Chapter 113

On the road to Chang’an. I got off my horse and boarded the carriage with Zhuge Liang. It had been a long time since I last rode in a carriage. Not since my family came to Chengdu from Xiang Province.

The reason I chose the carriage over the horse was that Zhuge Liang kept wanting to discuss state affairs with me.

“No, I really don’t know anything about internal affairs.”

It’s true that I know many people in the Shangshudai, who handle internal affairs. But I had never had any in-depth conversations with them about governance.

Although I had worked closely with Huang Quan, the Chief Minister, who acted as the administrative head when the Prime Minister was vacant, that was all.

Of course, Huang Quan wasn’t the only person in the Shangshudai I was acquainted with.

There was Deng Zhi, the Shangshu of the Northern Guest Bureau, responsible for diplomacy with northern tribes and foreign nations.

Ma Liang, who became the Shangshu of the Southern Guest Bureau after persuading the Sima family during the defense of Xiang Province.

Yu Pa, the Shangshu of the Regular Attendants Bureau, who oversaw the affairs of the court officials.

Half of the six Shangshu under the Chief Minister, each in charge of a bureau, had some connection with me. Perhaps that’s why Zhuge Liang mistakenly thought I was interested in internal affairs.

By the way, the other Shangshu included Yi Jeok, the Shangshu of the Civil Bureau, who managed the memorials of civil and military officials, and Jin Jin, the Shangshu of the Two Thousand Bushels Bureau, who managed the salaries of high-ranking local officials.

Interestingly, the Two Thousand Bushels Bureau had two Shangshu, one of whom was Yang Yi, whom I had sent to serve as the Prefect of Yongchang. I didn’t pay much attention to who his successor was.

Even general questions about internal affairs were difficult for me, but questions related to personnel matters were especially tricky.

Even simple character evaluations had to be handled with great care, let alone direct personnel decisions.

Fortunately, Zhuge Liang seemed to notice my discomfort and mostly asked about military matters. Yes, this was something I could talk about.

From reviewing the battles of the recent Northern Expedition to discussing future grand strategies, Zhuge Liang and I covered a wide range of topics.

Among them was this:

“I recently created something called the Eight Array Formation. Now that we’ve taken control of Xiliang and can easily train cavalry, I wonder if it will be useful.”

“The Eight Array Formation? Are you referring to the military formation created by Feng Hou?”

“Yes. I’ve made some independent modifications. Would you like to see it?”

Zhuge Liang pulled out a booklet he had prepared.

Before me was a legendary formation, of which only the name and parts were known in later generations, making it impossible to know what the original was like. I forgot I was in front of Zhuge Liang and eagerly read through the booklet.

History had changed, and the situation in Shu-Han had also changed. In addition to the Yuan Rong crossbow developed by Zhuge Liang, the Qiang Nu crossbow, which I had participated in creating with Po-won, had also been developed, leading to changes in Zhuge Liang’s Eight Array Formation.

The deployment of crossbowmen handling the Yuan Rong and Qiang Nu, archers capable of providing situational support fire, and the arrangement of infantry and cavalry were highly systematic.

“It resembles Jan Žižka’s war wagon tactics.”

Since Zhuge Liang had conceived it earlier, it would be more accurate to say that Jan Žižka’s war wagon tactics resembled Zhuge Liang’s Eight Array Formation.

Jan Žižka, the one-eyed general who led peasant soldiers to utterly defeat the medieval knights, the very embodiment of killing machines.

He built defensive formations with war wagons to block knight charges and attacked with hand cannons, cannons, and crossbows to achieve victory.

The Eight Array Formation replaced gunpowder weapons with the Yuan Rong and Qiang Nu, but the framework was almost identical.

Unlike Jan Žižka, who dealt with poorly trained peasant conscripts, Zhuge Liang had designed the Eight Array Formation for a proper army, allowing for a broader range of tactics.

The presence of cavalry, though few, made a difference. While the formation focused on defense, it also included the hammer and anvil tactic, using cavalry to attack from the outside.

Moreover, it encompassed not just tactics but also training, marching, operations, and encampments, making it more of a comprehensive operational art than a simple formation.

“Impressive. Using wagons to build defensive walls is advantageous for defense, but once the formation is set, it’s hard to respond flexibly. Yet, you seem to have overcome that limitation.”

Jan Žižka overcame the limitations of the war wagon formation by brilliantly timing advances and retreats and seizing advantageous positions.

But Zhuge Liang, with better conditions, offered a different solution.

“As expected of a genius. You saw it right away.”

“In my opinion, the Eight Array Formation you created will prove effective in actual combat. How about training a unit to master it?”

“Hmm, I’d like to, but I’m too busy with official duties. I was thinking of entrusting the formation to you. What do you think?”

For the time being, our military stance will clearly be defensive.

With the gains from the recent Northern Expedition, we need to digest them and strengthen our foundations, so there will be plenty of time for training… For me, it’s all gain and no loss.

“Of course. In fact, I was about to ask you for the same favor.”

“Haha, is that so?”

When I expressed my high regard for his tactics and my desire to learn them, Zhuge Liang smiled with delight.

On the way to Chang’an, I received instruction from Zhuge Liang on the Eight Array Formation.

The formation, reflecting Zhuge Liang’s perfectionist nature, required extremely precise military operations. The organic changes, like gears meshing together, were the essence of the Eight Array Formation.

If it were just military command, I could have struggled to learn it on my own. The reason I sought Zhuge Liang’s instruction was different.

The formation incorporated elements of the Four Forms, so I needed to understand Zhuge Liang’s thinking thoroughly.

While I reviewed and pondered the formation on my own, Zhuge Liang drafted a memorial. It was a memorial urging Liu Bei to ascend the throne, which he had refused twice before.

I had witnessed one refusal before leaving Chang’an, and another while in Longxi. This would be the third time.

Since it’s an unwritten rule that the third request is not refused, Liu Bei would likely accept Zhuge Liang’s memorial and ascend the throne.

The intention was to bolster the authority of Zhuge Liang, whom Liu Bei trusted the most, and to win the hearts of scholars and commoners with the writings of Zhuge Liang, a renowned literary genius.

Knowing this, Zhuge Liang struggled with the creative agony of drafting the memorial, writing and erasing several times. Even a genius like Zhuge Liang found it challenging to write about ascending the throne.

Concerned for Zhuge Liang’s health, I suggested he take a break, but he gently refused, saying this was a crucial moment.

Upon arriving in Chang’an, Zhuge Liang immediately presented the memorial to Liu Bei.

As everyone expected, Liu Bei accepted Zhuge Liang’s memorial and declared his intention to ascend the throne.

On the day of the Fire Virtue’s peak, Bingwu Day, Liu Bei, after purifying himself and donning ceremonial robes, ascended the altar.

“In the 27th year of Jian’an (222 AD), on the Bingwu Day of the fourth month. Emperor Liu Bei respectfully offers a black ox to the Supreme Deity of Heaven and the Earthly Deities to announce his ascension to the throne.”

Liu Bei’s declaration, offering a black ox as a sacrifice to the deities, went on at length.

The declaration, drafted by Yu Pa, criticized the lack of virtue in Cao Cao and Cao Pi, pointing out that Wei lacked legitimacy.

At the same time, Liu Bei humbly claimed he lacked virtue but argued that only he could continue the Han imperial line and follow the Mandate of Heaven, justifying his claim to the throne.

Liu Bei’s powerful voice, more forceful than ever, was not drowned out by the strong wind. And when his speech ended, the cries of “Long live the Emperor!” filled the sky.

Finally, the moment had come for Liu Bei to ascend the throne.

Though he ascended a year later than in the original history, Liu Bei’s heart was no less satisfied.

The Liu Bei who had lost Jing Province, lost his brothers, and ascended the throne burning with vengeance was different from the Liu Bei before me, who had reclaimed Guanzhong and declared the unification of the realm from Chang’an.

There was no doubt which was more satisfying.

Did he know that this difference began with my efforts?

Though my excitement for the revival of the Han dynasty was faint, my emotions were as intense as anyone present.

Tears welling up, I shouted with all my might along with the others.

“Long live the Emperor! Long live the Emperor! Long, long live the Emperor!”