Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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”Ay,” another spat, ”and die for the fat pig who taxes us to the bone.” But refusal was not an option. Guards accompanied the heralds, spears gleaming, eyes cold. To resist was to invite death. And so, reluctantly, the people began to gather.

By torchlight, the courtyards and plazas filled. A ragged, terrified mass of humanity, pressed into service not for their land, not for their families, but for a king who had never once cared for them and was now forcing them.

Among them, whispers stirred. Some spoke of surrender, of throwing open the gates to the invaders. Some spoke of desertion. But others, broken by years of oppression and suffering, moved like cattle to the slaughter, too beaten down to have an ounce of strength to resist.

From the palace windows, King Rudravarman IV looked down upon the gathering crowds. To him, they were not frightened men and women. They were numbers. Shields of flesh. His army had grown overnight, or so he believed.

”See?” he said to Darsaka, who stood smirking at his side. ”My people obey. They know their god.”

Darsaka bowed low. ”Yes, my king. With such numbers, the invaders will break like waves upon the rocks.”

But in the shadows of the throne room, the old advisor Soriya whispered only to himself, voice heavy with sorrow. ”Not rocks. Corpses. He builds his walls from corpses.”

Back on the ground, The courtyards of Vijaya that night became something they were never meant to be: not places of community or worship, but places of judgment.

By torchlight, the terrified conscripts were herded, their names taken down by scribes, their bodies inspected as though they were livestock rather than human beings. The crackle of firelight made long shadows dance across walls and frightened faces, as men and women were divided like sacks of grain. They stood in ragged lines, their shadows flickering against stone walls, the air heavy with despair.

The officials overseeing the conscription worked like butchers preparing livestock for slaughter. Scribes with ink stained fingers recorded names on scrolls, each name a chain binding another soul to the king’s cause. Beside them, soldiers barked orders, herding terrified citizens like cattle.

”Step forward!” shouted one officer, his voice hoarse from hours of repetition. He pointed to a gaunt fisherman whose hands trembled as he tried to hold up the wooden training sword thrust into his palms. The officer’s lip curled with disdain. ”Infantry.” The man was shoved into the line where others like him stood, dazed and pale, clutching crude shields.

Another officer tested a youth, barely fifteen, by handing him a bow. The boy fumbled with the string, his fingers shaking so violently he couldn’t draw it back an inch. Laughter broke out among some of the guards. ”Archer,” the officer sneered anyway, pushing him toward the other line.

The process was mechanical, impersonal, and very cruel. Strength of body and steadiness of hand, these were the criteria by which a lifetime of peace was erased in a single moment.

For the women, the humiliation cut deeper still. Many had never so much as touched a weapon beyond the small knives they used in kitchens or fields. When a spear or bow was pressed into their hands, most collapsed into tears. Their sobs rang out across the courtyards, but the soldiers had no patience for grief.

”Quiet!” barked one, striking a young woman across the cheek when she broke down clutching a sword too heavy for her arms. She staggered, the weapon clattering to the ground, blood trickling from her lip.

Some guards restrained themselves if the women were their own kin, wives, sisters, daughters, granddaughters, but others struck with casual cruelty, venting their frustrations upon strangers.

From the ranks of the men watching, fury simmered. Husbands clenched their fists as their wives were slapped. Fathers ground their teeth seeing their daughters forced into lines they could not refuse. Sons trembled as their mothers sobbed, clutching weapons they could not carry.

Grandfathers holding their two hands tightly, as humiliating anger run coursed their old body. But fear was stronger than anger. Every man knew that if he raised his voice, if he lifted his hand, the punishment would not be his alone. It would fall upon his family, his blood, his neighbors. So they endured in silence, their rage swallowed with their tears.

The assignments dragged on until midnight. By then, tens of thousands had been processed, infantry and archers, each line swollen with unwilling bodies. Exhaustion hung over them like a shroud, but before they could disperse, a commander stood on a dais and barked the final order.

”You will return at dawn. Training begins at first light. If you do not appear, we have your names, your families, your homes. Do not test the king’s will. Desertion means execution, on the spot, in front of your kin. Even your entire kin could be executed as well.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The women wept openly, clutching their children as they returned home under the watchful eyes of guards. Men walked stiffly, fists clenched so tightly their knuckles blanched white. None dared speak of hope. None dared speak at all.

For most, that night became one of bitter farewells. Families clung together in their small homes, speaking softly as if louder words might bring soldiers crashing through their doors. Mothers held their children as though memorizing their faces. Husbands whispered apologies to wives they could no longer protect. The streets of Vijaya, once filled with the sounds of commerce and music, now echoed only with muffled sobs and the creak of doors closing against the night.

At the barracks, the assignment lists were handed to the vice generals of the infantry and archery divisions. They scanned the names with cold efficiency, handing them off to scribes to make duplicates. One copy was kept in the barracks, another prepared for Darsaka.

When the roll was finally complete, Darsaka’s lips twisted into a grin. The scroll, heavy with thousands of names, was more than ink on parchment, it was power. Power he had long craved.

He walked through the palace corridors with the scroll tucked under his arm, the torchlight glinting off his narrow face. The guards knew better than to challenge him; he strutted past them with the swagger of a man who already fancied himself supreme commander.

When he reached the king’s chambers, muffled laughter and the rustle of silks told him clearly what occupied King Rudravarman IV that night. He paused, listening with a sneer, before knocking.

A voice, thick with impatience, called from within. ”What is it now?”

”It is I, my king, Darsaka,” he said smoothly. ”I come bearing the completed lists of your new army.”

There was a pause, then a sharp bark of laughter. ”Do with it as you will! Did I not place this task in your hands? Handle it, and leave me to my pleasures!”

Darsaka bowed low even though the king could not see him. ”As you command, O great one. May your night be filled with joy, for your wisdom is unmatched!”

He turned away, smirking. The scroll in his arms felt heavier now, not from weight but from promise. With command over this conscripted horde, he would be more than a general. He would be indispensable. And when the war ended,bhowever it ended, he would be among the few still standing in power. Riches, land, women, anything that he ever wanted, he already saw them in his grasp.

Dawn broke.

Outside Vijaya, the plains glimmered under the rising sun. The vast encampment of the Hengyuan army stirred with disciplined purpose. Drums rolled like thunder. Banners snapped in the wind.

Shi Xin, Shi Zhi, and Shi Hui stood at the forefront, armored in steel that gleamed red beneath the light. Po Kandar rode beside them, his face solemn, knowing the weight of what was about to begin. Behind them stretched the immense host: the Shi Clan Army, drilled and ready, and the newly formed Champa Auxiliaries, their loyalty born not of chains but of choice.

The siege weapons, towering catapults and trebuchets, massive crossbows, and heavy rams, stood in position. Supplies were stacked, engineers ready, archers in their ranks. Everything was prepared.

Shi Xin raised his hand, his voice carrying across the field. ”Today we begin what will be remembered for generations. The heart of Champa beats behind those walls. We shall strike true, and we shall end this swiftly.”

The order was given. Drums thundered again. The first stones were loaded into the trebuchets.

”Release!”

The siege of Vijaya began.

On the walls of Vijaya, chaos reigned almost instantly.

Darsaka had placed the twenty thousand soldiers, royal guards, regular troops, militia, and a smattering of volunteers, along the battlements. The civilians conscripted the night before were kept in the training fields, where instructors now tried desperately to show them how to hold shields and swords, how to nock arrows without snapping bowstrings.

The problem was, Darsaka himself cared little for the command. He had retreated into the command pavilion, surrounding himself with stolen comforts. Several young women, dragged from the conscription lists, their protests ignored, were forced to attend him. He drank, he laughed, he pawed at them while issuing half hearted orders to messengers.

On the walls, the defenders’ morale crumbled. The first boulders from the trebuchets slammed into the outer sections with bone-shaking force. Timber shattered, stone cracked. Dust rose in choking clouds. Archers loosed panicked volleys in return, their arrows falling short or scattering harmlessly against the enemy’s shields.

The veterans among them, the royal guards and seasoned soldiers, fought with grim determination, but even they could see the truth. The invaders were too many. Their siegecraft too precise. And worst of all, their own command structure rotted from within.

The militia, poorly armed and untrained, quailed at every impact. The volunteers, who had joined out of some fading sense of loyalty, now regretted their choices. And the civilians pressed into training? They stood in bewilderment, trying to mimic stances shown to them only minutes before, their eyes wide with terror as the sky itself seemed to fall upon their city.

Vijaya’s defense was crumbling before it had even begun.

Meanwhile as the world outside the king’s bedchamber was ending in thunder and screams, but within, the air was thick with the cloying scent of wine, perfume, and wilting lotus blossoms. King Rudravarman IV did not stir when the first boulders from the Shi Clan’s siege engines crashed against the walls of Vijaya.

He did not twitch when the cries of his people echoed faintly through the palace corridors, or when the ground itself trembled with each strike against stone and timber. The great king lay sprawled upon silk cushions, his body glistening with sweat, surrounded by women who did not smile when he touched them, who did not laugh when he joked, but who pretended all the same because to do otherwise was to invite pain.

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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