Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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(A/N: Don’t forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)

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He turned to his lieutenants. ”Spread the word! We march block by block! Offer water to the wounded, regardless of their banners. Secure the grain for the people. Let the citizens of Chang’an see that we are not the demons Cao Cao claimed us to be!”

And so, the three massive armies of Hengyuan began to work in perfect, terrifying tandem. Like a slowly closing fist, they moved through the ancient capital. The sounds of pitched battle gradually faded, replaced by the rhythmic marching of boots, the sharp barks of sergeants ordering surrenders, and the clatter of discarded Wei weapons hitting the cobblestones.

​Wherever they went, the terrified civilians peered out from their shuttered windows. They expected the horrors of the Dong Zhuo era, looting, burning, and indiscriminate slaughter.

Instead, they saw disciplined soldiers establishing checkpoints, distributing captured grain to the starving, and aggressively putting down any fires that threatened residential blocks.

The martial law was strict, absolute, and heavily armed, but it was, shockingly, peaceful. The Black Dragon had not come to destroy Chang’An’s, he had come to claim it.

​While the outer city was being meticulously digested by the Hengyuan war machine, the heart of the Wei Dynasty was trapped in a suffocating, terrifying stasis deep within the imperial palace.

​The opulent bedchamber of the Emperor was heavy with the cloying, bitter scent of medicinal herbs and the metallic tang of fear. The room was illuminated by dozens of flickering candles, casting long, dancing shadows against the silk draped walls.

​In the center of the room, lying in a massive, gilded bed, was Cao Cao.

​The man who had once terrified the entire continent looked impossibly small and fragile. He was completely unresponsive, trapped in a deep, terrifying coma. His face was the color of old parchment, his breathing shallow and erratic.

Surrounding the bed like anxious crows were the finest imperial physicians in the realm. They moved with frantic, hushed urgency, swapping out hot compresses on his forehead, checking his fading pulse, and debating complex acupuncture meridians in urgent, terrified whispers.

They were fighting a losing battle against the sheer exhaustion and immense internal pressure that had finally ruptured the Emperor’s brilliant, overburdened mind.

​Sitting on the edge of the bed, her elegant robes crumpled, was Grand Concubine Bian. She held Cao Cao’s limp, cold hand tightly in both of hers, her face a mask of profound sorrow.

Tears tracked silently down her cheeks, falling onto the silk blankets. She was the mother of his second and other sonz, a woman who had stood by his side through the rise of his power, and now she was watching him fade away at the very moment their world was collapsing.

​Kneeling on the hard wooden floor beside the bed was Cao Pi. The young prince’s face was a complex tapestry of genuine filial grief, overwhelming terror, and a dark, terrifying ambition that he was struggling to keep suppressed. He stared at his father’s motionless chest, waiting for a deep breath that refused to come.

​Standing in a semi circle near the foot of the bed were the pillars of the Wei state, Xun Yu, Guo Jia, Xi Zhicai, Jia Kui, Cheng Yu, Tian Feng, and Xu You.

​These were men whose intellects had shaped the destiny of millions. They were the grand architects of strategy, the masters of logistics, the cold calculators of life and death.

But right now, standing in the dim candlelight, they looked lost. They were sailors on a ship in a hurricane, and their captain had just been washed overboard.

​Guo Jia leaned heavily against a wooden pillar, his hand pressed to his chest, his eyes closed in a mixture of profound despair. Xun Yu stood rigidly, his face pale, his mind desperately trying to find an administrative solution to a problem that could not be solved with paperwork. Cheng Yu’s face was set in a grim, unforgiving scowl, recognizing that the end was rapidly approaching.

​They were men without direction. While they stood in the quiet of the bedchamber, they could all feel the faint, rhythmic vibrations traveling up through the floorboards. It was the physical manifestation of Hengyuan’s artillery, a constant, terrifying reminder that their doom was systematically dismantling the city around them.

​Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the bedchamber were pushed open with a loud, jarring creak.

​A palace guard, his armor dented and his face smeared with soot, stumbled into the room. He looked wildly around the opulent chamber, his eyes wide with panic, before dropping heavily onto both knees, the metal of his greaves clanging loudly against the polished floor.

​”Forgive me! Forgive the interruption, Imperial Highnesses! My Lords!” the soldier gasped, his voice cracking.

​Grand Concubine Bian’s head snapped up. Her sorrow instantly flared into protective maternal rage. The Emperor was dying, and this low ranking guard dared to shatter the fragile peace of the room with his loud clattering.

​”How dare you?” Concubine Bian hissed, her voice trembling with anger. ”Do you not have eyes? Do you not see the Emperor’s condition? Get out this instant before I have you—”

​”Mother. Stop.”

​Cao Pi’s voice cut through the air. It was not the voice of a grieving son, it was sharp, authoritative, and startlingly cold. He stood up from his kneeling position, brushing the dust from his silk robes. He gently touched his mother’s shoulder, calming her down, before turning his piercing gaze onto the trembling soldier.

​Cao Pi knew that a guard would not breach the Emperor’s inner sanctum, risking immediate execution, unless the sky itself was falling.

​”Speak, soldier,” Cao Pi commanded, his tone demanding absolute clarity. ”What is the report that could not wait?”

​The soldier swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the unconscious form of Cao Cao before looking back at the young prince.

​”Your Highness,” the soldier reported, his voice shaking with the weight of the disaster he carried. ”The outer walls... they have fallen.”

​The silence in the room became absolute. Even the physicians stopped their frantic movements.

​”All of them?” Tian Feng asked, his voice a harsh, disbelieving croak.

​”Yes, my Lord,” the soldier confirmed, his head bowing lower. ”The eastern gate was shattered by the demonic generals. The southern gate was overwhelmed by the Hanzhong fanatics. And the western gate... the control room was breached from within. The entire Hengyuan army is currently pouring into the outer city streets.”

​Guo Jia let out a long, ragged sigh, slowly sliding down the pillar until he was sitting on the floor. The mathematics of their doom had finally resolved.

​”And Marshal Xiahou Dun?” Xun Yu asked, his voice remarkably steady despite the catastrophic news. ”What is the disposition of our remaining forces?”

​”Lord Marshal Xiahou Dun has sounded the general retreat, Master Xun Yu,” the soldier replied. ”He has ordered the entire surviving army, every general, every archer, every spearman, to fall back and retreat behind the walls of the inner fortress. He says... he says we are to make our last stand here. At the palace gates.”

​The news detonated within the room like a silent explosive. No one had expected the situation to turn this dire, this fast. They had calculated that the outer walls, even under severe bombardment, would hold for days, perhaps weeks, bleeding Lie Fan’s forces in a grueling urban meat grinder.

To lose all three primary gates in a single afternoon was a strategic impossibility that had just become their terrifying reality.

​Panic, raw and unfiltered, finally began to crack the composed facades of the brilliant advisors. Xu You began to pace frantically, muttering about escape routes. Jia Kui closed his eyes, whispering a prayer.

​But Xun Yu, the Prefect of the Masters of Writing, the man who had kept the administrative heart of Wei beating through famine and war, stepped forward. He looked at the unconscious Cao Cao, then turned his gaze squarely upon Cao Pi.

​”Your Highness,” Xun Yu said, his voice cutting through the rising panic with absolute, desperate clarity. ”The state cannot exist without a head. The army cannot fight without a commander. Lord Marshal Xiahou Dun can hold the walls, but he cannot govern the panic within them.”

​Xun Yu took a deep breath, proposing the unthinkable. ”I suggest... no, I implore... that Your Highness Cao Pi must immediately succeed the mantle of leadership for the duration of this crisis. You must take the Emperor’s seal and lead the remaining soldiers and the court.”

​The words hung in the air, heavy with treasonous implications and desperate necessity. Everyone in the room turned to stare at Xun Yu, shocked by the sheer audacity of the suggestion.

​Cao Pi’s eyes widened. He took a step back, raising his hands defensively.

​”Master Xun Yu, you speak madness,” Cao Pi protested quickly, his voice tight. ”I cannot do that. I am merely the second son. To take the mantle of leadership while my father still breathes... it is a usurpation! I would be overstepping my position entirely. And beyond that, I would be overstepping my older brother, Cao Ang, the rightful heir!”

​”Crown Prince Cao Ang is a prisoner of the enemy, Your Highness!” Xun Yu countered sharply, his usual polite demeanor vanishing entirely. He shook his head vehemently. ”This is not about overstepping! This is not a matter of courtly etiquette or succession laws! Look around you!”

​Xun Yu gestured wildly toward the dying Emperor, then toward the door leading to the burning city. ”This is about survival! The Wei Dynasty is currently bleeding to death on the steps of this palace! Your Majesty is bedridden, trapped in a coma from which he may never wake. You are the only one present of the imperial bloodline. You are the only one fit enough, and you are the only one who possesses the necessary prestige to stand on those walls and command the men to die for this family!”

​Cao Pi stared at Xun Yu. Inwardly, his heart was hammering against his ribs in a frantic, ecstatic rhythm. This was the moment he had secretly craved in the darkest corners of his ambition, the absolute power of the throne offered to him on a silver platter by the most respected minister in the empire.

​But alongside that burning ambition was a cold, suffocating dread. He was being handed the crown of a kingdom that was currently entirely engulfed in flames. He knew the situation was beyond dire.

He knew that the chances of turning this battle around against Lie Fan’s overwhelming numbers and monstrous generals were almost second to none. He was being asked to be the captain of a sinking ship, merely to orchestrate how they drowned.

​He looked at the unconscious face of his father, the man who had built it all. Then he looked at the terrified faces of the advisors.

​In the end, the ambition won. It pushed him forward, overriding the terror of the impending slaughter. He would not die as a forgotten second prince. If he was to fall today, he would fall as the leader of Wei.

​Cao Pi straightened his posture. The fearful, grieving son vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating prince.

​”Very well,” Cao Pi said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a new, terrifying weight. ”If the survival of the state demands it, I will bear this burden.”

​He looked directly at the seven brilliant men standing before him. ”But hear me clearly. I cannot do this alone. The situation is too dire. The enemy is too strong. I ask... no, I demand... that every single one of you present pledges your absolute intellect and effort to help me handle this crisis. We will fight for every stone of this inner fortress.”

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Name: Lie Fan

Title: Founding Emperor Of Hengyuan Dynasty

Age: 36 (203 AD)

Level: 16

Next Level: 462,000

Renown: 2325

Cultivation: Yin Yang Separation (level 11)

SP: 1,121,700

ATTRIBUTE POINTS

STR: 1,010 (+20)

VIT: 659 (+20)

AGI: 653 (+10)

INT: 691

CHR: 98

WIS: 569

WILL: 436

ATR Points: 0