring his iron-hard resolve, and gave stern orders to those around him: "Transmit orders to all units—quickly clear the battlefield and return to camp, tend to the wounded, tally the spoils, count the losses, verify military merits..."

"Yes!"

"Let's take another look toward Shouchun!" Calling to his subordinates, Murong Yanzhao spurred his horse southward.

He had not ridden far when he saw Han Lingkun, Commander of the Husheng Army, approaching at a light gallop. Spotting Murong Yanzhao, he urged his horse faster, dismounted, saluted, and announced his name.

"What is it?" Seeing his manner, Murong Yanzhao asked.

A hint of gravity on his face, Han Lingkun said: "Reporting to the Chief Inspector—Chief Commanders Li and Wang are slaughtering prisoners. I tried my utmost to dissuade them but to no avail!"

"Such a thing!" Murong Yanzhao's voice rose immediately.

His heart tightening slightly, Murong Yanzhao took the matter seriously and immediately had Han Lingkun lead the way to see for himself.

On the winter morning by the banks of the Fei River, mist hung hazy and water vapor filled the air, while on the mudflats, heads were already rolling. Approximately three thousand Tang prisoners, bound and guarded by Husheng soldiers, were being marched in rows to the riverbank and mercilessly executed—heads rolling, bloody and cruel...

Li Chongjin and Wang Yansheng sat on horseback nearby, leading two battalions of soldiers, ready at any moment to suppress any uprising among the prisoners. Both wore relaxed expressions and chatted as usual—they had earned considerable merit in yesterday's great battle.

By the time Murong Yanzhao galloped up, of the three thousand prisoners, only a little over five hundred remained, each one miserable and terrified, crying out to heaven.

Li Chongjin and Wang Yansheng hurriedly saluted. Gazing upon the scene that resembled an asura hell, Murong Yanzhao's anger fully erupted, and he demanded directly: "The two of you have quite the nerve—who gave you permission to slaughter prisoners?"

Seeing this, Wang Yansheng replied with an easy expression: "Chief Inspector, please calm your anger. There were too many Tang prisoners—killing some makes them easier to control."