Great Tang Idyll - Volume 4 Chapter 225

Snow and ice dimmed the light, hiding sharp edges. A myriad of soldiers lay concealed just a few paces away, clenching their teeth against the cold. Clothes came off, chests were bared—when steel met steel, courage mattered most, and nothing could hinder the pursuit of souls.

Wang Juan truly had not expected that after the main Tibetan force passed, the next to arrive would not be the reserve troops meant to reinforce key positions, but instead the grain-escort unit.

If she let them pass, she would be as foolish as Guo Tu had been. In fact, even Guo Tu now understood that a battle had to be fought—if ten thousand refused to strike four thousand, then there was no reason to command troops at all.

Upon learning that the Tibetans escorting grain were approaching, Wang Juan immediately set up the ambush. Everyone drank the last of their liquor, loosened their clothes, removed them, laid them beneath their bodies, and lay motionless on top, waiting for the four thousand Tibetans to arrive.

Those who stripped were Guo Tu’s original men. The logistics unit kept their clothing on—they could not remove theirs, because they would be the ones charging first.

From the moment scouts reported the four thousand Tibetans to the moment they drew near, half an hour passed—an entire hour with over ten thousand lying flat, enduring the freezing mountain wind, all for the sake of initiating a sudden strike.

“Listen for my signal. The logistics unit moves first. Crossbowmen follow and suppress. When the blade-and-spear teams charge, crossbow volleys push forward. Win, and you’ll have everything. Prepare.”Wang Juan had the order relayed down line by line. 

Slightly nervous, she took out her fire-lance, breathing deeply. This was the first real battle she commanded in this era. She had to succeed—failure was not allowed.

The Tibetans escorting grain were also cautious. They knew their unit was the easiest target. Along the way they watched the surroundings warily, as if enemies hid behind every branch.

Some even shot arrows every so often toward places where men might be hiding, striking grass to startle snakes.

Just as the four thousand reached the ambush zone, some in their ranks shot arrows toward the slope. Most missed. But one arrow struck a Tang soldier in the shoulder.

With a muffled sound, the soldier bit down on his own arm, eyes wide, forcing himself not to cry out, letting the arrow remain without a single unnecessary movement.

From where Zhang Xiaobao hid, he could see the soldier clearly. He silently praised him and planned to reward him afterward.

Guo Tu held a knife. He knew he had no place in command now, so he would kill as many as he could—to at least excuse himself. Even if he died, he would die fighting.

The Tibetan archers could not distinguish what their arrows had hit at such distance. They fired out of habit, then stopped paying attention and continued forward.

“Attack!”

Crack.

Seeing the enemy step into the designated kill-zone, Wang Juan pulled the trigger. The flint struck the match, igniting it. She shouted and fired down the slope.

The moment her voice rang out, countless single-use rocket tubes streaked downward trailing long plumes of smoke, exploding in the enemy formation. Thunderous blasts rolled across the mountainside. Crossbow volleys followed, striking the Tibetans even though they had been alert.

“Kill!” The blade-and-spear troops charged behind the logistics unit.

The Tibetans, startled by the explosions, tried to regroup into companies, attempting to form a defense to meet the assault.

The logistics unit reached them first. At twenty paces, they pulled out fire-lances and fired wildly. Whole swathes of Tibetans fell. At ten paces, sleeve-arrows felled another group. Then the Huomiao Team lit their matchcords and hurled grenades into the crowd.

The Tibetans were not lacking in bravery, but they had never seen such weapons. One encounter left them dumbfounded. Explosions like thunder rolled across the slope, and countless bare-chested Tang soldiers rushed down with broadswords and spears, shouting as they charged.

In just moments, five or six hundred Tibetans fell. By the time they realized it was Tang troops attacking, it was too late. The Tang soldiers, with no armor on their bodies, had no thought of dodging—only of attacking, and attacking again.

Zhang Xiaobao held his fire-lance beside Wang Juan, watching the battlefield intently so no stray shot would hit her.

“Sound the horn. Order the logistics unit to break their line. First Battalion, flank left. Second Battalion, forcefully penetrate. Crossbowmen fire in spread volleys. Strongbow teams prepare. Scouts search for the enemy commander—targeted elimination. Seventh Battalion move—don’t bother with formal battlefield etiquette—circle behind the enemy, quickly, run! Eighth Battalion, support the center—don’t get bogged down, cut and surround quickly. Tenth Battalion, fire-arrows on the grain.”

As her orders spread, horns blared over the battlefield. Of the ten battalions, only the Ninth remained beside Wang Juan. The other nine plunged into the fight.

With a telescope in hand, she issued commands, adjusting formations and observing the battle as a whole.

“Order Fourth Battalion to contract. Fifth Battalion shift right. Crossbowmen abandon bows—engage in close combat, reinforce Fourth Battalion. Scouts coordinate with strongbow troops to eliminate enemy braves. Ninth Battalion, First, Second, and Third teams—spears forward, push up, spread horizontally. Hold.”

The Tibetan forces had already lost their commander and were fighting separately. Under Wang Juan’s commands, the three teams of the Ninth Battalion—nearly six hundred men—spread horizontally, stepping forward with spears leveled. No matter how the panicked Tibetans tried to break through in a last charge, the line held like an unmoving mountain.

With Wang Juan directing from above, the Tibetans quickly became divided and surrounded. Already fewer in number, and now ambushed, they could only flee blindly, feeling enemies on every side. Those wearing armor discovered for the first time that armor in mountain forest combat was a hindrance.

Those on level paths fared slightly better. Those fighting on slopes and broken terrain struggled to maintain balance, while attacks came from every direction. Coordination with their own men became impossible.

“Find someone who speaks Tibetan. Call out—surrender and you won’t be killed.” Seeing the battle turn completely one-sided, Wang Juan finally exhaled.

Shouts rang out. 

Tibetans already shaken and demoralized dropped their weapons and knelt. Those few who resisted to the end were cut down.

The ambush—from start to finish—lasted more than half an hour. Every Tibetan commander had been eliminated by targeted shots. After counting, out of four thousand Tibetans, one thousand surrendered.

The Tang lost over six hundred lives—men who would never return home.

“Treat the wounded on the spot. Retrieve your clothes and put them on. Each man take ten days of grain from the Tibetan supplies. Burn the rest. Tie up the prisoners. At my order—kill.”

After the battle, Wang Juan issued instructions. When most tasks were completed, she gave the order. The blades fell on the thousand surrendered Tibetans—no prisoners were kept.

Knowing their fate, the Tibetans cursed, screaming that the Tang had broken their word. They had surrendered under the promise of being spared, yet none escaped death.

But the Tang soldiers ignored them. Once the order was given, blades rose and fell. Warm blood splashed across their bodies—at least it took off the cold.

“Record the names of the fallen. Move.” Wang Juan could not take prisoners, nor could she carry the bodies of the dead. They had to be left on the mountain—for the beasts, or for the Tibetans to vent their anger on.

With fewer than ten thousand remaining, the soldiers put on their clothes, carried ten days of grain, and disappeared into the mountains, leaving behind only blood, bodies, and the thick smoke rising from burning grain.

Exhausted but victorious, the soldiers moved quickly, obeying Wang Juan from the heart. Whoever could lead them to victory earned their respect.

Guo Tu and the other officers were watched and forced to follow. Their luck was good—none of them died. In fact, they killed quite a few. Their martial training helped. 

Although Guo Tu had made errors in command earlier, he was skilled in combat—he alone killed six Tibetans. His blade snapped, he was soaked in blood, and his right chest had been pierced more than an inch deep by someone. He bound it casually, letting blood soak through the cloth without a word of complaint.

He marched in silence. Occasionally, he glanced at Zhang Xiaobao and Wang Juan with an expression different from before. The officers finally understood: the true commander of the logistics unit was the little girl Wang Juan. Most commands had come from her.

Their internal judgment: ruthless, decisive, flawless in command. Her control of battlefield flow reached an unbelievable degree. At the height of chaos, she directed down to the squad level. Each strengthened battalion had nearly two hundred men; each squad consisted of four units.

In other words, this little girl commanded teams of around fifty men with precision: attack, defense, flanking, insertion, cover, encirclement. Countless squad-level units coordinated across the entire field. Horns, drums, and constantly changing flags never stopped in that fight.

The officers, shaken by her, wondered where this girl had come from and who had taught her. To command ten thousand to such a level was something ordinary people couldn’t even imagine.

Wang Juan herself felt no sense of achievement. Commanding at squad-level was nothing. Truly skilled commanders could direct by class-level, extracting maximum strength from every tiny unit. A squad was nearly fifty men—a class was only a handful.

The limitation lay in unfamiliarity with the troops and the signalmen lacking experience with such combat conditions. Otherwise, she could have commanded even finer divisions, saving even more lives.

And if she had a computer, the whole battlefield could be overseen at once—keyboard and mouse were far faster than verbal orders.