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

When Shen Du opened his eyes, there was a river in front of him.

The river was wide and murky, flowing mightily from west to east. Withered branches and bits of grass floated on its surface, while the reeds on the opposite bank swayed in the morning breeze, forming a gray-white wave. He stood on the north bank, his feet on the frozen, hard yellow earth, behind him a dense array of tents and banners, one banner embroidered with a huge character "Qin". He looked down at his hands—rough, dark, with calluses on his knuckles from years of wielding weapons. He gripped a long spear; the shaft was made of ordinary hardwood, the tip of which was cast iron, polished to a high shine.

A massive influx of information suddenly flooded his mind. This world was completely different from the previous two instances he had entered—not the Ming Dynasty, not the Jingnan Rebellion, but the Fei River more than a thousand years ago. He was now called Shen Du, the same name he used in the previous two instances; the system seemed to have already automatically bound this name to his account. His identity was that of an ordinary infantryman in the Former Qin army, belonging to the vanguard battalion under Fu Rong's central army. He had just been pulled out of the main camp outside Chang'an three days ago, following hundreds of thousands of troops southward. The original owner of this body was a farmer from Guanzhong, whose ancestors had farmed for three generations. He had been conscripted into the Former Qin army last autumn and sent to the battlefield after less than three months of training. Infantrymen like him were everywhere in the Former Qin camp—some from Longxi, some from Bingzhou, some from Liaodong, and some from Bashu. Soldiers wearing all sorts of uniforms moved about the camp, speaking a variety of languages: Guanzhong dialect, Longxi dialect, Bingzhou dialect, Liaodong dialect, and even Xianbei and Qiang languages. Some people can't understand each other at all and can only use hand gestures.

"This is what you call a large army?" Shen Du squatted by the river and washed his face with the water. The icy water made him shiver, but it also cleared his mind. In his previous life, he was a military academy war history instructor, specializing in ancient warfare. He knew the Battle of Fei River intimately. In the eighth year of the Taiyuan era, Fu Jian, the emperor of the Former Qin, mobilized 870,000 troops from across the country, claiming to be a million, and launched a massive invasion southward, intending to destroy the Eastern Jin, which was confined to the south of the Yangtze River. On the Eastern Jin side, Xie An was stationed in Jiankang, while Xie Shi and Xie Xuan led 80,000 Beifu soldiers to meet the enemy. This was the most lopsided battle in the history of ancient Chinese warfare—870,000 against 80,000, a ratio of ten to one, a crushing defeat in any military textbook.

But what was the result? The Former Qin army suffered a crushing defeat. Not just a defeat, but a rout. The 870,000-strong army collapsed entirely on the banks of the Fei River, trampling each other, resulting in countless deaths and injuries. Fu Jian himself was wounded by an arrow and fled back to Huaibei alone. The Former Qin Empire never recovered, and the north fell into division once more. The reasons for this rout are easy for Shen Du to recall: the Former Qin army was internally divided, with many harboring their own ambitions and morale low; Zhu Xu's shout of "The Qin army has been defeated!" from the rear triggered a chain of panic; the rout, with its "every whisper of the wind and the cry of the cranes, every bush and tree an enemy soldier," spread from localized areas to the entire army. More importantly—Fu Jian stretched his battle lines too thin; the vanguard reached the Fei River, while the rearguard was still on the road from Chang'an to Luoyang. The 870,000-strong army was never fully assembled; only the vanguard of less than 200,000 was actually engaged in battle.

He knew the script for this war. The problem was that others didn't.

Shen Du stood up and wiped his face with his sleeve. He walked deeper into the camp, passing tents and bonfires. Soldiers sat around the fires, chatting in various dialects. Some boasted loudly about how much gold and silver they would plunder in Jiangnan, others complained quietly about insufficient food, and still others squatted in corners, silently sharpening their knives—the blades were still dull after a long time, as they were defective products from a blacksmith's shop. These soldiers had no idea what they were about to face—they didn't know how fierce the Beifu soldiers, fighting with their backs to the river, were, didn't know that Zhu Xu would shout the fatal "The Qin army has been defeated!" behind them, and didn't know that the phrase "the wind whispers and the cranes cry, every bush and tree seems like an enemy soldier" would become their nightmare for the rest of their lives. They thought following Fu Jian's million-strong army south was just a formality, and that the powerful families of the Eastern Jin, who had retreated to Jiangnan, were utterly vulnerable. After all, the ten-to-one numerical advantage was undeniable—who in history had ever seen 80,000 men defeat 800,000?

No one told them that 600,000 of those 800,000 were still on their way. Even less did anyone tell them that half of the 200,000 vanguard were conscripted tribesmen from various ethnic groups who didn't want to fight and were simply waiting for a chance to escape.

As Shen Du walked past the largest tent in the center of the camp, he peeked through the gaps in the tent flap and saw that it was brightly lit inside. A huge sheepskin map was spread out inside, and a middle-aged general in golden armor stood before it, drawing something on it with his finger. That was Fu Jian—the emperor of the Former Qin Dynasty, a man who, after unifying the north, began to believe he could truly unify the entire country. His face wore an expression of unwavering confidence, and his voice, loud and clear, came through the tent flap.

"Throw whips to stop the river." Fu Jian's voice came from inside the tent. "I have a million soldiers. If each of them throws a whip, we can cut off the Yangtze River. Can the small force of the Eastern Jin Dynasty stop my iron cavalry?"

A chorus of agreement rose from inside the tent. Shen Du listened outside, remaining silent. The phrase "throwing a whip to stop a river" had become a joke in later generations, but at this moment in the Former Qin camp, it was a truth everyone firmly believed in. Just as he was about to turn and leave, a semi-transparent screen flashed before his eyes.

[Instance: Battle of Fei River]

[Time: Winter of the eighth year of the Taiyuan era]

Location: North bank of the Fei River, vanguard camp of the Former Qin army.

[Identity: Infantryman of the Former Qin Army]

[Initial Reputation Value: 0]

[Special Note: The player has completed two war instances (Baigou River and Jingnan Campaign), and the accumulated reputation points have met the unlock requirements. Activate the title "Soldier Who Crossed the River"?]

Shen Du's gaze lingered on the screen for a moment. The title "Pawn Crossing the River"—this title had followed him since the Baigou River arc, and by the time of the Jingnan Campaign, it had risen several levels. He had glanced at the system panel before the last instance ended; the title's level and buffs were still active. He chose to activate it.

[The title "Pawn Crossing the River" has been activated. Current level: LV3. Strength, Agility, and Constitution each increase by 25% when advancing. All three attributes decrease by 25% when retreating. The cumulative number of kills while advancing has met the upgrade requirements. Further upgrades can be achieved by completing designated objectives within this dungeon.]

The buffs were significantly higher than in the previous instance. Shen Du turned off the light screen and found a spot to sit by the campfire. The firelight illuminated his rough hands and the gleaming tip of his spear. His expression was calm, but his mind was racing. 800,000 against 80,000—the numerical advantage was overwhelming, but he already knew the outcome. What he needed to think about now was how to survive this inevitable collapse. Not only survive, but also gain enough reputation points in the process.

His only advantage was that he knew the script for this war. From every detail of the Battle of Fei River, to Zhu Xu's shout from behind the lines, to the Qin army's complete collapse after their defeat, where "every whisper of the wind and every bush seemed like an enemy soldier," he knew it all. The problem was, this information couldn't be used directly. If he stood up now and told Fu Jian, "Your Majesty, your army will collapse," he would only be beheaded as a traitor trying to demoralize the army. Even if he found Zhu Xu and told him, "I know what you'll shout from behind the lines," people would just think he was crazy, or simply silence him first. The value of this information gap wasn't in directly telling others—it was in that while everyone else was still fighting, he had already positioned himself, waiting for the moment of collapse.

Shen Du stood up and brushed the dirt off his knees. The bugle sounded in the camp—the signal to assemble. Centurions from each battalion began urging men from tent to tent, their gruff shouts echoing, dragging sleeping soldiers from their bedding. The Former Qin army's lines stretched for dozens of miles along the north bank of the Fei River, their banners blotting out the sun. On the opposite bank, the Eastern Jin's Northern Army had already formed ranks. The 80,000-strong force was tightly packed, shields in front, spears behind, their formation as solid as an iron plate. Though few in number, each soldier's posture exuded a quiet calm—not the calm of fearlessness, but the calm of someone who had already given their life. Because behind them lay Jiankang, the Yangtze River, the last inch of Eastern Jin's territory. There was no retreat; they could only fight to the death.

Shen Du stood in the vanguard of the Former Qin army, spear in hand, his gaze sweeping across the Northern Army formation on the opposite bank, then back to the Qin soldiers beside him. Some were spitting on their spears, saying it made them slipperier; others were yawning, saying they hadn't slept well the night before; still others wore their helmets backwards, because wearing them straight would flatten their hair. This group wasn't there to fight—they were there to stroll. In their eyes, 80,000 men blocking the path of a million-strong army were like ants in front of a carriage. They didn't need to fight; they just needed to follow the main force.

Shen Du lowered his head and rubbed the tip of his spear on the ground. He was waiting. Waiting for Fu Jian to order a retreat, waiting for Zhu Xu to shout that fatal cry of "The Qin army has been defeated!" from behind the lines, waiting for this seemingly powerful million-strong army to begin to crumble from within. He knew that moment would come soon. And what he needed to do was to position himself in the most suitable position before that moment arrived. On the opposite bank of the river, in the ranks of the Northern Army, a commander's flag embroidered with the character "Xie" fluttered slightly in the morning breeze. Shen Du looked at that flag and remembered many years ago when he was teaching this history to his cadets at the military academy. One cadet asked him, "If it were you, what would you have done at that time?" He had said then, "I couldn't do anything. In the face of the torrent of history, one person is too insignificant." Now he stood in this torrent. He couldn't change the course of this war—but he could find his own path in this torrent.

The bugle calls grew louder and louder, and the Qin army's lines began to advance. Shen Du gripped his spear tightly and took a step forward.