The Yellow River surged onward, a lone new grave standing eastward.
The army lined the riverbank, watching a group of lax troops on the opposite shore who were there merely to watch the spectacle. The bleak autumn wind whipped the banners, making them snap and rustle.
Cao Cao, clad in fine armor, dismounted, one hand resting on his blue-steel sword. His armor plates shifted softly as he walked forward at an unhurried pace. At forty-five, he was no longer young. The crushing pressure of survival had streaked his hair with gray, loosened his skin, and made his age plainly visible.
Stopping before the grave marker, he looked at the name Yuan Shao carved upon it and asked with a smile, "Brother Benchu, have you been well since we last met?"
Yuan Shao certainly did not feel very well inside that grave. He had known it...
Before long, one of his men brought over some spirit money. Cao Cao simply squatted there, muttering to himself as he personally burned paper offerings for Yuan Shao.
Of course, he knew why Yuan Shao had chosen death. Had their positions been reversed, he would have had to die as well.
Back then, Old Cao had always been the little brother following behind Yuan Shao, waving banners and shouting encouragement. Even just a few years ago, his forces had still been dependent on Yuan Shao, obeying Yuan Shao's commands. For Yuan Shao, submitting to a former subordinate just to cling to life would have been an enormous humiliation.
Moreover, Yuan Shao had not entirely lost the support of the people, nor had his army truly been routed. He still had ten or twenty thousand troops in hand, at the very least. If Yuan Shao had truly surrendered to Cao Cao to save his life, Cao