Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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The Sun Clan and Ma Chao’s soldiers rushed to contain it, but the Funan captives fought like cornered animals, knowing surrender meant slavery or execution. Some grabbed fallen weapons. Others used bare hands and teeth. Sun Ce arrived at the scene, his spear already red. ”Form a perimeter! Don’t let them scatter into the jungle!”

Ma Chao and his cavalry circled the fray, cutting down any who tried to flee. Zhou Yu, living true as a master tactician, ordered archers onto nearby rocks, ”Shoot any who break through!”

But the real horror came next.

A Funan officer, his face painted with ochre streaks, raised a curved blade high, not to attack, but to slash his own throat. As he fell, a dozen others followed suit. Then a hundred.

Within minutes, half the prisoners lay dead by their own hands.

The Sun Clan soldiers and Ma Chao’s Imperial soldiers could only watch, stunned by what they saw.

Ma Dai wiped sweat from his brow. ”What kind of people are these?”

Zhou Yu’s face was grim. ”The kind we’ll have to exterminate to the last if we want to hold this land.”

Back in the command tent, the mood was somber.

Sun Quan broke the silence. ”We can’t keep prisoners if they’ll just kill themselves.”

”Then we kill them first,” Lu Meng said bluntly.

Zhou Yu shook his head. ”And earn the eternal hatred of every Funan citizen? No. There’s another way.”

He outlined his plan, take the youngest, least fanatical captives. Separate them from the officers. Offer them food, safety, and even land if they renounced their loyalty to Funan.

”Turn them into our auxiliaries,” Zhou Yu said. ”Let them see our strength and our mercy. In time, they’ll fight for us willingly.”

Sun Ce rubbed his chin. ”And the rest?”

Zhou Yu’s expression didn’t change. ”Execute the officers publicly. Let the auxiliaries see the cost of defiance.”

Ma Chao nodded slowly. ”Cruel. But practical.”

As the meeting adjourned, Sun Ce lingered, staring at the map they had created from the start of their campaign.

The camp of the Sun Clan and Ma Chao’s army stirred back to life after the day of rest, though the scars of the previous encounters lingered in every man’s heart. The ambush of the Funan army had left them bruised, and the riot of prisoners the day before had unsettled even the bravest among them.

Blood still stained patches of soil where captives had taken their own lives, and though the bodies had been burned, the memory of the screams could not be so easily erased.

But soldiers heal with food, sleep, and orders. And so, at dawn, the clang of armor, the shuffle of boots, and the barking of sergeants announced that rest was over.

Zhou Yu, calm and resolute as ever, stood beside Sun Quan and Lu Meng to oversee the delicate work that would decide not just the fate of these prisoners, but also the political future of their southern campaign.

The plan laid out the night before was not without risk. To separate men by loyalty and youth was to stir up resentment, but Zhou Yu had insisted on it. ”If they are given no path but death, then death is all they will choose. Show them a future. Some will take it.”

Thus began the grim procession. Funan officers and veterans were hauled out first, their muscles tense beneath ropes that cut into their arms.

Their eyes burned with defiance, and many spat at their captors, their words unintelligible but the venom clear. The younger soldiers, those with softer faces, fewer scars, and trembling hands, were dragged away to another section of the camp.

It was not done gently. Some of the veterans, with sheer willpower and raw strength, snapped ropes and lunged at their captors, howling for freedom. In one such moment, a scarred Funan captain surged forward, breaking free of his bonds.

His blade was long gone, yet he charged with bare fists at the nearest Sun soldier. The man barely had time to shout before the Funan captain crushed his throat with a strike.

The camp erupted into chaos. Steel flashed, soldiers closed ranks, and in an instant the veteran lay dead, his body pierced by a dozen spears. Zhou Yu did not even flinch. His voice, calm but commanding, rang out:

”Kill them on the spot if they resist. Show no hesitation.”

The Sun Clan soldiers and Ma Chao’s Imperial troops obeyed. Each time a veteran strained against his ropes, a sword or spear found his heart. Blood stained the ground anew, but order prevailed. By midday, the separation was complete.

The young and greenhorn Funan soldiers, numbering in the hundreds, now sat apart from their former leaders. Their eyes darted between their dead comrades and their captors. Fear warred with hunger, with exhaustion, and with the faintest ember of hope.

Here the scholars stepped forward. Six men, robed, ink-stained, and weary-eyed, who had been kept safe throughout the campaign for moments such as this.

They had been working feverishly since the beginning of the southern march, cracking the Funan tongue by comparing captured scrolls, overheard commands, and desperate gestures. Now, with crude but sufficient words, they attempted to build bridges.

”Food,” one scholar said, holding up a steaming bowl. His accent was rough, but the word was understood.

The Funan youths stared, their bellies betraying them with low growls.

”Land,” said another, drawing with a stick in the dirt, carving out a square and then pointing to a young man. He mimed a farmer sowing seeds. Then he gestured back to the bowl of food.

It was clumsy, imperfect, but the message was clear enough, Eat. Live. Work the land. Survive.

Zhou Yu watched carefully. His sharp eyes caught the flickers of indecision on the prisoners’ faces. Then he added the final push. At his order, the corpses of Funan officers were dragged before the assembled captives. The executioner, sword in hand, waited.

”You see this?” Zhou Yu murmured to the scholars. ”Tell them, this is the price of defiance.”

The words were translated, halting but effective. A veteran officer, his mouth bound to stop him from cursing, was forced to his knees. With one swift stroke, his head rolled across the ground. The Funan youths recoiled in horror. Some wept openly.

”Choice,” another scholar said, forcing the cracked word out in their tongue. He pointed to the officer’s body. ”Death.” Then to the food. ”Life.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Finally, one young soldier shuffled forward. He dropped to his knees and bowed his head, muttering in broken tones that even the scholars struggled to follow. But the meaning was clear. He had chosen life.

One by one, others followed. Not all, but enough. Enough for Zhou Yu’s plan to take root.

Sun Ce and Ma Chao, watching from a short distance, exchanged a look.

”Your brother is clever,” Ma Chao admitted, nodding toward Sun Quan, who was helping the scholars with gestures and calm encouragement.

Sun Ce smirked. ”He’s not just clever. He’s patient. Me, I’d rather take a spear and decide things in one stroke.”

”I’ve noticed,” Ma Chao said dryly, recalling the reckless way Sun Ce had laughed mid duel days before.

The work of persuasion dragged deep into the night. Six scholars were not enough for hundreds of captives, but slowly, surely, cracks appeared in their resolve. A handful of Funan youths even attempted to speak back in broken Chinese, eager to prove their willingness.

By dawn, Zhou Yu had auxiliaries. Not many, but a start. He ordered them separated into small units, each watched closely by Imperial soldiers. He gave them food, blankets, and small wooden charms carved with the Hengyuan dynasty’s crest. Symbols matter, Zhou Yu knew. These charms would become tokens of loyalty, reminders of the new path offered.

But not all was calm in the south.

Far to the northeast, another storm gathered. Shi Xin of the Shi Clan had driven his army into Champa’s territory, their banners snapping in the humid winds. The wooden border fort had fallen after days of fighting, its defenders butchered or scattered. Smoke still rose from its blackened timbers.

Shi Xin, calculating and cautious, left his younger brother Shi Zhi with fifteen thousand men to rebuild the fort into a headquarters and supply hub. A general without secure supply was already half defeated, and Shi Xin knew this campaign would test every grain of rice, every bolt of cloth, every arrow.

With the fort under reconstruction, Shi Xin marched on. Alongside his brother Shi Hui, he commanded over a hundred thousand soldiers, their armor dulled by travel but their spirits high. They swept through villages like a tide, seizing granaries, felling stubborn resistance, and pressing terrified villagers into service.

Yet Shi Xin was no fool. Each move he made was deliberate. Scouts fanned out in all directions. He knew the Champa main army would come, and he intended to meet them on ground of his choosing.

At present, he laid siege to a small town nestled at the center of several villages. To outsiders, it was a humble place, mud walls, wooden gates, a scattering of shrines. But to Shi Xin, it was a lynchpin. Seize it, and he severed the supply arteries of the Champa countryside.

The townsfolk resisted with what little they had. Farmers armed with hoes stood atop the walls. Children hurled stones. A few Champa soldiers who had escaped earlier battles had rallied here, drilling peasants into a makeshift militia. But against the Shi Clan army, they were gnats before a storm.

Shi Hui, younger but fiery, urged his brother to crush the town swiftly. ”Why waste time? Every hour we wait is another hour for Champa’s army to gather. Let me storm the walls!”

Shi Xin shook his head. ”No. We let them think they can resist. The longer they fight, the more their soldiers reveal themselves. When their main force comes, we’ll have the fort rebuilt and this place already secured. Patience wins wars, not temper.”

Still, he prepared for the inevitable. Siege towers were constructed, trenches dug, and rams readied. Meanwhile, he and Shi Hui poured over scraps of Champa writing, attempting to decode their language.

Just as Zhou Yu had done with Funan, the Shi brothers knew that words could bind where swords only severed.

Night fell, torches lining the siege camps like a necklace of fire. The drums of Champa could be heard in the distance, faint but growing. Their main army was on the march. And Shi Xin, sitting before the map by lantern light, allowed himself a thin smile. ”They will come,” he murmured. ”And when they do... the trap will close.”

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Name: Lie Fan

Title: Founding Emperor Of Hengyuan Dynasty

Age: 35 (202 AD)

Level: 16

Next Level: 462,000

Renown: 2325

Cultivation: Yin Yang Separation (level 9)

SP: 1,121,700

ATTRIBUTE POINTS

STR: 966 (+20)

VIT: 623 (+20)

AGI: 623 (+10)

INT: 667

CHR: 98

WIS: 549

WILL: 432

ATR Points: 0