Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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The path forward was no longer a path. It was a cliff edge, and the three foxes were there, not to push him, but to politely suggest he jump before the mob arrived to tear him apart. The vote for the future of Han was about to begin, and he already knew its result.

Zhang Song sighed. ”Right or wrong... perception has become reality.”

Emperor Xian trembled, rage and despair twisting together. ”So now all of you come to me with this? After driving the people here?”

Meng Da bowed slightly. ”We come to offer a solution, Your Majesty.”

The shouting outside grew louder.

Fa Zheng’s eyes were calm, almost gentle. ”For the sake of Yi Province. For the sake of peace.”

Emperor Xian looked around the hall.

The world had narrowed to a single, horrifying point, the cold, unified gaze of the entire court. Every official, every courtier, their faces stripped of deference or pity, looked upon him not as their emperor, but as an obstacle. The collective will of the room pressed down on him, a physical weight that made the ornate Dragon Throne feel like a slab of ice.

Emperor Xian’s gaze darted from one impassive face to another, finding no sanctuary, no flicker of loyalty. His breath came in short, panicked gasps.

Finally, his eyes, wide with a trapped animal’s desperation, locked onto Fa Zheng. ”What... what solution?” he forced out, the words brittle. ”Speak plainly. What is this ’solution’ you offer at the point of a mob’s spear?”

Fa Zheng inclined his head, the picture of a reasonable man forced to deliver hard truths. ”The solution is the only one that can placate the fury at our gates and spare further bloodshed, Your Majesty. You must abdicate. Voluntarily. You will issue a proclamation to the people stating that this decision is yours alone, made after profound reflection. You will state that you have come to see the grave errors in your rule, errors born not of malice, but of failing to heed the wise counsel of your ministers. This abdication will serve as your deepest apology to the people of Han for their suffering.”

As he spoke, a low, approving murmur rippled through the hall. Officials nodded, whispering to one another. ”The only way...” ”For peace...” ”He must take responsibility...” The sound wasn’t loud, but it was pervasive, a psychological drone meant to isolate him further, to make his resistance seem not just stubborn, but insane.

Emperor Xian’s legs gave way, and he sank back onto the throne, its hard jade unforgiving. ”Madness...” he breathed, his voice trembling. ”This is utter madness. I am the Emperor of Han! These... these things that were done, these taxes, this violence... I had no control! The decrees were forced, the seal was used without my true consent! How can I abdicate as an apology for crimes I did not commit?!”

Zhang Song stepped forward, his tone that of a weary tutor explaining a simple concept to a dull child. ”Your Majesty, as Master Fa Zheng stated, perception is reality. The decrees bore your name. The orders carried your seal. To the farmer who lost his grain, to the merchant robbed by ’bandits,’ to the family mourning a son beaten in the streets, you are the source. The throne is the wellspring of authority. When poison flows from the well, does it matter if the one who drew the bucket intended to poison? The well must be sealed.”

He paused, his gaze hardening. ”The court requests, no, requires, your abdication to save what remains of Han. If you refuse this dignified path, then matters will proceed in a more... regrettable manner. The people are already at the gates. Their anger is not a diplomatic tool, it is a wildfire. We can offer them your voluntary departure, or we can let them claim it themselves.”

The court. The word was a slap. Emperor Xian’s head snapped up, a spark of defiance cutting through his despair. ”The court? This ’request’? I hear only the three of you! I do not hear the voice of the entire court demanding my abdication! You cannot simply presume to speak for every man here to support this nonsense!”

His challenge, born of a last, desperate grasp at protocol, hung in the air for a single, suspended second.

Then, as if choreographed by a divine puppeteer, the entire assembly moved. In one synchronized, terrifying motion, every official and courtier in the vast hall sank to their knees. They bowed their heads, not in reverence, but in unison, a wave of submission crashing toward the throne.

And from a hundred throats came a single, booming chant that reverberated off the marble pillars and painted ceilings, shaking the very foundations of the hall:

”WE REQUEST HIS MAJESTY TO ABDICATE THE THRONE TO SAVE HAN!”

The sound was a physical force. Emperor Xian recoiled as if struck. He stared, his finger rising to point a shaking, accusatory digit at the sea of bowed heads, his mouth working soundlessly. The last illusion was gone. There was no ’court’ separate from the three ministers. They were one entity, a hydra with three heads and a hundred compliant bodies.

Fa Zheng took that moment to ascend the dais, stopping just a few steps below the throne. His proximity was an unbearable intrusion. ”So,” he said, his voice soft yet carrying to every corner of the silent hall. ”What is Your Majesty’s decision?”

The question was a formality. They all knew the answer he had to give. But something brittle finally snapped inside the man who had been Emperor Xian. The weight of a lifetime of powerlessness, under Dong Zhuo, under Cao Cao, and now under these velvet gloved manipulators, coalesced into a final, futile spasm of pride.

He drew himself up, his pale face flushing with a strange, tragic dignity. ”I... will not,” he declared, his voice gaining strength from sheer despair. ”I will not betray the ancestors who built this dynasty. I will not betray the emperors who came before me, who ruled this land for four centuries. I am the Son of Heaven. I will not step down.”

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then Fa Zheng sighed, a sound of profound, theatrical regret. He turned his back on the emperor, the ultimate disrespect, and addressed the kneeling court.

”You have all witnessed His Majesty’s decision. He places the legacy of a name above the lives of the people now clamoring for his head. He leaves us no choice.” He swept his gaze across the hall. ”As one of the Three Excellencies of Han, I hereby propose that the abdication of Liu Xie, known as Emperor Xian, be made official by the authority of this court, for the preservation of the realm and the safety of its people. All in favor?”

”I support the proposal,” Zhang Song said immediately, rising to his feet.

”I support it,” Meng Da growled, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

One by one, then in a roaring wave, the entire court rose, their voices merging into a deafening chorus. ”WE SUPPORT THE PROPOSAL! THE ABDICATION IS TO BE MADE OFFICIAL!”

The sound washed over the man on the throne. Emperor Xian, no, Liu Xie, slumped backward, the final vestiges of resistance draining from his body. He felt hollow, a puppet with its strings cut, watching its own play end.

The time he had bought with his daughter’s future, the desperate hope he had pinned on Wang Fu and Wu Yi and their imagined army of western saviors... it was all dust. A wasted sacrifice. A meaningless delay.

And then, from that hollow core, a sound bubbled up. It started as a low, hiccupping chuckle, then grew, warping into a full, ragged, crazed cackle that echoed grotesquely in the hall. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the laughter. The court fell silent, staring at the broken figure on the throne.

Fa Zheng turned, his brow slightly furrowed. ”Liu Xie,” he said, deliberately using the given name, stripping the last shred of title away. ”What is so amusing about the end of your dynasty?”

Liu Xie’s laughter subsided into wheezing gasps. He looked up, his eyes glittering with a manic light. ”Amusing? Everything! This farce! You... all of you!” He gestured wildly at the court. ”You think you are architects of a new age? You are just the next layer of grime on the wheel of life. It turns, Fa Zheng. It always turns. Your karma awaits you. And Wu Yi... Wang Fu...”

His voice took on a singsong, delusional quality. ”They are coming. They will bring an army you cannot imagine. They will avenge me. They will wash this palace clean with your blood!”

Meng Da snorted, a derisive sound. ”We have known about your little errand boys for weeks, ’Liu Xie.’ Their every move has been watched. Their messengers intercepted. By the time they stumble back here with whatever rabble they’ve scraped together, they will find not a throne to save, but a province already integrated into the Hengyuan Dynasty. And they will be crushed. Utterly.”

The revelation didn’t sober Liu Xie. It seemed to fuel his hysterical detachment. He continued to laugh, shaking his head as if listening to a wonderful joke. Then, with a movement so sudden it caught everyone off guard, his hand darted into the wide sleeve of his robe.

The glint of polished steel flashed in the lamplight.

A small, ceremonial dagger, a gift from his mother when he was a child meant for cutting seals, not flesh, was in his hand. With a wordless cry that was part sob, part scream, he lunged from the throne, not at Meng Da who had spoken, but at Fa Zheng, the architect of his ruin.

Fa Zheng, for all his calculations, was not a warrior. He flinched back, but the lunge was clumsy, fueled by despair, not skill. As Fa Zheng stumbled aside, Liu Xie’s momentum carried him forward. He missed his target, his feet tangling in his own heavy robes. He pitched headlong down the short flight of marble steps leading from the dais.

A collective gasp tore through the hall.

Time seemed to slow. Liu Xie tumbled, a whirl of embroidered silk. The dagger, clutched in his hand, turned inward as he tried to break his fall. There was a sickening, wet thud as he landed at the foot of the stairs, the dagger’s hilt protruding from his chest, its blade buried to the ornate guard.

Silence, absolute and profound, descended. The manic laughter was gone, replaced by a ragged, wet gurgle. Liu Xie lay on the cold floor, his eyes wide, staring up at the painted dragons on the ceiling he would never command again. A dark, rapidly spreading stain bloomed across the brilliant yellow silk over his heart.

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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