3. An Encounter with a Renowned General

After eating and drinking their fill, the group broke into clusters of five or ten, chatting amongst themselves; of course, there were also a few who, having just lost loved ones, wept in silence.

“You’re quite a fierce young man! Have you killed before?” Wang Bo asked the burly fellow.

The big man looked blank for a moment, then grinned sheepishly.

Wang Bo shook his head, half amused, and punched the man’s arm. “I’m talking to you! Damn, you’re solid!” He exaggeratedly shook out his hand.

A look of struggle flashed across the man’s face. After hesitating, he said, “I have killed a few! But all of them deserved it!”

“If someone deserves to die, you kill them. Nothing to be ashamed of in that,” Wang Bo replied indifferently. As soon as he finished, he suddenly paused—when had he become so calm about killing? In his previous life, even watching a sheep or pig slaughtered was too much for him—he’d always turn away. Was it because he’d seen vengeful ghosts, or because of the bloody scenes just now? Had his heart hardened?

As he pondered, the big man leaned over and rumbled in his ear, “Actually, I could have taken them all out myself…” He thought he was whispering, but at least a dozen people nearby heard every word.

“Pfft! Hahaha…” Wang Bo couldn’t help laughing. The big man’s face turned bright red as he hastily insisted, “Really! I’m not lying!”

Holding his belly, Wang Bo tried to stop laughing: “If you could kill all those soldiers, why were you running away like us?”

“Heh! Taking down a dozen soldiers is nothing! But I’m afraid of their bows and arrows!”

“The squad chasing us didn’t shoot any arrows, though. Why didn’t you just charge in and save us all from being hunted half to death?”

“I was waiting for them to get off their horses. Only then did I realize they’d run out of arrows!” His words drew a round of laughter.

“Are you really that strong?”

Seeing Wang Bo was still skeptical, the big man glanced at the doubtful faces around him. “Don’t believe me? Watch this…” He looked left and right, hefted his broadsword, and walked toward a tree with a trunk over a foot thick.

With a crash, the tree toppled. When he saw everyone craning their necks in silence, he felled another tree, as thick as an ox’s waist. Then, stepping over to two nearly side-by-side trees nearly a meter thick, he gave a mighty shout, swung his blade—and with a crack, the first tree fell, but the second didn’t budge.

Everyone stared: the broadsword had snapped clean off at the hilt! Before they could react, the big man, a bit annoyed, tossed away the broken handle, lifted his foot, and kicked the tree with a thud. The tree groaned and swayed, but didn’t fall, though it now leaned sharply to one side, its trunk covered with fresh white splinters.

He plopped down on the ground, then got up, brushing off his trousers as he walked back, sheepishly saying, “Haven’t had enough to eat these days! Didn’t use my full strength!”

A collective gasp was followed by raucous laughter and then a chorus of admiration. Wang Bo patted the grass mat beside him and nodded in praise. “Good strength! Good strength!” One fellow who’d gone to check the tree came back shouting, “A true Hercules! Another Fan Kuai reborn!”

“Damn, did we just run into a legend?” Wang Bo was a little excited. Wrapping an arm around the big man’s shoulder, he asked, “Brother, what’s your name?”

“My surname is Xu, Xu Chu by full name, but folks call me Xu the Clumsy. Although, I’m not really clumsy! Anyone who calls me that I’ve taught a lesson!”

“Xu Chu… Wait, Xu Chu?!” Wang Bo’s eyes widened. “No way… Is this the legendary Tiger Fool? This is no ordinary powerhouse… Damn, I… I… I’ve fought side by side with the famous Tiger Fool of the Three Kingdoms!” Lost in exultation, Wang Bo barely heard a word that followed.

Only when Xu Chu nudged him did he snap out of it, finding everyone staring at him strangely—while drool ran down his chin, and his probably ridiculous expression made it worse.

“Alright!” Awkwardly wiping his mouth, he clapped twice like a madman, then, realizing it looked odd, switched to patting Xu’s shoulder. After a few pats, noticing the odd glances, he forced a smile and said, “Forgive me! I was lost in thought!”

“Big brother, did you just remember something good?” Xu Chu asked.

“Nothing, nothing!” Wang Bo replied, then cautiously, “Brother Chu, do you have a courtesy name?”

“My courtesy name is Zhongkang. The village schoolmaster gave it to me! I’m not well-schooled, so I don’t usually tell people, lest I disgrace scholarship.”

“Ah… Good, good! That’s right!” Wang Bo beamed. “Seems my luck has finally turned—just after crossing over, I’m showered with good fortune! Hahaha… Like Lin Daiyu dropping from the heavens!” He was so giddy he could barely contain himself.

The group grew more animated after this, exchanging stories. It turned out Xu Chu hailed from Xu Family Village in Qiao County, Qiao State. Outraged by the frequent raids from nearby bandits, he’d joined the army to protect his home. When the Yellow Turban Uprising broke out, he was sent to Ji Province to suppress Zhang Jue. At first, he was excited, but he soon saw the army’s discipline was worse than the bandits’. Unable to stomach it, he quarreled with his commander and was beaten; in a fit of anger, he killed his superior and deserted, intending to return home. Along the way, he disguised himself to escape from marauding soldiers, but his luck ran out, and he was caught between a large band of Yellow Turbans and government troops. Though only seventeen or eighteen, he was as strong as an ox, famous throughout his hometown, unchallenged by any, but also loyal and kindhearted. Even during their flight, he often yelled at the slower ones to hurry—not the gentlest method, but it showed his care, making Wang Bo feel closer to him.

The slender young men were hunters from a nearby mountain village. Poor harvests and burdensome taxes led most youths to learn hunting from childhood, supplementing the family income. Though not burly, they were all lean muscle, swift and nimble on mountain paths.

A few days ago, Yellow Turban fugitives passed through their village, seizing people as human shields. Their families were scattered or killed, most likely victims of the chaos, leaving only the six of them to flee together.

The eldest was twenty-one, called Niu Da, followed by Niu Meng, Niu Hong, Niu Dazhuang, Niu Er, and Niu Feihu—all skilled archers. Niu Da and Niu Er were brothers; Niu Feihu, the youngest at sixteen, was the most spirited and clever-looking.

Suppressing his excitement, Wang Bo chatted with Xu Chu and the Niu brothers, then was approached by another group. He barely managed a polite laugh, remembering only the two who’d first ambushed the enemy with him. The tall, dark-skinned one was Zhou Xiu, the shorter, slightly chubby one was Wang Qi, both from nearby villages and seized by Yellow Turban stragglers.

Finally, a middle-aged man in tattered scholar’s robes, who had been lingering at the side, approached with a fawning smile. Bowing deeply, he declared, “Leader Wang, you are a hero descended from the heavens! I am in awe. I beg you to overlook any past offenses and take me in. I’ll be forever grateful, and in my next life, I will repay your kindness tenfold!” He bowed to the ground.

“What nonsense.” Wang Bo looked at him expressionlessly. “Besides being timid, what skills do you have? Why should we take you along?”

The scholar answered with a wry smile, “I’m not strong…but I have some learning—does that count?” Seeing Wang Bo snort, he added quickly, “I know a bit of medicine, though—”

Wang Bo cut off his florid speech and, pointing at two men with minor knife wounds, gestured for him to help.

The scholar scurried over, his robe tattered by thorns, somehow already clutching a handful of herbs. He mashed them in a helmet, gently applied the paste to the wounds, and used his own robe to make bandages.

Wang Bo went over to look. The wounds, which had still been bleeding, soon stopped—clearly, the remedy worked. The scholar finished bandaging, then returned to Wang Bo, standing meekly by his side.

A resourceful fellow: skilled in medicine and quick-tongued, though perhaps a bit too slippery.

“Hmm, you’re somewhat useful. You can stay.” Wang Bo drawled.

“Thank you, Leader Wang! My name is Chen Rong, courtesy Mingyi, from Runan, Yuzhou. I came to Zhongqiu in search of my unfortunate nephew, but was captured. Thanks to your rescue, I am eternally grateful. I pledge to—”

“Enough! I get it. Go tend to the wounded,” Wang Bo interrupted impatiently.

A meal of wild greens and horse meat soup left everyone rosy-cheeked and satisfied. Afterward, they lay back in the grass, dozing contentedly.

Before Wang Bo had time to clear his mind, Chen Rong sidled up again, fawning. “Leader, what about that fellow…” He gestured toward the captured enemy officer, who was tied to a tree, glaring with his big red eyes and panting heavily.

Wang Bo slapped his thigh and walked over, pulling the rag and grass from the officer’s mouth, then stared him down.

In less than a quarter of an hour, the officer finally turned aside and muttered, “I have nothing to say!” Wang Bo sneered, beckoning for Chen Rong to hand him a dagger.

Waving the blade before the officer’s face, the man protested, “I am but a lowly squad leader; there’s little I know!” He opened and shut his mouth, then fell silent.

“Not talking? I’ll help you remember.”

For Wang Bo, with his modern experience, extracting information from the officer was child’s play.

The officer, a native of Yanmen County in Bing Province, had fled the northern tribes as a child, wandering with his family before settling in Ji Province—only to find chaos there as well. The government colluded with local gentry to oppress the people, and the land was plagued by bandits and war, leaving nowhere safe. He joined the military, serving in the government’s campaign against the Yellow Turbans. His build, strong as a bull, and his valor earned him command of a scouting team. By rights, he should have been promoted, but his officers claimed most of the credit, only putting him in the vanguard during each assault. His huge eyes and fierce appearance led his superiors to nickname him “Li Big-Eye,” a name that stuck and overshadowed his real one. Li Big-Eye didn’t mind, often boasting of it.

He wasn’t particularly loyal to the Han, nor was he especially brave, so before Wang Bo even resorted to harsh methods, he spilled everything he knew.

From Li’s account, Wang Bo learned that it was now late autumn in the first year of Zhongping, under Emperor Ling of Han. The main Yellow Turban forces in Ji Province had been crushed by General-in-Chief Huangfu Song, leading elite imperial troops in a surprise attack. Zhang Jue was dead, Zhang Liang killed, and hundreds of thousands of Yellow Turbans were slaughtered. The remaining forces had scattered westward, hoping to hide in the vast Pangu Mountains and rise again.

The Yellow Turbans’ “General of the Earth,” Zhang Bao, was besieged at Xiequyang by Huangfu Song and Prefect Guo Dian. The provincial army, to which Li belonged, had orders to intercept and kill fleeing Yellow Turbans along their route.

The government troops who had just slaughtered the Yellow Turbans numbered only five hundred, but their equipment was far superior to that of the rebels. Most of the Yellow Turban fighters were just local peasants pressed into service; without time to escape into the hills, they were surrounded and massacred, with only a handful getting away.

The victorious troops sent out two patrol teams of twenty men each; one had already been wiped out by Wang Bo’s group, which put his mind at ease.

As dusk fell—late autumn, with long nights and short days—Wang Bo consulted Niu Da, the hunter, and learned there was a small cliff and some hunter-dug caves nearby, suitable for resting. The group packed up, led their horses, and set out.

Once settled in the cave, Wang Bo gathered the twenty-odd timid followers and had Zhou Xiu and Wang Qi direct them to continue sharpening short spears—thick as an arm, for real killing power. They were to sleep in makeshift grass shelters; only those who worked could sleep in the cave.

Others were divided into teams: some cleared trees and brush to make a clearing in front of the cave as a defense against wild animals; some worked on the mountain path for a quick escape if soldiers attacked; others tended the horses and gathered wild vegetables.

He also ordered the Niu brothers to take the captured soldiers’ hardwood bows, fashion arrow shafts from sturdy mountain branches, tip them with iron, and hunt wild rabbits and pheasants. The Niu brothers readily agreed.

In ancient mountain forests, these were truly the poor man’s treasure. Wild animals abounded, as did fruits and greens. No wonder, when people couldn’t survive, they fled to the mountains and became bandits.

Wang Bo took special note of the wood they used for arrow shafts: just like the “Six-Stripes” he’d played with as a child in his home village—a thin bark outside, white wood within, six straight shallow grooves along the length, no leaves except a few sharp ones at the top, extremely drought-resistant and slow-growing, straight and hard as iron, rarely bending, and very springy. Village elders used it for whips or roofing, craftsmen made steamer bottoms from it, lasting years longer than bamboo. Perfect for arrow shafts.

As twilight deepened, Wang Bo led Xu Chu and a few others, taking all the water skins, and rode back to the stream for water.

The three led their horses cautiously through the woods, watching the stream for some time before riding down. Why ride slowly? Because Wang Bo had only ever ridden a donkey before. Mounting the tall warhorse had taken all his effort, but he managed, copying his donkey-riding posture, and thankfully the horse was gentle. It merely glanced at him with big, furry eyes and snorted as if laughing.

By the time they returned with the water, Wang Bo had begun to get used to the broad horse’s back, loosening his death grip on the mane. He gave a mocking snort at Zhou Xiu and Wang Qi, who had been suppressing laughter, and rode proudly into the woods.

No wonder people in his past life, once they made some money, loved to ride horses and show off—the feeling up here was truly something!

With the rhythmic rise and fall, he dared to let go with one hand, waving his sword, his previous gloom swept away, an uncontainable heroism welling up: “With a horse beneath me, the world is mine!” If not for the fear of attracting government troops, he’d have shouted his heart out, venting years of pent-up frustration and resentment.