Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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The first had already begun to burn, deliberately set aflame to create a wall of smoke. Batu’s men broke through the initial fire line with brutal force. Their superior numbers surged against the first palisade, overwhelming the defenders with sheer momentum. The wooden wall shattered under the weight of men and horse.

But the Xianbei were not there. They had fallen back again.

Jirgal stood beside Kuitou, breathing hard, sweat pouring down his soot covered face. ”Phase three.”

Kuitou looked to the oil cauldrons now placed above the final gate. ”Hold until they breach the inner wall. Then burn them.”

Jirgal hesitated. ”If we misjudge the timing—”

”They’ll kill us all anyway.”

Jirgal gave a short nod and ran to oversee the mechanism.

Hours passed.

The sun dipped behind the peaks. Smoke turned the sky orange. The gorge had become a charred battlefield littered with corpses of both man and horses, with smoldering wreckage all around.

Still the Xiongnu pressed on.

Inside the fortress, Kuitou stood firm. His men were exhausted. Bloodied. But they held.

Then the final horn sounded from the Xiongnu ranks.

A makeshift battering ram appeared.

Batu himself had taken command of the effort, shirtless now, his armor stripped away in the heat. He dragged the ram with his elite guard, pushing it toward the main gate of the fortress.

”They’re going to breach,” a Xianbei captain gasped.

Kuitou turned to his final reserve. ”Ready the oil.”

Above the gate, the cauldrons were hoisted, smoke pouring from their brims.

The battering ram struck once. Twice. On the third hit, the gate groaned.

Then the cauldrons tipped.

A tide of boiling oil fell in a shimmering arc over the enemy front line, followed by a hail of fire arrows.

The firestorm was complete.

Batu’s front line was incinerated. Men flailed and screamed as their flesh melted. The battering ram was abandoned, burning in the mud.

Zolgar, wounded and half blind due to one of his eye swollen, dragged himself from the inferno. Batu also followed suit, with burn wounds across his body.

The Xiongnu faltered. Their once unstoppable momentum had shattered. Behind them, commanders screamed for order. But the gorge, now full of smoke, fire, and corpses, had become a tomb of both Xiongnu and Xianbei’s warriors.

From atop the wall, Kuitou raised his sword.

”NOW!”

The Xianbei launched a counterattack.

Fresh reserves poured from the fortress, slamming into the disoriented remnants of the Xiongnu front line. Their cries echoed across the gorge, vengeful and desperate.

The Xiongnu began to retreat. Then the retreat turned into a rout. They fled the gorge, back into the open plains, where no fire waited, only silence, and the biting wind of defeat.

Kuitou stood with his men on the bloodied ramparts. The ground was black with ash. The dead lay stacked like broken shields.

Beside him, Jirgal collapsed to his knees, overwhelmed.

”It worked,” the boy whispered.

Kuitou placed a hand on his shoulder. ”You gave us this chance, Jirgal. Remember that.”

He looked down into the valley, at the shattered remains of Xiongnu’s army.

”This victory,” he said softly, ”belongs to all who fought and died for our people alongside our ancestors.”

Smoke still drifted from the gorge like the breath of a wounded beast, dark plumes twisting into the sky, heralding death to all who looked upon it. The Xiongnu had been driven back, their pride shattered, their warriors broken. What was meant to be a swift and brutal conquest had turned into a nightmare of fire and blood.

Several kilometers away, the remnants of the once-proud army limped into a makeshift camp, if it could even be called that. There were no proper tents, no organized formation, only scattered warriors, horses, and a sea of bandages, groans, and despair.

Batu sat half reclined on a padded mat of wool and furs, stripped to the waist, his body blistered from the oil and fire that had nearly claimed his life. His right arm had been burned from shoulder to elbow, and though he tried to sit up like a warrior, the pain lanced through him like a red hot spear.

Zolgar, on the other hand, fared no better. One eye was swollen shut, and a burn stretched across the side of his neck like an angry brand. His breathing was ragged. The healer, an old woman named Qagan, hovered over him, muttering incantations as she smeared a pungent salve made from goat fat, crushed herbs, and snowmelt ash.

Batu gritted his teeth, his voice hoarse. ”Enough. Just tell us.”

Their most trusted chieftains stood in front of them, some avoiding their eyes, others grim faced with folded arms. None dared to speak first.

It was Bayan, a hawk nosed chieftain, grizzled veteran of a hundred raids, who finally did.

”We lost 30,000 warriors, my khans.”

The words fell like a stone into still water.

”Thirty...?” Zolgar rasped, voice brittle.

”Another 35,000 wounded,” Bayan continued, not hiding the shame. ”Some will recover. But many will not.”

Another chieftain stepped forward, Yulug, who had led the center line and had miraculously escaped with only a gash across his cheek. ”We’ve also lost 28,000 horses, my khans. Most burned or crushed in the gorge. And 35,000 weapons consist of blades, bows, even the quivers and spear shafts.”

Batu’s hand clenched, knuckles white. Not from the pain, but the helplessness.

More or less 50,000 men or a bit more. More than a quarter of their number. Gone. And for what? A single battle. A single gorge.

”We underestimated them,” Zolgar muttered, his unburned hand dragging over his mouth. ”Those tactics... they were using Han tactics.”

Batu nodded slowly. ”Multi layered defense, calculated retreats, terrain control... They burned their own lines to create smokescreens. Collapsed their own walls to lure us in.”

He spat to the side, the gesture more bitter than dismissive.

”I thought the Xianbei were proud steppe warriors. Nomads like us. But they’ve adopted the Han way of war.”

”And in doing so,” Bayan muttered, ”they’ve become twice as dangerous.”

Silence settled over the tent. The flames outside crackled faintly. Somewhere in the distance, a wounded horse shrieked before being silenced by a blade.

”What of the others?” Batu finally asked. ”The other chieftains. What are they saying?”

That drew discomfort. Glances were exchanged. Feet shuffled.

”They’re... restless my khans,” Yulug finally said. ”Some have lost faith. They say perhaps the gods no longer favor us. That you, Batu, and you, Zolgar, have become... mortal. Just like Tugeh Khagan before when both of you overthrew and defeat him.”

Zolgar gave a hollow laugh that ended in a coughing fit. ”We were always mortal, fools. It’s their belief in invincibility that was the illusion.”

But he knew what Yulug meant. Prestige. Authority. Power. These were not just born of blood or name. They were earned on the battlefield and could be lost just as quickly.

And this loss, so sudden and so total, had cracked the foundation beneath their thrones.

”They want to replace us,” Batu said coldly.

”Yes,” Bayan confirmed. ”Not openly, not yet. But ambitions that were once buried beneath fear have now begun to stir.”

Zolgar exhaled sharply, voice low and bitter. ”Like vultures. Circling already.”

They all knew the truth. In the steppe, strength was everything. Victory commanded loyalty. Defeat, especially one of this scale, bred opportunism.

Meanwhile, far to the south in Luoyang, Cao Cao’d capital buzzed with news.

Inside the grand hall of the his estate, Guo Jia knelt by a carved wooden map, small figurines representing armies arrayed across the north. Xi Zhicai stood near the tall windows, arms folded as he read the latest report written in coded script from the northwestern frontier.

Cao Cao stood in silence, his eyes reading the message twice. Then a third time.

”The Xiongnu lost... this badly?” he said at last.

”Yes, my lord,” Guo Jia said, glancing up from the map. ”The Dual Khans led the charge themselves and were repelled with fire and oil. Their casualties are staggering.”

”They were overconfident,” Xi Zhicai added. ”They thought the Xianbei would break at the first push. But the Xianbei fought like men possessed and with tactics reminiscent of our own border generals.”

Cao Cao set the report down. His brow furrowed, lips tight. ”So the Xianbei have learned from us.”

”Perhaps they have advisors,” Guo Jia said. ”Captured officers, or even former Han renegades who fled north. There were rumors after the Yellow Turban chaos.”

Cao Cao turned to face them fully. ”And what of the Xiongnu now?”

Xi Zhicai answered, ”Batu and Zolgar have retreated. Their prestige is in question. Some chieftains grow bold. The structure of their command may fracture.”

Guo Jia gave a faint smile. ”A wounded beast is still dangerous, but easier to tame.”

Cao Cao said nothing for a long moment.

”I had hoped,” he finally muttered, ”for a moderate victory. That the Xiongnu would crush the Xianbei quickly with moderate losses, giving me the justification to sweep north and absorb both into my dominion. But this...”

”This complicates your matters, my lord.” Xi Zhicai finished.

”A bloody defeat on their first battle,” Guo Jia mused, ”could either humble them or drive them into chaos.”

Cao Cao’s gaze sharpened. ”We must be ready for both.”

Back near the northern steppes, night had fully fallen over the Xiongnu encampment. The fires burned low, casting long shadows against the half frozen earth.

Batu sat beneath a canopy of stitched hides, watching the stars beyond the tent’s opening. His mind was ablaze with a thousand thoughts. He could feel the undercurrent of resentment growing around him like smoke before a storm.

Zolgar limped into view, draped in furs. His face looked like a broken mask, but his eyes still burned with fire.

”We need to strike again,” Zolgar said, settling beside him. ”Soon. Before the doubt festers.”

Batu didn’t answer immediately. His fingers traced the scar tissue on his arm. He knew Zolgar was right. In the steppe, power was reclaimed with blood. But they couldn’t afford another mistake.

”We need information,” Batu said. ”And allies who still believe in us. And we need to learn from this failure.”

Zolgar scoffed. ”Learn from the Han? From the Xianbei?”

”From anyone,” Batu growled. ”If it means victory, to hold the position and power we have earned, after taking down that fool Tugeh Khagan.”

Zolgar studied his ally and fellow Khan. ”You’ve changed, Batu. I remember you don’t like to use the Han tactics, even if Cao Cao’s spies ha suggested it to us.”

”Thats true before, but they have also changed the Xianbei,” Batu whispered, eyes drifting toward the horizon. ”If we don’t adapt, we’ll be nothing but a memory soon and Cao Cao will replace us..”

In the days that followed, Batu and Zolgar began reorganizing what remained of their army. Scouts were dispatched to monitor the Xianbei’s next movements.

Messengers were sent to loyal chieftains, promising spoils and vengeance. But whispers of rebellion had already begun.In hidden circles around the campfires, ambitious chieftains and wartiors muttered about leadership, about the old ways, about how the khans had failed to honor the ancestors with this disgrace.

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Name: Lie Fan

Title: Overlord Of The Central Plains

Age: 33 (200 AD)

Level: 16

Next Level: 462,000

Renown: 1325

Cultivation: Yin Yang Separation (level 9)

SP: 1,121,700

ATTRIBUTE POINTS

STR: 951 (+20)

VIT: 613 (+20)

AGI: 598 (+10)

INT: 617

CHR: 96

WIS: 519

WILL: 407

ATR Points: 0