Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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Zhang Ren nodded grimly. ”Master Fa Zheng’s orders were clear. We were never meant to destroy them, only to drive them, like cattle, back to Jianmen Pass, while harassing them along the way to Jianmen. Now they will carry their wounds with them all the way back to Luoyang.”

He turned his horse, raising his hand in signal. ”Sound the horns. We return to Zitong.”

Moments later, the blare of long horns rolled through the mist, echoing faintly off the mountain faces. The Han banners turned southward, their silhouettes fading one by one into the drifting fog, leaving behind a battered but unbroken Wei army to lick its wounds in the shadow of the mountains.

Inside the pass, the atmosphere was heavy and subdued. The soldiers moved with the dull rhythm of exhaustion, setting up tents and cooking fires wherever space allowed between the cliffs. The ground was slick with mud, smoke rose from damp firewood, curling sluggishly into the gray air.

Even the officers spoke in low voices. The men were demoralized, not only from the endless fighting and retreat but from the whispers that had begun circulating through the ranks.

Shangdang. Hulao Gate. The two iron bulwarks of the north, what kany called Wei’s twin shields guarding the heart of the empire againts Lie Fan, were under siege.

The rumor spread like wildfire, carried by frightened scouts and nervous quartermasters. The total of 750,000 men of the Hengyuan Dynasty, under the banners of Zhang Liao, Sima Yi, Taishi Ci, Zang Hong, Huang Zhong, and Chen Deng, had descended upon their gates.

It was a scale of war the likes of which they had not faced since the days of Yellow Turban for the old and Dong Zhuo for the veterans.

Men whispered in disbelief, others in fear. If Shangdang fell, if Hulao Gate was lost, then Luoyang itself would lie naked before the storm.

Cao Cao, in his command pavilion, could feel the despair hanging in the air like a fog thicker than the mountain mists. His face was set in stone, his jaw hard, though fatigue lined his eyes. Guo Jia and Xi Zhicai stood before him, both of them silent. Beside them were Cao Ang and Cao Pi, as well as the foremost generals, Xu Chu, Zhang He, Yue Jin, Li Dian, Xiahou Yuan, Cao Ren, and Cao Hong.

A single lantern burned between them, the flame swaying in the draft.

”Everything is prepared for rest Your Majesty,” Xi Zhicai reported softly. ”The men are being fed and resupplied as best as the stores allow. But...”

Cao Cao raised an eyebrow. ”But?”

”Their spirits are low,” Guo Jia finished. ”They have heard the news. About Lie Fan’s attack, Your Majesty.”

Cao Cao’s expression did not change, but his eyes flashed with something fierce and dangerous. He rose slowly from his seat. ”Then we must remind them,” he said, ”of who they are.”

He stepped out into the cold morning air. Outside the command pavilion, the vast camp sprawled through the gorge, a sea of tents and weary men. Yet at the sound of his approach, soldiers straightened. Word spread like wildfire, the Emperor himself was coming to speak.

Within minutes, the entire camp was gathering in the narrow valley, rows upon rows of soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder. Torches were lit, forming rivers of fire in the damp air. Cao Cao climbed a makeshift platform built from wagon boards and stones, his armor glinting in the flickering light.

Guo Jia, Xi Zhicai, and his sons stood behind him, silent sentinels as he gazed over the sea of faces below.

He let the silence stretch. He wanted them to see him, not as a distant ruler or a frustrated strategist, but as a man who shared their suffering, who carried their pain as his own.

Finally, his voice rang out, clear, cold, and commanding. ”Men of Wei!”

The echoes carried through the pass. Thousands of heads turned upward, eyes locking onto him. ”You have fought bravely. You have bled. You have endured hunger, rain, and the unending torment of retreat. I know your hearts are heavy. You wonder why we turned from Zitong when victory was within reach.”

He paused, scanning the crowd. Faces looked back at him, hollowed by exhaustion, streaked with grime, but listening. ”You have heard the news. Shangdang. Hulao Gate. Our brothers fight there even now against the onslaught of Lie Fan’s forces, 750,000 men strong. Yes, it is true! The Hengyuan Dynasty dares to challenge us on our own soil.”

A ripple went through the ranks, murmurs, curses, disbelief. Cao Cao raised his voice, cutting through it like a sword. ”Do you think I wanted to turn back? Do you think I wished to abandon Zitong after so much blood was spilled? No! But I will not stand idle while that upstart pretender burns the heart of my empire! While our families, our homes, our capital are threatened!”

He drew his sword from its scabbard, raising it high so that the torchlight flashed along its edge. ”We march not because we flee, but because we strike where it matters most! Every man who died before Zitong, every drop of blood spilled on that cursed wall, will be avenged! Lie Fan, this rat who calls himself emperor, has robbed us of victory today. But I swear to you, he has only postponed his own destruction!”

The murmurs in the crowd grew louder, the despondence shifting, hardening into something sharper.

Cao Cao continued, his voice rising like a tide. ”He thinks to break our spirit! To shame us! To turn our triumph into dust! But he has misjudged the men of Wei. We are not broken, we are tempered! Do you not see? Every hardship we endure only makes us stronger! Every retreat only builds the fury that will crush our enemies!”

A shout rose from somewhere in the ranks. ”Death to Lie Fan!”

Another echoed it, then another. Soon, the air was filled with the thunder of thousands of voices. ”Death to Lie Fan! Death to the Hengyuan dogs!”

Cao Cao pointed his sword toward the north, toward Luoyang. ”Our brothers fight even now! At Hulao, at Shangdang, they hold the line with their last breath! We will not let their sacrifice be in vain! We march to save them, to save our home, to save the future of Wei!”

He brought the sword down in a great sweeping arc. ”Raise your banners! Sharpen your blades! The road to Luoyang will be paved with vengeance! For every life lost in Yi, a hundred of Hengyuan will pay in blood!”

The camp erupted. Soldiers pounded their shields, shouted themselves hoarse. The despair that had hung over Jianmen like a cloud shattered under the sheer force of Cao Cao’s will. His words had turned their grief into rage, their shame into purpose.

”LONG LIVE YOUR MAJESTY!”

”DEATH TO LIE FAN!”

”LONG LIVE YOUR MAJESTY!”

The cry rolled through the pass like thunder, echoing from cliff to cliff, swelling until it seemed the very mountains trembled with it.

Guo Jia and Xi Zhicai stood behind their lord, the firelight glinting off their eyes. Guo Jia smiled faintly. ”He has turned their hearts again,” he murmured.

Xi Zhicai nodded. ”As he always does. That fire, only our Emperor can ignite it.”

Cao Ang and Cao Pi exchanged glances, pride and awe flickering in their faces. Their father, even in retreat, was still the towering force that bound the empire together.

For the first time since leaving Zitong, the Wei camp burned with energy. Men repaired weapons, patched armor, and spoke with renewed vigor. The fatigue did not vanish, but it was buried beneath a rekindled fury.

That night, as the fires burned high in Jianmen Pass, Cao Cao stood alone at the edge of the cliffs, gazing north. The stars were faint through the mist, but he could almost see the distant glow of Luoyang beyond the mountains.

”Hold on, my capital,” he whispered. ”Your emperor is coming.”

But while morale was restored at Jianmen Pass, a life and death struggle was reaching a fever pitch hundreds of li to the north, where the Hengyuan Dynasty’s campaign thundered like an unstoppable storm.

At Shangdang, the 50,000 defenders, now reinforced to 100,000, were facing the relentless onslaught of Huang Zhong and Chen Deng’s 250,000 strong Northern Command. The city walls, already weakened by corruption and neglect, groaned under the impact of countless stones and bolts.

Huang Zhong, the white haired general, seemed to be everywhere at once, his personal banner a rallying point for the Hengyuan troops as his legendary archery picked off Wei officers from impossible distances.

The defenders fought with the desperate courage of men who knew there was no retreat. They would form a shield wall to plug a breach, only to have it shattered by a coordinated push from Chen Deng’s infantry.

The air was thick with the smell of smoke, blood, and the cacophony of war. They held, but it was a tenuous, bleeding hold, each hour bought with a river of lives. Their only hope was that the main army would arrive before their line snapped.

At Hulao Gate, the situation was even more dire. The 100,000 defenders, bolstered to 150,000, were a mere rock against the tidal wave of 500,000 men from the Central and Western Commands.

Zhang Liao, a whirlwind of destruction, led assault after assault, his personal valor inspiring his troops to near fanatical efforts. Sima Yi, from his command post, orchestrated the siege with cold, mathematical precision, probing for weaknesses, rotating fresh troops to maintain constant pressure, and using his siege engines to systematically dismantle the fortifications.

Taishi Ci’s arrows fell like rain, and Zang Hong’s legions scaled the walls with grim determination. The defenders try to hold entire sections of the wall through sheer, terrifying force.

But the pressure was immense, unceasing. The Hengyuan army attacked in shifts, giving the defenders no rest, no moment to breathe. The stone of Hulao Gate, which had withstood generations of warfare, began to crack and crumble.

The defenders, drenched in sweat and blood, could only pray that the message had reached Cao Cao, that their emperor was coming, and that he would arrive before the greatest fortress in the land became their tomb. The hope of retreating to the more defensible walls of Luoyang was a distant dream, a prize that could only be won if they survived the next assault, and the one after that.

On the other hand, on the Grand hall of Xiapi, normally filled with the murmurs of scribes and the rustle of documents, now thrummed with the tension of reform.

The imperial palace, the very heart of the Hengyuan Dynasty, stood as a hive of activity, each corridor lined with couriers, attendants, and minor officials darting from chamber to chamber with scrolls and tallies in hand.

The sound of brushes scratching against parchment echoed like a constant hum beneath the rafters, punctuated by the occasional bark of a minister’s order or the rhythmic thud of a clerk’s seal upon a decree.

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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