Chapter Forty: The Campaign Against the Yellow Turbans (Part Two)

“Zhang Fei of Yan is here!”

A thunderous roar echoed as Zhang Fei, leading another squad, charged into the Yellow Turban camp. Black inner energy swept out with the dance of his serpent spear, felling swathes of Yellow Turban soldiers. Some, upon spotting Zhang Fei from afar, were so terrified they stood rooted to the spot, only to be mercilessly shoved to the ground by their fleeing comrades and trampled into the dirt.

By the time Liu Bei and Sun Meng arrived, the Yellow Turban stronghold was strewn with bodies and trembling, surrendered soldiers. Guan Yu and Zhang Fei had already ceased the slaughter, doing their utmost to gather up the surrendering Yellow Turbans.

Yet with limited manpower, the final count of prisoners barely reached five thousand. There was, however, a considerable haul of weapons, food supplies, and even some gold and silver.

Collecting and sorting the spoils took even longer than the day’s battle. Still, when all was counted, the gains were substantial.

“How many innocent families must have been destroyed by these wretched bandits?” Liu Bei looked upon the wagons of loot with a mix of sorrow and anger.

“They had only two choices: be killed when the Yellow Turbans swept through, or join them for a chance at a meal. So while their army is vast, true soldiers among them are few. But these people… ah—” Sun Meng sighed. In times like these, it was hard to speak of right or wrong for these refugees.

“Why are there so few women and children among these refugees?” Liu Bei dismounted and searched among the surrendered, finding only a handful of women and children—those children barely eleven or twelve, none younger, and no pregnant women at all.

“They’re dead,” came a voice.

Liu Bei turned to see a filthy, scrawny boy of about eleven or twelve, a knife wound visible on his bare arm.

Crouching down, Liu Bei drew the child closer. “Tell me, how did you all come to follow the Yellow Turbans?” He’d meant to call them “bandits,” but noticed the scrap of yellow cloth tucked in the boy’s shirt.

“When the general attacked outside the city, brothers inside flung open the gates—killed corrupt officials and rich families. If you wanted to eat, if you wanted a future, you marched with the army. I was about to become a full member—never thought you officials would kill our general. You’re the true villains!” The boy’s final words were almost a scream, his furious gaze locked on Liu Bei.

“You think the Yellow Turbans are just, and the government soldiers all evil?” Liu Bei gently wiped the grime from the boy’s face.

“If our army takes a city, we get a feast. If we see government troops, we’re all doomed! The court never cared if we poor folks lived or died. The fields yield nothing, but taxes are still demanded! If the army hadn’t stormed the city, my mother and I would have starved!” The boy yelled, shoving Liu Bei, knocking him back a step.

“Inner energy!” Liu Bei, seeing the boy collapse, quickly caught him. Rising, he addressed the crowd, “I know many of you were once good people, forced by disaster to join the Yellow Turbans. I promise you this: surrender, and the strong can serve as soldiers under me; the others will be cared for. You will live!”

The prisoners looked up, some fearful, some hopeful, others hesitant.

“I am Liu Bei—Liu Xuande—descendant of Prince Jing of Zhongshan! My words are my bond. Trust me, and trust the Han!” He gazed earnestly at them. “Who wishes to join my ranks?”

“I… can I?” A man stood, not especially robust but muscled.

“You can!”

“Count me in!” Another rose, soon joined by several others.

“Good, good! All are welcome!” Liu Bei signaled for his men to separate the volunteers, a faint smile on his face. He did pity these refugees, but none of the surrendered fighters had unstained hands—by Han law, they all deserved death. Yet desperate times called for different measures, and he saw an opportunity to build his own following, to achieve great deeds.

“I… I want to be a soldier…”

Liu Bei looked to the boy in his arms, who had opened his eyes, clutching Liu Bei’s tunic, his gaze resolute.

“You trust me now? You don’t hate us anymore?” Liu Bei asked gently.

“I trust you. I want to live. Mother wanted me to live well!” The boy’s eyes reddened, though no tears would come.

“Very well! You will be my personal guard! What is your name, your courtesy name? How old are you?” Liu Bei smiled, setting him down.

“Liao Hua, courtesy Yuanchang. Twelve years old.” The boy seemed revived, the faint glimmer of inner energy now nourishing his body.

Sun Meng’s brows lifted—Liao Hua, here? But it made sense: with so many refugees swept up by the Yellow Turbans, and this just the beginning, it was no surprise. Liao Hua’s talent wasn’t extraordinary, but among the Yellow Turbans, he was above average. After Zhang Jue’s defeat, it wasn’t impossible for him to rise as a minor leader.

Though this world wasn’t short on power, the methods of cultivation were tightly held by great families, making the disciples of martial masters highly sought after. For most, activating inner energy required a combination of talent, nourishment, and willpower, reaching a critical threshold. Liao Hua had, clearly, used sheer force of will to make up for the other deficiencies—but progress would now slow for a time.

“Congratulations, Xuande! The boy has exceptional resolve—if his nutrition keeps pace, he’ll become a fine general one day,” Sun Meng said.

Liu Bei smiled, then turned to address the prisoners: “You see, I don’t kill those who can’t serve as soldiers. I can’t promise comfort, but I can let you live!”

“General, we can still help!” A woman stood, and any woman who had survived this far with the Yellow Turbans was no weakling. While not soldiers, they could still work.

With the battlefield cleared and the spoils secured, Liu Bei had gained greatly: seven thousand in all, three thousand fit for immediate service. Two thousand more, strong but untrained, could serve as auxiliary troops. Five hundred, including able women, would serve in logistics. Liu Bei’s force now swelled to six thousand.

The remaining fifteen hundred were not useless old or feeble folk—anyone who’d marched this far with the Yellow Turbans was no weakling. These were all Yellow Turban cult soldiers, and in some ways, more formidable than the newly conscripted men. But winning their loyalty was unlikely. Liu Bei handed them over to Zou Jing, along with several wagons of supplies and captured spoils.

“Hahaha! Congratulations, Xuande! This victory is complete—I’ve already prepared a memorial to the Governor. Soon, you’ll be appointed to your own command!” Zou Jing grew ever warmer toward Liu Bei. Though Liu Bei had started as a commoner, his connection to Liu Yan and his confirmed lineage made him a valuable asset. With Guan Yu and Zhang Fei at his side, and Sun Meng’s clear support, Zou Jing suspected Liu Yan was cultivating Liu Bei as a backup for future use.

“Likewise, my friend! With the Yellow Turbans routed, your merit is great as well—surely a promotion awaits you!” Liu Bei replied with a smile.

Meanwhile, Liu Yan received Zou Jing’s report and saw for himself Liu Bei’s abilities. What had begun as a casual attempt to recruit a fallen clansman had uncovered a true talent. With Guan and Zhang, and Sun Meng’s extraordinary archery, Liu Yan took notice. The Yellow Turban affair also highlighted pressing issues.

“The times have changed—power lies in armies and authority now. The capital is no longer the best place to be.” Liu Yan gazed out the window, then called out, “Send word: let Xuande lead his men, and Zou Jing detach five thousand elite troops to reinforce Qing Province!”