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Last time Fei Qian traveled from Luoyang to Xiangyang, his party was small, with few carriages and horses, so it didn't feel much like a military march. But this time was different—nearly a thousand people stretched out in a long, winding procession.
Seeing it like this, the group really did seem massive.
Fei Qian mused that if just a thousand people looked this imposing, then during the Battle of Chibi, when Cao Cao claimed to have 800,000 troops marching south to "herd horses," the sheer scale must have been awe-inspiring. No wonder it nearly scared the pants off the Wu faction—though, of course, that number was just Cao Cao exaggerating. Still, it proved one thing: once numbers reached the thousands or tens of thousands, the sight was truly boundless...
Moreover, most ordinary people in ancient times weren't particularly good at math. Scouts could count the number of enemy banners accurately, but there was no way they could precisely tally the actual number of troops Cao Cao had. So, when armies numbered in the tens of thousands, exaggerating the count during wartime propaganda was hardly noticeable.
In ancient times, unless under special circumstances—like Xiahou Yuan's forced marches—the speed of an army's advance wasn't determined by its fastest units but by its slowest. And the slowest part of any army was inevitably the baggage train. This was why Fei Qian now understood why, in ancient battles, both sides' commanders might know that securing a key location a few days earlier could decide the outcome of the campaign—yet still fail to do so in the end. The reason was simple: the army's speed wasn't determined by the soldiers but by the oxen and horses.
Lightening the load for rapid mobility wasn't impossible, but doing so meant abandoning the supply train, heavy troops, and anything else that couldn't move quickly. That also meant having no reinforcements—even for light cavalry.
Take the famously mobile Mongol armies of later centuries, for example. A single soldier might have several horses to rotate, but those spare horses couldn't endure long marches either. Without proper rest, their stamina would decline, leaving only one chance in battle. Victory meant they could wait for the slower troops to catch up, but defeat often meant total annihilation. Thus, unless absolutely necessary, commanders rarely abandoned their supply trains for a swift cavalry advance.
Fei Qian used to believe in tales of "thousand-mile horses" or "hundred-mile marches," but now, seeing the reality, he knew it was all nonsense. Even a legendary steed like Red Hare would be exhausted after a full day of running—and that's assuming it could gallop nonstop for 24 hours. At that point, it wouldn't be called Red Hare anymore, but "Cooked Hare," since its blood would overheat and explode its heart...
The reason stories like "breaking the cauldrons and sinking the boats" or "fighting with one's back to the river" were recorded was precisely because they were so rare. Aside from those few successful cases, most armies in history that abandoned their supplies ended up utterly defeated.
So, generally, the baggage train was positioned toward the middle-rear of the army, protected within the main formation. Unless the road was too narrow, light cavalry units were often deployed on the flanks for mobility.
Attacking the enemy's supply train and destroying their provisions was often the turning point of a war.
Under the Han military system, five men formed a *wu*, two *wu* made a *shi*, and five *shi* composed a *dui*. So, Huang Cheng and the others from the Huang family were just right to serve as *shi* leaders and *dui* commanders. The remaining two or three were led by Huang Zhong as messengers, overseeing the central army.
As for the vanguard, Liu Pan had already been assigned to lead it.
Fei Qian suspected that Liu Biao had sent Liu Pan partly to keep an eye on him. Since that was unavoidable, he might as well put Liu Pan to work—assigning him to lead 200 soldiers to clear the way ahead.
Turning his head, Fei Qian spotted Huang Zhong riding past his carriage and quickly called out to him, "Hansheng..."
Huang Zhong adjusted his horse's pace to match Fei Qian's and asked, "Deputy Inspector Fei, what is it?"
"...If I recall correctly, there's a relay station about ten *li* ahead. Since it's getting late, why don't we camp there tonight?"
Huang Zhong glanced at the sky and nodded. "Very well. I'll go arrange it." With that, he turned his horse to relay the order.
Watching Huang Zhong's retreating figure, Fei Qian sighed softly in disappointment.
No matter how many times he hinted, Huang Zhong still refused to call him by his courtesy name, "Ziyuan," and instead stuck with "Deputy Inspector Fei." This was... telling.
It wasn't an ideal form of address.
In the Han dynasty, it was customary to refer to people by their official titles, whether they currently held the position or not—like how Liu Bei was always called "Prefect of Pingyuan," even after leaving the post. But Huang Zhong's choice of address made Fei Qian feel a subtle sense of distance between them.
After all, "Deputy Inspector Fei" didn't carry the same warmth as "Ziyuan."
When Fei Qian first saw that Huang Zhong was willing to accompany him, he had secretly rejoiced, thinking his charm was finally having some effect. But Huang Zhong's repeated use of "Deputy Inspector Fei" quickly brought him back to reality.
The ideal was plump; reality was bony.
If not for the hope Fei Qian had given Huang Zhong—that his son's condition could be treated—Huang Zhong probably wouldn't have agreed to join this journey at all.
But as the saying goes—a good beginning is half the battle?
Then again, there's also the saying—the last leg of a journey is the hardest...
Well, whatever. For now, this would have to do.
Heading north from Xiangyang, Nanyang was the first stop.
Fei Qian pondered. The first destination was naturally to visit Yuan Shu in Nanyang, then Yuan Shao at Suanzao...
Cao Cao should be at Suanzao too. He wasn't sure if Liu Bei and his two sworn brothers had arrived yet. As for the others, Fei Qian figured they could be ignored.
The coming times would be like a great wave washing away the sand—those who seemed impressive now but lacked substance would eventually be swept aside, leaving only the truly weighty figures standing in the end.
Like Cao, Liu, and Sun.
Speaking of *Romance of the Three Kingdoms*, the way it portrayed Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei had made them legendary symbols of loyalty and righteousness for a thousand years—
Guan Yu, Guan Yunchang, revered as the god of martial wealth in later generations, famed for his unparalleled loyalty in "riding alone for a thousand *li*"...
Zhang Fei, Zhang Yide, a fierce warrior who could take an enemy general's head with his spear on horseback, then dismount to paint delicate beauties with a brush...
The thought made Fei Qian a little excited. But before that, there was one thing he had to do first.