Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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Admiral Tarun slammed his hands on the table. ”We have already lost our sovereignty! Look at the map! Samatata holds half the eastern world! If we do not get the Kushan heavy cavalry to break their shield walls, our ninety five thousand men will be slaughtered in the mud! I have seen the reports of their trebuchets. Our stone forts will not hold them. We need an empire to fight an empire!”

The debate raged with a terrifying, destructive intensity. It was a clash between the desperate pragmatism of the coastal elite, who believed gold and concessions could buy survival, and the fierce, martial pride of the northern plains, who believed that inviting a foreign superpower was the ultimate treason against their ancestors.

”I will not kneel to Peshawar!” a minor chieftain from the northern hills shouted, drawing his curved dagger. ”I will die with my sword in my hand against Samatata before I hand my daughters over as tribute to the Kushan courts!”

”Then you will die a fool!” a Vanga minister screamed back. ”And your tribe will be erased from history!”

The coalition was tearing itself apart. The fragile alliance, held together only by the mutual terror of Samatata, was fracturing under the immense pressure of deciding how they would survive. King Devadatta and King Shashanka were practically inches apart, screaming insults and historical grievances at one another, their guards tense and hands resting heavily on their weapons.

The grand hall had devolved into a chaotic, deafening madhouse. It was entirely possible that the coalition would dissolve into internal bloodshed right there in the fortress, doing Xun You’s job for him.

But then, the heavy, reinforced oak doors of the grand hall were violently thrown open.

The deafening argument was instantly silenced by the sheer, desperate physical state of the man who stood in the doorway.

It was a Pundravardhana border scout. His light leather armor was torn to shreds and soaked in dark, drying mud. His face was pale, his eyes wide with an absolute, unrestrained terror that chilled the blood of every king and commander in the room. He was gasping for air, clutching a deep, bleeding wound on his left shoulder, an iron tipped Hengyuan crossbow bolt snapped off near the head.

The scout stumbled forward, falling to his knees before the massive circular table, leaving a trail of blood on the polished stone floor.

King Shashanka rushed forward, grabbing the scout by his uninjured shoulder. ”Speak, man! What has happened? Where are the border patrols?”

The scout looked up, his eyes darting frantically between the monarchs, his breathing ragged and shallow.

”They... they are moving,” the scout gasped, coughing violently. ”The Samatata camps... the drums have started. Hundreds of thousands them. They are striking their tents. The massive engines... the trebuchets... they are being dragged to the riverbanks by the elephants.”

A collective, horrified gasp echoed through the hall. Admiral Tarun stepped forward, his face turning an ashen gray.

”When?” the Admiral demanded. ”When do they cross?”

”Now,” the scout whispered, his voice cracking. ”The vanguard is already in the water. They are building the bridges. The sky is black with their banners. They are coming for us all.”

The scout collapsed forward, unconscious from blood loss and exhaustion, but his message hung in the air like a death sentence.

The theoretical, political arguments that had just threatened to tear the coalition apart instantly evaporated, replaced by the brutal, inescapable reality of imminent annihilation. The luxury of time was gone.

King Devadatta looked at King Shashanka. The bitter rivalry, the deeply entrenched hatred, and the debate over the Kushan Empire were forcefully pushed aside.

”Peshawar is hundreds of miles away,” King Shashanka said, his voice surprisingly calm now that the decision had been made for him. He drew his bronze sword, the metal ringing clearly in the silent hall. ”If we send envoys now, the Kushans will arrive in a month to find nothing but our bones and burning cities. There is no time for tribute. There is no time for salvation.”

King Devadatta closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, swallowing his desperate pragmatism, and nodded slowly. He drew his own jeweled blade.

”Then we fight,” the King of Vanga declared, his voice hard and resolute. ”The anti Kushan faction wins by the cruel mandate of time. We will not beg for a foreign emperor. We will stand our ground and bleed them in the river.”

The decision was finalized not by consensus, but by the terrifying momentum of their enemy.

The grand hall instantly exploded into a frenzy of frantic, coordinated action. The minor kings and chieftains sprinted out the doors, shouting for their commanders to rally their warbands.

Admiral Tarun began furiously barking orders to his lieutenants. ”Mobilize the river fleets! I want every galley loaded with archers and pitch! We will turn the river into a lake of fire before we let their pontoons cross!”

Lord Vashistha turned to King Shashanka. ”The war elephants are armored and hungry, Your Majesty. The chariot corps are assembled on the eastern plains. We will hold the high ground above the riverbanks.”

”Tell the men to sharpen their pikes and make peace with their gods,” King Shashanka roared, his martial spirit fully ignited by the impending clash. ”Samatata thinks they can roll over us with their stolen steel and their dark iron. We will show them the wrath of the true kings of the east!”

Horns began to blow across the massive border fortress, a deep, mournful, yet defiant sound that echoed out across the plains and the rivers. The ninety five thousand men of the combined Vanga and Pundravardhana coalition rushed to their stations, equipping their bronze breastplates, loading their bows, and preparing for the end of the world.

Across the wide, muddy expanse of the river, the deafening, rhythmic beating of the Samatata war drums grew louder, a mechanical heartbeat of an industrial monster. The huge clash for the fate of the eastern Indian subcontinent had officially begun, exactly according to the flawless and terrifying design of the Hengyuan Dynasty.

The muddy, rushing waters of the great boundary river were usually a lifeline of commerce, carrying grain, spices, and silk between the wealthy domains of Vanga and Pundravardhana. Today, they formed the final, desperate moat separating the ancient world from the industrialized slaughter of the new.

On the eastern banks, the ninety five thousand men of the newly formed coalition scrambled with a frantic, terrified energy. The name ”Delta Tyrant” was spit from the lips of every soldier, a curse directed at King Samudrasena, though few truly understood the cold, mainland intellects that actually commanded the enemy host.

King Shashanka of Pundravardhana rode his heavily armored warhorse along the high ridges overlooking the river, his bronze breastplate gleaming under the harsh sun. Beside him rode Admiral Tarun and Lord Vashistha, their faces grim as they surveyed the staggering logistical nightmare unfolding on the opposite shore.

”Dig the trenches deeper!” Shashanka roared to a battalion of sweating spearmen who were frantically shoveling the dark, wet earth. ”Put the sharpened stakes at an angle! If those heavy bastards try to march up this ridge, I want them impaled before they can swing their swords!”

The coalition’s preparation was a marvel of desperate speed. Within hours of the scout’s terrifying report, the riverbanks had been transformed. Makeshift defensive encampments, constructed from hastily felled palm trees and packed mud, rose along the high ground. Thousands of archers took their positions behind wooden palisades, their quivers brimming with arrows. Deep ditches were dug and filled with dried brush, ready to be set alight to stall any advancing infantry.

But as the coalition fortified their side, they watched in growing, paralyzing horror at what was happening across the water.

The Samatata army was not merely massing; they were building.

Thousands of auxiliary laborers, driven by the brutal discipline of their Hengyuan trained overseers, were hauling massive, pre lashed bundles of thick bamboo and heavy timber to the river’s edge. They were not building a single, narrow crossing.

They were simultaneously constructing three massive pontoon bridges, each wide enough to accommodate siege engines and heavy infantry marching eight abreast. The dark, monolithic blocks of Samatata infantry stood perfectly still behind the laborers, an ocean of iron scales and black banners waiting for the path to be laid.

”They are building a highway over the water,” Lord Vashistha muttered, his knuckles white as he gripped the reins of his chariot. ”Look at the speed of it. It is unnatural. An army that size should be chaotic, tripping over its own feet. But they move like... like insects.”

”Insects burn,” Admiral Tarun stated coldly. He turned his horse, waving a signaling flag toward the rear lines. ”Bring up the torsion engines! We do not let them build this bridge in peace!”

From the rear of the coalition camps, the heavy, creaking sounds of straining timber and twisting rope echoed over the drumming of the river. Dozens of traditional Indian catapults and stone throwers were hauled up to the high ridges by teams of oxen. These were formidable weapons of the ancient world, powered by tightly wound coils of animal sinew and horsehair, capable of hurling heavy stones and flaming pitch over the water.

The Vanga siege engineers frantically calculated the distance to the rapidly extending pontoons. Torches were applied to massive, burlap wrapped bundles of pitch and oil.

”Loose!” the Vanga artillery commander screamed.

The heavy wooden throwing arms slammed against their crossbeams with a deafening THWACK. The sky above the river was suddenly streaked with dozens of smoking, flaming projectiles. They arched over the rushing water, leaving thick trails of black smoke.

A cheer erupted from the coalition lines as several of the flaming bundles found their marks. Two of the heavy projectiles smashed directly into the central pontoon bridge under construction. The dried bamboo and timber instantly caught fire. The Samatata laborers on the bridge screamed, some diving into the rapid currents to escape the flames, while the heavy logs splintered and broke apart, sending a large section of the bridge floating uselessly down the river.

”Keep firing!” King Shashanka yelled, raising his sword in triumph. ”Burn them down to the mud! Do not let a single plank reach this shore!”

For a brief, intoxicating moment, the coalition soldiers felt a surge of hope. Their catapults were finding their range. The flames were licking the enemy’s progress. Perhaps the Delta Tyrant’s army was just a mass of men after all, vulnerable to fire and stone like any other.

Deep in the center of the Samatata host, hidden behind a massive wall of heavy infantry shields, Xun You sat calmly on a folding wooden stool, lightly fanning himself in the humid heat. He watched the burning pontoon bridge with mild, clinical disinterest.

Huang Zhong stood beside him, leaning on his massive longbow, his scarred face impassive. ”They have torsion engines on the ridge. They have the range to reach the middle of the river.”

”Expected,” Xun You replied, his voice calm. ”They are fighting with the tools of a dying age. They think this is a duel of catapults.” Xun You snapped his fan shut. ”Show them the thunder of the mainland. Clear the ridge.”

Huang Zhong turned to a line of native signalmen and raised two fingers. A sharp, piercing whistle cut through the beating of the war drums.

The front lines of the Samatata heavy infantry parted. The coalition soldiers on the opposite bank fell silent, their cheers dying in their throats as they finally saw what had been hidden in the rear of the enemy formation.

Drawn by teams of massive, armored elephants were twelve Hengyuan engineered counterweight trebuchets.

They were not the squat, tension based catapults the coalition was using. They were towering, terrifying leviathans of mathematics and timber. Their throwing arms reached high into the sky, pivoting on massive, greased iron axles. At the front of the machines hung colossal wooden boxes filled with tons of lead and packed earth, the counterweights.

The Samatata siege engineers, trained by Liu Ye’s meticulously translated manuals, moved with a terrifying, practiced efficiency. They did not need to twist ropes or guess the tension. They calculated the exact weight of the projectiles, the precise angle of the release pin, and the required distance.

Massive, perfectly rounded boulders, hauled all the way from the quarries of Karmanta, were loaded into the heavy leather slings resting in the mud troughs beneath the machines.

”They are too far back,” Admiral Tarun muttered on the ridge, squinting across the river. ”Those engines are massive, but they are stationed well beyond the range of our catapults. They cannot possibly reach us from there.”

He was catastrophically wrong.

On the opposite bank, the Samatata siege master raised a red flag. Twelve men pulled the heavy iron release pins simultaneously.

The sheer physics of the counterweight dropping unleashed an unfathomable amount of kinetic energy. The massive throwing arms whipped upward with a terrifying, deep WHOOSH that displaced the very air around them, followed by the loud, cracking snap of the leather slings opening at the apex of the arc.

Twelve massive boulders, each weighing hundreds of pounds, were launched into the sky. They did not just cross the river; they soared high above the water in a terrifying, parabolic arc that completely eclipsed the range of the coalition’s torsion engines.

The coalition soldiers on the ridge looked up, their eyes widening in absolute horror as the sky darkened. The boulders were moving with a speed and a mass that their minds simply could not process.

The impact was apocalyptic.

One of the boulders slammed directly into a Vanga catapult. The heavy timber of the coalition engine exploded into a thousand lethal, jagged splinters, instantly killing the entire crew and crushing the oxen tied to it. Another boulder struck the packed earth palisade, obliterating thirty feet of defensive fortifications in a single, deafening crash, turning the wooden stakes into shrapnel that tore through the tightly packed ranks of archers behind it.

The ground shook violently beneath King Shashanka’s horse, the beast rearing up in panic as a third stone cratered the earth just fifty yards away, throwing a massive geyser of mud and mangled bodies into the air.

”Gods above...” Lord Vashistha whispered, his voice lost in the screams of the dying.

Before the coalition could even process the devastation, the Samatata trebuchets were already resetting. The counterweights were being hauled back up by the elephants. The sheer, mechanical reload speed was terrifying.

A second volley launched. Then a third.

It was an industrial bombardment that the eastern subcontinent had never seen. The coalition’s makeshift fortresses were systematically dismantled. Their catapults were smashed into kindling. The high ground, once considered an impregnable advantage, became an absolute death trap. Men broke ranks and fled down the reverse slope of the ridge, abandoning their posts to escape the falling sky.

”Do not run! Hold the line!” King Shashanka screamed, cutting down a fleeing spearman with his sword, his face masked in mud and someone else’s blood. ”If you run, they will slaughter us in the plains!”

Under the merciless, unending cover of the trebuchet bombardment, the Samatata laborers returned to the river. Unbothered by the now-silenced coalition catapults, they rebuilt the burned pontoon, seamlessly connecting the bamboo rafts, laying down thick wooden planks, and securing the massive ropes.

The construction took three agonizing, blood soaked days. For three days, the coalition army was pinned down on the ridge, suffering horrific casualties from sporadic, devastating artillery fire. They could not sleep, they could barely eat, and the psychological toll of facing an enemy that could crush them from beyond the horizon was destroying their morale.

Finally, as the sun rose on the morning of the fourth day, the bombardment abruptly ceased.

The eerie silence that settled over the river was more terrifying than the crashing stones. The smoke cleared, revealing that the three massive pontoon bridges were complete. They stretched across the churning brown water, their wooden planks firmly anchored in the mud of the coalition’s shore.

The crossing had begun.

King Shashanka and Admiral Tarun rallied their battered, exhausted forces. The palisades were gone, the trenches were half filled with rubble, but they still had ninety thousand men, heavy war elephants, and the elite chariot corps.

”They have to cross the choke point!” Tarun roared to the Vanga marines, who stood gripping their bronze tipped spears. ”They cannot use their numbers on the bridges! When they step off the wood, we push them back into the water! No mercy!”

On the opposite bank, the Samatata heavy infantry began their advance. They marched onto the three bridges in absolute, terrifying unison. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound of thousands of iron shod boots hitting the wooden planks echoed like a slow, steady heartbeat of doom. 𝖋𝘳ℯ

They did not march with their shields at their sides. As they crossed the open water, the front ranks locked their massive, rectangular iron shields together, while the ranks behind them raised their shields flat over their heads. They formed the classic, impenetrable Hengyuan testudo, a moving fortress of iron scales.

”Archers! Fire!” Shashanka commanded.

Tens of thousands of arrows darkened the morning sky, raining down upon the bridges. But it was entirely futile. The arrows struck the interlocking iron shields with the sound of a massive, metallic hailstorm, harmlessly bouncing off and splashing into the river below. Not a single Samatata soldier broke step.

The dark iron blocks reached the coalition shore, marching off the wooden ramps and stepping onto the muddy banks.

”Now! Hit them now!” Tarun screamed.

The Vanga marines charged down the slope, a tidal wave of screaming men brandishing spears and curved swords. They crashed into the Samatata shield wall with immense, desperate force. The impact was deafening, a brutal clash of bronze and iron.

But the Samatata line did not buckle. The heavy infantry, heavily drilled by Huang Zhong, absorbed the charge by bracing their back legs and locking their shoulders.

Then, on a sharp whistle command from a proxy native officer, the shield wall subtly shifted. The front line dropped to one knee, and the second rank stepped forward, thrusting their heavy, armor piercing Hengyuan halberds through the gaps. The steel blades punched through the bronze breastplates of the Vanga marines as if they were made of wet parchment. The front ranks of the coalition charge were instantly, brutally gutted.

______________________________

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 p

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