Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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... 𝖿𝖗ⅇℴ𝑚

However, instead of using this unified front to secretly plot a massive rebellion against the Hengyuan Dynasty, the exact opposite was happening. The leadership of the Confederacy was entirely fractured. Dozens of powerful chieftains, ambitious warlords, and tribal elders were currently locked in a bitter, cutthroat political war against one another. And brilliantly, they had all independently come to the exact same conclusion, the only way to secure the title of Grand Chieftain and crush their rivals was to gain the favor and the official endorsement of Lie Fan.

The border forts were currently being flooded with diplomatic envoys from the steppes. Rival chieftains were desperately trying to outbid one another, sending hundreds of flawless, purebred warhorses, massive shipments of rare furs, and exotic falcons to Xiapi as tribute, all begging for the Emperor’s blessing.

’They are fighting a war for my affection as expected,’ Lie Fan thought, a smirk playing on his lips as he picked up his vermilion ink stamp. ’If they remain this deeply fractured, if they continue to view the Dragon Throne as their ultimate kingmaker rather than their oppressor, they will never, ever be able to organize a cohesive horde to overthrow Hengyuan.’

He stamped a series of documents, officially issuing highly vague, non committal letters of encouragement to five different rival chieftains, expertly fanning the flames of their internal division. He ordered the border garrisons to accept the tributary horses and to continue subtly favoring whichever tribe was currently the weakest, ensuring a permanent, balancing stalemate on the steppes.

As Lie Fan set the heavy jade stamp down, a sudden, profound silence settled over his mind. He leaned back in his dragon throne, looking past the mountains of scrolls, his gaze drifting toward the massive, highly detailed map of the known world that covered the western wall of his study.

He looked at the sprawling borders of the Hengyuan Dynasty. He looked at the newly secured island of Wa. He looked at the secret proxy war brewing in Samatata against the Kushans. He looked at the northern steppes, pacified by their own greed.

He had built a monument of iron, blood, and brilliant strategy. He had single handedly accelerated human progress by a millennium.

But as he stared at the map, a cold, sobering realization struck him with the force of a physical blow.

’I am a mortal even if the pills will help me live a very long live,’ Lie Fan realized.

He was young, he was vigorous, and he commanded the heavens, but eventually, time would claim him. And what then? What would happen to this hadvanced, continent spanning behemoth in a hundred years? In three hundred years? In thousands of years?

Lie Fan suddenly thought of something monumental. Utilizing the vast, out of this world historical knowledge from his past life, the textbooks, the internet forums, the documentaries of a world that hadn’t yet happened, he realized that he held a terrifying advantage. He knew the broad, inevitable strokes of human history. He knew how empires fell. He knew how ideologies shifted.

’Perhaps,’ Lie Fan mused, his eyes narrowing in intense thought, ’I should leave behind some instructions. A guide for the future generations of my bloodline, so that they might navigate the storms I know are coming.’

He paused, considering the terrifying implications of the butterfly effect. With everything he had done, introducing gunpowder, steam power, modern medicine, and conquering the oceans centuries early, the original timeline was utterly shattered. The massive Mongol horde that had swept across Asia in his past life shouldn’t be possible now, his relentless manipulation of the steppes and the hunt of the birth tribes or the tribes that will splinterto made the birth tribes of had essentially neutralized the birth of a figure like Genghis Khan.

But while the specific names and dates had been erased by his actions, the fundamental, inevitable truths of human nature, societal evolution, and geopolitical pressure remained absolute. Power would always centralize, and then it would inevitably fracture. Oppressed classes would always eventually rise.

Republics and democracies were not just Western concepts, they were the inevitable result of an educated, industrialized populace realizing their own collective power could go against the monarchy.

If he wrote a literal, straightforward historical textbook predicting the future, it would either be dismissed as the mad ravings of an aging Emperor, or worse, it would be taken too literally, causing his descendants to make fatal miscalculations based on a timeline that no longer existed. Furthermore, to explicitly claim he was a time traveler would undermine his divine right to rule.

’If I am to be remembered as a prophet who could see the future, so be it,’ Lie Fan decided, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective determination for his lineage. ’But I will not give them a map. A map can be outdated. I will give them a compass.’

He would write his guidance in a roundabout way. He would utilize the ancient, respected mediums of riddles, allegorical poetry, and grand parables. He would weave his modern, futuristic knowledge into philosophical texts, guiding his future descendants to find the right answers themselves when the specific crises finally arrived.

Lie Fan pushed the taxation ledgers aside. He reached into a secure, locked drawer of his desk and pulled out a pristine, heavy roll of the highest quality imperial silk paper and a fresh, untouched calligraphy brush.

He closed his eyes, centering his mind, reaching deep into the memories of his past life, pulling up the ghosts of a modern world to protect the ancient one he had conquered.

Then, Lie Fan began his journey of giving guidance for eternity.

He started with the geopolitical threats that lingered on the periphery of his empire. He knew that while the northern tribes were currently pacified, the vast, unbroken sea of grass always harbored the potential for a unifying storm. He dipped his brush in ink and wrote with sweeping, elegant strokes:

”Beware the grass that grows too tall,

Where scattered, starving wolves begin to call.

Should a single alpha rise to claim the sky,

The Dragon must not wait, but fly.

Strike the head before the shadow forms,

Or drown beneath the galloping storms.”

It was a clear, poetic instruction, never allow the steppes to unite. If a singular, charismatic leader ever emerged from the north, his descendants were to launch preemptive, annihilating strikes, utilizing the steam carriages, Hwachas, and whatever scientific marvel that will be made before the horde could ever mobilize.

Next, his mind drifted across the oceans. He knew that eventually, far to the west, empires of white sails and colonial ambition would rise. They would seek to carve up the world for spices, gold, and tea. To prepare his navy for the inevitable clash of civilizations, he wrote:

”From oceans far beyond the setting sun,

Where the day is lost and the night begun,

Ships of white cloth and iron teeth will sail,

Seeking the Dragon’s scale and the tiger’s tail.

Welcome the trader, but garrison the shore,

For behind the merchant’s smile, lies the shadow of war.

The sea is a moat, let no foreign anchor rest,

Without the Dragon’s fire aimed at their breast.”

He set the brush down, his hand cramping slightly, but his mind was racing. Those were the external threats. But Lie Fan knew, better than anyone, that the true death of a dynasty never came from across the ocean or from the steppes. It came from within.

As he had forcefully industrialized his empire, building academies, fostering literacy, and creating an empowered merchant class, he had unknowingly planted the very seeds that would eventually threaten the concept of absolute monarchy.

He remembered the textbooks of his past life. He remembered the bloody French Revolution, the fall of the Tsars, the birth of the Republics, the rise of Democracy, and the devastating, sweeping ideology of Communism. When the common man learned to read, to operate steam engines, and to communicate across vast distances, they would no longer blindly accept the divine right of kings.

This was the most dangerous and vital knowledge he had to impart. He had to teach his royal descendants how to survive the inevitable ideological revolutions that would seek their heads.

He picked up the brush again, his strokes becoming heavier, more deliberate. He wrote an allegorical warning about the rise of Republics and the Libertarian demands for absolute freedom:

”A day will dawn when ancient crowns are cursed,

And the order of the heavens is reversed.

The voice of the many, chaotic, loud, and blind,

Will seek to leave the golden kings behind.

They will chase the phantom of a Crownless King,

Believing that the severed puppet needs no string.”

Then, his thoughts shifted to the most terrifying threat to any established, wealthy hierarchy, the rise of the proletariat. He remembered the sickle and the hammer, the ideological fire that consumed empires by weaponizing the poor. To warn his descendants of the Communist threat, he penned:

”And from the soot stained mills and muddy fields,

A scarlet, bloody harvest will be revealed.

When the tillers of the earth and strikers of the iron,

Demand the throne and seek to slay the lion.

They will claim the hoarded wealth of every man,

To violently share the bounty of the land.

Do not answer their hunger with the sword alone,

For blood is the water from which rebellion is grown.”

Lie Fan stared at the poem. It was a terrifyingly accurate prophecy of class warfare, wrapped in the metaphor of a red harvest.

But warnings were useless without a solution. He had to give them the ultimate instruction on how to survive. He knew that rigid monarchies that refused to yield, like the Romanovs or the Bourbons, ended up on the guillotine or in shallow graves. The monarchies that survived into the modern era, like the British, did so because they mastered the art of flexible surrender.

He had to teach his descendants the life saving necessity of the Constitutional Monarchy. They had to learn how to surrender absolute power in order to keep the crown, the wealth, and their lives.

With solemn focus, Lie Fan wrote the important stanza of his grand guidance:

”A crown of iron rusts in the rain.

A crown of gold melts in the forge’s pain.

But a crown of shadows, woven in the night,

Will endure the tempest and survive the light.

If the raging tide of the many rises to drown the throne,

Do not stand upon the beach and command the sea alone.

Step back from the shore. Bow to the crushing wave.

A dragon that shrinks to fit the cavern avoids the grave.

Give the people the illusion of the heavy helm,

Let them shout and steer the turbulent realm.

Surrender the blade, but quietly keep the hilt,

For on yielding flexibility, eternity is built.”

Lie Fan slowly lifted the brush, exhaling a long, heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.

He read over the silken scroll. It was a masterpiece of political philosophy, strategic prophecy, and survivalist ideology. It did not mention democracy, communism, or republics by their modern names, but the essence of the threats and the exact methodology required to neutralize them were flawlessly preserved in the poetry.

He waited for the black ink to dry. Once it was settled, he carefully, reverently rolled the heavy silk scroll. He reached for a special, highly classified black wax, melting it over a candle flame, and poured it over the binding. He pressed his personal, intricate imperial signet ring deep into the wax, sealing it forever.

Lie Fan gently ran his fingers over the hardened black wax, feeling the intricate, raised edges of his imperial signet ring. The first scroll, a masterful compilation of geopolitical prophecies and ideological survival strategies, was sealed. It held the keys to navigating the inevitable societal storms that would threaten the concept of absolute monarchy centuries down the line.

But as he placed it gently onto the polished surface of his mahogany desk, a chilling, sobering thought crept into his brilliant mind.

Ideologies, rebellions, and foreign armadas were the enemies of man, born from the minds of men. They could be fought with steel, outmaneuvered by diplomacy, or crushed by superior industry. However, the vast, outvof thisvworld historical knowledge from his past life reminded him of a far more terrifying, unstoppable adversary. Nature itself.

He remembered the textbooks detailing how empires that had survived centuries of warfare were brought to their absolute knees by invisible killers and the sudden, catastrophic wrath of the earth. He remembered the plagues that decimated populations, leaving ghost towns in their wake. He remembered volcanic eruptions that altered the global climate, starving millions and sparking desperate, world ending wars over a handful of grain.

Lie Fan unrolled a second, pristine sheet of heavy imperial silk paper. He smoothed it flat, his eyes darkening with intense, protective determination.

If his descendants were to truly guide the Hengyuan Dynasty through the millennia, they needed to be warned of the apocalyptic events that no army could fight. More importantly, they needed to know how to weaponize these global catastrophes to protect Hengyuan’s interests and expand its dominance while the rest of the world burned.

He dipped his brush deep into the inkstone, the black liquid gleaming like obsidian. He began to write, once again utilizing the ancient, cryptic medium of poetry and riddles to obscure his knowledge from any unintended, treacherous eyes.

His mind drifted to the 14th century, to the horrific, sweeping devastation of the Black Death in Europe and Central Asia. A plague born of fleas, rats, and the very trade routes that connected the world. It was a disease that would rot the flesh, turn the skin black, and shatter the foundations of Western civilization.

To warn his future Emperors of this invisible apocalypse, and to instruct them on how to ruthlessly exploit it, Lie Fan penned:

”When the rodent’s long shadow stretches deep in the West,

And the blackened bubo stains the merchant’s chest.

A silent miasma, born of fleas, silk, and trade,

Will leave the proudest foreign empires rotting in the shade.

Hear the coughing winds, see the skin turn to coal,

As the reaper of the west demands a continent’s toll.”

Lie Fan paused, his brush hovering over the silk. The warning was clear, but the strategy was what mattered. When the plague struck, the Silk Road would become a highway of death. Hengyuan could not fall victim to it.

”When the foreign harbors reek of the unburied dead,

Shut tight the Jade Gates; let no tears be shed.

Burn the arriving ships, let no caravan pass,

Until the foreign crowns are buried ’neath the grass.

Quarantine the shores with a merciless, iron hand,

For hygiene and isolation will save the Dragon’s land.

And when their kingdoms fracture, weak and weeping in the deep,

March forth and claim the wealth the dead can no longer keep.”

It was a chilling, cold blooded directive. When the global pandemic eventually struck, Hengyuan was to instantly sever all international contact, initiate absolute, brutal quarantines, and rely on the advanced medical foundations laid by Hua Tuo and Zhang Zhongjing. Then, once the foreign superpowers were decimated and vulnerable, the Hengyuan Dynasty would sweep in, utilizing their untouched armies to economically and militarily dominate a weakened world.

Lie Fan exhaled, the heavy weight of orchestrating future history pressing against his chest. He dipped the brush again.

He then cast his memories to the far future, to the late 19th century. He remembered the apocalyptic eruption of Krakatoa in the southern seas, a natural disaster of such unfathomable, explosive magnitude that it ruptured the eardrums of sailors miles away, triggered colossal tsunamis, and violently spewed so much ash into the stratosphere that it dropped global temperatures for years. It caused the infamous ”year without a summer,” leading to massive crop failures, famine, and civil unrest across the globe.

To a dynasty that relied on the agricultural stability of the Yangtze and Yellow River basins, a sudden, volcanic winter could spark a peasant rebellion massive enough to shatter the empire. He had to ensure his descendants would interpret the signs and hoard their harvests.

With elegant, sweeping strokes, Lie Fan wrote:

”To the distant, humid south, where the island mountains bend,

A sleeping giant of fire will bring the summer to an end.

It will roar with the voice of a thousand dying gods,

And blanket the sun with ash across the earthly clods.

The skies will bleed crimson, the oceans violently swell,

And the golden crops will wither in a freezing, sunless hell.”

Lie Fan pressed harder on the brush, outlining the crucial, life saving mandate:

”When the southern sky turns gray and the midday sun grows cold,

Do not trust the spring, nor the weather of old.

Open the imperial coffers, empty the treasury of its gold,

And buy every grain of rice before the famine takes hold.

Store the wheat deep, hoard the salted meat away,

For the dynasty that feeds the starving will forever hold the sway.

Let the rival nations starve, let their desperate peasants bleed,

While the Dragon reigns supreme, built upon the winter’s seed.”

He finished the final stroke, his hand cramping from the intense, focused calligraphy. He sat back, reading over the second scroll. It was a terrifying, pragmatic survival guide for the end of the world. It detailed how to turn plagues and volcanic winters into unparalleled geopolitical advantages.

Lie Fan waited patiently for the ink to dry, the silence of his study offering a stark contrast to the apocalyptic visions dancing in his mind. Once the silk was safe to roll, he carefully bound it, applying the same highly classified black wax. He pressed his imperial signet ring into the hot wax, sealing it permanently alongside the first scroll.

Now, he faced the ultimate logistical hurdle. How could he ensure these scrolls were passed down securely from generation to generation, guaranteeing that only the reigning Emperor, and the designated Crown Prince,would ever lay eyes on them?

If he simply placed them in the imperial archives, a corrupt minister or a curious imperial maid might find them, decipher the riddles, and use the knowledge to overthrow the royal family. The transmission of this knowledge had to be an absolute, unshakeable secret, entirely divorced from the written bureaucracy of the empire.

Lie Fan stood up, walking over to the intricately carved, solid gold dragon that adorned the back of his massive throne. After a moment of physical exertion, he twisted the left eye of the golden beast.

With a soft, mechanical click, a hidden, highly secure compartment slid open from the base of the throne. It was a secret safe built by Liu Ye, known only to Lie Fan himself. He carefully placed the two black sealed scrolls into the velvet lined compartment and pushed it shut, locking it seamlessly back into place. ’It must become an oral tradition, bound to the deathbed,’ Lie Fan finalized in his mind.

______________________________

Name: Lie Fan

Title: Founding Emperor Of Hengyuan Dynasty

Age: 37 (204 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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