Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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More than half of King Rudravarman IV’s own harem filed into the room. They were a haunting, magnificent sight. They wore the silks and jewels he had given them, but their faces were set in masks of cold fury. In their hands, they held not mirrors or cosmetics, but weapons.

Some clutched finely wrought swords taken from palace displays, their grips unfamiliar but determined. Others held kitchen blades, still stained with food, or spears taken from fallen guards in the outer corridors, or whatever weapons they could find. Their eyes, once trained to look upon him with adoration or fear, now burned with a homicidal light.

The generals, startled into action, clumsily drew their swords, while the advisors scuttled backward like frightened crabs, pressing themselves into the corners of the hall, hoping to become invisible.

King Rudravarman IV could only stand and stare, his crazed laughter dying in his throat. This was an invasion he could never have conceived. These were his possessions, his most intimate subjects. Their rebellion was a violation that struck at the very core of his twisted sense of reality.

The group parted, and their leader stepped forward. It was Lady Mai, a woman of noble birth forced into his service years ago, a woman known for her grace and intelligence, now standing with a spear in her hand, its point steady and aimed at the king’s heart.

”Rudravarman,” she said, her voice clear and sharp, cutting through the distant chaos. ”You have taken our families, our honor, and our freedom. You have feasted while our city starved. You have hidden behind the bodies of your own people.”

She took another step forward, and the ring of armed women tightened around the terrified men. ”The time for hiding is over. Today, you will not be judged by the gods you claim to represent. Today, you will be judged by us. Today, you pay for everything.”

The king stumbled backward, his hand searching for any weapon he could, but finding none near him. ”You dare raise arms against your sovereign?” he spat. ”Ungrateful whores! I fed you! I clothed you!”

Lady Mai stepped closer, raising the spear in her hand. ”You took everything from us. And now, we take back what you stole.”

The hall erupted into motion.

Steel clashed. Screams filled the air. The generals fought desperately, but their will was gone, their strength sapped by fear. The women, driven by rage and pain, struck with ferocity no training could match.

King Rudravarman IV tried to flee, but he tripped over fallen bodies of his generals and advisors, scrambling toward a side passage. But the leader of the womens, Lady Mai, was much faster than the obese king.

Her spear caught him across the back, sending him sprawling to the ground while letting out a shout of pain.

He turned, gasping, crawling backward until his back struck the cold stone of the throne.

”Please,” he whispered, all arrogance gone. ”I... I am your king...”

She raised her sword one final time.

”Not anymore.”

The blade came down.

Outside, the noise of battle began to fade. The people of Vijaya surged into the palace courtyard, where Po Kandar and the Shi Clan generals soon arrived. The banners of Hengyuan rose above the broken gates, and for the first time in generations, the city of Vijaya fell silent, not in despair, but in relief.

When Shi Xin entered the throne hall, he found it littered with bodies, the final testament of a corrupt reign.

Rudravarman IV, King of Champa, lay dead upon the stones.

And standing before the throne, still gripping her bloodstained sword, Lady Mai alongside the surviving concubines bowed deeply before Shi Xin and Po Kandar.

”It is over,” she said softly. ”Vijaya is free.”

Shi Xin looked at her, then at Po Kandar, and nodded solemnly. ”No,” he replied, his voice calm but resolute. ”Vijaya is reborn.”

The silence that had fallen over the palace was a fragile, newborn thing, broken only by the crackle of distant fires and the low moans of the wounded. It was a silence of exhaustion, of spent rage, and of a profound, collective inhalation, as if the entire city of Vijaya was holding its breath, waiting to see what would come next.

That fragile peace was shattered not by another clash of arms, but by a sound that rolled through the streets like a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated emotion: a colossal, roaring cheer.

When the news of King Rudravarman IV’s death spread through the streets of Vijaya, it moved faster than fire through dry grass. One servant whispered it to another, one soldier let slip a word to his brother, one frightened noblewoman, freed from the terror of the palace, screamed it to the open sky—and in moments, the entire city knew.

The tyrant was dead.

At first, there was disbelief. Could it truly be? The man who had ruled over them with blood and hunger, who sent his guards to take their daughters and their grain, who made them kneel while his palace feasted—could he truly be gone?

And then, when it sank in—when they began to realize the weight of those words—something broke loose inside the people of Vijaya.

A sound rose through the streets, through every alley, every courtyard, every small and cramped home. It began as a murmur, then grew into a roar. Men and women, young and old, poured from their doorways, laughing, crying, shouting prayers of thanks to the heavens. Some dropped to their knees in the mud, clutching one another as tears streamed down their faces. Others pounded their fists against the air, letting out years of pent-up fury and grief in raw, primal screams.

Children who had never known a day without fear ran barefoot through the streets, laughing, splashing through puddles of rainwater and ash. The sound of bells, struck wildly and without order, joined the rising chorus. For the first time in years, Vijaya sang—not in worship, not in fear—but in joy.

”Rudravarman is dead!” someone cried, standing atop a crate in the market square. ”The tyrant is gone!”

”His palace burns!” shouted another. ”The foreign generals have slain him!”

Cheers erupted like thunder. It was as if an enormous weight had been lifted from the city’s chest. Old women who had once buried their sons because of his conscriptions now smiled through tears. Fishermen who had been taxed until their nets were empty embraced each other and laughed until their sides hurt. The people of Vijaya, beaten and starved and broken, at last breathed freely.

But freedom, long denied, can be a dangerous thing.

In that tidal wave of emotion—grief and rage and relief all tangled together—dark impulses began to stir. There were those whose hearts were too full of hate to feel joy alone.

In the midst of the celebration, a man in tattered robes climbed atop a cart, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

”Brothers! Sisters! Do not forget what they did to us!” he cried. ”The nobles feasted while we starved! The soldiers took our daughters! The merchants hoarded rice while our children died in the streets!”

Faces turned toward him, faces hollowed by suffering, eyes red from tears.

”Are we to let them live now, after all they’ve done?!” the man shouted. ”Their houses are full of gold! Their cellars full of wine! Take it back! Take what they stole from us!”

Another voice joined him from the crowd, this one a younger man, face smeared with grime. ”Aye!” he shouted. ”They deserve no mercy! Burn their mansions! Spill their blood as they spilled ours!”

”Why should they be spared?” A third man screamed, pointing a trembling finger toward the opulent mansions lining the upper city. ”Their bellies were full while our children shriveled! They smiled while our families were broken!”

A fourth voice, shrill and trembling, added, ”And the women who laughed while we starved, make them feel the pain they gave us!”

”Justice!” shouted a fifth voice, a woman whose husband had been executed for stealing a loaf of bread. ”Not just for the king! For all of them! They are all guilty! They enjoyed the fruits of our suffering! Let them feel what it is to have everything taken!”

The crowd, already burning with fevered emotion, began to shift. The cheers turned to angry shouts. Torches lifted higher. A mob was forming, fast.

Within minutes, groups of angry men and women surged toward the upper districts where the wealthy lived. Doors were smashed open. Windows shattered. Cries of terror rose from the fine homes that had long stood untouched. Servants fled into the alleys, clutching their children, while desperate nobles barricaded themselves inside, praying that the chaos would pass.

It might have been the beginning of another nightmare, another Chapter of blood and vengeance.

But before the madness could consume the city again, the banners of the Champa Auxiliaries Unit appeared at the end of the street.

Po Kandar’s soldiers, still weary from days of fighting, rode into the chaos. They were not conquerors now but peacekeepers of their own homeland. Behind them came the disciplined ranks of the Shi Clan Army, their Hengyuan banners snapping like thunder in the smoky wind.

The Auxiliaries moved quickly, forming barriers with their shields, herding panicked civilians away from the noble district. Po Kandar’s lieutenant rode at the front, his voice hoarse but commanding as he shouted above the din.

”Enough! Enough blood! The tyrant is dead, must we become him to feel free?”

His words struck through the madness like a bell through fog.

Some of the looters hesitated, their rage faltering. They looked at this man, which was someone they recognize, a commander who fight under Po Kandar and had once fought beside them, not above them.

He dismounted, walking forward slowly, holding up his hand. ”Listen to me! You’ve won your freedom, do not soil it with blood. If you take vengeance now, if you harm those who can no longer fight, you become no different from Rudravarman himself.”

A silence rippled through the mob.

But not everyone was swayed. From the back, a voice shouted, ”He killed our families! Why should we show mercy?!”

Others took up the cry. ”They deserve to burn! Their sons beat us, their guards starved us!”

The lieutenant turned toward the shouter, a young man, face thin and wild with hunger. He met his gaze with quiet, steady sorrow. ”I lost my family too,” he said softly. ”I know your pain. But this...” He gestured at the looted mansions, at the trembling captives. ”...this will not bring them back. It will only make you wear the tyrant’s face.”

Behind him, the Champa Auxiliaries Unit spread out, speaking in calm tones, restraining the angriest men and separating the instigators. Then came the Shi Clan soldiers, disciplined, silent, and unyielding. They didn’t raise their swords but stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a wall between the rioters and their prey.

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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