Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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A protest formed outside the prefect’s office, not of radicals, but of butchers, weavers, and shopkeepers, the backbone of the city. Their banners were simple. ”Unbearable Burdens!” and ”Where Does Our Silver Go?”. The mood was volatile, a mixture of fear and a new, raw anger directed squarely at the distant, cloistered figure in the palace.

The first two phases of the plan had worked with horrifying efficiency. The people’s faith was shattered, replaced by a seething, desperate rage. The stage was now set for the final, violent act. The ”bandits” were being briefed, their uniforms of rags prepared, their targets selected.

The mass protest was a flame. The planned raids would be the bellows, meant to fan that flame into an all consuming wildfire of revolt, a chaos so profound that the removal of the emperor would be seen not as a coup, but as a mercy. The architects of the downfall watched from the shadows, their plan unfolding with the grim precision of a falling blade.

The protests did not dissipate with the setting sun. They hardened, fueled by desperation and the bitter taste of injustice. For several days, the crowds in Chengdu and other towns swelled, their chants growing louder, their simple banners becoming symbols of a shared, grinding misery.

The authorities, under the cold direction of Fa Zheng, did not attempt dialogue or concessions. They presented a wall of indifferent force.

Then, the wall moved.

What began as a containment effort, city guards forming lines, imperial soldiers standing with shields locked, curdled into something darker. An order, purportedly from the Emperor himself, circulated among the captains, restore order. By any means necessary. No one saw the edict, but the command was executed with brutal efficiency.

In Chengdu, a young butcher’s apprentice, emboldened by the fury of his master and the crowd, hurled a rotten cabbage at a stone faced guardsman. It was a pitiful missile, but it was the spark. The guardsman didn’t flinch. Instead, he stepped forward, his baton cracking down on the boy’s shoulder with a sickening thwack.

A cry of pain, then a roar of outrage from the crowd. The line of guards surged forward, not to hold, but to attack. Batons rose and fell. The sharp, terrifying ring of swords being drawn from scabbards cut through the air.

The common people, who had hoped for a perimeter, for negotiation, were met with a storm of violence. A weaver, trying to shield her friend, was kicked to the ground. A shopkeeper, holding his ”Unbearable Burdens!” banner high, had it ripped from his hands and used to beat him. The suppression was not a policing action, it was a punishment. Blood, shockingly red against the grey cobblestones, began to stain the streets.

The realization dawned on the protestors not as a thought, but as a physical shock. They are not here to guard the peace. They are here to silence us. To break us. Fear was burned away, leaving only a white hot, primal anger.

The mass protest shattered into a thousand points of fury. Stones were pried from the streets. Staves were snatched from workshops. The clash was no longer between citizens and guards, but between the betrayed and their betrayers. The streets of Chengdu, and soon after, Ba, Jiangzhou, and a dozen other towns, became choked with chaos, the air thick with shouts, screams, and the metallic scent of blood.

It was into this volatile inferno that the final phase of the plan was deployed. As the riots raged, a new scourge appeared on the roads and in the countryside.

Bands of ”bandits,” seemingly spawned from the very chaos itself, began their work. They were not the ragged, desperate figures of folklore. They moved with a chilling coordination. They raided tax collection points that had not yet been emptied, burning records and making off with silver.

They ambushed small patrols of soldiers, leaving the bodies stripped and displayed as a message. They targeted villages known to be loyal to minor officials who were not part of Fa Zheng’s conspiracy, spreading the terror impartially.

To the shell shocked, furious populace, the explosion of banditry made a terrible, logical sense. Of course, they thought. The Emperor bled us dry with taxes. He left us nothing. What choice do men have but to turn to the hills? The bandits, in their twisted way, were seen as fellow victims pushed to extremes, even as they stole from other victims.

In some quarters, a grim, grudging sympathy for the outlaws began to form, a perverse solidarity born of shared oppression. The chaos was no longer just urban; it was a province-wide fever, burning out of control.

High in his isolated palace study, Emperor Xian received the cascading reports. His hands trembled as he read the accounts. ”Bandit activity in Qingyi County has increased tenfold... A tax convoy annihilated near Mianzhu... Riots in Chengdu entering their fourth day, garrison reports dozens dead...” The sheer, explosive scale of it was impossible. Banditry did not organize itself so completely, so swiftly.

An elderly eunuch, one of the last who dared speak unfiltered truth, stood silently as the emperor finished the last scroll. ”Your Majesty,” the eunuch said softly, his voice like rustling parchment.

”On the surface, the cause seems clear. The taxes... they have broken the people’s backs. Hungry, hopeless men will turn to crime.” He paused, his old eyes meeting the emperor’s younger, terrified ones.

”But the speed... the coordination... it reeks of a different kind of hunger. Not the hunger of the belly, but of ambition. This feels less like a consequence, and more like a... a staged performance. One designed to make the lead actor, Your Majesty, appear both tyrannical and incompetent.”

The words landed with the weight of a tombstone. Emperor Xian’s face cycled through emotions, denial, anger, a dawning, horrified comprehension. The elaborate, humiliating marriage trap. The sudden, unified tax demands.

The violent suppression in his name. The impossibly organized banditry. It was a tapestry of malice, and he was the central figure being stitched into it, destined to be remembered as the fool who destroyed his own kingdom. A low, guttural sound of despair escaped his lips.

His lament was cut short by a firm knock at the study door. A guard entered, bowing. ”Your Majesty, the Hengyuan envoys, Masters Zhuge Liang and Lu Xun, request an urgent audience. They wish to discuss... the instability across Yi Province.”

For a moment, Emperor Xian felt a faint, desperate flicker of hope. Perhaps they had seen through the farce? Perhaps they could be reasoned with? ”Admit them,” he said, trying to inject some semblance of imperial steadiness into his voice.

The door opened wider. Zhuge Liang and Lu Xun entered with calm, purposeful strides. But behind them, like shadows given form, followed Fa Zheng, Zhang Song, and Meng Da.

The flicker of hope in Emperor Xian’s chest died instantly, replaced by a cold dread. The guard’s omission was not an oversight, it was a declaration. The foxes were not just at the door, they were in the room, and they had brought the wolves with them.

Before the emperor could muster a formal greeting, Zhuge Liang stopped at a respectful distance and bowed, his movement fluid and precise. Lu Xun mirrored him. The courtesy was impeccable, but it felt like the drawing of a blade.

”Your Majesty,” Zhuge Liang began, his voice calm, clear, and utterly devoid of warmth. ”We come before you at a most troubling time. The reports reaching our quarters speak of a land in turmoil. Riots, banditry, blood in the streets. The stability of Yi Province, which forms the very basis of the alliance our two courts have recently agreed upon, seems to be evaporating before our eyes.”

He paused, letting the accusation hang in the silent, tense room. Emperor Xian swallowed. ”We... we are managing the situation to the best of our abilities. Order will be restored.”

”Managing?” Lu Xun interjected, his tone sharper, the youthful advisor cutting through the emperor’s weak platitudes. ”From what we have witnessed and heard, ’managing’ seems to consist of unleashing soldiers upon your own starving people and ignoring the root of their despair. Is this the action of a competent ruler? To brutally suppress the symptoms while ignoring the disease?”

He shook his head slightly, a gesture of profound disappointment. ”It causes us to question the wisdom of our Emperor’s decision to accept your alliance offer. It appears Hengyuan has tied its fortunes to a sinking ship.”

The words were a masterstroke. Delivered with cold, diplomatic scorn, they framed Hengyuan not as an aggressor, but as a prudent partner reconsidering a bad investment.

Behind Zhuge Liang and Lu Xun, Fa Zheng allowed the faintest ghost of a smirk to touch his lips. Zhang Song’s eyes gleamed with appreciation. Meng Da gave an almost imperceptible nod. The coordination was invisible, the performance flawless.

Emperor Xian felt the world tilt. They weren’t here to help. They were here to deliver the verdict. The alliance, the very thing he had sacrificed his daughter for, the thread from which his hope dangled, was being severed before his eyes, and the men who had orchestrated his ruin were watching him realize it. He looked down at his desk, at the damning reports, unable to meet their judging gazes.

”I...” he started, but no defense came.

Zhuge Liang sighed, the sound heavy with finality. ”Then we have seen enough. Our duty is to report the truth to His Majesty, Emperor Hongyi. That the Han court is not a partner for peace, but a source of chaos. That our alliance was... premature.” He bowed again, shallowly this time, a bow of dismissal. ”We shall take our leave and begin preparations to return to Xiapi.”

No. The thought screamed in Emperor Xian’s mind. If they left, if the alliance collapsed publicly, the last shred of his authority would vanish. The riots would become a full blown rebellion, and the three foxes would have the perfect excuse to ”restore order” by removing him entirely.

”Wait!” The word burst from him, strained and desperate. He looked up, his eyes pleading. ”Please... there must be... discussions can be had...”

But Zhuge Liang and Lu Xun were already turning. They offered no further words, no glance back. They walked from the study, their departure a silent, crushing repudiation.

Fa Zheng, Zhang Song, and Meng Da lingered for a moment longer, their expressions a mixture of feigned concern and unhidden satisfaction. They gave slight, mocking bows before following the envoys out.

The door closed with a soft, definitive click. Emperor Xian was left alone in the echoing silence of his study, the phantom sounds of riot and the cold words of the envoys swirling in the void.

The trap had been sprung, and he was at the bottom of it, watching the last light of his reign being blotted out by the silhouettes of the men who had dug the pit. The path to abdication, once a distant possibility, now stretched before him, paved with the bloody cobblestones of his own cities and the cold diplomacy of a doomed alliance.

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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