"The opposing Cao general—Zhang He—seems to be planning something."
When Ma Chao delivered that judgment in a firm, unquestionable tone, Ma Dai's hand paused mid-motion. Then, before he could stop it, a flicker of joy crossed his face.
He had followed Ma Chao since childhood. No one understood his elder brother's way of fighting better than he did—straightforward to the point of brutality, a style steeped in Qiang cavalry tradition:
If iron hooves could solve the problem, then charge.
If one charge wasn't enough, turn around and charge again.
It was precisely because of this approach that, whenever Ma Chao raised a command, tens of thousands of Qiang riders answered as one.
But Ma Dai also knew very well—this method was not invincible.
Not every battlefield was like Yong and Liang Provinces, where cavalry could gallop without restraint.
And there were always Han generals who truly understood military strategy.
The defeat at Tong Pass still loomed fresh in memory. Yet that same mighty Cao army had stumbled badly in Jingxiang—clear proof that victory and defeat were decided by far more than brute force.
So when Ma Dai saw his brother beginning to change, he felt genuine relief.
Ma Chao, however, did not notice how light Ma Dai's steps were as he departed.
Scooting closer to the brazier, Ma Chao stretched comfortably, letting the heat dry the sweat clinging to his armor. At the same time, his thoughts returned to Jian Yong's instructions before he had set out.
"This campaign, General, you will most likely encounter two Cao commanders.
"One is Xu Huang, Xu Gongming—strict in discipline, feared by his troops. His defenses are immovable as mountains; his attacks blaze like wildfire.
"The other is Zhang He, Zhang Junyi—skilled in seizing opportunity, adept at adapting on the fly. He excels in deployments and wins through calculated strategy."
Ma Chao remembered clearly how Jian Yong had spoken then—eyes bright, confidence unmistakable.
And sure enough, after arriving at Jieting, events unfolded exactly as predicted. The one attempting to break through here was Zhang He.
Ma Chao neither knew Zhang He well nor considered him a stranger. If memory served, Zhang He had been present during the battle of Tong Pass.
But back then, with over a hundred thousand troops clashing on both sides, and Zhang He being no peerless champion, he had been easy to overlook.
Now, after two days of skirmishing at Jieting—each clash ending with Zhang He retreating at the first touch—Ma Chao found himself increasingly impressed by Jian Yong's judgment.
Zhang He's troops could not be called elite, but they were far from incompetent.
Zhang He himself had once campaigned against Gongsun Zan under Yuan Shao and was no stranger to cavalry warfare. Later, he had switched allegiance at Guandu—hardly the career of a mediocre general.
Calling him ordinary would make most generals look like fools.
And so, recalling Jian Yong's words, Ma Chao understood all the more clearly:
Zhang He was testing, adapting—seeking victory through change.
Once the thought was clear, Ma Chao acted decisively, sending Ma Dai out with scouts.
He was no fool. If Jian Yong had already laid bare Zhang He's habits, then the method to defeat him had effectively been handed over as well.
As expected, by dusk Ma Dai returned with news.
"Brother, the Cao army has established a camp on the southern hill."
Ma Chao stroked his chin, stepped out of the tent, and climbed the low watchtower to survey the terrain.
Jieting itself had once been a small county town, but years of warfare had reduced it to ruins. The people had long fled to nearby Lueyang.
The land here formed a natural corridor—two hills flanking a river. The river ran closer to the southern hill, leaving broader ground near the northern slope. Ma Chao and Zhang He both camped there, facing one another east to west.
The so-called hills were, in truth, little more than raised ridges.
"How large is the hill camp?" Ma Chao asked. "Could it hold all the troops stationed below?"
Ma Dai thought for a moment and shook his head.
"No. At most, two thousand men."
Ma Chao lowered his head in contemplation, then instructed calmly:
"Continue observing at dusk. Do not alert the enemy."
Ma Dai nodded, then asked, "Brother… do you already have a plan?"
Ma Chao snorted with a grin.
"Just do as told."
And so Jieting fell into an eerie calm.
Each day, Ma Chao rode out to challenge. Each time, Zhang He answered—only to withdraw after brief contact.
The Qiang cavalry grew restless, eager to pursue, but Ma Chao reined them in. Complaints began to circulate.
Day after day of small victories pushed Ma Chao's battle line subtly forward.
Yet with the frozen ground and hurried construction, the newly established camps grew flimsier by the day—crooked stakes, uneven palisades, their weakness obvious at a glance.
Ma Chao seemed oblivious, only occasionally lifting his gaze toward the hills, lost in thought.
In the Cao camp, Zhang He showed no sign of discouragement. Watching Ma Chao's lines creep closer, his eyes burned with anticipation.
After another day of fighting, Ma Chao's camps advanced again—now within striking distance.
Zhang He made his decision.
"We can delay no longer. Tomorrow, we decide it."
Not long after, a soldier rushed in.
"General! Smoke is rising from the enemy camp!"
A deputy was about to scold the messenger—what of it?—but Zhang He shot to his feet.
"Bad! Signal the southern camp—full alert!"
But Ma Chao moved faster.
After finishing another round of skirmishing, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, he issued an unusually direct order:
Prepare the fires. Cook.
The Qiang riders ate their fill, bewildered. Then Ma Chao personally beat the war drum.
When every rider was mounted, Ma Chao surged to the front, spear raised.
"Sons of Yong and Liang—follow me!"
Zhang He's fortifications were masterfully built—layer upon layer, clearly designed to blunt cavalry charges.
But Ma Chao never intended to crash into them.
With their leader charging first, the Qiang cavalry became a roaring flood. To Zhang He's disbelief, they swept up the hillside with ease, cresting the ridge and crashing straight into the hidden camp beyond.
It was a strike no one expected.
Ma Chao could see it clearly—the shock frozen on the nearest Cao soldiers' faces.
He finally smiled.
Not a wild grin—measured, restrained.
So what if Zhang He was praised for adaptability and clever stratagems? Hadn't he still stumbled here?
If Ma Chao guessed correctly, Zhang He had planned to strike at dawn, launching both camps together. Jieting ran east to west—Ma Chao in the west, Zhang He in the east. A morning battle would force Ma Chao's men to face the rising sun.
That was why Ma Chao ordered Ma Dai to scout at dusk—and why he struck at dusk.
With the sun at his back, any Cao counterattack would mean fighting blinded.
As for whether Zhang He had further contingencies—Ma Chao no longer cared.
He had waited long enough.
The hill was nothing to Qiang cavalry.
Their mounts—smaller and lighter than Liangzhou horses—were more agile, sure-footed, and born for hills.
This was how Qiang and Hu raiders came and went across the Guanzhong plains.
This was their moment.
On paper, attacking uphill was a disadvantage. The Cao army held the high ground.
But eight thousand Qiang riders against three thousand Cao troops erased such calculations.
Before the sun fully set, the hill camp fell.
Outnumbered and overwhelmed, the Cao soldiers surrendered—and were promptly stripped bare by the exuberant Qiang riders.
Watching the jubilant cavalry and the half-naked prisoners, Ma Chao felt a headache coming on.
He ordered the Qiang chieftains to return the winter clothing.
Before he could regroup the army, Ma Dai brought fresh news.
"Zhang He escaped?"
Ma Dai's face was full of regret.
"Shortly after you attacked, the main Cao camp pulled out. By the time I arrived, they'd already withdrawn from Jieting."
Ma Chao stood silent for a long moment, then laughed softly.
"So that's the meaning of adaptability… survival above all."
From the moment Jian Yong provided his intelligence, Ma Chao never doubted victory.
He arrived earlier. He knew the terrain better. His cavalry outnumbered the enemy.
How could he lose?
The only regret was that Zhang He lacked the resolve for a decisive stand.
When Ma Dai first reported the hill camp, Ma Chao thought Zhang He planned to draw him upward.
If so, surrounding without attacking would have annihilated them.
But Zhang He was no fool. Once he saw the camp was lost, he abandoned it without hesitation.
Decisive indeed.
"What now, brother?" Ma Dai asked.
Ma Chao answered without pause, laughter ringing out.
"Pursue!"
"We've broken the Cao army—of course we chase!"
"How they hunted me last year, I'll hunt them back this year!"
The Qiang riders roared in approval.
For them, talk of restoring the Three Auxiliaries or shaping the realm meant nothing.
They knew only two things:
Revenge—and loot.
Meanwhile, at the Linwei front.
In the Cao camp, Du Xi lifted the tent flap, cold air sweeping in and making the brazier's flames flicker. Zhang Ji hurried to shield it.
But seeing Du Xi's grim expression, Zhang Ji guessed immediately.
"General Xiahou still refuses to withdraw?"
Du Xi forced a smile—it came out bitter.
He sat far from the entrance, exhaled warmth into his hands, and leaned toward the brazier.
"Since Zhang Fei's ambush… General Xiahou hasn't been himself."
He lowered his voice.
"It's already late February. By now, the Chancellor's main army must have departed. Even if Zhang Fei rushed back to Wancheng, he'd never make it in time."
"So why not withdraw? We may not take Linwei, but retreating with superior numbers, the enemy couldn't stop us."
"And yet…"
Du Xi sighed.
Everyone knew the truth.
Over ten days, they had failed to take a mere county—and their commander had nearly been killed.
Du Xi still remembered Zhang Fei's thunderous shout of "Zilong," and the lightning-swift cavalry charge in the valley.
That force hadn't reappeared since Xiahou Yuan arrived, and that absence weighed heavily on him.
Roles had reversed.
If they didn't leave now, it would be too late.
After hesitating, Du Xi stood again.
"Derong—come with me. Let's see the general."
"Agreed," Zhang Ji said at once.
Old disputes meant nothing now.
They stepped out into the cold.
Inside the camp, soldiers huddled around braziers, half-asleep.
Zhang Ji frowned.
"So lax… if the enemy attacked—"
Du Xi chuckled weakly, then coughed on the cold air.
"In this weather? Weapons would freeze to the hand. A night attack? Impossible."
"They can't all be wearing furs."
His words hadn't finished when a roar erupted from the front gate.
Two breaths later, a familiar thunderclap echoed:
"Xiahou Yuan has fled! The Cao army is defeated!"
Du Xi's face went deathly pale.
The cry spread, growing louder.
Zhang Ji reacted instantly, dragging Du Xi forward.
"Where's the general's tent?"
Du Xi numbly pointed.
"Straight ahead… a hundred paces."
"Forgive me," Zhang Ji said—and ran.
Soldiers poked their heads out, bewildered.
Zhang Ji shouted orders as he ran—steady yourselves, form up, rally to the central banner!
And even then, Du Xi found himself thinking:
Zhang Derong… steady under pressure. A general's bearing.
They reached the command tent.
Zhang Ji charged in—
—and nearly collided with Xiahou Yuan himself.
Already armored, beard bristling, eyes blazing, Xiahou Yuan pointed forward.
"Beat the drums! Follow me—kill the enemy!"