In Fiction
Wang's fate in Luo Guanzhong's historical novel Romance of the Three Kingdoms is different from his one in actual history.
During the time when Guan Yu was placed in charge of Jing Province (present day Hubei and Hunan), Wang served under the renowned general as an army commandant. In 219, after Guan Yu defeated Cao Ren and conquered the city of Fancheng, Wang warned his superior about a possible backdoor attack from Lü Meng. However, Guan Yu believed the defense preparations were apt and did not heed Wang's advice.
True to Wang's warning, Lü Meng's troops crossed the Xunyang River into Jing Province disguised as merchants. Shi Ren and Mi Fang, two of Guan Yu's subjects, promptly surrendered two key positions, Gong'an and Nan Commandery (present day Jiangling, Hubei), to the enemy. Guan, sandwiched on both sides by two enemies, had to seek temporary refuge in Maicheng (southeast of present day Dangyang, Hubei).
As the food store dwindled and relief troops were not seen, the regretful Guan then asked Wang for solutions to the crisis but the latter replied, "Even if Jiang Ziya were to come alive, he would not be able to save this situation." In a desperate attempt, Guan Yu and his son Guan Ping led a diminutive force and headed west in a bid to reunite with Liu Bei in Yi Province (present day Sichuan and Guizhou). Wang and Zhou Cang swore to remain behind to defend Maicheng to their deaths.
However, Guan Yu and Guan Ping were intercepted by Sun Quan's forces and captured. Both were promptly executed. In Maicheng, Wang was telling Zhou Cang about a vision of blood-stained Guan Yu in a nightmare he had when enemy soldiers came to the city with the severed heads of Guan Yu and Guan Ping. With a cry, Wang then threw himself from the city walls and died.
Read more about this topic: Wang Fu (Three Kingdoms)
Famous quotes containing the word fiction:
“The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction means.”
—Oscar Wilde (1854–1900)
“To value the tradition of, and the discipline required for, the craft of fiction seems today pointless. The real Arcadia is a lonely, mountainous plateau, overbouldered and strewn with the skulls of sheep slain for vellum and old bitten pinions that tried to be quills. It’s forty rough miles by mule from Athens, a city where there’s a fair, a movie house, cotton candy.”
—Alexander Theroux (b. 1940)