Guo Tu was drowning in a sea of bitter frustration.
When the crisis in Ji Province first erupted, Han Fu and Yuan Shao had desperately agreed to seek out the esteemed imperial veteran Zhu Jun to mediate from his stronghold in Zhongmou. Originally, that crucial diplomatic mission was supposed to fall to Pang Ji.
However, with Zhang Xin hovering over the province like a ravenous tiger, Yuan Shao hadn't dared part with Pang Ji's sharp military mind. Instead, he dispatched Guo Tu—valuing his silver tongue and political agility—to act as the envoy.
Guo Tu had moved like a ghost. Disguising his identity, he had ridden hard along obscure backroads, pushing his horses to the brink of collapse until he reached Zhongmou.
Initially, everything went precisely as Pang Ji had predicted.
When Zhu Jun heard that Zhang Xin had brazenly raised an army to invade Ji Province, the old veteran flew into a towering rage. In his rigidly traditional mind, whatever faults Han Fu and Yuan Shao possessed, they were still recognized ministers of the Han court. What right did an upstart like Zhang Xin have to orchestrate a coup against them?
Sensing his opening, Guo Tu had delivered a masterful, tear-stained performance, weeping openly for the plight of his master. Moved and incited, Zhu Jun immediately vowed to intervene. He promised to draft an ironclad imperial decree ordering Zhang Xin to withdraw his forces instantly. If the upstart refused, Zhu Jun declared he would personally lead his legions north to enforce it.
Guo Tu had been ecstatic.
But his triumph lasted less than a single day. Before Zhu Jun's imperial messenger could even clear the city gates, Zhang Xin's riders arrived. They weren't delivering letters; they were scattering victory proclamations across the entire region.
Guo Tu was utterly paralyzed by the news.
How many days had it even been?
Ji Province hadn't just been attacked—it was completely gone. Even his proud master, Yuan Shao, had already been executed, his head severed by Zhang Xin's executioners.
Upon reading the proclamations, Zhu Jun's fiery temperament evaporated into a cold, sweating silence. He quietly rolled up his decree and spoke no more of marching north. If the grand coalition of the Yuan family and the imperial loyalists were still intact, he might have risked a campaign. But now? Han Fu had surrendered, Yuan Shao was dead, and Zhang Xin had absorbed the entire military apparatus of Ji Province, his numbers skyrocketing overnight.
Against a colossus like that, what could Zhu Jun accomplish with his meager twenty thousand men?
Guo Tu knew right then that the game was up. Zhu Jun was a dead end. Ji Province was lost, his lord was dead, and he was effectively a man without a country. Left with no other viable path, he turned his horse south toward the Central Plains to seek the protection of Yuan Shao's half-brother, Yuan Shu.
The Standoff across the Ying River
Truth be told, Yuan Shu had never actually wanted to lift a finger to aid Yuan Shao. The two brothers shared a deep, mutual loathing.
However, the pressure from the senior elders of the Yuan clan had simply grown too loud to ignore. Yuan Shu's current dominance over the four commanderies of the Central Plains wasn't built on his own strategic brilliance; it was entirely propped up by the immense prestige of his family name. He couldn't afford to alienate the clan elders.
Bound by obligation, he had reluctantly mobilized a massive host of one hundred thousand men. Placing veteran commanders like Ji Ling, Zhang Xun, Qiao Rui, Liang Gang, and Le Jiu at the vanguard, Yuan Shu took personal command of the main army and began a sluggish march north.
To counter this movement, Sun Jian had marched out with fifty thousand seasoned troops to intercept him.
However, Sun Jian had completely ignored Zhang Xin's original defensive blueprint. Instead of setting up a rigid blocking line along the Weishi and Fugou front inside Chenliu, the fierce general had aggressively pushed his vanguard several dozen miles further southwest, deploying right into the heart of Yingchuan along the Changshe and Yanling line.
The fifty thousand imperial veterans were now heavily entrenched just outside the walls of Changshe, occupying the eastern bank of a prominent tributary of the Ying River.
When Yuan Shu's massive column finally wound its way to Changshe, he found Sun Jian's battle lines already drawn and waiting for him. Unwilling to force a bloody river crossing, Yuan Shu ordered his men to pitch their tents on the western bank.
Thus, a combined force of one hundred and fifty thousand men now sat staring at one another across the rushing waters of the Ying River.
For Yuan Shu, this stalemate was a blessing in disguise. Since he had no real desire to save his brother anyway, he used the presence of Sun Jian's blocking force as the perfect political excuse to stall, comfortably waiting for Yuan Shao to burn to the ground.
A Decadent Sanctuary
The distance from Zhongmou to the lines at Changshe was barely a hundred miles—a single day's hard ride for a determined messenger.
When Guo Tu finally arrived outside the perimeter of the grand vanguard camp, he formally announced his pedigree and requested an audience with the Commander-in-Chief. It didn't take long for the camp marshal to return.
"Mister Guo, the Lord requests your presence."
Guo Tu took a deep, centering breath, smoothing his wrinkled traveling robes before following the armored soldier deep into the heart of the encampment.
When he stepped inside the central command tent, the scene before him made his stomach turn. Yuan Shu sat perched high upon a lavishly cushioned divan, a beautiful consort nestled under each arm. The grand tactical table, which should have been covered in maps and scout reports, was instead buried beneath silver platters of roasted meats, exotic fruits, and jars of fine, imported wine. He would lazily chew a morsel of meat, wash it down with a long draft of wine, and laugh at a joke whispered into his ear.
A great enemy sits across the river, yet he indulges in absolute decadence and debauchery, Guo Tu thought, a wave of profound disdain washing over him. In terms of sheer stature and dignity, this man is not even fit to carry Yuan Shao's sandals!
Yet, a desperate man cannot afford pride. Guo Tu swallowed his disgust and bowed with perfect, groveling elegance.
"Guo Tu of Yingchuan respectfully greets the Lord Yuan."
He had no choice. In his eyes, Sun Jian was nothing but a crude, uncultured brawler, and Zhang Xin was nothing more than a glorified Yellow Turban bandit. He looked down on them both from the heights of his gentry upbringing. Among the elite warlords left standing in the realm, only Yuan Shu possessed the pure bloodline required to command his allegiance.
Yuan Shu glanced up, his eyes half-lidded from the wine. "Ah, Gongze. What brings you wandering into my camp?"
Guo Tu didn't hold back. Falling to his knees, he recounted the entire catastrophic fall of Ji Province, his voice cracking with well-rehearsed grief. "I am a man stripped of his home and his master, my Lord. I can only pray that your Excellency's legendary generosity will provide me sanctuary."
"Oh? That miserable bastard is finally dead?"
Yuan Shu sat up straight, his face instantly lighting up. He shoved the two beauties aside, clapped his hands together, and burst into a booming, ecstatic roar of laughter. "Good! Good! Magnificent! Truly splendid news!"
A flash of genuine resentment flared in Guo Tu's chest. Whatever his own flaws, Yuan Shao had been his sovereign. To see Yuan Shu celebrate his own brother's brutal execution with such naked, unhinged glee—right in front of his brother's former advisor—proved that Yuan Shu didn't care about propriety, nor did he possess a shred of respect for Guo Tu himself.
But dependency breeds silence. Guo Tu forced his face into a mask of placid humility, enduring the insult.
Yuan Shu laughed until he was breathless before leaning forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you the only one who made it out? What became of the rest of that bastard's council? Where are the others?"
"I do not know, my Lord," Guo Tu replied smoothly, briefly explaining how his diplomatic assignment to Zhu Jun had inadvertently saved him from the slaughter. He let out a heavy, tragic sigh. "Given the speed of the collapse... I can only assume the rest have either perished in the assault or broken their vows to surrender to the enemy."
Yuan Shu's chest puffed out, his delight reaching absolute euphoria.
"The scholars of this realm used to call that bastard a paragon of virtue, while branding me a mere monster on the highway," Yuan Shu jeered, sloshing wine over the rim of his cup. "I have always said the world is blind, entirely incapable of recognizing a true hero! Look at us now! Those who threw their lot in with that bastard are either rotting in the dirt or bending the knee like dogs, while those who follow me enjoy fine silks, rich meats, and absolute safety!"
You? A hero? Guo Tu rolled his eyes so hard it physically pained him, yet his lips instantly stretched into a fawning, sycophantic smile. "The Lord's wisdom is unmatched."
"Guards!" Yuan Shu roared, thoroughly pleased with himself. A pair of elite personal sentries stepped into the tent. "Go and summon the chief clerk and every general currently off-duty. Inform them that I am hosting a grand victory banquet tonight!"
"Understood, my Lord." The sentries cast a lingering, envious glance at the beautiful consorts by the divan, swallowed hard, and hurried out to deliver the orders.
"Gongze, come, come! Sit beside me," Yuan Shu urged, rising from his seat to personally guide Guo Tu to a prominent table. He gave the strategist a heavy, patronizing pat on the back, laughing uproariously. "You abandoned the darkness to embrace the true light; you possess truly discerning eyes, my friend!"
Guo Tu offered another perfectly practiced, flattering grin.
Yuan Shu signaled a servant, who immediately poured a brimming goblet of wine and set a roasted fowl before the newcomer. "Drink up, Gongze! Enjoy the bounty!"
Guo Tu took a long, deep draught of the wine, the alcohol finally taking the edge off his raw nerves. He had to admit, while Yuan Shu lacked the strategic vision of a grand conqueror, the sheer luxury and material comfort provided to his inner circle were undeniably premier.
The two men sat conversing for nearly an hour, a superficial atmosphere of camaraderie filling the tent. Guo Tu spoke with practiced deference, and Yuan Shu absorbed it greedily, his laughter echoing off the canvas.
The Blind Spot of the Central Plains
Before long, the grand commanders of the army began filtering into the tent, taking their designated seats around the perimeter.
"Gentlemen!"
Yuan Shu stood tall, raising his golden chalice high above his head as he addressed his officer corps. He wasted no time announcing the death of his half-brother, his smile radiant. "That bastard is dead. Which means none of you need to endure any more grueling marches through the northern wilderness. You won't have to suffer the cold or the mud of Ji Province!"
He downed his wine in a single gulp, slamming the cup onto the wood. "Tomorrow morning, break camp! We are going home to enjoy our blessings!"
A murmur of relief and visible satisfaction swept through the assembled generals. No one actually wanted to fight a meat-grinder war for a rival branch of the clan.
But in the shadow of the celebration sat Chief Clerk Yan Xiang. His brow was knitted into deep, troubled furrows, and a quiet, heavy sigh escaped his lips.
The Lord's strategic vision is dangerously hollow, Yan Xiang thought, his gaze fixated on his cup.
Yuan Shu was treating Yuan Shao's demise as a personal family triumph, completely blind to the geopolitical nightmare it created. With Yuan Shao removed from the board, Zhang Xin now held undisputed control over two of the wealthiest, most populous provinces in the empire. His power had transformed overnight from a localized threat into an absolute monolith.
Furthermore, Sun Jian was a fiercely loyal ally to Zhang Xin. The moment Zhang Xin fully consolidated his administrative grip on Ye City, he could easily march his elite host south to join hands with Sun Jian's southern legions.
Combined, their coalition could easily field a battle-hardened force of nearly three hundred thousand men, drawn from the immense resources of three dominant provinces. With a peerless strategist like Zhang Xin directing the board and a demonic vanguard commander like Sun Jian executing the strikes, how could Yuan Shu—who commanded a mere four fractured commanderies—possibly hope to survive?
At a critical juncture where the very survival of their faction hung in the balance, Yuan Shu wasn't fortifying his borders or seeking alliances; he was getting drunk and ordering a retreat. It was short-sighted to the point of madness.
Knowing his master's volatile, arrogant temperament, Yan Xiang remained silent, refusing to spoil the festive mood publicly. He resolved to wait until the alcohol cleared from Yuan Shu's system before offering a grim, realistic assessment of the realm.
Liu Biao of Jing Province, Tao Qian of Xu Province, Chen Wen of Yang Province, Liu Yan of Yi Province... Yan Xiang's face wore a polite, artificial smile as his mind raced frantically through the political landscape. Who is left? Who can we possibly unite with to build a wall against the Zhang-Sun alliance?
Before he could formulate a single answer, the humid summer air outside the tent was violently torn apart.
A deafening, synchronized roar of battle-cries erupted from the riverbank, accompanied by the distinct, terrifying thunder of thousands of charging hooves.