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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Slowly, heavily, the King turned his head away from the balcony and looked back into the council room. The generals and nobles had managed to crawl to their feet, looking at their monarch with wide, terrified eyes, waiting for a command, waiting for a miracle that would never come. With a hollow, dead, and utterly defeated voice that carried absolutely no trace of his former royal arrogance, he then says to his trembling attendants standing near the doorway.

?”Raise the white banners,” King Tarashihiko whispered, though in the momentary lull between the cannon blasts, his voice carried through the room. ”Open whatever is left of the gates. Immediately send the word out to their commander. Tell them... tell them we will formally surrender to the Hengyuan Army. Unconditionally.”

?The words hung in the air, a death sentence for their sovereignty.

?Despite the apocalyptic destruction they had just witnessed, the stubborn, deeply indoctrinated pride of the samurai military class flared one final, pathetic time. General Katsuro and several of the other top commanders immediately stepped forward.

Their armor was covered in dust, their faces pale with shock, but their hands still gripped the hilts of their swords. They still wanted to loudly protest the shameful decision, to argue that they could retreat to the inner keep, to fight to the last man, to die with honor rather than live on their knees.

?”Your Majesty, you cannot!” Katsuro cried out, his voice cracking. ”We are warriors! We do not yield to—”

?King Tarashihiko swiftly stopped them. He did not yell. He did not throw pottery. He simply turned his head and pinned the general with a dead, hopeless glare. It was the look of a man who had already seen the underworld and knew there was no escaping it.

?”If you wish to fight, General,” the King coldly stated, his voice completely devoid of emotion, pointing a trembling finger toward the burning city outside. ”Then tell me how. If you can give me a single, realistic idea on how your steel swords, your bamboo bows, and your wooden shields can stop these heaven shattering weapons... if you can tell me how to cut down a flying boulder, or how to parry an exploding arrows, I will immediately retract the order.”

?The King stared directly into Katsuro’s eyes. ”Tell me how to kill the thunder, General. Speak.”

?Faced with that grim, undeniable, and utterly crushing reality, the fierce generals were completely silent. They opened their mouths to speak of honor, of ancestral spirits, of courage, but the words died in their throats. Honor could not deflect a cannonball. Courage could not extinguish liquid fire.

?The martial doctrine they had dedicated their entire lives to mastering had been proven entirely, ridiculously useless in the span of five minutes.

?Lowering their heads in deep, profound shame, the generals slowly removed their hands from the hilts of their swords. They dropped to their knees, pressing their faces into the ash covered floorboards, completely unable to offer any strategy, any hope, or any defense against such overwhelming, industrialized might.

Their silence was the final, tragic admission of their own obsolescence.

?Before then, with the relentless, deafening bombardment continuing to rock the city, shaking the palace to its very core and turning the sky black with smoke, King Tarashihiko continued the orders without any further resistance from his broken military.

?He watched as his attendants frantically tore down the white silk curtains of the palace, tying them to long bamboo poles to signal their total submission to the mainland demons outside.

?And so, surrounded by the roaring flames of its own destruction and deafened by the thunder of foreign cannons, the ancient Kingdom of Yamato officially surrendered. They gave up their pride, their sovereignty, and their isolated independence, dropping to their knees only after the King truly, physically experienced the apocalyptic weapons himself.

Amidst the apocalyptic roar of the Hengyuan artillery and the thick, suffocating clouds of black powder smoke that heavily choked the morning air, the ancient capital of Yamato was being systematically erased from the earth.

The relentless, mechanized thunder of the heavy iron cannons and the continuous, shrieking rain of Hwacha rockets had turned the once pristine, heavily fortified city into a sprawling, inescapable inferno. Timber shattered, stone cracked, and the very ground vibrated with the kinetic fury of an industrialized empire imposing its absolute will upon an isolated kingdom.

But then, peering through the dense, acrid fog of war, a sudden, desperate movement caught the sharp, highly trained eyes of the Hengyuan frontline scouts.

Positioned on the elevated ridges overlooking the burning valley, these seasoned scouts squinted through the swirling ash. High above the chaotic destruction, protruding from the highest, crumbling balcony of the burning main keep of the royal palace, a large, hastily tied white flag was frantically waved.

It was a bedsheet or perhaps a royal silk curtain, torn down and lashed to a splintered bamboo spear. The universal symbol of absolute, unquestionable defeat fluttered violently against the hot, unnatural winds generated by the blazing fires consuming the outer districts.

Standing tall and imposing atop his massive, heavily armored warhorse at the very center of the vanguard formation, Supreme Commander Zhang Liao watched the bombardment with cold, calculating detachment. His dark cape whipped in the wind, his face a mask of unyielding granite. Soon, he received the urgent word. A breathless scout, his face smeared with soot and dirt, sprinted through the ranks of the repeating crossbowmen, dropping to one knee before the supreme commander’s horse.

”General!” the scout gasped, pointing a trembling finger toward the smoking ruins of the inner city. ”The keep! A white flag is being waved from the enemy’s main keep!”

Zhang Liao slowly raised his highly polished brass spyglass to his eye, adjusting the intricate lenses crafted by the Imperial Workshop. He peered through the smoke, focusing on the highest remaining structure of the Yamato palace. He saw the frantic, desperate waving of the white cloth, a pathetic, fragile contrast to the heaven-shattering destruction his siege engines were currently unleashing.

Lowering his spyglass, a low, rumbling chuckle escaped Zhang Liao’s lips. The sound was entirely devoid of warmth, carrying only the cynical, battle hardened amusement of a man who had conquered countless warlords. He shook his head in mild amusement, turning his gaze to his heavily armored lieutenants waiting for his command.

”It looks like a simple white flag is exactly the same language across the entire culture of the world,” Zhang Liao casually remarked, his voice carrying effortlessly over the deafening boom of a nearby cannon firing. ”Whether they are the nomads of the frozen northern steppes or the isolated islanders of the eastern sea, that pathetic fluttering cloth means, without a single shadow of a doubt, that they unconditionally surrender. They have finally realized that their wooden swords cannot cut the thunder.”

With a swift, authoritative raise of his heavy, steel plated gauntlet, Zhang Liao immediately ordered for the relentless, earth shattering bombardment to be halted.

”Cease fire!” his lieutenants roared, their voices amplified by the massive, bronze signaling horns that immediately began to blow a distinct, drawn out note across the sprawling siege lines. ”Halt the engines! Secure the powder!”

The echoing commands rang out across the miles of entrenched Hengyuan artillery. The highly disciplined crews responded with flawless, mechanical precision. One by one, the deafening, bone rattling thud of the massive trebuchets swinging their counterweights came to a halt. The whistling, sky tearing terror of the Hwacha rockets ceased. Finally, the roaring, chest compressing thunder of the heavy black powder cannons slowly died down.

As the last echoes of the explosions faded into the distant mountains, they left behind an eerie, ringing silence that felt almost heavier and more oppressive than the explosions themselves. The sudden absence of the deafening roar of war left the ears of the soldiers ringing, highlighting the distant, tragic sounds of crackling fires and crumbling timber from within the besieged capital.

After the weapons were fully secured and the artillery crews began swabbing the smoking, red hot barrels of their cannons, Zhang Liao swiftly dispatched a fast rider. The cavalryman spurred his horse, galloping furiously through the organized ranks of the encamped army to inform the four brilliant advisors of the sudden, complete capitulation.

Deep inside the sprawling, luxuriously appointed command pavilion located safely at the rear of the Vanguard camp, completely insulated from the mud and blood of the frontlines, the true intellectual core of the invasion was already looking past the burning city. ℯⅇ𝙡.

The four peerless strategists, Guo Jia, Xi Zhicai, Sima Yi, and Jia Kui, were calmly standing around a massive, intricately carved wooden table. While the cannons had been leveling the Yamato capital, their minds were already leagues ahead. They were carefully looking over the newly translated, highly detailed topographical maps of Honshu, the massive northern island that loomed as their next potential theater of war.

Guo Jia was casually tracing the narrow mountain passes of Honshu with the tip of his feather fan, occasionally coughing lightly into a silk handkerchief, while Sima Yi meticulously calculated the exact naval blockades required to starve the northern domains. Xi Zhicai was reviewing complex logistical ledgers, ensuring the grain supply from the mainland would remain uninterrupted, and Jia Kui was quietly drafting the brutal, uncompromising legal codes that would soon govern the conquered populace.

Their intense, deeply focused strategic session was interrupted as the flaps of the heavy silk pavilion were thrown open. The fast rider entered, dropping to one knee, the smell of sulfur and smoke clinging to his armor.

”My Lords!” the messenger reported breathlessly, bowing his head. ”Deputy Grand General Zhang Liao sends word! The Yamato King has broken. A white flag flies from the main keep. The bombardment has been halted. The capital has unconditionally surrendered!”

When the four of them heard the messenger’s report, the tense atmosphere in the pavilion instantly dissolved into an aura of supreme, calculated satisfaction. They looked at each other and nodded their heads, their expressions reflecting the absolute triumph of their grand, flawless design.

”Excellent,” Sima Yi murmured, setting down his red ink brush. His cold, calculating eyes glinted with predatory approval. ”We have bypassed a possible grueling weeks of attrition war.”

They were deeply satisfied that the Yamato King’s will had finally shattered so quickly without requiring a costly, bloody urban siege. While the Hengyuan army possessed the manpower and the technology to fight street by street, an urban siege was always a meat grinder that drained morale, consumed vast amounts of volatile black powder, and risked the lives of their elite veterans in chaotic, unpredictable close quarters ambushes.

By breaking the enemy’s psychological will through sheer, overwhelming technological terror, they had saved thousands of Hengyuan lives and preserved the overall momentum of the Eastern Expansion.

However, the war was not won merely when the enemy dropped their swords; it was won when the ink dried on the terms of their subjugation. Wanting to maintain absolute political control over the surrender and ensuring that the military commanders did not inadvertently offer lenient terms out of misplaced martial respect, the strategists moved immediately.

”Tell General Zhang Liao to hold his position,” Guo Jia commanded the messenger, a chaotic, brilliant smile spreading across his pale face. ”We immediately send a messenger back to him to formally inform him that we will enter the conquered capital directly with him. The sword has done its work, now, the pen shall finish the slaughter.”

Jia Kui stood up, rolling up his drafted legal scrolls and placing them securely into a wooden cylinder at his belt. ”We must ensure there is no misunderstanding of their new reality. We will be the ones who brought in the bilingual Goguryeo translators. We will properly speak with the defeated King and officially begin the heavy negotiation process.”

”Negotiation?” Sima Yi scoffed softly, adjusting the cuffs of his dark, elegant robes. ”There will be no negotiation. There will only be dictation.”

Receiving the word from the strategists via the returning messenger, Zhang Liao simply nodded his head in agreement. He sat upon his warhorse, looking at the splintered, smoking ruins of the city gates, and patiently waited.

Before long, the grand procession formed. The four of Guo Jia, Xi Zhicai, Sima Yi, and Jia Kui arrived at the vanguard lines, riding upon majestic, heavily armored steeds, flanked by the invaluable Goguryeo translators. Zhang Liao fell in beside them, and together, the architects of Yamato’s doom prepared to march.

They were heavily escorted by a terrifying, flawlessly disciplined contingent of thousands of elite, armor clad Hengyuan soldiers. These were not regular infantry, these were the absolute pinnacle of the Emperor’s legions, wearing thick, interlocking steel lamellar armor that gleamed darkly in the filtered sunlight. Carrying towering weapons and the repeating crossbows holstered at their back, they moved with a synchronized, mechanical precision that struck absolute terror into the hearts of any who witnessed it.

Alongside this phalanx of elite guards rode a handful of fierce, decorated generals whose very presence radiated an oppressive, suffocating bloodlust. Men who had slaughtered their way across the central plains, their armor bearing the scars of countless campaigns, their eyes scanning the ruined city for any sign of treachery.

The procession began its advance.

The massive, ancient iron reinforced wooden gates of the Yamato capital, which had stood as an impenetrable barrier against rival island clans for centuries, now offered absolutely no resistance. They were completely splintered, blown apart by the relentless barrage of heavy cannonballs, hanging pathetically off their twisted, blackened hinges.

As the conquering force goes to boldly enter the Yamato Capital, the true extent of the apocalyptic devastation became fully apparent.

The march through the ruined streets was a display of absolute, crushing dominance. The air was thick with the suffocating stench of burning pine, charred flesh, and the sharp, metallic tang of sulfur. Entire city blocks had been reduced to smoldering craters. The beautifully manicured rock gardens and elegant shrines were buried under mountains of shattered timber and pulverized stone.

The rhythmic, thundering footsteps of thousands of heavy Hengyuan boots echoed against the shattered wooden homes, a continuous, terrifying drumbeat of absolute subjugation. The sound was deafening, drowning out the crackling of the dying fires.

As the imperial procession moved deeper into the city, the human cost of their technological supremacy was revealed. The terrified, weeping Yamato civilians, the merchants, the artisans, and the farmers who had believed their island was a sacred, untouchable realm, hid in the dark, smoking alleys.

They clutched their children to their chests, shivering uncontrollably as the conquerors marched past. They did not dare to even look up at the towering, steel clad men who had brought the wrath of the heavens down upon their homes.

The sheer, overwhelming psychological trauma inflicted by the bombardment had completely broken the spirit of the populace, there was no resistance, no defiant shouts, only the absolute silence of a completely conquered people.

When the grand, deeply intimidating imperial procession finally navigated the maze of destruction and reached the inner courtyard of the royal castle, the atmosphere was unimaginably tense.

The inner keep had narrowly avoided a direct hit from the heaviest cannons, but the concussive shockwaves had stripped it of its former glory. The delicate paper screens were torn, the wooden pillars were cracked, and the beautiful, ancient cherry blossom trees that lined the courtyard were completely coated in a thick, suffocating layer of gray ash, making them look like dead, petrified monuments. The Hengyuan high command was welcomed by a humiliating sight.

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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

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