Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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”It is the Emperor’s command,” Wang Fu replied with a faint smile, masking the storm of unease inside him. ”That is reason enough.” Neither woman was satisfied, but both knew the dangers of prying too deeply into imperial business. They bowed their heads and helped their husbands quietly prepare for departure.

True to the men’s words, the very next day, Emperor Xian played his part flawlessly in the public court. With Liu Zhang seated beside him, a placid and largely ornamental figure, the Emperor addressed the assembly.

”My dear Imperial Cousin, esteemed ministers,” he began, his voice carrying a convincing note of regal concern. ”While our brave defenders hold the line at Zitong, we cannot become complacent. The cunning of Cao Cao is without limit. What if he seeks to outflank us? What if a contingent of his army marches west, through the high passes we believe to be impenetrable, to fall upon Chengdu while our gaze is fixed on the east?”

He let the horrifying possibility hang in the air. Liu Zhang, easily swayed by any suggestion of danger to his person and his capital, nodded vigorously. ”A most astute point, Your Majesty! A most astute point! We must be vigilant!”

”Therefore,” Emperor Xian continued, ”I propose, with the agreement of the Imperial Cousin, that we dispatch trusted officials to inspect our western border forts and checkpoints. General Wu Yi will assess military readiness. Counselor Wang Fu will review supply lines and civilian governance. They will ensure our western wall is as stout as our eastern one.”

The decree was met with nods of approval. It was a prudent, logical measure. The decree was sealed. Wu Yi and Wang Fu were given their official cover.

No one, not Fa Zheng, not Zhang Song, not Meng Da, not even the many officials who quietly whispered their loyalty to the rising Hengyuan Dynasty under Lie Fan, suspected anything.

To them, it was nothing more than a prudent inspection, a routine measure in the face of Wei’s advance. It was boring, administrative work. There was no need to send a frantic message to Zitong about something so mundane. The Emperor’s ruse had worked perfectly.

They did not see the true current flowing beneath.

Emperor Xian himself oversaw the next crucial step, the preparation of elite guards. He could not afford to send Wu Yi and Wang Fu into the wild frontiers unprotected, nor could he draw suspicion by surrounding them with obvious pomp.

So he handpicked men, stalwart veterans whose loyalty had been tested, whose families could be safeguarded in Chengdu should anything befall them.

Each contingent was modest, no more than two dozen men. Enough to defend, not enough to draw notice. Their armor was polished but unadorned, their banners plain, their movements quiet. They would escort Wu Yi northward toward the Qiang, and Wang Fu southward toward the Tibetan tribes the south of Yunnan.

And then there were the gifts.

Chests had been prepared long before, hidden away in secret caches at border garrisons, awaiting the moment they would be claimed. Silks woven in imperial looms, blades of the finest steel, bolts of salt and grain, even bronze seals already inscribed with titles of authority waiting to be handed to tribal chiefs.

To the tribes, such treasures were not mere goods, but tokens of legitimacy, signs that the Son of Heaven himself recognized their power.

The Emperor inspected the seals personally, his hands steady as he traced the characters carved into bronze. Lord of the Qiang People. Protector of the Southern Hills. Marshal of the Tibet Plateau. Each one was a gamble, a dangerous gamble, but a necessary one.

When all was ready, he dismissed Wu Yi and Wang Fu with his blessing, his eyes hard as jade as he spoke.

”Remember,” he said, ”you carry not only gifts, but the future of the Han. Let no word slip, let no weakness show. You go as my shadows into the wild. Return as my sword.”

Both men bowed deeply, their voices steady though their hearts were anything but.

”Yes, Your Majesty.”

That night, as Wu Yi and Wang Fu prepared for departure, whispers spread in the barracks and markets of Chengdu. The decree had been heard, the departure seen, but none thought much of it.

Some soldiers muttered that it was tedious work, to go trudging through border forts while the real battle raged at Zitong. Merchants wondered if it meant new taxes, new levies of grain. But the matter died quickly, swallowed by the larger, bloodier news of Wei’s relentless assault to the north.

The next morning, Wu Yi rode out from Chengdu with his contingent, banners snapping in the cold dawn wind. His wife stood at the gate, her eyes following him until he vanished into the dust of the road. Her heart was heavy with dread, though she could not have named why.

To the south, Wang Fu’s caravan departed as well, quieter, slipping into the jungled roads that led toward Yunnan’s misty hills. His wife watched too, lips pressed tight, clutching the sleeves of her robe until her knuckles whitened.

The two men rode in different directions, but their purpose was the same, to carry the Emperor’s gamble into the lands beyond Han reach. To seek wolves and bind them with collars of gold.

And behind them, in the palace, Emperor Xian sat once more alone at his table, a single candle flickering before him. His tea had long gone cold, but he did not drink. He only stared into the flame, his face calm, his thoughts burning with the knowledge that the game had truly begun.

The world saw only a cautious decree, an Emperor still bound by Liu Zhang’s shadow. But the truth, hidden in silence and sealed by secrecy, was that the Son of Heaven had moved a piece on the board none expected him to touch.

The dynasty might yet endure. And far away, in the forests, the mountains, and the wild plateaus of the frontier, the wind carried whispers of change.

Meanwhile the clash of iron and will at Zitong raged without cease.

For weeks now, the valley had echoed with the thunder of war drums and the cries of men locked in struggle. Smoke drifted thick above the battlements, mingling with the stench of blood and damp earth. The fields before the fortress had become a graveyard of broken ladders, charred siege towers, and the bodies of the fallen. What once were green meadows had been churned into mud, slick with gore.

From the walls of Zitong, defenders labored ceaselessly. Archers loosed shafts until their fingers blistered. Engineers doused torches upon siege rams and toppled weighted stones upon scaling parties. The moat, dug at immense expense, had swallowed hundreds of men already, its dark waters clotted with corpses.

And still, the Wei banners pressed close, fluttering defiantly in the mountain wind.

Inside the city, Fa Zheng, Zhang Song, and Meng Da lived in a haze of exhaustion. Their ink stained fingers moved constantly across maps and bamboo slips, yet each plan they devised was tested, shattered, and replaced with another. Day bled into night with little rest. They ate cold rice over drafts of stratagem, their minds burning with the relentless pressure of holding the line.

Fa Zheng in particular looked gaunt, his sharp eyes ringed with shadow. He had long been Lie Fan’s trusted hand in the land of Shu, yet even his fertile wit strained now. He confessed to Zhang Song late one night as they pored over sketches of the defenses,

Fa Zheng pressed his knuckles into his temple. ”We cannot continue like this. Guo Jia and Xi Zhicai test us with every cunning trick they know. If we remain reactive, sooner or later, something will break.”

Zhang Song stroked his long beard, his eyes darting to the maps, sighed heavily. ”We built Zitong into a fortress beyond compare. That is our one remaining shield. The walls will not fall easily, but men’s hearts, those are harder to fortify.”

Meng Da interjected sharply, his voice tired but firm as he slammed his fist on the table. ”Then we must create something new! If our old tricks fail, then let us make innovations. Fire, machines, even deception. We cannot sit here merely responding. We must force them into error.”

And yet, even as he spoke with fire, all three knew their reserves of invention ran thin. They knew their margin was thin, and the people inside the city lived on rationed food, their morale tied to every successful repulse of Wei’s assault. If Zitong fell, the entire western frontier could unravel, exposing Chengdu itself.

Across the field, within the sprawling command camp of Wei, frustration gnawed just as deeply. Guo Jia and Xi Zhicai, brilliant though they were, found themselves stymied at every turn. Their schemes, whether feints, diversions, or direct assaults, were blunted by Zitong’s preparations.

The moat alone, treacherous and wide, had nullified much of their siegecraft. Scaling ladders were cast down into the water. Earthen causeways collapsed under countermines. Every time Wei’s men tried to bridge the gap, fire rained down upon them from watchtowers taller than any Guo Jia had anticipated.

One evening, as the lamps flickered in their tent, Guo Jia allowed himself a weary laugh. ”I will say this, Zhicai. Those three foxes under Liu Zhang have outdone themselves. Who would have thought Zhang Song’s silver tongue could wring such wealth from Liu Zhang’s coffers? Enough to turn Zitong into a citadel rivaling even Luoyang.”

Xi Zhicai smirked faintly, though his eyes betrayed fatigue. ”It is a fortress that rivals even Jianmen Pass, and yet Jianmen Pass we could breach. This... this is another matter entirely. Their moat, their towers, their hidden snares... each step bleeds us. It is as though every rock and tree here conspires against Wei.”

”And yet,” Guo Jia said, sipping weak wine, ”I almost admire them. Almost.”

The admiration, however, did little to ease their emperor’s fury.

In the heart of the camp, Cao Cao sat within his great tent, a brazier glowing at his side, yet the warmth did nothing to ease the pounding in his skull. His hand pressed against his temple, fingers kneading as though he might squeeze the pain away.

The reports lay scattered before him, victory upon victory in the west, tribes subdued in Qinghai, the Gansu corridor bending knee, fertile pastures seized. The Wei banner had flown higher than ever before.

And yet here, at Zitong, a stubborn knot refused to loosen. The legitimacy of his dynasty, the very claim that he was the rightful Son of Heaven, demanded the crushing of the so called Han remnant clinging to Shu. Every day Zitong stood, it mocked him. Every night its walls held, the whispers of doubt grew louder across the realm.

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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