Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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The raven croaked softly, pecked at the offering, and then settled comfortably, as though it had done this ritual countless times before. Lie Fan brushed his hand gently along the raven’s head, smoothing the sleek feathers, before his fingers worked deftly at the small scroll tied to the bird’s leg.

Once the scroll was secure in his hand, he gave the raven a final stroke of approval and lifted his arm upward. The raven gave a low call, spread its wings, dark against the pale moonlight, and launched itself back into the sky, soon swallowed by the night.

Lie Fan unfurled the scroll with care. His eyes moved swiftly over the inked words. As he read, satisfaction settled in his expression. The matter of Yamatai had been resolved.

Their attention had been successfully diverted, believing now in the existence of a fictional Mongolian kingdom, one they assumed was allied with Goguryeo. But in truth, it had always been him. The Hengyuan Dynasty had orchestrated it from the beginning.

Lord Kaito had even ordered the establishment an outpost near Goguryeo, thinking himself clever, when in reality it placed Yamatai’s movements under Hengyuan’s watch.

A quiet chuckle slipped from his lips. So Yamatai, for all its mysterious reputation, was not as formidable as the tales made it seem. Perhaps Queen Himiko herself, with her vaunted shamanic magic, already suspected the truth.

Perhaps she chose not to act, letting the tide of events flow as they may. Or perhaps her powers were no more than clever illusions, smoke and ritual. Whatever the case, Yamatai had bowed to the illusion he had created. That was all that mattered.

One thing was certain, that Li Wei had performed admirably. Beyond expectation. It was time to reward him handsomely. Lie Fan’s mind worked swiftly, considering the possibilities. Li Wei had proven himself capable not merely as a tool, but as a potential foundation for greater designs.

Perhaps it was time to elevate him furtherz to make him the shadow king of Goguryeo in name, a ruler in everything but final authority. And later, when the time was right, perhaps even to crown him King of Goguryeo outright.

The thought carried a deeper current. Lie Fan did not intend this as some arrogant statement of cultural superiority. No, his reasoning was far more pragmatic.

By ensuring that the future kings of Goguryeo were descended from the Han bloodline, loyal to the Hengyuan Dynasty, the path of integration would be smoothed. His dynasty’s descendants would never need to worry about rebellion sprouting from Goguryeo’s throne.

The kingdom itself would not be destroyed. Its government, its court, its rituals, all of these would remain, serving as the facade that kept the people content. But the heart of power would belong to him.

Their military, however, was another matter. That must be dismantled piece by piece. The descendants of Li Wei would inherit prestige, but never an army.

They would have titles, crowns, temples, and palaces, but not legions. And should any of them ever dream of raising a hidden force in secret, the Oriole Agents would uncover it long before it could bloom into a threat.

The plan was elegant. Clean.

With a small sigh of satisfaction, Lie Fan took the scroll and held it above the flame of a nearby candle. The parchment caught quickly, the fire curling along its edges, reducing it to ash. He watched the embers drift, then brushed the last fragments into a bronze tray. Nothing remained.

He turned away, removing his robes of state with deliberate movements. Replacing them with lighter garments, he prepared for rest. For once, he allowed himself the small luxury of sleep. Tomorrow, the games of politics and empire would begin again, but tonight, he closed his eyes to the sound of the city breathing beneath him.

Far to the southwest, where the air was hot and humid with the breath of the tropics, the war drums of Funan thundered against the night.

In their capital, Vyadhapura, the siege was entering its seventh day. The banners of the Hengyuan Dynasty and the Sun Clan armies stretched across the horizon like a forest of spears, their campfires burning in endless rows. The smoke of battle clung to the air, acrid and heavy, mingled with the cries of the wounded and the clash of iron.

Zhou Yu stood at the command post, his robes marked with the dust of the field. His mind was sharp as ever, but his patience had frayed. He had expected Vyadhapura to fall within three days.

The calculations were clear, with their general slain in the first onslaught, the city’s resistance should have collapsed like a rotted wall. But here they were, seven days later, and the Funan capital still stood, defiant against the storm.

Perhaps they had another general, cunning enough to pick up the reins of command. Or perhaps fortune itself had decided to favor them for a few days longer. Whatever the cause, Zhou Yu had had enough.

At his side, Sun Ce let out a low chuckle, though there was no joy in it. ”It seems the Funanese still have teeth. Either fortune favors them, or another general has risen among their ranks.”

Ma Chao, armored in gold and steel, snorted. ”Teeth? Hah. They are a dying beast thrashing against the inevitable. Every day we wait costs us supplies, costs us men. Let us break them in one stroke.”

Zhou Yu folded his fan sharply, the sound like a crack of judgment. ”Just so. I will no longer have my patience tested. The army will advance at full force. The trebuchets will fire without pause. The hwacha will unleash their fury until no wall stands. We will take Vyadhapura before the sun sets again.”

The order rippled through the camp like fire through dry grass. Drummers pounded the command. Flags waved. Officers shouted. And so it began.

Hundreds of thousands of soldiers surged forward, the ground trembling under their march. The trebuchets, massive beasts of timber and rope, hurled stones the size of oxen into the city. The Hwacha roared, their volleys of flaming arrows streaking across the sky like fiery rain. Vyadhapura shook beneath the onslaught, walls splintering, towers collapsing, smoke choking the air.

Inside the city, chaos reigned. Civilians fled deeper into the streets, clutching children and possessions. Soldiers ran to man the ramparts, only to be cut down by arrows or crushed by stones. The once proud city was becoming a furnace of fear.

King Kaundinya III sat upon his throne, his face pale, his robes clinging to his sweat drenched skin. Around him, his advisors and generals shouted, argued, pleaded for direction. But none could give him what he demanded.

”An escape route!” he cried, his voice hoarse with desperation. ”A plan! Some way, any way, to hold them back!”

But there was nothing. The reports came in one after another, walls shattered, gates burning, soldiers deserting.

And then the words he dreaded most. ”Your Majesty, they have launched a full scale assault. They mean to storm the city.”

The king’s strength gave way. He slumped down onto his throne, his crown slipping askew upon his brow. His hands shook. His vision blurred. He knew, in that moment, that it was over. His army, once proud, was reduced to ash.

Their numbers had never matched those of their foreign enemies, and now, after days of ceaseless bloodshed, they were but a shadow of their former strength.

There was nothing left. The enemy had decided. Enough was enough. And Vyadhapura was about to fall.

Under the heavy onslaught, Vyadhapura’s defenses could no longer withstand the storm. For seven days they had endured, but the tide of war is merciless when met with overwhelming force.

The first breach came with the ”Climbing Tigers,” the siege ladders carried by Hengyuan’s elite soldiers. Like iron-scaled serpents, they slithered up against the walls, and soon men were pouring upward, shields strapped to their backs, swords flashing under the rain of arrows. Screams echoed as defenders fell, pushed back by relentless discipline and numbers.

At the gates, the battering rams boomed. Each strike reverberated through the ancient city, shaking dust from the stones, cracking the hinges.

Funan’s defenders tried desperately to brace the doors, piling timbers, stones, even dead bodies against them, but the rams were monstrous things, wrapped in iron, driven by the muscle of dozens of men. Blow after blow came until finally, with a splintering roar, the gates buckled and burst inward. Imperial banners surged through the gap.

From the towers, the last defenders rained arrows down, but even that hope was crushed as the trebuchets focused their wrath upon them.

Stones smashed into the towers, shattering them into rubble. Fire arrows streaked overhead in storms unleashed by both archers and Hwacha. The sky seemed aflame, and Vyadhapura, jewel of the south, groaned under the apocalypse at its walls.

When the breaches opened, the soldiers of the Sun Clan and the Imperial legions poured in like a flood.

Panic swept the city. Citizens, hearing the thunder of war approach, slammed their doors shut and crouched in terror. Mothers gathered children into their arms, men barred their gates with whatever wood or stone they could find.

They prayed, trembling, that the foreign invaders would not come crashing through their homes. They had heard the stories, armies that plundered, raped, and slaughtered without mercy.

But what they expected did not happen.

The Sun Clan and Imperial soldiers moved with ruthless precision, but their targets were only those who raised weapons. Civilians cowering in the shadows were ignored, passed over like ghosts. Soldiers were cut down, resistance was crushed, but the innocent were left standing.

This discipline was no accident. Every man in the Hengyuan ranks knew the command, civilians were not to be touched. Looting was forbidden, dishonor punishable by death. This army did not come as raiders, but as conquerors with a vision. And the auxiliaries of Funan who had already bent the knee now watched with awe.

For weeks, they had feared that by siding with the foreigners, they had doomed their own families. But seeing the invaders bypass homes, ignoring women and children, their fear melted into relief. Many wept openly. They turned to their former comrades still clinging to the fight and shouted, begging them to lay down their arms.

”See! They keep their word!” they cried in their own tongue. ”Our families live! Throw down your swords, brothers, and live with them!” And slowly, grudgingly, many of the defenders began to waver. Some cast their weapons aside and surrendered outright, while others, still bound by loyalty or fear of disgrace, fought on until they were cut down.

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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