The Cypress Valley Grant

The following day, the camp bustled with activity at first light. Fires were swiftly lit, and the soldiers set to breakfast with disciplined urgency. The troops from Xia might arrive that very afternoon — or perhaps the next day. The terrain alone already granted Li Shimin an advantage over the approaching Dou Jiande.

Valleys, gorges, bridges, sea straits, and other vital chokepoints — the kind through which armed forces are often compelled to pass to reach their objectives — are ever a boon to ambushers lying in wait. A narrowed front, though it may reduce the fighting effectiveness of any army, allows a numerically inferior defender to use the terrain as a force multiplier against a much larger foe. An attacker cannot press forward without first securing the bottleneck.

This was the trap Prince Li intended to spring upon Dou Jiande.

Right after the meal, the entire army began digging wolf pits along the pass and setting traps in the surrounding forests. This flat valley, bordered to the west by loess cliffs, ended in steep slopes. As far as the eye could see, dense and dark forests stretched out in every direction. One had to tread carefully here, for Hulao was a narrow gorge amidst hundreds of chasms, cliffs, and rocky abysses.

The base of the gorge was lined with crossbowmen and archers, ready to shoot anything that entered the throat of the pass. Crossbows in Li Shimin's army were a devilish kind of weapon. They were forged by armorers in Kaifeng, modeled after those used by the army of the First Emperor — Qin Shi Huangdi. Made of iron and wood, their string-drawing mechanism, operated by a crank gear, was cast in bronze, making it resistant to corrosion. As a result, even long marches in the rain did not affect them. They could launch bolts up to nearly two li, and at close range, pierced through any armor. The crossbowmen and archers also carried swords and sometimes shields, allowing them to join the infantry in close combat once their ammunition was spent. Closest to the crossbowmen stood the shield-bearers in the front line, protecting the core of the army.

Li Shimin reasoned that, just like Jiande's army relied on a strong core of infantry tactical units designed for overwhelming by numbers, his own strategy would focus on fewer but more tactically efficient forces. In addition to three formations prepared to strike from ambush, the fourth consisted of infantry armed with knives, spears, halberds, and swords. The spears ranged in length from 2.7 to 3.5 meters. Their bronze or iron tips were designed for thrusting — lacking barbs or hooks, so they wouldn't get stuck in the enemy's body. Some spearheads were fitted with crossguards at the base to prevent them from penetrating too deeply.

The fifth and final formation was a unit of heavy cavalry, one thousand riders strong. Proportionally, spearmen, halberdiers, and shield-bearers made up nearly sixty percent of the infantry, while the rest were crossbowmen and archers. Li Shimin's army was by no means poorly equipped in terms of armor and weaponry. The shield-bearers, who always fought in the front line, were given the best armor. All soldiers wore metal lamellar armor, while officers donned scale armor. Properly tied lamellar armor was nearly impervious to projectile weapons. Like scale armor, it was made from small metal, horn, or bone plates sewn onto leather or riveted to padded fabric jackets.

The prince himself and his generals wore armor coated with colored lacquer, similar to that of palace guards. Some officers preferred luxurious leather armor, crafted from seven layers of rhinoceros or alligator hide. Such protective gear was made to order and affordable only to the aristocracy. Every foot soldier had a metal lamellar helmet and armor. The helmets protected the head and neck but left the face, including cheeks and jaw, exposed.

In contrast, infantry in many rebel armies, like that of Shichong, had to make do with leather armor and helmets. Crossbowmen and archers were often left with no armor at all, sometimes not even leather helmets. Their heads were protected only by cloth caps and long hair tied in a bun. Wang's army included many conscripts forced into service, for whom there were not enough weapons. They were formed into light infantry units with no armor or helmets. Only a few were given light shields made of wicker or cured leather. Their only weapons were spears — usually sharpened sticks without metal tips.

This disparity was one of the main reasons behind the speed of Li Shimin's campaign when he launched his raids against Wang, forcing him into a defensive posture.

Unaware that Hulao had already been seized by Li Shimin's forces, Jiande marched westward. On April 20th, 621 AD, the Xia army reached Hulao. It was noon, the sky unclouded. A light wind stirred the dark, heavy forests of the Songshan massif, accompanied in the distance by the low murmur of the sluggish, grey waters of the Huang He. A cold gust slid down Jiande's neck, prompting him to glance behind, half-expecting one of his officers to be playing a prank. But all were as grim as he. Below, deathly silence reigned.

Alas, nature can be cruel. Like a wicked woman—deceitful and treacherous. And like a woman, when she persists in silence, it is a silence full of menace. Unease took root in the general's mind. Someone had warned him—though he could not say who. His heart? His reason? Hulao was a place as treacherous as the Kraken's throat. Narrow. Inescapable. A pass they had no choice but to cross, divided and exposed. Jiande sent the first wave—a thousand men with a trusted officer—down the narrow slope. The rest he split into similar quarters, each following only once the previous had descended.

But scarcely had the first leaves rustled beneath their feet when Li Shimin burst from the woods like a gale, five hundred cavalry at his back. The charge, straight into the lion's jaws, ignited fire in the hearts of his men. Li Shimin himself led the charge—face to face against a far more numerous foe. The first impact was like a bucket of water dashed upon a fire—swift, shocking. The cavalry tore into the scattered, panicked Xia soldiers. The attack looked like an instantaneous breakthrough of the front line. The first ranks almost broke like matches.

The clash of steel mingled with the screams of men and the cries of horses. The horsemen surged into the first quarter like water through a breach in the rock. That first wave bore the brunt of the onslaught—blades, spears, hooves raining down upon them. Stirrups battered skulls, knives ripped throats, spears plunged between ribs. The cavalry sharpened iron on the heads of Jiande's men. Blood stained the first meters of the isthmus.

Li Shimin leapt into the fray like a man diving into sea foam. Crack! Hooves crushed armor. Steel clanged. Bones snapped, spears splintered on opponents. Li Shimin cut down any who crossed his path. The uproar became a wild cacophony of fury and fear. All unfolded in blinding flashes—here a horse toppled, legs hacked beneath it; there, a jet of blood arced high; a ribs caved in like earth in drought; a blade flashed bright in the noonlight. Chaos reigned—and no one fled.

Then suddenly, a turn—Li Shimin and his cavalry wheeled around, a feigned retreat. The maneuver sobered the field. Jiande watched from above, wary—but it was too late to stop the troops below. His forces, drawn into the pass, surged forward like a donkey after a carrot. The remaining two quarters of the Xia army gave chase. And just as the gullet of Hulao swallowed them whole—entanglements fell from the steep slopes and hordes of crossbowmen and archers decimated them mercilessly.

Any man who dared approach was struck at once by a shield-bearer, then finished with a thrust of the sword. The Xia army was trapped like water in a riverbed, hemmed in on both sides by the enemy. Corpses paved the narrow path winding through the pass. From the front, Li Shimin and his cavalry struck without mercy. The only way out was to retreat toward the command post. The remnants, shielding themselves as best they could, turned and fled back under Jiande's banner.

A scream of terror and panic pierced the air, echoing off Hulao's steep cliffs before vanishing somewhere far above them. Of all the banners sent into the pass, only one returned from that ambush, bloodied but intact. Jiande had lost nearly a thousand men in that first clash; several hundred more had fallen into enemy hands.

That same evening, after the battle, Li Shimin dispatched a letter to Dou, demanding that he withdraw from Henan. The answer arrived the next morning—Dou's regiment struck at the nearby city of Sishui, only to find it heavily manned and well-fortified by the Tang. These raids continued for the rest of the month without success.

He attacked surrounding cities again and again, but fortune refused to favor him. Then, like a cautious prairie dog, he crept closer to Hulao—slowly, warily—but Li Shimin held his mighty defensive position with unshakable force, and Dou remained blocked, stalled in the bay.

The Prince of Tang knew that time was working in his favor in this stalemate. Each day of deadlock at the Tiger Cage Pass brought Wang's troops in Luoyang closer to starvation and surrender. The counterbalance positioned at Hulao had led to a month-long impasse. Jiande now faced a dilemma not unlike that of Wang Shichong: hold his ground without yielding a single step, or surrender his final bastion. Worse still, the condition of Dou's army was deteriorating. His soldiers began to fall ill. For a month they had been trapped upstream by Li Shimin's forces, struggling to intercept supply barges — many of which were lost to the river's current, which ran against them. In contrast, Li Shimin's army was constantly supported by the river's natural flow.

Jiande's forces paid dearly for these four weeks of standoff — exhaustion ran rampant, and many perished from dehydration and malnutrition.

There were other passes near Hulao, but these were even narrower and just as strategically defensible. Due to the sheer size of Jiande's army, only one viable alternative remained: to bypass Li Shimin's position entirely by crossing the Yellow River to the north. Marching south toward the Huan Yuan Pass risked another collision with Tang forces.

Jiande's strategist, however, proposed a different course — to avoid any direct clash with Li Shimin and instead follow the northern embankment of the Yellow River, striking at the Tang heartland in Shaanxi — their capital, Chang'an. This maneuver could weaken the Tang and force them to lift the siege of Luoyang without incurring major losses.

The plan immediately sparked fierce opposition from the generals. They condemned it as rash and reckless. Anyone who supported it was accused of corruption in favor of Wang Shichong. Even Jiande himself was far from pleased with such a course of action. The immense size of his army had become its greatest weakness. A march through the dark forests of the Songshan mountains would decimate the force in mere days. The army's entire supply chain depended on the Yellow River, which was already proving unreliable. A march upriver would be suicide.

Moreover, Dou was troubled by the composition of his army. Its diversity posed a volatile risk in moments of chaos or deadlock. Many of its ranks were filled with former rebels whom Jiande had subdued in recent years, and their loyalty was questionable at best. Jiande swiftly silenced the generals' ambitions and prevented the army from being split into separate detachments dispatched on independent missions.

Meanwhile, for Li Shimin, this month-long stalemate was a gift from the heavens. The prince believed the fruit had ripened—it was time to provoke a confrontation. He was certain that Dou's army had sunk into the depths of despair and would not rise from it again. The time had come.

The campaign against Shichong had proved unexpectedly difficult. The Tang forces had not anticipated such prolonged and fierce resistance from Luoyang. The opportunity that now presented itself at Hulao—to turn a tactically favorable situation into an act of heroism and deliver a crushing blow to Dou—could greatly enhance Li Shimin's fame. Defeating Jiande, swiftly annexing his dominions, and removing Wang once and for all would erase the memory of the long siege and replace it with the glory of a decisive conquest.

Dou had to be lured into battle—he needed to take the bait, just as he had during their first clash. Li Shimin ordered his infantry to strike at Dou's supply lines, then led part of his forces, along with a thousand cavalrymen, across the river, creating the illusion that they had been dispatched to guard against an attack from Shaanxi.

In Dou's camp, this move caused a stir. Li Shimin had divided his army, and his strongest formation appeared to be retreating to the capital. The generals began to hope that Luoyang had successfully repelled Li Shimin's forces and that Wang's reinforcements were now attacking their rear. The war council began in the evening and lasted through half the night. There was general optimism that Hulao, now seemingly weakened, would not be able to withstand a full assault, and that the Xia army could strike the head of Li Shimin's retreating column.

Yet, while these fiery speeches were delivered and plans were laid to pass through Tiger Cage Pass, the prince—along with that very strong formation—was crossing the river again under the cover of night. As the Xia army slept and the rest kept watch, Li Shimin's troops were preparing another ambush.

At dawn on the 28th of May, Dou Jiande led the bulk of his army toward Hulao, deploying his forces along the eastern bank of the Sishui River in preparation for battle. But the Tang forces did not split into battle lines—instead, they remained in their strong defensive positions on the hills. The prince intended to replicate his Luoyang strategy: wait for a critical moment, when chaos and impatience would erupt within the enemy ranks. Then the Tang army would break forward like a boulder rolling downhill, crushing the disorganized and unprepared Xia troops.

It was a strategy well suited to Prince Li Shimin. He had employed similar tactics against Liu Wuzhou and Xue Rengao, the ruler of eastern Gansu—both of whom he defeated. He deliberately allowed the enemy to advance, stretch its supply lines, and then chose a strong, highly defensible position for his own forces. For a month, this strategy had worn down Jiande's army, just as the siege had exhausted Shichong's. Li Shimin avoided open confrontation, instead launching raids on enemy supply routes, waiting for signs of weakness or retreat.

Those signs had begun to show several days prior. Now, the prince's army, knowing the enemy's vulnerable point, could strike with its full might.

At dawn, Dou sent three hundred cavalry across the Sishui River, provoking Li Shimin to attack. But Li Shimin delayed on purpose. Dou made several such forays, but Hulao remained silent, as if no one was left there. For a moment, Jiande even thought that the rest of Li Shimin's army, deprived of its strongest faction, had mutinied during the night and fled. The prince, however, watched him intently, as if he had him skewered on a fork. He observed him carefully from a high vantage point on one of the hills rising above the pass.

Dou's cavalry raids became less frequent and shorter each time. Still, Li Shimin gave no signal to attack. Jiande grew seriously uncertain about what he should do—proceed through the pass without fear or stand and wait. It was impossible to determine whether the forces remaining in Hulao were as organized as during the first clash or if they had resigned themselves to a suicidal mission, to be scattered like cattle in a field.

This deadlock lasted from eight in the morning until the afternoon. When the sun had passed its zenith, Xia's troops began to falter. The first signs of dehydration and exhaustion began to thin their ranks. Soldiers sat down on the bare ground as if suddenly drained of strength, their legs like cotton refusing to obey. They broke formation, ignoring officers' commands, to reach the water. Nearly half left the ranks and fell to their knees by the river.

Suddenly, a tumult arose from the direction of Hulao. Ripples on the water signaled an oncoming charge. From the throat of the pass, three hundred horsemen burst forth. Dou's army broke into retreat, dissolving into chaotic disorder. Seeing this, Li Shimin dispatched another two hundred cavalry to Dou's left flank. The horsemen mercilessly fell upon them from behind. Many died cut down by swords, others trampled under the hooves of galloping steeds. Those who fell were crushed in the river, drowned, or trampled by infantry and cavalry alike.

Disorder completely unraveled the Xia ranks. Jiande's army panicked and collapsed. The fighting became more confused, and the retreat turned into a frenzied flight. Dou watched in horror as his army buckled under the pressure of Li Shimin's forces.

Then the full infantry force poured out from the pass and followed the cavalry in pursuit of Jiande's fleeing army. A cloud of arrows and crossbow bolts momentarily obscured the sky. It turned black above the retreating Xia soldiers, and when the light returned, many lay pierced by a hail of projectiles.

Dou tried to salvage what he could and ordered a retreat from the river to the eastern slope of the Sishui Valley. But his officers couldn't rally their troops. The clash of steel, armor, and helmets echoed across the highest cliffs of Hulao. Human screams, the neighing of horses, and splashes as bodies fell into water drowned out all commands. Orders were lost amid the uproar. Fighting groups no longer heeded anything. Death stared everyone in the face. Commands flew among the combatants only to vanish in the din.

Jiande stopped trying to command the retreat, realizing everything was already in shambles. He lost sight of his generals, and they of their garrisons. Seeing the collapse of the Xia army, Li Shimin ordered a full charge on the retreating troops, galloping at the head of the rest of the heavily armed cavalry. This charge showed no mercy. The cavalry pursued, cutting down everything in their path. Hooves trampled helmets that fell with every blow struck to the heads of the slain. Survivors lay dying as far as the eye could see.

They clashed fiercely and stubbornly, sharpening their blades on each other's heads. Swords and crossbows flashed in the sun. The clash of steel stung the ears. Knives and spears dripped with warm blood. Fear spread in their eyes like wormwood across a mountain slope. The terror of dying and the agony of those drawing their last breath tore through the air. The narrow banks and shallow waters of the Sishui turned red. Horses fell no less spared than men. Their terrified neighing mixed with human dread and horror.

In the midst of the battle stood a soldier trying to save his loyal steed. The horse had taken two arrows to the chest and kicked wildly, neighing in terror. Blood spurted from its nostrils with every snort. The soldier painfully pulled the arrows from its body. The animal let out a heart-rending cry of fear. The arrows had pierced its lungs. It thrashed harder, its eyes wide with panic. The soldier grabbed a crossbow lying beside a nearby corpse and aimed at the animal's head. A single bolt pierced the horse's skull, ending its suffering. The beast was in pain no longer.

Suddenly, a dry wind rose as if from every crevice and swept down from the slopes of the pass. It rushed downward, kicking up clouds of dust from the loess cliffs of Hulao. Like a sandstorm, it struck both armies with a curtain of grit. For a moment, the battle raged blindly, as if nature itself had grown weary of the bloodshed and tried to stop them. When the dust, driven like a monsoon, finally cleared, the mass of humanity tangled again, coiled like the writhing body of a snake, and the din and chaos beat mercilessly across all the cliffs, precipices, and rocks.

Li Shimin dominated the entire skirmish. His cavalry pursued the enemy further, while an ocean of infantry rose behind the prince. Among them, the Thirteen from Henan charged at Li Shimin's side like his most loyal companions. Unmatched in melee combat, they cut down everything around the prince with swords and staves. Suddenly, Tazong's keen eye caught a glint of sunlight reflected off a crossbow. He turned toward a hidden archer, who, with the last of his strength, was aiming straight at Li Shimin's chest from above the water's surface. Before the prince could be warned, the bolt had already been loosed from the weapon. It flew between the fighters, heading straight for its mark.

But as soon as Tazong shouted "Arrow!", all twelve turned their eyes to him and, as one, understanding without a word, leapt up to form a human wall, shielding the prince like a living canopy. The crossbow bolt sank into Feng's shoulder and sent him flying into the corpse-strewn riverbank. The prince, stunned, stared at the monks around him as though time had stopped and the battle raged somewhere far away.

The hidden assassin, however, still lived, and with a blood-soaked hand was already drawing back the string of his crossbow again. In a flash, Li Shimin reached for an arrow from the quiver on his back and fired at the would-be killer. His arrow whistled through the air, slipping cleanly between Tazong and Shanhu, and struck the assassin right in the center of his forehead.

The battle intensified. The prince's forces, enraged by the attempt on his life, charged at Xia like a battering ram. None were spared if they tried to flee without surrender. The battle was bloody, but it broke through the first Xia line, and Li Shimin planted the Tang banner on the eastern ridge. The Jiande army, trapped between Tang forces and the tall eastern cliffs, was encircled and caught in a deadly pocket. Several thousand soldiers were killed in the pursuit, over fifty thousand taken prisoner, and the rest were scattered in the surrounding nooks and crannies.

Dou Jiande himself was wounded by a spear but kept fleeing, clutching his horse's mane as he raced toward the Huang He. He barely reached it, and just as his horse's hooves touched the riverbank, he fell from the saddle. He would never cross it. Generals Bai Shirang and Yang Wuwer, who had pursued him, captured him and brought him before Li Shimin. They threw him at the prince's feet before his entire army.

The prince scolded Dou with these words:"I only attacked Wang Shichong. What did I do to you, that you left your own state to interfere in my campaign?"

Dou, known for his composure and wit, responded with dry sarcasm:"Had I not left, I would have demanded you prolong your campaign."

The annihilation of the Xia state was complete. Only a handful of cavalry escaped Hulao, galloping straight to the Xia capital. Their ruler had been captured and enslaved. Dreams of an invincible army and the imperial throne vanished forever for Xia.

As Li Shimin had envisioned, so it was done. From what had seemed a trap, he had led his forces to an almost unparalleled victory. He had his heroic deed, and his enemy, whose empire had crumbled thanks to his daring and cunning, was now his prisoner.

Victory was sealed by the relentless, decisive pursuit led by the Tang cavalry. The battle was marked by several heroic feats. The Shaolin monks shielded the prince from a deadly shot, loyal generals chased Dou until they caught him, and the prince's cousin, the eighteen-year-old Li Daoxuan, emerged from the pursuit with armor bristling with arrows like quills on a giant porcupine. From that day, he earned the nickname "The Porcupine."

Victory at Hulao also heralded the imminent fall of Luoyang. Left without hope for rescue, Wang Shichong surrendered on June 4, after Li Shimin presented the captured Dou Jiande and his generals beneath the city walls.

The Thirteen from Henan performed one final feat at the end of the campaign. While Li Shimin's army dealt the final blow to Xia's forces, the monks set off for nearby Mount Huanyuan, where Shichong had earlier established a military-administrative outpost and county seat. There, Wang Renze made a last-ditch stand. The thirteen monks aided the assault, and Renze was captured.

Li Shimin returned to Chang'an as a great hero, nearly divine, parading through the city in a triumphant procession clad in armor of pure gold. To his right walked Dou Jiande, and to his left, Wang Shichong—both with bound hands, marching in time to the prince's steed's hoofbeats. Just behind Li Shimin strode the proud Thirteen from Henan, led by Tazong, who drove the bound Wang Renze ahead of him.

The Tang dynasty had acquired the Mandate of Heaven—according to tradition and history, a divine attribute legitimizing their right to take power and rule the empire. On June 10th, 621, Xia officially submitted to the authority of the Tang. The new dynasty had a custom of treating its rivals leniently, refraining from killing defeated contenders for the throne. However, the cases of Dou Jiande and Wang Shichong stood in contrast to this rule. Jiande was executed in Chang'an, while Wang was seemingly released. He was, in fact, sentenced to exile in Sichuan, though he never arrived—he was murdered en route.

As for the Thirteen from Henan, their support given to the prince and their military merits in establishing the new dynasty earned the Shaolin Monastery the patronage of Li Shimin and his successors. The heroic services rendered by the Buddhist monks, who went to war in the emperor's service, were immortalized on stone steles in Shaolin. These were not intended to warn other monks against such behavior, but rather to remind future rulers of the debt of gratitude owed to the monastery. The strategic location of Shaolin was not insignificant—neither to the rulers of the Chinese empire, nor to the monks themselves. Situated on the slopes of a revered mountain and within sight of the imperial capital, the temple could benefit both from its sanctity and from its patronage. It stood high above, overlooking the center of state power and controlling the mountain route from Luoyang to Dengfeng and further southeast. This above all determined their involvement in military campaigns.

When the excesses of Shichong began in Henan, the monks made a political decision to take a side. If they had to join one faction, it was better to support the one more likely to win—and from the outset, that side seemed to be Li Shimin's. They prioritized the monastery's survival and chose the stronger side. As it turned out, their diplomatic foresight proved to be the key. In gratitude, Li Shimin granted them an estate about fifteen li (approximately 27 kilometers) from the monastery, thereafter known as the "Cypress Valley Estate." It consisted of 40 qing of land (about 227 hectares) and a water mill.

Cypress Valley lay southeast of Luoyang, at the western edge of the Song Mountain massif. Towering above it was the Twisting Path Mountain, named as a warning due to the winding path leading to its peak. The valley itself was named after the deep, cypress-covered gorge that cut through it. A road ran along its bottom from Luoyang to Dengfeng, so narrow and crowded with trees that no vehicles could turn back on it. The monastery's estate thus dominated the main pass on the route to the eastern capital, and its military importance made it an especially valuable asset.

By defeating Dou Jiande and Wang Shichong, the Tang eliminated their two strongest rivals and seized their territories. They gained the upper hand over all competing factions and unified China on their own terms. In 629, Li Shimin became emperor. He ordered the construction of Buddhist monasteries at the sites of the seven battles he had fought during the civil war. As a gesture toward reconciliation among the warring factions, he named the one at Hulao the "Temple of Equality and Compassion."

The Battle of Hulao was the most remarkable engagement of the civil war that followed the fall of the Sui dynasty. Its success—born of meager expectations—earned it eternal remembrance and a place in the annals of world history and the Great Chinese Empire. Victory at the Tiger Cage Pass and the Mandate of Heaven for the Tang marked the beginning of the empire's golden age. Li Shimin gave living proof that boldness, even without the support or faith of others, triumphs doubly. The admiration and envy inspired by immortal feats are what most intoxicate people. A living legend captivates even the narrowest of imaginations and sets an example for future generations. And history either repeats itself—or reminds those who dare to forget it, who trample on tradition and forsake their ancestors.

The story of Li Shimin and the Thirteen from Henan was to return once more—though in times even more turbulent than those following the fall of the Sui.