A year after Yuan Tan (袁譚) had opened a door toward Cao Cao (曹操), the winter of Jian'an 9 (204 CE) arrived.

Cao Cao's column was leaving Xudu (許都), climbing slowly north. The banners of the heralds went ahead. Behind them came Xu Chu's (許褚) five hundred guards, then the central divisions of Zhang Liao (張遼) and Xu Huang (徐晃), and then Cao Cao's own carriage. Beside the carriage, a single horse walked quietly. On that horse rode Guo Jia (郭嘉).

Guo Jia was thirty-seven that year. His face was pale, and he wore a glove on his right hand. Since the previous year, his right fingertips had often felt cold. To shield them from the wind of the march, Xun Yu (荀彧) had chosen and sent a thick glove. Thick as it looked, it still hung light upon Guo Jia's fingers.

On the evening of the first day, the main camp was pitched near the old battlefield of Baima (白馬). It was the plain where, five years earlier, Guan Yu (關羽) had cut down Yan Liang (顏良).

Cao Cao dismounted and gazed long across the plain. Weeds had grown thick over it. Five years had drawn the blood of that battle down into the earth. Cao Cao looked quietly at Guo Jia.

"Fengxiao (奉孝). There is a place within me that was broken on this plain. That place still rings, now and then, inside me."

Guo Jia was silent for a while. Then he answered quietly.

"My lord. A general whose broken place does not ring is one already dead on the battlefield. That a place still rings in you means you, my lord, are still alive."

Cao Cao laughed briefly. A cough followed the laugh. The cough was not Guo Jia's but Cao Cao's. Even at fifty, in that winter, Cao Cao was letting a cold wind settle deep within his chest.

The farther north the column climbed, the more the walls of Ye (鄴城) tilted slowly at the far edge of sight. Within Ye, Yuan Shang (袁尙) was still arranging his defenses. On the city tower, his banner flapped large in the wind.

Cao Cao did not strike Ye head-on. It was as Guo Jia had counseled. Guo Jia's counsel stood firm.

"My lord. Ye does not fall at a single stroke. First, strike off its hands and feet. Close, in order, the smaller cities along the way — Liyang (黎陽), Handan (邯鄲), and five other towns. A city whose hands and feet have been cut off will, in time, tilt by itself, even without another blow."

Cao Cao nodded. After the five cities were closed in order, Ye became an isolated paulownia tree. Until the summer of Jian'an 10 (205), Ye would hold out. But Cao Cao's gaze that day had already passed Ye and was fixed on the gray clouds beyond, over You Province (幽州) and Liaodong (遼東).

In the evening, within the inner tent, Guo Jia held out a slip to Cao Cao. Ten lines were written upon it.

"My lord. This is a slip I wrote yesterday. One slip a day — I mean to gather ten."

"Ten slips, you say. Ten slips of what?"

"Ten counsels, my lord, looking ahead into the coming year. I feel, inside this winter's wind, that my own breath has grown short. It may be that, within a year, my body will no longer rest whole beside you. The counsels of that year, I mean to divide across ten slips and leave in advance."

Cao Cao could not bring himself to take the slip. For a while he only looked at it. His hand hesitated before the paper. That hesitation stretched long. At last he slowly took it. Upon its top line, four characters were written, neatly: 業城不擊 — do not strike Ye directly.

"Fengxiao. When will you write the last, the tenth slip?"

"The last slip, my lord, I shall write on the day my body is shortest beside you. If I cannot write it on that day, elder brother Xun Yu (荀彧) shall write it in my stead."

That night, many stars filled the northern sky above the camp.

Cao Cao stood at the door of his tent and gazed long at one northern star. The star was uncommonly large and firm. Guo Jia was also looking at that star. The two men did not look at each other; together, they looked at the same star.

Cao Cao said quietly,

"What is the name of that star, on this night?"

Guo Jia was silent a while. Then he answered quietly.

"The star has no name yet, on this night, my lord. Only, in a few years, a certain man from the south shall be the first to call out its name. The name of that man is written on the last of the ten slips I shall leave with you."

Cao Cao's gaze turned toward Guo Jia. Guo Jia kept looking only at the star. The northern winter wind passed the corners of their tent and flowed slowly on to the south.

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