Twelve: The Pawn Before the Horse

The spear thrust was executed with flawless technique, the wind howling as it cut through the air. Cao Hong had no doubt that if it struck him, it would leave a gaping, bloody wound. Yet he knew without question that this attack would not land.

The Eight-Faceted Han Sword flashed from its scabbard once more, coming down unerringly upon the tip of Liao Hua’s spear. With a crisp, metallic ring, the blow struck true. Liao Hua’s face flushed crimson, his momentum abruptly halted, and then—suddenly—he coughed up a mouthful of blood.

Liao Hua’s followers were stunned. In their eyes, their Lord Liao was an invincible force. When they had first come to Wuping County to teach those corrupt officials and landed gentry a lesson, he had crippled men with a single punch or kick, toppling foes with every blow. Yet now, this elegantly dressed young noble had wounded him with but a single stroke.

As Liao Hua spat blood, his emaciated horse, unable to bear the strain, reared up. His qi roiled within him, and with the crude saddle shifting beneath him, he could no longer keep his seat. As the horse rose, Liao Hua slipped from its back, rolling several times upon the ground.

Cao Hong watched him quietly, allowing the startled horse to flee. He simply smiled, gazing at Liao Hua as he tumbled across the earth.

After several rolls, Liao Hua managed to regulate his breath, using his spear as support to rise. His eyes were filled with disbelief. Since the age of twelve, after joining the Yellow Turban uprising under the great commander Zhang Mancheng, his martial prowess had grown rapidly. When the rebellion failed, he had wandered to Wuping County, single-handedly driving out the local magistrate and subduing the gentry. Having established himself as a king among men, he’d gathered a band of idlers, and for two or three years, none could challenge him. Yet today, he had been defeated in a single stroke.

In his mind, Zhang Mancheng, his martial mentor, was invincible. If not for the overwhelming numbers besieging him, and the fact that Zhang was the chief, heavily surrounded, perhaps he would still have escaped. The image of Zhang Mancheng, unconquerable throughout Jing Province, was deeply etched in Liao Hua’s heart. But now, that image was replaced by the young man before him—resplendent in luxurious attire and exuding an air of haughty confidence.

A Han sword over six feet in length, a robe of waxen-white silk, a high, arched magpie-tail crown, astride a tall steed—a handsome face, striking stature, and eyes that radiated imperious disdain. In Liao Hua’s heart, this was the true embodiment of invincibility.

Cao Hong had struck Liao Hua from horseback with a single sword stroke, thanks to his superior mastery of martial arts. The distinction between transforming qi into spirit and refining essence into qi lay in the manipulation of breath and strength. Cao Hong could effortlessly coordinate his breathing, channeling explosive power through muscle and bone, striking precisely at the weakest moment of Liao Hua’s spear thrust. Only thus could he achieve such a result.

It was this mastery and knowledge of martial arts that allowed Cao Hong to win in a single stroke. Had it been someone who had not reached such heights, the fight would have been far less easy—perhaps three or four exchanges would have been needed, or even ten.

Wiping the blood from his mouth, Liao Hua cast aside his spear. With a heavy thud, he knelt before Cao Hong, clasped his fists, and declared, “Master! Liao Yuanjian is willing to serve as a humble foot soldier at your mount, to be your lifelong servant and slave. Please accept me!”

In these turbulent times, attaching oneself to a powerful patron was a wise decision—at least it meant no longer living each day in uncertainty. The prerequisite, of course, was possessing skills that others valued. Clearly, Liao Hua believed he had them—his martial prowess, at the very least, was exceptional.

Cao Hong smiled as he sheathed his sword. “Do you wish to lead my horse and wield my whip?”

Liao Hua answered in a loud voice, “That would be the greatest fortune of my life!”

Cao Hong continued, “And what of your men?”

Kneeling, Liao Hua turned and called out to his followers, “Brothers, today I, Liao Yuanjian, pledge myself to serve this lord forever. I will no longer be your Heavenly King. Take care of yourselves. It is my failing to abandon you—here, I beg your forgiveness!” With that, he knocked his forehead to the ground several times in contrition.

Cao Hong’s retainers were all moved, inwardly praising the man’s courage.

Liao Hua’s men exchanged uncertain glances. What now? They could not defeat this newcomer, and even their leader was willing to become his servant. Most drifted away in silence, but several dozen lingered, hesitant. After a moment, a man of about thirty stepped forward, knelt beside Liao Hua, and addressed Cao Hong, “My lord, we have always followed Heavenly King Liao. If he is to be your groom, then let us be the ones to empty your chamber pots! Please, take us with you.”

At these words, the rest echoed as one, “Yes, my lord, take us with you! From now on, we shall see to the filth and waste of all your noble retainers—only grant us a meal to fill our bellies.”

This group, too, recognized Cao Hong’s extraordinary bearing. His company was finely dressed, and the sword in his hand, “Lian,” glinted with a cold, divine light—clearly a weapon of legend, obvious even to the blind. Was it not better to follow him than to continue as bandits in Wuping County?

Cao Hong gazed silently at the men. They were sturdy enough, albeit a bit malnourished—nothing a few hearty meals wouldn’t fix. They could serve well as enforcers. Was not Cao Cao in need of men? How could he refuse those that came of their own accord? Yet with limited funds, supporting so many would be a strain. Resolving himself, Cao Hong turned to Liao Hua and asked, “You are from Xiangyang?”

Liao Hua replied, “Yes, my lord. I am Liao Hua, courtesy name Yuanjian, of Zhonglu, Xiangyang.”

Cao Hong laughed, “And your nickname, the Heavenly King?”

Liao Hua’s face flushed deep red. Sheepishly he replied, “That was a foolish title I gave myself. After the Way of Peace fell, many brothers took up nicknames ending in ‘king’ to sound impressive.”

The Way of Peace was, of course, the Yellow Turban rebels. Cao Hong asked, “You are a remnant of the Yellow Turbans?”

Liao Hua replied, “I was a spear-bearing guard under the great commander Zhang Mancheng.”

The leaders of the Way of Peace had divided their followers across the eight provinces—Qing, Xu, You, Ji, Jing, Yang, Yan, and Yu—into thirty-six divisions, each with over ten thousand for a major division, six or seven thousand for a minor one. Each division had its own commander, all under centralized direction. Zhang Mancheng had been a major commander in Jing Province—a general of considerable renown.

Upon hearing this, Cao Hong understood. No wonder the Yellow Turban Rebellion had swept the land with such ferocity—a mere guardsman under a major commander possessed such skill. The abilities of the various commanders could only be greater. He recalled, too, the rumors that the three friends of Dongting, the Yin-Yang Twin Phantoms, and the Immortal of Runan—six great masters—had slain Zhang Jue. The story seemed ever more plausible. Otherwise, why would Zhang Jue have died after but a year of uprising, and so mysteriously? History claimed he died of illness, but Cao Hong did not believe it. Whenever the record said “died of illness” or “sudden collapse,” it was usually assassination or poison.

Drawing his thoughts back to the present, Cao Hong addressed Liao Hua, “Who gave you your courtesy name?”

Liao Hua replied, “It was bestowed by an Immortal—a spiritual advisor—at Commander Zhang’s side.”

This “Immortal” was essentially a strategist. Cao Hong nodded, “Very well. Your skills are sufficient. To serve as my groom and whip-bearer is fitting. I am Cao Hong, styled Zilian, grandson of Cao Jixing, Marquis of Feiting, and inheritor of a line of loyal service across four generations. The Cao family descends from Cao Shen, Marquis Yi, and is a house of generals since the founding of the Han. If you would enter my service as a slave, you must abandon your bandit ways!”

Cao Jixing was the style name of Cao Teng, the famed eunuch; the Cao family’s rise began with him, and so they introduced themselves in this manner. For this reason, some called them “the infamous offspring of eunuchs.”

The followers did not know who Cao Jixing was, but all had heard of Cao Shen, the founding hero of the Han. Their faces showed admiration, and Liao Hua’s heart leapt with joy—he had truly entered a noble house. He picked up his spear, beckoned his men to join Cao Hong’s ranks, then came before Cao Hong and took up the horse’s reins. “My lord, I have some modest goods hidden in Wuping County. If I may retrieve them, we can be on our way.”

Cao Hong nodded. Why refuse what was freely given? Seeing his consent, Liao Hua led the horse onward. Big Eye and Second Ma quickly summoned the retainers, and together they made their way toward Wuping County.