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

In the eleventh month of the eighth year of the Taiyuan era, at the Fei River.

After the Former Qin army's lines were deployed on the north bank of the Fei River, they remained inactive for three days. It wasn't that they didn't want to fight, but that they couldn't. Fu Jian had piled up his vanguard of 200,000 men on the riverbank, waiting for the main force of over 600,000 to arrive from the direction of Chang'an. But the battle line was too long—stretching over a thousand li from Chang'an to Luoyang, from Luoyang to Xiangcheng, and from Xiangcheng to the Fei River. The infantry in the rear were still climbing the slopes outside Tongguan, and the cavalry's hooves hadn't even touched the frozen surface of the Ying River. Fu Jian sent three scouts every day to urge the rear guard forward, and the news they brought back was increasingly frustrating: rain, bad roads, grain carts stuck in the mud, and they could only travel twenty li a day.

Shen Du squatted behind a frozen, hardened embankment on the riverbank, his spear resting across his knees, watching the Northern Army's position on the opposite bank. The past three days of waiting had given him ample time to observe the enemy's true situation. The Northern Army's camp was set up on Mount Bagong on the south bank of the Fei River. The tents were arranged neatly like squares on a chessboard, smoke rising and falling on a regular schedule. The sentry duty shifts changed every hour, the commands for changing shifts faintly audible across the river. Their shields were new, their spear tips gleaming, and the archers' quivers were full of arrows. Even more terrifying were their eyes—Shen Du had used a bronze mirror he'd picked up from the supply depot to observe the sentries on the opposite bank. Their eyes weren't those of a new recruit's panic, nor the emptiness of a veteran's, but a kind of stillness. Still as a stagnant pool, its surface teeming with daggers. These 80,000 men had been training in Jingkou for several years. Xie Xuan, who trained this Northern Army, was no ordinary man. He used the strictest military discipline and the most abundant provisions to train them into a sophisticated killing machine. And this machine was now crouching on the south bank of the Fei River, waiting for the million-strong army of the Former Qin to make the first move.

"Master Li—Master Shen," a thin-faced soldier approached, offering half a dry biscuit. "When do you think we're going to fight?" This man was Old Wei, one of the few infantrymen in the Former Qin army who could speak with Shen Du. A native of Guanzhong, in his early thirties, he had fought in several small battles and was considered a veteran. He called Shen Du "Master Shen" because Shen Du had once stunned a startled mule with the back of his sword during a march, saving a soldier who was being dragged along.

"Almost there." Shen Du took the dry biscuit and took a bite. The biscuit was so hard it hurt his teeth; it was mixed with wheat bran and bits of grass, and chewing it felt like eating a shoe sole. He swallowed the biscuit, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and said, "Do you think we can win?"

Old Wei looked around and lowered his voice: "Tell the truth?"

"to be honest."

"It's hard to say." Old Wei also squatted down, unconsciously tracing lines on the frozen ground with his fingers. "We have a lot of people, but what's the use of having a lot of people? Last night I was on watch, and in the tent next to me were three soldiers from Jizhou, speaking Xianbei, which I couldn't understand. There was also one from Bashu, speaking the local dialect, which I also couldn't understand. When the battalion commander called for assembly, they couldn't even distinguish the flags. How do you tell me how we're going to fight? In all the years I've fought, this is the first time I've seen an army that can't even understand its own people." He broke a dry biscuit in two, handing the larger piece to Shen Du, while he chewed on the smaller one.

Shen Du didn't reply. He knew what Lao Wei was saying, and not only he, but anyone with a modicum of intelligence could see it—the Qin army was incredibly complex. Di, Qiang, Xianbei, Xiongnu, and Han soldiers were forcibly mixed together, unable to understand each other's languages, using different banners, and many didn't even know who they were fighting for. They were subjects forcibly conscripted by Fu Jian after his military conquests. When Fu Jian unified the north, his slogan was "unifying the six kingdoms into one family," but a family isn't something that can be forcibly created. The conquered peoples only temporarily submitted; deep down, they were never truly submissive. On the battlefield, they only knew one thing—waiting for an opportunity to run.

At this moment, Fu Jian stood on a high slope outside his central command tent, holding a single-lens bronze mirror and gazing at Mount Bagong on the opposite bank. A breeze blew, causing the mirror's surface to sway slightly. The vegetation on Mount Bagong undulated in the north wind, the pine branches and withered grass blending together, appearing from afar like countless figures moving across the mountainside. Fu Jian put down the mirror and suddenly laughed: "Who says the Eastern Jin only has 80,000 men? I see soldiers everywhere on Mount Bagong; there are at least 100,000 more hidden troops lurking there."

Fu Rong, standing beside him, took the bronze mirror and examined it for a while, his brow furrowing. He was Fu Jian's younger brother and the actual commander of these 200,000 vanguard troops. He understood military affairs better than Fu Jian—he knew that what he saw in the bronze mirror was not an ambush, but the sound of the wind blowing through the grass and trees, the withered yellow pine branches swaying in the north wind in winter. But he could not contradict the emperor in public, especially in front of dozens of tribal leaders.

"Your Majesty," Fu Rong put down the bronze mirror and lowered his voice, "the grass and trees on the mountain are not an ambush. But Xie Xuan dared to deploy 80,000 men here, so he must have something to rely on. Although our vanguard is large, our rear guard has not yet arrived. It may not be safe to cross at this time. It would be better to wait for the rear guard to arrive—"

"Wait?" Fu Jian interrupted his brother, turning to look at the generals under his command. "How long have I been waiting? Three days, and the rear guard is still climbing the hill outside Tongguan. If we wait any longer, winter will be over. With the limited forces of the Eastern Jin, do we need to wait for the rear guard? The vanguard of 200,000 can easily push them over."

None of the generals dared to speak. The Di generals naturally echoed Fu Jian's sentiments, the Xianbei generals kept their heads down and remained silent, and the Qiang general Yao Chang stood in a corner with a barely perceptible smile on his lips. He saw the instability within the Qin army and the disciplined formation of the Eastern Jin's Northern Army. But he remained silent, simply standing quietly to the side. Shen Du recognized this expression—he had seen similar ones in Dezhou, on Li Jinglong's face, and on the faces of those generals who knew they would flee but hadn't yet.

"Give the order." Fu Jian shoved the bronze mirror into the hands of his personal guard. "The entire army shall prepare to cross the river. Tomorrow at Chenshi (7-9 AM), the vanguard will cross first, followed by the cavalry. Tell everyone—'Throwing whips can stop the flow of a river.' Today, let them see what it means to stop a river with whips."

Bugle calls echoed in the cold wind on the north bank, and the centurions of each battalion began urging their men from tent to tent. The Qin soldiers rose from their campfires, brushed the grass and dirt off their clothes, and picked up their various weapons, heading towards the river. Some walked quickly, their faces beaming with excitement—these men genuinely believed that throwing whips could stop the river; others walked slowly, their faces expressionless; still others looked back as they went, seemingly calculating how far they were from the nearest crossing. Shen Du walked side by side with Lao Wei, his gaze sweeping over the assembling crossing party on the riverbank, his mind racing with a calculation: how many of these soldiers truly wanted to fight, how many were waiting to flee, and how many would become bloodthirsty madmen once the rout began? After calculating, he switched his spear to his left hand and touched the short sword he had retrieved from the supply depot at his waist with his right. This sword was inherited from the system before the end of the previous dungeon—the title effect of "Crossing the River Pawn" was still there, granting a 25% bonus to all three attributes when advancing, and he still carried this passive ability in this dungeon.

"Old Wei," Shen Du said in a low voice, "After you cross the river, no matter what you see, don't run around. Stay close to me."

"Stay close to you?" Old Wei turned to look at him. "Master Shen, do you know something?"

"I only know one thing—800,000 against 80,000, it's not a case of the many fighting the few, it's a case of the many trampling the few. In the midst of the rout, the people can trample each other to death, killing far more people than the enemy."

Old Wei's Adam's apple bobbed: "Then what should we do?"

"We won't retreat. We'll fight our way forward. The safest place is right at the front." Shen Du looked into his eyes. "Because the front is all enemies, they won't trample you to death. The back is all our own people, they'll trample you to death."

Old Wei was silent for a while, then nodded vigorously.

At dawn the next day, before full light, a thin mist rose over the Fei River. The Former Qin army began to assemble and cross the river on the north bank. The first to cross was three thousand infantrymen from the vanguard, followed by Fu Rong's central cavalry, and then the main force personally overseen by Fu Jian. The crossing was carried out using hastily assembled wooden rafts and fishing boats requisitioned from nearby villages, far from sufficient. Each crossing could only transport a few hundred men at a time. Those who landed first secured landing points on the south bank, awaiting the arrival of the following troops.

Shen Du squatted on the first raft crossing the river. The raft was made of a dozen or so thick hemp ropes binding logs together; it creaked as he stepped on it, and river water surged up from the gaps between the logs, reaching above his ankles. He gripped his spear and squatted at the front of the raft, watching the increasingly close mudflats on the south bank through the thin mist. The Northern Army's position on the opposite bank was unnaturally quiet—no gongs, no bugles, no muskets. Their shield bearers formed an iron wall at the front, spearmen stood motionless behind them, and archers had nocked their arrows but had not yet raised them. They were waiting.

The moment the raft reached the shore, Shen Du was the first to jump off, his boots splashing in the icy, shallow water. A burning sensation surged through his feet—the passive ability of a soldier crossing the river had been activated the very first step towards the enemy. Strength flowed into his limbs, his agility increased, and the world before him became clearer and slower. He didn't look back at the Qin army landing behind him, nor did he wait for the following rafts to reach the shore. He lowered his body and made his way forward along a sparse patch of reeds on the right side of the mudflat, while pointing to the left, indicating that Lao Wei should go around from there.

"Don't follow the main group!" he whispered to Lao Wei. "The main group will be all crowded together when they get ashore, making them easy targets for arrows. Stay close to the reeds and wait for me behind that embankment."

Without questioning, Lao Wei crouched down and crept along the edge of the reeds.

The Qin vanguard began to assemble on the south bank beach. Three thousand men were crammed onto a stretch of mudflat no more than a hundred paces wide, with more and more men jumping off rafts. The entire beach resembled a pot of boiling porridge. Just then, the archers of the Northern Army finally raised their arrows. As the first volley of arrows rained down from the high slope of the south bank, Shen Du was already crouching behind the earthen embankment behind the reeds. The sound of arrows striking the mudflat was as dense as a downpour hitting iron. The Qin infantry crammed onto the beach were thrown about by the arrow rain—those in the front tried to retreat, while those in the back pushed forward, the two forces colliding in the middle of the beach, and no one could move. Screams began to spread from the beach. Some had their shoulder blades pierced by arrows, some were pushed into the shallow water and trampled by the soldiers who jumped off the rafts after them, and some threw down their weapons and jumped into the river, trying to swim back to the north bank.

"Don't panic!" the Qin army captain roared on the beachhead. "Raise your shields! Raise your shields and push forward!"

But there weren't enough shields. The vanguard of three thousand men had fewer than five hundred shields, and most of the infantry carried only a spear and an iron helmet. Before the first volley of arrows had even stopped, the second volley began. The archers of the Northern Army were divided into three ranks, taking turns firing with an extremely steady rhythm, with intervals of no more than ten breaths. Xie Xuan stood on the high slope of the south bank, holding a command flag in his hand. The battlefield before him was crystal clear—the Qin vanguard was crammed together on the beach, while the troops that followed were still floating on the river. The vanguard and the rearguard were separated, the beach had no depth, and the shield formation could not be deployed.

"Pass on the order," Xie Xuan said to the messenger beside him, "have Liu Laozhi lead five thousand elite troops to bypass the Qin army from the east and cut off the communication between the Qin vanguard and the following troops crossing the river. Isolate the men on the beachhead, and then send shield formations forward to chip away at their numbers layer by layer."

"General, the Qin army's vanguard has disorganized its formation and lacks sufficient shields after landing on the beachhead. Should we concentrate our firepower now to destroy their beachhead?"

"No rush. Let them come up a bit more. Then attack them while they're crossing, putting them in a difficult position."

Shen Du lay prone behind the earthen embankment, observing everything clearly through the gaps in the reeds. Xie Xuan's tactics were extremely precise—he wasn't simply blocking the Qin army; he was devouring them piece by piece. First, he let a portion of the troops cross the river, then cut off their connection with the follow-up forces, and finally used arrows and shield formations to strangle the isolated vanguard on the riverbank. Those who were devoured would create psychological pressure on the subsequent troops crossing the river; this pressure would accumulate to a certain level, turning into panic, and panic spreading throughout the army would lead to a rout.

"Master Shen," Old Wei said, his voice trembling as he knelt beside him, "those people on the beach—aren't we going to help them?"

"I can't help." Shen Du's gaze passed beyond the reeds, looking further into the distance—the Qin army's rafts carrying reinforcements were shuttling back and forth on the river, each raft carrying men stuck on the riverbank. But he noticed a detail: one man hadn't crossed with the vanguard in the first wave, but instead joined the third raft, standing on a high slope behind the riverbank, followed by a troop of personal guards. That was Zhu Xu. The Former Qin's General Who Conquers the South, but he also had another identity—he was a surrendered general from the Eastern Jin. He was originally the governor of Liangzhou in the Eastern Jin, captured and surrendered to Qin a few years ago, and Fu Jian appointed him as the General Who Conquers the South. But Shen Du knew that this man was in Qin's camp but his heart was with Jin—historically, it was he who shouted "The Qin army has been defeated!" from behind the Qin army lines, igniting the fuse for the complete rout.

Shen Du's gaze lingered on Zhu Xu for a moment. The man on the high slope was completely different from the Qin generals around him—while the others were shouting themselves hoarse as they directed the charge, he stood quietly at the back, as if waiting for something.

Then he saw Fu Jian. Fu Jian's imperial chariot had already crossed the Fei River and was parked on a high ground behind the beachhead, surrounded by hundreds of armored guards. Fu Jian looked towards the north bank and said to the people beside him, "Have the army retreat a little, and give the beachhead to the following troops to land."

The statement itself wasn't wrong—the beach was too narrow to accommodate many people, and a slight retreat would allow subsequent troops to land more smoothly. The problem was that his orders were simplified layer by layer as they reached the front lines. Centurions shouted "Move back a bit," which the soldiers misheard as "Retreat," while those further out on the river saw people moving backward on the beach and assumed a retreat had begun.

Shen Du stood up in that instant. He rolled over from behind the embankment and grabbed Lao Wei. "Get up. From now on, stick with me." A burning sensation surged through his feet—the passivity of a soldier crossing the river was compounding with every step he took towards the enemy. Instead of charging towards the beachhead, he circled eastward along the reeds, bypassing the chaotic battle zone on the beachhead, and made his way to the flank and rear of the Northern Army's position.

"Mr. Shen, where are we going?"

"Go where the enemy least expects."