"When professionals beat up amateurs," the glowing screen declared,
"how is that even a fight?"
The generals in the hall fell into silence.
They rolled the words professionals and amateurs around in their heads, weighing them carefully. The meaning was obvious—and unpleasant.
"If we're talking sheer ferocity," Guan Yu said at last, shaking his head slowly, "Lü Bu may not truly be number one. But when it comes to the troops under his command—those Bingzhou cavalrymen…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Some memories needed no explanation.
Back in the third year of Jian'an, Lü Bu had openly betrayed the Han court by aligning himself with Yuan Shu, a man bold—or foolish—enough to declare himself emperor. Liu Bei, then governing Xu Province, retaliated by seizing Lü Bu's gold.
Lü Bu responded with fury.
He sent Gao Shun.
Liu Bei's army collapsed.
Cao Cao rushed Xiahou Dun to reinforce Liu Bei, and the two forces joined together—only to be crushed again.
It wasn't until later that year, when Cao Cao personally led his troops and allied with Liu Bei, that Lü Bu was finally cornered at Xiapi. After three months of siege, he was captured and executed—
—and even then, only because his own subordinates turned on him.
The expressions of Liu Bei's retainers darkened.
Everyone present understood the truth. Gao Shun's consecutive victories had little to do with Lü Bu's personal prowess.
It was the soldiers.
The quality gap had been overwhelming.
"Historically," the screen continued,
"Zhao Yun—often ranked second—looks even more like a true god of war than Lü Bu himself. At Changban, he charged into Cao Cao's army seven times and rode out seven times. At the Han River, he did it again. He went in and out of enemy ranks as casually as someone stepping away for a bathroom break—never once treating Cao Cao's army as a real threat."
Jian Yong burst into laughter.
"That comparison!" he said, wiping tears from his eyes. "That deserves a drink!"
Several generals chuckled despite themselves.
Zhang Fei scratched his cheek.
"So if Cao Cao's army was the bathroom… then A-Dou, who Sister Yun pulled out of it—"
Liu Bei's smile froze instantly.
"Zhao Yun came from the frontier ranks of Youzhou," the screen went on,
"so the troops he commanded would've been Youzhou shock cavalry—another elite force. Don't ask why they weren't the famous White Horse Volunteers. Everyone knows the world is rich… except Imperial Uncle, who's famously poor. Where was he supposed to get the money for white horses? If you lined them up, you'd probably have to rename them the Patchwork Horse Volunteers."
Liu Bei felt something inside him shatter.
Is my poverty really this legendary?
Zhao Yun, unfazed, spoke plainly.
"General Gongsun Zan favored white horses, which is why bandits called him the White Horse General. Later, he selected three thousand elite riders, all mounted on white horses, and named them the White Horse Volunteers. Naturally, I never commanded such a unit."
Three thousand elite cavalry.
All riding white horses.
Liu Bei felt genuine envy, sharp and undeniable.
"Still," the screen added,
"people truly do love white horses. Chengdu once had a place called Zilong Pond, about ten acres wide. A stone marker there read: 'Where Marquis Zhao Shunping Washed His Horse.' Locals also called it Zilong's Horse-Washing Pool. About seventy years ago, it was filled in and renamed Heping Street. When I visited, I snapped a few photos—just an ordinary street now. I even chatted with an old man who told me the legend behind it."
Every eye in the hall locked onto the strange objects called photographs.
Even Zhuge Liang forgot, momentarily, to sketch them down.
The street was broad and clean. People passed by with full faces and relaxed expressions. Shops lined the road in orderly rows, while towering buildings rose faintly in the distance. Signs covered the walls.
Zhuge Liang squinted, reading them aloud one by one.
"'Noodle Shop'… 'Mahjong Club'… 'Fresh Produce Market'… 'Heping Street Bus Stop'… 'Zhang Fei Beef'?"
Zhang Fei froze.
"…What?"
"I butcher pigs back in Zhuo Commandery!" he protested. "Did later generations rewrite that too?!"
Jian Yong sighed openly.
"How I wish I could be born in later ages."
Mi Zhu said nothing, but the longing in his eyes was obvious. Just from the street alone, one could feel how prosperous commerce had become—nothing like their rigid world, where merchants ranked dead last.
"Legend says that when a steppe empire invaded Chengdu," the screen continued,
"committing atrocities throughout the city, a heavy fog rose one night. From Zilong Pond galloped a white horse, bearing a silver-armored general who shouted: 'Rise up to restore the Han! Defend our land! Slay the invaders—follow me!' He charged straight into the enemy camp, unstoppable. The people cried out that Zilong himself had returned. They rose up and drove the invaders from the city. Later, a temple and statue were built beside the Horse-Washing Pool, and incense burned without end."
After hearing Chengdu mentioned so many times, everyone in the hall already felt emotionally tied to the place.
When the cry restore the Han echoed through the hall, Liu Bei felt his chest tighten.
He turned to Zhuge Liang, frowning.
"These invaders… who were they?"
Zhuge Liang spread his hands.
"Judging by the name, they were likely a steppe people from far beyond the empire—an enemy that rides in from the unknown and stays for generations."
"Our descendants really suffered," Zhang Fei muttered. "First came waves of barbarian invasions that tore the north apart. Now this. Don't tell me more followed. Emperor Wu still wasn't ruthless enough."
Zhao Yun remained silent, his emotions tangled.
As a general, he could see the truth clearly. Someone had likely borrowed his name to rally the people.
And yet—even after centuries—the people of Bashu still trusted him enough to rise at the sound of it.
If only I truly could return, he thought bitterly.
I would answer them without hesitation.
"After Zhao Yun comes Dian Wei," the screen said,
"famous for brute strength. Online jokes even claim: 'Lü Bu is unbeatable on horseback, Dian Wei is unbeatable on foot. So if Lü Bu rode Dian Wei, wouldn't they be invincible?'"
Zhang Fei and Jian Yong exploded into laughter.
Even Guan Yu, Zhuge Liang, and Sun Qian couldn't help smiling.
Later generations possessed a terrifying level of imagination.
And yet—
No.
Absolutely do not picture it.
"There aren't many historical records of Dian Wei," the screen continued,
"so there's not much to say. It's reasonable to suspect the joke exists purely because it rhymes. After all, you can't push Zhang Fei down to third place—and whether it's Guan Yu or Ma Chao in that spot, the rhyme doesn't work. It sounds ridiculous, but without rhythm, things don't spread."
Standing right next to Guan Yu, Zhang Fei muttered under his breath,
"Why can't I be third…"
"Guan Yu needs no introduction," the screen declared.
"His legends are countless. Later storytellers even invented five hundred elite guards to serve as his personal escort. Second Lord Guan's ferocity requires no proof."
Zhang Fei noticed his brother stroking his beard noticeably faster.
"As for Ma Chao," the screen concluded,
"this finally brings us back to today's true subject—the Battle of Hanzhong."
"So they do remember what this is about," Huang Zhong grumbled. He'd been waiting for Xiahou Yuan for quite some time.
"Just looking at the rankings tells you everything. Lü Bu crushed armies with Bingzhou cavalry. Zhao Yun slaughtered troops with Youzhou shock riders. And Ma Chao?"
The words lingered.
"He held Liangzhou warhorses—and lived like a rat darting across the street."
The hall stirred.
"These were Liangzhou warhorses."
The screen emphasized it again.
"In the late Western Jin, a Xiongnu leader attacked the capital twice. Both times, a Liangzhou general rode over a thousand miles to reinforce the city and defeated him—each time with fewer troops. One authoritative chronicle records that he gathered just over a hundred brave riders and charged straight into an enemy force numbering in the tens of thousands. Wherever they struck, the enemy line collapsed."
A hundred men.
Breaking tens of thousands.
"Because of this," the screen went on,
**"the capital sang a song:
'Liangzhou warhorses
Rampage across the realm.
Liangzhou hawks take flight—
Bandits vanish.
Wings spread wide,
Terror itself kills.'"**
The song likened Liangzhou cavalry to hawks—lean, vicious birds whose presence alone broke enemy morale.
A thousand-mile march.
Immediate combat.
Fewer men defeating many.
A hundred riders trampling enemy camps.
"That," the screen concluded,
"is what Liangzhou warhorses mean."
A pause.
"Tactically speaking—lean back."
Jian Yong, skilled in music, softly hummed the tune, imagining those riders like hawks diving from the sky—swift, merciless, unstoppable.
Liu Bei, however, had caught something else entirely.
He frowned.
"Xiongnu… Liu Yuan?" he murmured.
"A Xiongnu… named Liu Yuan?"