HCT – Chapter 164 A Just War, An Unjust War

The charge of the Qin main forces was very slow. Yes, very slow.

Rather than a charge, it was more like they were advancing at a brisk pace. During the charge, they maintained neat and orderly square formations; even the angles at which each soldier held their polearms in relation to the ground were almost identical.

Compared to the blood-boiling fervor of a cavalry charge, the Qin infantry’s advance seemed as though that hot blood had frozen solid, becoming cold and grim like the northern wind.

In later generations’ film and television, great armies clashing were often depicted as chaotic: the two sides mixed together, enemies to the left and right, above and below, indistinguishable, all swinging oddly-shaped weapons in a frenzy.

Reality, of course, was impossible like that. Once an army’s formation collapsed into chaos and could no longer distinguish friend from foe, it was already a routed army.

When the Qin and Chu armies faced each other, both had carefully formed their lines. At most, during combat, their formations might split into smaller squares. Each small square had its own commander and standard bearer. The soldiers themselves didn’t need to distinguish between friend and foe—they simply executed commands.

Most infantry weapons were long-handled so they could kill within the formation. After arriving in the south, the Qin army cut down a great many bamboo stalks, strapping iron blades of all kinds onto the bamboo shafts.

The standard bearers continuously shifted flags; the squad leaders interpreted the signals, ordering the squares to advance or retreat. The Qin formations pressed forward like an immovable mountain, crushing into the Chu ranks already broken apart by cavalry assaults.

Then, the mountain transformed into a colossal sea beast, and the disordered Chu troops became like little fish surrounding the beast. Like in those dramatized scenes from later ages, their standard bearers and squad leaders were lost; the soldiers wandered aimlessly across the battlefield like headless flies. Surrounded on all sides by men, they couldn’t tell friend from foe.

Only when the Qin phalanx rolled over them did they realize where the enemy was. But by then, it was too late. Like fish swallowed by a great beast, they could only be devoured, shredded to pieces by the jagged weapons thrusting out from every side of the square.

The heavy cavalry, after breaking through the Chu formation, galloped on without looking back, then dismounted, stripped off their armor, and gasped for breath in exhaustion. Meanwhile, the light cavalry dispersed around the battlefield like prowling hunters, cutting down any stragglers they found.

The infantry squares moved like precise machines, continually advancing and shifting formations under the flag signals beside Wang Jian.

The soldiers didn’t need to think at all—no fear, no sense of guilt. They simply swung or thrust their weapons again and again, sometimes not even looking at the enemy, only following commands.

The light cavalry Wang Jian led into the battlefield was enveloped in the very center of the infantry squares. Beside the flags signaling the formations stood a tall, prominent banner bearing the bold character “王”—Wang.

It was the first time he had unfurled his own commander’s banner.

Wang Jian did not charge into the fray with his men. He merely sat atop his horse beneath the banner, surrounded by Qin troops at the safest, most central point, coldly surveying the battlefield.

The air was filled with the sounds of slaughter—the screams of the dying, the clash of weapons, the hiss of arrows slicing through the sky, and the thunder of drums, horns, gongs, and bells directing the troops.

The Chu general, shielded by his guards, kept retreating toward the fortress in the rear. As he fell back, he cast one last glance at the battlefield behind him.

Though countless sounds from the battlefield rose together to pierce the heavens, he was struck by a chilling sense of silence—so silent it was horrifying. It was as though he wasn’t fighting men at all, but an army of emotionless puppets who only obeyed orders.

His gaze fell upon Wang Jian, wanting to etch the face of this not-yet-famous Qin general into memory. When he looked at Wang Jian, Wang Jian looked back at him.

Wang Jian then personally raised a flag and mounted it on a high pole, waving it several times in all directions. Immediately, the cavalry who had been darting around the edges of the battlefield regrouped into formation. With a downward press of his hand, the flag pointed toward a direction.

All the cavalry charged as one, no matter how many Chu soldiers tried to block their path—they left them all behind. Now they finally switched weapons, each drawing the bow from his saddle. The great bows bent like full moons, and feathered arrows whistled through the air from their strings.

Wang Jian lowered the flag and withdrew his gaze from the Chu general.

He knew that the person fleeing over there must be the Chu army’s commander. But so what?  He had already sent cavalry in pursuit. Even if they failed to kill the enemy commander, they could still slaughter his personal guard. A commander alone, without troops, was nothing.

All Qin generals bore the influence of Bai Qi in their military thinking. Before Bai Qi, capturing enemy commanders and seizing territory were considered more important than annihilating enemy soldiers. After Bai Qi, Qin’s warfare shifted to focus on destroying the enemy’s living forces.

Even if that commander managed to escape and lead troops again a second or third time—what of it? The dead soldiers would never rise again. How many new armies could they raise?

If the enemy could still conscript, then even if this commander died, another would take his place. Better to let a defeated commander raise troops again, only to be slain once more. Perhaps that would even be easier. But once the conscripts were all slaughtered, no matter how brilliant a general might be, he could do nothing but surrender.

Wang Jian lifted his head to glance at the sun. The Chu still had many men left. Today’s killing would likely continue until the red sun sank in the west, before this battle came to an end.

On the battlefield, the Qin army had already shifted formations multiple times. Their weapons broke during the assault, so the soldiers continually rotated positions inside and out to maintain killing efficiency. The blood-grooved blades pierced through Chu soldiers, spraying blood onto the Qin soldiers’ hair and clothes. The stench of blood filled their nostrils, numbing them further.

Though the Chu soldiers’ formation had collapsed, they knew that any organized ranks remaining had to belong to the Qin. So after losing their commanders, they all charged headlong at the Qin formations. When a Chu soldier was impaled by a Qin weapon, he clutched the blade that pierced him, refusing to let the Qin soldier withdraw it, thus disrupting their attack.  Though other Qin soldiers quickly stabbed him through, the fleeting gap created by his sacrifice was seized by his comrades.

More Chu soldiers hurled themselves at that formation, dragging a Qin soldier out and hacking him into pulp. That Qin formation finally felt fear, its lines beginning to waver. At once, more Chu soldiers threw themselves into the faltering array, finally tearing that section apart. Seeing the tactic work, other Chu soldiers imitated it, attempting to rip open small breaches in the Qin ranks.

Some Qin formations held; others were broken. Among the Chu, there was no shortage of fearless warriors. They were not like the Chu soldiers who had faced Li Mu, when Li Mu merely entered cities, opened granaries, and fled after distributing food. Wang Jian was attacking their country itself. Behind them lay Chu’s borders.

The Chu soldiers might not have had much patriotism, but they were deeply fearful of the countless tales of Qin brutality. To protect their hometowns and ensure their kin would not be massacred by the Qin, they fought desperately against the well-disciplined Qin army—even without generals or banners to guide them.

Some veteran Chu soldiers weren’t fighting for home or family. They simply knew that the Qin rewarded military merit through beheadings, and escape was unlikely. Better to die on the battlefield—killing even one Qin soldier would be worth it.

Thus, though the Chu army was in disarray and their generals had fled, victory would not come easily for the Qin. One after another, Qin formations were shredded by the seemingly chaotic Chu assaults.

At least several hundred, even several thousand Qin lives would remain forever on this battlefield, taken by Chu soldiers defending their borders.

Wang Jian watched formation after formation disappear. He merely ordered the standard-bearers to wave their flags, commanding nearby units to fill the gaps. His expression and mood showed no ripple.

The Qin continued their slaughter in perfect order. The loss of a few parts would not hinder the functioning of this great killing machine.

The Chu were like mantises trying to stop a chariot. Yet they still raised their arms bravely, standing before the Qin juggernaut. When weapons broke, they bit with their teeth. When comrades died, they clung tightly to Qin weapons or bodies, creating chances for others to shatter the formation. When they fell, the eyes of Chu soldiers glared fiercely at the heavens, as if still staring down their enemies.

“‘There are no righteous wars in the Spring and Autumn period.’ This is true. But my interpretation of this phrase is not the same as Mencius’s. He said that because war decrees must come from the Son of Heaven, and since the feudal lords stood on equal footing, wars between them could not be righteous—thus, no righteous wars.”

Since Zhu Xiang had returned to Xianyang, there was no avoiding going to the Xianyang Academy to lecture. Under the pressure of Xunzi’s cane, Zhu Xiang temporarily took over the position of Sacrificial Wine (principal) on behalf of Xunzi. Every day he had to check in at the academy, prepare lessons, and give lectures.

For a moment, he felt as if he had returned to his previous life, standing once again on the three-foot platform of a university lecture hall. The only difference was that in his past life, he had been a professor of agriculture. Now, he had become a professor of literature and philosophy — a bit outside of his field of expertise.

The students did not fully agree with Zhu Xiang’s words, but none of them dared to refute him. A man’s reputation is like the shadow of a tree. At Xunzi’s level of prestige and authority, he could openly call Mencius a vile Confucian thief who brought disaster to the nation. Compared with that, Lord Changping, Zhu Xiang, had only mildly expressed “some disagreement,” which was already extremely gentle.

“I believe the so-called unjust wars of the Spring and Autumn period should be judged from the perspective of the common people.”

“Most of you here are scholars. But even scholars must have suffered the hardships of war. You all know I was born a commoner. My parents had no rank or title, just farmers scraping food from the soil. Farming and fighting, fighting and farming — war is most closely tied to people like me.”

“The grain levied in war is our very lifeline; the soldiers conscripted are our relatives and friends — our very lives.”

“When a war is won, it becomes a ruler’s glorious achievement. But the broken families and lost lives are borne by us nameless commoners.”

“A hundred years later, when the victors and losers are judged, history will only recount the deeds of the kings. We are nothing but bones beneath the throne. And even if anyone mentions us, their words will be dismissed by future worshippers of the king as ‘a price that must be paid.’”

“From my standpoint — from the standpoint of the common people — I say the wars of the Spring and Autumn were unjust.”

A sharp-voiced student asked:

“Among the states, Qin wages war most frequently. Since Lord Zhu Xiang claims these wars are unjust, why do you aid Qin? Is it because you are the Qin Crown Prince’s uncle, and so power matters to you more than conscience?”

Zhu Xiang turned his gaze to the student who spoke with such resentment. From his accent, he was from Chu. Perhaps his hometown had once been, or had already become, South Chu — now part of South Qin.

“During the Spring and Autumn period, many of our predecessors sought ways to end these unjust wars. Some tried persuading rulers not to fight.” Zhu Xiang asked, “Tell me, did those persuasions ever work? Also, let me correct you: after the Zhou royal court moved east, the state that launched wars most frequently was not Qin, but Chu. You can check The Spring and Autumn Annals.”

The student’s face flushed red instantly. Even if he could not recall the exact number of wars recorded in The Spring and Autumn Annals, Lord Zhu Xiang’s certainty left no room for doubt.

“Don’t be nervous. This is not important,” Zhu Xiang reassured.

“I understand your feelings — your homeland is embroiled in war. Since you’ve come to the academy in Xianyang, I imagine you, too, long for an answer to this question: how can we make rulers end unjust wars?”

He stopped lecturing then, leaving the students to debate among themselves.

After a quarter of an hour, he struck the bronze bell on the podium to call for silence and asked them to raise their hands to speak.

Those who traveled thousands of li to study at the Xianyang Academy were bold, ambitious, and self-assured. Such people were never lacking in talent or insight. Thus, the answers they offered were thoughtful — and equally filled with despair.

A ruler would never stop waging war. Sitting atop a throne, enjoying the utmost riches of his country — as long as he had ambition, he would inevitably seek even greater achievements. Conquering cities, seizing land, and enslaving populations was unavoidable.

In the past, a wise Son of Heaven of the Zhou dynasty might have curbed the ambitions of the lords. But since the Zhou royal court’s eastward move, even a wise Son of Heaven had become powerless.

Zhu Xiang concluded:

“No matter which school of thought you study, the conclusions of our predecessors are the same. To end unjust wars, there is but one way: unification. Only when this land has one country, one ruler, can wars cease.”

With his hands clasped behind his back, he sighed deeply.

“If one wages war for the purpose of ending chaos and unifying the realm, then it accords with the greater good. If the unifier is wise and benevolent, caring for the people and governing diligently, then such a war, in the end, must be called righteous.”

“But are those who fall beneath the blades of unification truly unjust?”

“They gave their lives defending their homelands and their states. Can such sacrifice be dismissed so lightly?”

“And those virtuous men who exhausted themselves resisting Qin on behalf of their rulers and states — were they fools?”

Zhu Xiang declared firmly:

“I say, no!”

“Each person has a role, and our roles dictate our actions. What is a righteous war to us may be an unjust war to them. You need not be troubled by this. In the future, when you stand against me, you need not feel guilt. For you are right — and so am I. We merely stand in different places.”

“I aid the King of Qin in his conquest to unify the realm.”

“You will oppose Qin’s armies to protect your homes and states.”

“Neither of us is wrong.”

On the battlefield, the deputy general tied a bandage around his arm with one hand and spat a mouthful of blood-stained saliva onto the ground.

“The Chu army is a tough nut to crack. In this battle, we lost 2,100 men. Eleven heavy cavalry were killed — all elite!”

The deputy general’s heart ached.

In war, records often boasted of cutting down hundreds of thousands, but the real numbers were at least halved. And within those, the true elites were even fewer.

Generally, of an army of 400,000, only about 100,000 actually fought. And of those, only thirty to forty thousand could truly be called elite.

Even in later unified dynasties, maintaining a regular force of 100,000 elite troops was already the maximum the people could support. Elite soldiers required full-time training; most others farmed during peacetime and could not be considered elite.

In this battle, Wang Jian had shattered Chu’s formations at the very start. By rights, the Chu should have collapsed into a rout, easy prey for slaughter.

Yet even after their commander fled, they still fought tenaciously amid the chaos, costing Wang Jian’s newly assembled army more than 2,000 elites — including nearly a hundred heavy cavalry.

Though the victory was undeniably legendary, compared with the smooth successes earlier, the deputy general’s heart still bled.

“After all, this is Chu,” Wang Jian said calmly. “Victory is enough.”

“Take the lightly wounded and able-bodied prisoners, bind them, and send them to South Qin for the three prefectural governors and acting governors to handle. As for the severely wounded and the old or frail — behead them.”

“Yes, General!”