Overthrowing Wei: Starting with Cao Cao's "I'd rather betray the world than surrender

The first tremor of the city gate sounded like a muffled thunderclap rising from the ground.

The heavy wooden door reverberated between the iron hoops and the crossbeams, and dust fell finely from the city tower. The guards instinctively gripped their longbows, but no one dared to utter a sound.

The second blow landed immediately afterward, causing the entire city gate to tremble. The crossbeam behind the gate was struck with a screeching sound, and wood chips flew out from the gaps.

"Crash!" The shouts echoed across the city walls.

Outside the city, banners stretched out in a dark yellow expanse, and war drums beat loudly and rapidly. A chariot covered with wet cowhide was pushed to the gate, and more than ten Yellow Turban soldiers, bare-chested and with yellow turbans wrapped around their heads, roared and pushed forward.

The battering log slammed heavily against the gate, causing the beams on the inside of the gate to vibrate violently, and several soldiers guarding the gate staggered from the impact.

On the city wall of Chen, the Prefect of Chen looked down, his face ashen, as he leaned against the crenellations.

The Yellow Turban formation outside the city was not chaotic. Shield bearers were in front, spearmen were behind, archers were scattered on both flanks, and drummers in the center had a clear rhythm. Clearly, they were not a hastily assembled band of outlaws, but an organized main force.

The third impact caused the crossbeam to crack softly.

"Archers! Fire!"

Arrows rained down from the city wall, and several cart pushers were hit and fell, but others immediately took their place, as if they didn't care about the casualties at all.

The drums below the city did not sound, nor did the battle formation break. On the high slope behind the Yellow Turban formation, a black horse stood still, the rider wearing worn leather armor and a yellow cloth covering his shoulders, his gaze calmly fixed on the city gate.

He didn't shout "kill," he just raised his hand to signal, and the car started to move again.

The city was in complete chaos. People fled into the inner city, children cried, the streets were swept away, and granary officials ran around delivering orders, but their voices were drowned out by panic.

News of Yangxia's fall had already spread, and everyone knew that Nanping had fallen. Now, with the main force pressing on the city, Chencheng had no further buffer.

As the fourth impact landed, a clear crack finally appeared in the crossbeam inside the door, splinters flew everywhere, and someone gasped in surprise.

Chen Guo Bieji forced a shout: "Hold on! The city hasn't fallen yet!" But even he could hear the weakness in his voice.

The man on the black horse below the city finally spoke. His voice was not loud, but it was relayed by the flag bearers and drummers in the formation: "The city has little food and can only hold out for a few days. Those who open the city gates will live, those who do not will die." His tone was calm, not like an appeal for surrender, but more like a statement of a result.

A soldier on the city wall swallowed hard. The garrison numbered no more than eight hundred, mostly county soldiers and militia. Last night they had been discussing border patrols, but today they had to face the main force's attack head-on. If they were to ram the city gates a few more times, they would surely fall.

Just then, a shout came from the south watchtower: "Dust and smoke from the south—"

Everyone turned their heads at the same time.

On the distant horizon, a plume of gray smoke was slowly rising.

At first, it was just a thin wisp of mist, but it quickly thickened, like a wall pushed in from the horizon. The old soldier on the city wall squinted and whispered, "Not merchants, but an army."

The man on the black horse below the city had also noticed; he raised his hand to stop the crash, and the drumbeats gradually subsided.

The Yellow Turban troops made slight adjustments, with several hundred turning south to form a battle line. Archers drew their bows, and shield bearers pressed forward, clearly preparing for battle.

The people on the city wall held their breath, hoping for reinforcements but also fearing it was just a misperception.

As the dust and smoke approached, the flag's silhouette emerged from the grime.

The flag was not a dark yellow, but a deep ink color with red edges, and when the flag was unfurled, the outline of the formation was clearly visible. It was not a scattered cavalry force, nor a hastily arranged reinforcement, but a main force that had come in a complete camp.

Infantry led the way, shields in neat rows, spears forming a forest, while several cavalry units were positioned on the flanks to provide support. The formation advanced steadily, dust billowing beneath their feet, yet they remained perfectly orderly.

"The Volunteer Corps—"

Someone on the city wall recognized the flag, their voice trembling with disbelief.

Chen Guo Biejia almost lost his balance, his fingers gripping the edge of the barricade turning white.

The army advanced slowly, but carried a heavy sense of oppression, as if they were not there to save a city, but to take over the battle.

The man on the black horse's gaze darkened slightly. He had originally planned to forcefully breach the city gate before reinforcements arrived, but now the gate was on the verge of collapse, and the approaching army from the south had already pressed within three miles of the city. If he insisted on attacking the gate, his back would be exposed to the enemy's forces.

He ordered in a deep voice: "Stop the crashes, change formation."

After the rammed chariot was towed back into formation, the shield bearers regrouped, their spears thrust forward, and the battle line shifted from siege to engagement. The drumbeats readjusted their rhythm, becoming deep and orderly.

On the city wall, the defending soldiers were still reeling from the tremors. Though the crossbeams were cracked, the city gate remained unbroken. The Prefect of Chen murmured, "They've stopped ramming it..."

The southward-bound militia had already closed to within two miles.

The infantry in the center of the army deployed, shields were laid out in layers, spears stood in rows, and the drums at the rear of the formation sounded steadily.

Just then, the small gate on the south side of the city suddenly opened.

A troop of armored soldiers rushed into the city.

The man at the head of the group, wearing a blood-stained cloak, was none other than Han Chang.

He did not climb the city wall, but only glanced at the battle formation outside the city from inside the gate, and then whispered to the guards: "Hold the city gate to the death, and wait for the outer formation to break the enemy."

The cavalry outside the city ceased their charge and instead split into two flanks to prevent flanking attacks. The formation transitioned from a marching formation to a battle formation, and the entire process was so smooth that there was almost no pause.

The Yellow Turban commander understood as well. Looking at the unfolding ranks, hesitation appeared on his face for the first time. He had originally intended to finish the battle quickly, but now he was forced into a narrow space under the city walls. If he retreated, his morale would be dampened; if he fought, he would be vulnerable to attacks from both sides.

Suddenly, the war drums sounded in unison.

The people on the city walls held their breath, and the defending soldiers dared not make a move. Outside the city, the two armies faced each other in formation. The dust had not yet settled, and sunlight shone through the gaps in the clouds, illuminating the shields and spear tips, their cold glints gleaming.

As Han Chang watched the advancing battle lines, he suddenly realized that if he held Chencheng today, it would no longer be just Chencheng; if he lost it, it would no longer be just the loss of one city.

The cracks in the city gate remain, and the crossbeams are teetering on the verge of collapse.

Suddenly, the drumbeats below the city changed from rapid to low and continuous, and the Yellow Turban formation slowly moved forward, the shield wall pushing aside the dust like a tide.

The archers spread out on both flanks, arrows pointing diagonally into the sky, awaiting only the command.

The general on the black horse no longer looked at the city gate, but instead focused his gaze on the central position of the southward army. He clearly understood that if he could not suppress this reinforcement today, all the plans of the past few days would be in vain.

The Yi Cong camp's central army halted a short distance away, shields erected in layers, spears held high like a forest, and the drums behind the formation beat as steadily as a heartbeat.

The soldiers at the front did not advance hastily, but rather slowly and deliberately, their steps synchronized, causing a slight tremor in the ground. The cavalry on both flanks closed in, no longer making a show of force, but quietly blocking the side routes, like two silent gates.

Suddenly, the Black Horse commander raised his hand, and the shield soldiers in the front row stepped back half a zhang, revealing the archers in the middle row.

Bowstrings twanged in unison, and a rain of arrows swept through the enemy ranks, tentatively pressing towards the vanguard of the militia. The shields on the opposite side dipped slightly, arrows clattered, and sparks flew between the iron edges, yet not a single person retreated.

The drums sounded again.

This sound was deeper and heavier than the previous one.

Suddenly, the Yi Cong Camp's central army advanced half a step forward, their spears thrusting forward simultaneously, their formation resembling a sword slowly being drawn from its sheath.

On the city wall, Han Chang's gaze grew colder and colder. He knew that the real confrontation would begin in the next moment.

The fate of Chencheng no longer rests on the wooden beams of the city gate, but on this clash beneath the city walls—whoever retreats first will lose the entire southern front.