In this realistic war game, only I understand the course of the battle.

Sheng Yong waved his general's flag forward abruptly from the city wall.

"Order—collect the sacks!" His voice was torn to shreds by the wind and snow, but the messenger understood his gesture. The command flag on the city wall waved three times in the wind and snow, and the infantry formation pressed inward from both flanks simultaneously. The musketeers behind the trenches reloaded, and a second volley of lead bullets rained down from the flanks on the rear of Zhang Yu's remaining cavalry. The cannons on the city wall finally fired—not at the cavalry, but at the breached camp in the front lines of the Deer Horn District, which was attacking with all its might. Sheng Yong saw it clearly: that centurion surnamed Li was trying to divert his attention from Zhu Di with a frontal assault. He couldn't let him succeed.

The first shell struck the western side of the antler area, sending splinters of wood and frozen soil flying into the air. Two breaching soldiers were thrown to the ground by the blast wave. Shen Du didn't turn his head; his sword was planted in front of him as he crouched at the base of the antlers, using his dagger to cut the hemp rope binding them. His old left leg injury ached, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead, but his hand didn't tremble. He cut the last piece of rope with his dagger, stood up, and roared at Zhao Laoliu behind him, "Push!"

Zhao Laoliu and his men used their shoulders to push the deer's antlers outwards, the rotten wooden stakes snapping with a cracking sound, and a gap was forcibly created in the front of the antlers. Shen Du was the first to rush in. The passive state of a pawn crossing the river exploded the moment he stepped into the gap; power surged into his limbs, and he wielded his sword with a flourish, cleaving down the first spearman charging towards him. The blade sliced ​​between the spearman's shoulder armor and neck guard, drawing a spray of blood as it was pulled out.

"Breakthrough Battalion—press forward!" Shen Du's voice pierced through the artillery fire and snowstorm. Zhu Neng's main force of the Breakthrough Battalion pressed forward across the front trench, with infantry carrying ladders and sacks as they charged through the antler-shaped gap, filling the trench with sacks and using ladders to cross the hidden trench. The infantry formation, which had been pinned down by Sheng Yong, began to feel the pressure from the flank—the gap that Shen Du's centurion had torn open in the front of the antler-shaped area was widening, and Zhu Neng's main force was like a dull knife, slowly wedging itself in.

On the city wall, the man in the blue robe lowered his binoculars, his face grim. "General, the frontal antlers have been breached. Li Jingzhong didn't use the gap; he attacked head-on. The entire breaching camp is pressing forward. If our infantry formation doesn't move soon—the pocket will be torn open from the outside."

Sheng Yong tapped his fingers twice on the crenellations, the rhythm quick. "His reaction is quick. But it doesn't matter—Zhu Di is still in the trap. He tore open the front to divert our attention, giving Zhu Di room to break out. This precisely shows that Zhu Di is in great danger now." He turned to his adjutant behind him and said, "Order—turn all the cannons on the city wall towards the trenches and concentrate fire on Zhu Di's cavalry. The infantry on the front line must hold their ground and not retreat a single step. Have Ping An's cavalry circle around from the south and block Zhu Di's retreat route to the north."

Ping An's cavalry arrived faster than Sheng Yong had anticipated. The vanguard of the 200,000-strong army had reached the south of Dongchang by noon. Ping An himself, riding a gray horse, stood on the southern slope, looking ahead. The snow was still falling, but less so than in the morning. In the distance, smoke and snow mist mingled from the direction of the trenches, and the sounds of dense musket fire and the dying screams of cavalry could be heard. Zhang Yu was dead—this news spread with astonishing speed through Ping An's army. Cavalrymen began sharpening their swords on horseback, and their horses pawed excitedly. The body of Yan's top general still lay beside the trenches, and Zhu Di himself was behind them. This was the greatest victory of the entire Jingnan Campaign.

"Pass on the order," Ping An said to his deputy, his voice as cold as ice. "The cavalry will split into two groups. One will block the exit of the trench from the east, and the other will cut off the Yan army's retreat route to Cangzhou from the north. Today, we will either keep Zhu Di here, or he will lose his life here."

Zhu Di only truly realized the predicament he had entered after his sixth failed charge. The trench was too wide for his horse to leap over. The muskets were too dense; each charge was met with a layer of bullets. Zhang Yu's body was less than thirty paces away on the other side of the trench; he could see it, but he couldn't cross it. He wanted to rush over and pull Zhang Yu back, but his personal guards held his reins tightly—"Your Highness, if you charge any further, you really won't get out." Zhu Neng was charging in from the front to find him.

The frontal assault by the breaching camp forced Sheng Yong to redeploy some of his musketeers and spearmen to block the entrance to the antler area, slightly easing the pressure on the trenches. Zhu Neng, leading a dozen or so personal guards, crept along the edge of the trenches to the position where Zhu Di was surrounded. With his left hand, he slashed down two spearmen blocking his path with his sword, then smashed the back of the blade onto the helmet of a third man, knocking him unconscious. He then grabbed Zhu Di's horse reins.

"Your Highness!" Zhu Neng's voice was no longer a shout, but a plea. "General Zhang is gone! If you also perish here, the Yan army is finished! Hundreds of thousands of soldiers in Beiping are waiting for your return! I beg you—withdraw!"

Zhu Di remained silent. His hands, gripping the reins, turned white at the knuckles. The wind and snow stung his throat, and his lips moved a few times, but no sound came out. He stared at Zhang Yu's corpse across the moat for a long time. Then he sheathed his sword, his voice hoarse as if scraped from his throat: "Zhu Neng, listen to my command—take everyone and retreat. Retreat towards Cangzhou. I'll cover the rear."

Zhu Neng was stunned for a moment, but Zhu Di had already turned his horse around, facing the dark moat, and stood at the very back of everyone with his sword in hand.

Shen Du received the order to retreat at the breach in the Deer Horn District. The messenger stumbled and ran from the direction of the trench, followed by two mounted archers from the Doyan Three Guards, all three covered in blood. The messenger's voice was mostly drowned out by the sound of cannon fire, and Shen Du only heard a few fragmented words—"General Zhang is dead... Your Highness retreats... to cover the rear." He stood at the edge of the breach, leaning on his sword, the blood on his face frozen into dark red shards. Behind him, Zhao Laoliu was using his last throwing axe to knock back a charging Southern infantryman, Gu Zhang's swordsmen and shieldmen were desperately holding the line on both sides of the breach, and Huo Zhen's mounted archers were using arrows to delay the closing infantry formation on both sides.

"Centurion's Garrison—Retreat!" Shen Du gave the order. His voice was soft, but Zhao Laoliu heard it. Zhao Laoliu pulled his throwing axe from the helmet of a Southern Army infantryman, turned around, picked up a bundle of sacks that hadn't been filled into the trench, and followed Shen Du northward. Gu Zhang led his swordsmen and shieldmen in a fighting retreat. Zheng Biao switched to his third sword in this battle—the first one had been chipped, the second had been knocked away by a musket bullet, and the third was taken from a dead Southern Army captain, its hilt still stained with someone else's blood.

The Yan army began a full-scale retreat north. It wasn't an orderly retreat; it was a rout. The cavalry's horses' hooves were frozen in the snow, slipping and sliding. Infantry abandoned their baggage and armor, desperately fleeing north, trampling dozens along the way by pursuing Southern cavalry. Within half an hour of the Yan army's withdrawal, the eastern exit of the trench was sealed off by Ping'an cavalry. Zhu Di's last rearguard was riddled with bullets from muskets. Zhu Di himself, fiercely protected by Zhu Neng and Huo Zhen, charged through the still-unclosed northern breach. As he fought his way out, an arrow struck his arm, the arrowhead embedded in his forearm armor. He sliced ​​the shaft off with his own sword without uttering a sound.

The Yan army marched for over thirty li in one go, only stopping their retreat when they were certain they had shaken off their pursuers. The headcount, which began at dusk, continued until the third watch of the night. Shen Du sat in an abandoned earthen kiln beside the official road to Cangzhou, an oil lamp flickering in the cracks of the kiln walls, its flame swaying in the north wind. Zhao Laoliu squatted at the kiln entrance, a pipe in his mouth, unlit. He had left all his throwing axes at the foot of Dongchang City, only a chipped short-handled axe remained at his waist. No one spoke. Gu Zhang sat against the kiln wall, the blood on his left arm bandage completely dried and congealed into a dark brown lump. Zheng Biao placed the stolen knife on his knee, wiping it repeatedly. Less than a third of the Doyan Three Guards' mounted archers returned—the rest perished in the musket-blocked area Zhu Di had broken through during his breakout.

Zhu Neng pushed open the kiln door and entered at the fourth watch of the night. His right arm, slinged across his chest, was soaked with blood again, and he had a graze on his face, running from the edge of his helmet to his ear; the wound had scabbed over and was purple from the cold. He sat down opposite Shen Du, without a knife, holding a wine flask in his left hand. He placed the flask on the ground and pushed it towards Shen Du: "Zhang Yu is gone." Shen Du took the flask and took a sip; the strong liquor made him cough, burning from his throat all the way to his stomach.

"Where is His Highness?"

"He's alive. He's been shot in the arm with an arrow, which I pulled out myself. The wound is still bleeding, but it hasn't broken the bone. He won't sleep or eat. He sits alone on his horse, looking south, and no one can persuade him to stop." Zhu Neng took a sip of wine, and after a while, he slammed the wine bag down on the ground. "His Highness said—return to Beiping. Gather the remaining troops, reorganize the army, and fight again."

Shen Du remained silent. He placed the knife on his knees, its blade still stained with mud and blood from the battles of Dongchang. Zhang Yu was dead. The Yan army had suffered tens of thousands of casualties; almost all of their elite veterans, who had always been at the forefront of every battle, had perished on both sides of the trenches. Many "what ifs" swirled in his mind at this moment—if Zhang Yu hadn't charged directly into the breach, if he had discerned the subtleties in Sheng Yong's battle formation before the battle even began, perhaps the entire situation would have been different.

But war has no "what ifs." He looked down at his frostbitten fingers in the snow of Dongchang, the scars from repeated collisions and tears on his knuckles layered together, mixed with the calluses he'd developed when he first wielded a knife at Baigou River, making it impossible to distinguish which wound came from which battle. From Baigou River to Dezhou, from Dezhou to Jinan, from Jinan to Dongchang—he had fought for almost two years, capturing countless cities and strongholds, but this was his first defeat. He lost because of the hidden trenches, because of the poisoned crossbows, because of the three layers of defense that Sheng Yong and Qingshan had prepared for him in advance. A defeat is a defeat.

He pulled something from his pocket. It was the Southern Army command flag he always carried, which he had torn from the Baojiaying watchtower. He spread the flag on his lap and drew a line on it with the tip of his knife—below all the marks drawn in Jinan, he deeply carved out Dongchang. Then he folded the flag and put it back in his pocket.

"Beiping." Shen Du stood up, leaning on his sword, and returned the wine bag to Zhu Neng. Every joint in his body ached, and his left leg was almost unsteady, but his voice had returned to its usual calm. "Your Highness is right. Go back. Reorganize the army and fight again. But next time, we can't rely solely on cavalry charges—we must completely turn the page on scouting intelligence, battlefield mapping, and anti-ambush training. We've shed enough blood in Dongchang."