The Strategic Chessboard of Tenth-Century China

In the mid-10th century, as the Song Dynasty consolidated power under Zhao Kuangyin (Emperor Taizu), the independent state of Later Shu in Sichuan became an inevitable target. This mountainous kingdom, ruled by the Meng family since 934, had thrived behind natural barriers—the Qinling Mountains to the north and the Yangtze gorges to the east. Yet by 964, these defenses were crumbling. Four northern prefectures (Qin, Feng, Cheng, Jie) had already fallen to the Central Plains regimes during the Later Zhou dynasty, while Song’s annexation of Jingnan and Hunan opened a watery highway along the Yangtze.

Historians often compare this pincer-like vulnerability to “chopsticks probing into Sichuan”—a metaphor Zhao Kuangyin himself might have relished as he awaited justification for invasion. Unlike Hunan, which had invited Song intervention, Later Shu’s ruler Meng Chang maintained defiant independence. The casus belli would come from an unlikely source: Wang Zhaoyuan, Later Shu’s overconfident military commander.

The Rise of a Pretend Strategist

Wang Zhaoyuan’s trajectory reads like a medieval satire. Born to poverty in Chengdu, he entered a Buddhist monastery at 13 as servant to Abbot Zhiyin. His life changed when Later Shu’s founder Meng Zhixiang noticed the clever youth during an alms-giving ceremony. Appointed as study companion to young prince Meng Chang, Wang cultivated an intimate bond with his future sovereign through shared childhood games.

Upon Meng Chang’s ascension, Wang received key palace positions like “Curtain Ambassador” and “Tea-Wine Storehouse Commissioner”—titles masking significant influence. When the powerful Shu chancellor Wang Chuhui was ousted for corruption, Wang Zhaoyuan effectively controlled the Bureau of Military Affairs despite lacking combat experience. The dowager queen protested this appointment, calling Wang “a menial from the servant quarters,” but Meng Chang valued loyalty over competence.

Contemporary records paint Wang as a delusional narcissist. He voraciously consumed military treatises, comparing himself to Zhuge Liang—the legendary Three Kingdoms strategist. Local officials openly mocked him; Magistrate Tian Chun called him “dog-and-rat” in public forums. Yet Wang waited impatiently for war, believing it would validate his imagined genius.

The Provocation That Doomed a Kingdom

In 964, as Song forces massed along Shu’s borders, Chancellor Li Hao urged submitting as a vassal. Wang vehemently opposed this, seeing war as his moment for glory. Encouraged by advisor Zhang Tingwei, he devised a reckless plan: ally with Northern Han to attack Song from two fronts.

Three envoys carried this secret proposal in wax-sealed letters to Taiyuan. But at Kaifeng, officer Zhao Yantao defected, delivering the incriminating documents to Zhao Kuangyin. The Song emperor reportedly exclaimed: “Now I have just cause to campaign west!”

The Swift Collapse of Shu Defenses

In November 964, Song launched a two-pronged invasion:
– Northern Route (30,000 troops): Led by Wang Quanbin through the Qinling passes
– Eastern Route (20,000 troops): Commanded by Liu Guangyi up the Yangtze

Wang Zhaoyuan, commanding Shu forces, boasted at his farewell banquet: “Not only will I repel these invaders, I’ll lead 20-30 thousand fierce warriors to conquer the Central Plains—as easy as turning one’s palm!” Wielding an iron scepter like a theatrical prop, he mimicked Zhuge Liang’s legendary composure.

Reality proved cruel. At critical battles like Jianmen Pass, Wang froze in terror as Song flanking maneuvers shattered his defenses. Found weeping in a peasant’s barn quoting Tang poet Luo Yin—”When fortune departs, even heroes lose freedom”—he was captured without dignity.

Meanwhile, Eastern Route commander Gao Yanchou exemplified rare Shu valor. After his deputy’s blunder lost Kuizhou, the wounded general refused surrender or retreat, choosing ritual suicide facing Chengdu. Liu Guangyi later buried him with honors.

The Humiliating Surrender

By January 965, with Jianmen fallen and Song armies sweeping across the Chengdu Plain, Meng Chang despaired: “Forty years we fed and armed soldiers, yet none will fire one arrow eastward!” Chancellor Li Hao—who had drafted surrender documents when Former Shu fell in 925—composed another capitulation.

The campaign lasted precisely 66 days. Song absorbed 46 prefectures and 534,029 households. Yet the real drama began during occupation, as undisciplined Song troops plundered Sichuan, sparking rebellions that would take years to quell—a story for another chapter.

Legacy of Hubris and Strategic Folly

Wang Zhaoyuan became synonymous with military incompetence in Chinese historiography. His tragicomedy illustrates how nepotism and self-delusion can undermine even geographically secure regimes. For Zhao Kuangyin, the victory demonstrated masterful geopolitical patience—waiting until an adversary’s internal weaknesses created the perfect conquest opportunity.

Modern leadership studies might diagnose Wang as suffering from the Dunning-Kruger effect, where low ability breeds overconfidence. His insistence on war, despite Shu’s diplomatic options, underscores how individual personalities can alter historical trajectories. Meanwhile, the rapid collapse of Later Shu’s “impregnable” defenses remains a textbook case on the vulnerability of isolated regimes in an era of unification.