Chapter Seventy: Do You Recognize This Formation?

When Cao Yong arrived at the foot of the rear mountain, he was greeted by a scene of daunting peril. Though the mountain was not tall, its slopes were perilously steep, bordered on both sides by sheer cliffs rising dozens of meters high, with only a narrow path through the center granting passage.

“No wonder they fled into this mountain,” Cao Yong mused, surveying the terrain. “It’s an ideal place to defend and difficult to attack. Forcing our way through will not be easy.” Still, after some thought, he dismissed his hesitation. They had numbers on their side, after all.

During the initial assault, he had observed that the defense at the Huangmen Pavilion consisted of merely a few hundred men. Their combat prowess was uncertain, but with such a small force, Cao Yong doubted they could mount a formidable defense.

With this in mind, he turned to his officers and commanded, “The enemy numbers only a few hundred. Though they hold advantageous ground, we have nothing to fear. Advance directly and storm the heights!”

“At your command!”

The officers immediately began organizing their troops for the assault.

Cao Yong himself had always led from the front. This time, he advanced with the second wave; before him were several hundred death-defiers, shields and spears at the ready, marching up the mountain path.

Once, the rear mountain had been thickly wooded, but the trees had been felled, leaving a clear line of sight. Upon entering the mountain path, they could see ahead a gate made only of wooden palisades, with caltrops and chevaux-de-frise barring the way.

Fearing hidden pits or rolling stones, the soldiers dared not rush, but proceeded warily along the path, unaware that countless eyes watched from above.

Perched on the cliffs above, several defensive towers—Qionglong—had been built. Each tower had fist-sized windows, too small for men to crawl through, but perfect for unleashing arrows or thrusting out spears—a shell bristling with spikes.

The vanguard reached the palisade. They noticed the tall towers flanking them, but, being some distance away, saw neither the small windows nor guessed their purpose. They did not guard against what might come from above.

“Loose arrows!” came the command from Deng Zhao and Shen Zhen, and at once a rain of arrowheads fell like hail. Clattering against shields, piercing flesh with sickening thuds, the storm of arrows was relentless.

Cries of pain and panic erupted: “Ambush!” “Fall back! Retreat!”

Arrows swept the narrow pass, and most of Cao’s soldiers, caught off guard, were skewered where they stood. The survivors fled in terror, stumbling down the mountain path.

Soon the way was strewn with bodies, and of the three hundred death-defiers, fewer than a hundred escaped.

“So those tall towers were archer towers,” Cao Yong observed grimly. Then, through clenched teeth, he ordered, “Have the soldiers raise their shields overhead and advance.”

The second wave complied, moving forward with shields held high, and this time, the arrows did little harm.

But then logs and rocks began to crash down from above, and chaos ensued once more. Leaving a hundred more bodies behind, the survivors again retreated in disarray.

Seeing the attack falter, Cao Yong hesitated at the foot of the mountain, uncertain what to do next.

Just then, from the top of a Qionglong tower, Shen Chen appeared with a large megaphone—the very sort wielded by Huang Silang in “Let the Bullets Fly”—and shouted, “You think you can break Huangmen Pavilion? Send Cao Ren here if you dare!”

“Damnation!” Cao Yong was furious. He wanted to set the mountain ablaze, but with all the trees already felled, there was nothing left to burn. Left with no other options, and mindful of Cao Ren’s deadly orders, he gritted his teeth and commanded, “Attack! Press the assault!”

Now, they would attempt to overwhelm the defenders with sheer numbers.

The officers barked their orders, and the soldiers, steeling themselves, charged up the path again. After suffering another three hundred casualties, they finally reached the palisade, scaled it with ladders, and tore down the gate.

When they at last entered the rear valley, even Cao Yong—who had braved arrows and tumbling logs—was struck dumb. The valley was nothing like he had imagined. It was utterly barren.

The valley was small, perhaps less than two thousand square meters. There was nothing but a few cave dwellings in the hillsides and traces of coal dust. On all sides, dozens of Qionglong towers ringed the slopes.

“Do you recognize this formation?” Shen Chen’s voice echoed from a tower, amplified by the megaphone. “You are surrounded. Surrender and your lives will be spared.”

Cao Yong pointed at Shen Chen’s tower and barked, “Destroy that archer tower!”

The soldiers rushed toward the Qionglong.

Inside the valley, the climb was easier; the slopes were gentler, not sheer. The men scrambled up the hills, coming to the base of the tower.

But the Qionglong had no entrances or stairs—unlike the conventional towers of the era, which had stairways, these had underground access, a design known only among the Qiang tribes of the northwest. Most had no idea what these structures were.

Cao’s soldiers circled the tower in confusion, while the defenders inside showed no mercy—arrows rained down, and spears thrust outward with deadly intent.

Caught off guard, Cao’s men suffered heavy losses. By now, seven or eight hundred of the original two thousand had been killed or wounded, without even glimpsing the enemy face-to-face.

“Retreat! Fall back!” Only now did Cao Yong realize the futility of the assault and ordered a general retreat.

The soldiers, abandoning shields and armor, fled in panic under a hail of arrows.

Even Shen Chen loosed two arrows, but lacking the strength of a grown man, his shots, though accurate, failed to kill; one Cao soldier escaped with an arrow in his shoulder.

As he lamented his missed opportunity, Shen Chen caught sight of his father, Shen Zhen, on a distant tower, bow drawn, eyes focused.

The arrow was aimed at Cao Yong, fleeing down the mountain.

The twang of the bowstring, the whistle of the arrow—like a shooting star, it pierced the air and buried itself in Cao Yong’s nape.

Thus fell the deputy general who, fourteen years later in the year 211, would die at Wei’nan by Pang De’s hand. He collapsed without a word.

His personal guard rushed to lift his body, shielding it with their own as they fled from the valley back toward the manor.

“We’ve won!”

“Hooray!”

A chorus of cheers erupted among the defenders of Huangmen Pavilion, seeing the enemy leave nearly a thousand corpses behind as they fled. Not a single defender had perished—an astonishing feat.

All of this was thanks to the command of that child.

Shen Chen’s prestige soared. Every soldier and villager revered him as if he were divine.

Meanwhile, Cao Yong’s surviving officers led the remnants of their forces westward.

Cao Ren was not far away. Barely twenty minutes earlier, he had received word from Cao Yong’s messenger that the manor had been captured.

Now, hidden in the forests near Bishui to the southwest of Huangmen Pavilion—Luyang lay on the southern bank—he waited in ambush, hoping to intercept Gan Ning if he came to the rescue.

Suddenly, a scout arrived, drenched in sweat, dismounted hastily, and knelt on one knee. “General, Sima Cao has been killed in action!”

“What?” Cao Ren was shocked. “What happened?”

The scout explained, “After the manor was breached, the defenders retreated into the rear mountain. The terrain is easy to defend and hard to attack, with only one path in. Archer towers crown the surrounding heights. Sima Cao led an assault, but was struck down by arrows.”

“Damnation!” Cao Ren was furious—he had lost not only a trusted deputy but a clansman as well.

The scout added, “Shen Chen also taunted that the general should come in person to subdue him.”

Cao Ren’s eyes glinted with rage as he looked toward Luyang, just as another squad of scouts returned.

He asked, “What news?”

“No sign of movement,” came the reply.

“It seems the Luyang garrison cares nothing for the fate of Huangmen Pavilion,” he observed.

Chunyu Dao, standing nearby, advised, “General, let’s attack Luyang directly, then turn back to eliminate Huangmen Pavilion.”

“No,” Cao Ren replied, thoughtful. “With Sima Cao dead, morale is shaken. Attacking Luyang now would be reckless. We must first take Huangmen Pavilion to restore the army’s spirit.”

After all, Huangmen Pavilion, however defensible, was only a hilltop stronghold. If Cao Yong could break in, so could he. But Luyang was a walled city, defended by four or five thousand men.

Cao Ren’s force numbered barely five thousand—no advantage over Gan Ning, especially in a siege. Thus, he had chosen to strike Huangmen Pavilion first, hoping to draw Gan Ning into an ambush.

But he had not foreseen Cao Yong’s defeat—heavy losses and the death of his deputy, demoralizing his troops. To attack Luyang now would be courting disaster.

So he resolved to concentrate his forces on crushing Huangmen Pavilion. If Gan Ning came to their aid, he would gladly meet him in open battle with his remaining four thousand. If not, after destroying Huangmen Pavilion, he would consider returning to Xinye to regroup before attacking Luyang.

“But what if, while we attack Huangmen Pavilion, Gan Ning suddenly marches to the rescue?” Zhai Yuan asked anxiously.

Cao Ren sneered, “Liu Biao’s troops are nothing but a rabble. Zhang Ji, with barely ten thousand, scattered his force of twenty thousand. Should we fear them? Deploy scouts. The rest, follow me to Huangmen Pavilion.”

The officers, reassured, responded, “Yes, sir!”

An ordinary commander, seeing his detachment routed, might have chosen to withdraw, fearing a two-pronged attack. But Cao Ren believed Liu Biao’s forces lacked discipline—when Zhang Xiu came south to Nanyang, he routed Liu Biao’s twenty thousand. If not for Zhang Ji’s death by a stray arrow, he might never have allied with Liu Biao.

Thus, convinced that his five thousand elite could easily defeat Gan Ning’s equal number in the field, Cao Ren dismissed any threat from Gan Ning. He had barely heard the man’s name.

Gan Ning, though later hailed as a Tiger General of Jiangdong, was at this time a newly promoted officer under Liu Biao. Historically, he had served as a minor official under Liu Zhang, and only after Deng Hong’s recommendation was he promoted to colonel last year. To Cao Ren, Gan Ning was a nobody, not worth his concern.

But he did not know Gan Ning commanded a core of eight hundred elite “Brocade Sail” veterans, and after his promotion, had spent over a year selecting and training the strongest among surrendered Yellow Turban soldiers from Nanyang. This force was far superior in quality to the rest of Liu Biao’s troops—stronger even than those under Zhang Yun, and comparable to Wen Pin’s men.

Soon, Cao Ren would learn what a surprise this force had in store for him.

After issuing his orders, Cao Ren led his army east.

The troops advanced in force, fierce as wolves and tigers, and soon swept into the manor at Huangmen Pavilion. The manor linked directly to the rear mountain, and Cao Ren did not set it ablaze, for that would block their path to the mountain—something to do only when retreating, not when attacking.

Led by the battered survivors from Cao Yong’s force, they reached the rear mountain. From afar, they saw Huangmen Pavilion soldiers clearing away corpses and logs from the path. Spotting the returning enemy, the defenders dropped everything and dashed into the mountains.

“Pursue them!” Cao Ren’s eyes lit up—this was an opportunity. The defenders were caught off guard, still cleaning the battlefield, and surely not yet at their posts. Now was the time to strike.

The Cao soldiers surged up the narrow path like a tide, and once more, arrows rained down.

The mountain pass, already cluttered with bodies and debris, was a difficult route. Progress was slow, but the main force, braving the arrow storm, eventually fought their way into the valley.

The defenders’ arrow supply had dwindled—unlike the mighty Cao Cao, with his vast resources, Huangmen Pavilion was but a village stronghold. Making arrows was costly; they had perhaps ten thousand in total, and three or four thousand had already been spent against Cao Yong. Now, they had to use them sparingly.

Thus, with the arrow storm lessened, Cao Ren’s men forced their way inside at a cost of just over two hundred casualties.

And then—

He found himself, like Cao Yong before him, staring in astonishment at an empty valley ringed by Qionglong towers.

Where were the defenders? The place was deserted.

“Who are you below?” Shen Chen shouted from atop a tower, still using his megaphone, unaware that Cao Ren himself had come. “Do you recognize this formation?”

Cao Ren shuddered, then turned to face the distant tower.

He would never forget the voice of that child.

“Shen Chen!” Cao Ren ground out the name through clenched teeth, then roared, “Your father, Cao Ren, is here!”