Reborn In The Three Kingdoms

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The words landed like thunder in Emperor Xian’s skull. Fa Zheng didn’t linger. He didn’t wait for rebuttal. He didn’t watch the emperor unravel. He simply turned on his heel. Zhang Song and Meng Da moved in tandem beside him, their robes swaying in perfect synchrony as though the three of them were the gears of a single, well oiled machine.

They walked toward the doors without once looking back at the man they were leaving behind.

Emperor Xian stood there, trembling, his breath uneven.

When the massive doors closed behind the trio with a hollow, final boom, something inside him cracked.

The sound echoed across the empty hall.

He staggered back, knees weakening beneath him, and collapsed onto his throne.

For a long moment, he could only sit there — eyes wide, chest heaving, fingers trembling uncontrollably.

Then, from somewhere deep inside, a laugh tore its way out.

A broken sound.

A strangled sound.

A laugh warped by despair, bitterness, and humiliation.

It spilled from his lips uncontrollably.

Because in that moment, Emperor Xian realized he might truly be losing his mind.

The names of Wu Yi and Wang Fu — the men currently out gathering supporters to overthrow Fa Zheng, Zhang Song, and Meng Da — flickered briefly through his thoughts.

But only briefly.

Because what was the point?

They were loyal, brave, righteous — but powerless.

And powerless loyalty had never saved him before.

Dong Zhuo had controlled him.

Cao Cao had controlled him.

And now these three — Fa Zheng, Zhang Song, Meng Da — had become even more despicable in his eyes than all who came before.

History, he thought in a haze, would mark this day.

This moment.

This humiliation — the beginning of the end.

The start of the downfall of the Eastern Han.

The start of his downfall.

His laugh slowly died into quiet gasps.

He leaned forward, head hanging, palms pressed against his eyes.

He was alone.

Completely, utterly alone.

And the future that awaited him was already written — not by his hand.

But by theirs.

Evening fell.

The palace banquet hall glowed with lanterns that cast warm, deceptive light across the polished floors and decorated walls. The air smelled of incense and sweet wine, yet beneath it was a tension so sharp it could slice through silk.

Emperor Xian sat at the highest seat of the banquet table.

But he looked... aged.

Not by years.

But by grief.

By shock.

By humiliation that struck deeper than any sword.

His face was pale, his eyes hollow, and the corners of his mouth drooped like a man twice his age. The courtiers glanced at him from time to time, each startled by how drastically he had changed in just a handful of hours.

Everyone whispered the same thought:

Something happened behind closed doors.

Something terrible.

And the culprits — though no one would dare say the names aloud — were obvious.

Fa Zheng sat at a position of honor, his posture elegant as always, his expression composed. Zhang Song sat to his right, Meng Da to his left, forming a quiet triad of political control.

They acted as though nothing was amiss.

But every official in the room sensed it:

These three men now held the empire in their palms.

Zhuge Liang and Lu Xun, as the guests of honor from Hengyuan, were seated prominently as well. They had not spoken much since arriving, but they observed everything carefully.

Lu Xun’s eyes, sharp and perceptive as ever, moved from Emperor Xian to the three Sichuan officials.

He leaned slightly toward Zhuge Liang and murmured, barely above a whisper:

”Brother Kongming... those three — Fa Zheng, Zhang Song, and Meng Da — they are truly devious. Their aura alone chills the room. Look at His Majesty. Look how he trembles, how drained he appears.” He paused, brows knitting. ”Tell me, can men like these be trusted?”

Zhuge Liang lifted his teacup with a calm hand.

He took a slow sip, allowing the fragrance to settle before answering.

Then, in the same quiet tone, he replied:

”Boyan... do not worry.”

That alone made Lu Xun blink.

But Zhuge Liang continued, eyes half-lidded, voice as steady as flowing water:

”They can be trusted.”

Lu Xun’s brows furrowed deeper.

Zhuge Liang went on.

”Everything they do, everything they have achieved, all the influence they hold... exists only because His Majesty permitted it.”

Lu Xun inhaled slightly.

Zhuge Liang’s voice remained unshaken:

”They did not rise on their own. His Majesty extended his hand to support them, guiding their ascent step by step.”

He set the teacup down gently.

”They toppled the previous factions who strangled power after Liu Yan’s death. They established their dominance over Liu Zhang’s court on His Majesty’s behalf. Even their decision to rescue Emperor Xian and the imperial family from Luoyang — that, too, was done with His Majesty’s approval.”

Lu Xun’s eyes widened slightly.

Zhuge Liang added, his tone soft but firm:

”And let us not forget... throughout their rise, the Oriole Agents of His Majesty supported them silently from the shadows.”

Lu Xun drew a slow breath, his eyes widened slightly.

The Oriole Agents, the secret, elite network answering only to the emperor himself, were known only in whispers, a shadow force moving beneath the surface of the land for Hengyuang. They were feared. Respected. Hidden. And most importantly, not many knew of their presence.

And they served Emperor Hongyi, Lie Fan, alone.

Zhuge Liang concluded, voice barely above a hum.

”Those men may be sharp. They may be frightening. They may move with ambition and serpentine cunning. But they are dangerous only because His Majesty wished for them to be dangerous.”

He picked up his teacup again.

”And they remain loyal because His Majesty ensured they would be.”

Lu Xun said nothing for a moment.

He let Zhuge Liang’s words sink in, letting the truth settle beneath his ribs.

Then his shoulders relaxed, though only slightly.

The night winds rolled down from the mountains like a slow exhale, cold enough to bite through armor and send shivers along the backs of even seasoned veterans. To the northeast of Chengdu, beyond the lantern lit walls and the calm elegance of the banquet hall, another world existed entirely, a world drowned in blood, fire, and iron.

Hongnong.

A city that should have fallen weeks ago.

A city that refused.

The siege had turned the land surrounding it into something unrecognizable. Once green fields were now trampled into mud thick with footprints and horse tracks. Broken arrows stuck from the dirt like thorns. Dried blood turned the earth black. Smoke curled up from dying campfires, mingling with the mist rolling down from the hills.

And above it all, Hongnong towered like a wounded beast, scorched in places, battered in others, but still standing. Still defiant.

The day’s assault had ended only recently. The clang of weapons had faded. The shouts of soldiers once roaring like thunder had dissolved into exhausted murmurs. In the Hengyuan camps, torches burned low, the orange glow dancing across tents and weary faces as the army finally pulled back into formation.

Sima Yi watched the retreat in silence.

Night always brought him clarity.

His cloak fluttered behind him as the cold wind brushed past, but his expression remained unreadable. Calculating. Sharp. His eyes followed his soldiers’ movements, analyzing every pace, every stumble, every sign of fatigue.

When the last formation withdrew from range of Wei’s archers, he turned and made his way toward the largest command tent, the one marked with Hengyuan’s imperial banner.

Inside, a long table dominated the space, lit by several oil lamps whose flames flickered restlessly. A detailed wooden map of Hongnong lay across the surface, filled with figurines representing troops, siege towers, supply lines, and artillery positions. The map was a battlefield in miniature.

Zang Hong and Chen Deng were already inside, their postures stiff with tension as they leaned over the map.

Chen Deng was the first to speak.

His fingers, long, deft, calloused from years of handling scrolls and swords, hovered over a small wooden figurine shaped like a soldier. He pushed it forward slightly, then stopped, frown deepening as if even the figurine resisted his intentions.

”It’s been more than a month,” he muttered, voice thick with equal parts frustration and grudging respect. ”More than a month of nonstop siege... and Hongnong still stands.”

His eyes drifted toward the tent flap where faint sounds of distant marching could still be heard.

”If it weren’t for His Majesty’s foresight, the stockpiling of supplies, the logistical chains, the ration management, our soldiers would have starved by now. We would’ve been forced to withdraw long before this.”

Zang Hong exhaled heavily, arms crossed.

He nodded. ”That’s true. Without His Majesty’s preparations, our siege lines would’ve collapsed weeks ago.” Then his brows pinched together. ”And now I understand... more clearly than ever... why His Majesty chose to attack Cao Cao last.”

Sima Yi entered at that precise moment, his steps quiet but his presence immediately felt. His gaze moved between the two men.

”You are both correct,” Sima Yi said, brushing dust from his sleeves before joining them at the table. ”But His Majesty’s reasoning goes deeper than simple acknowledgment of Cao Cao’s capability.”

Chen Deng turned fully toward him.

”Then why, Master Sima?” he asked. ”Why leave Cao Cao for last?”

Sima Yi reached out, picked up a figurine representing Cao Cao’s command unit, and rolled it between his fingers.

”Because Cao Cao,” he began slowly, ”is the most normal of all the warlords His Majesty faced.”

The figurine clicked softly against the table as he set it down.

Chen Deng blinked. ”Normal?”

Zang Hong frowned. ”How?”

Sima Yi lifted another figurine, one painted slightly different, representing one of the more eccentric warlords of the past and compared the two.

”Cao Cao,” he said, ”has no unpredictable eccentricities. He has no delusions of divine favor or divine identity. He does not chase omens or attempt to rewrite heaven. He has no strange obsessions, no self destructive ambitions disguised as righteousness.”

He paused.

”He is pragmatic. Clear minded. Ambitious in a way that is honest rather than feverish.”

The oil lamps flickered, casting long shadows across Sima Yi’s features as he spoke.

”And because of that clarity, such a man was always destined to defeat many warlords before we ever reached him.”

Chen Deng’s expression shifted, realization dawning slowly like sunrise.

Sima Yi continued.

”His Majesty knew this. He knew he did not have the time or the geographical advantage to crush every petty warlord during the earlier years. So he let Cao Cao do what he does best.” He tapped the figurine lightly. ”Sweep away the trash.”

Zang Hong’s eyes widened a fraction. Chen Deng’s breath caught. A sharp silence settled over the tent. Because the meaning was undeniable. Their emperor, Lie Fan, had planned for this even in his youth. Sima Yi placed both figurines down and leaned slightly over the table. ”Cao Cao,” he murmured, ”was the whetstone upon which His Majesty sharpened his blade.”

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Name: Lie Fan

Title: Founding Emperor Of Hengyuan Dynasty

Age: 35 (202 AD)

Level: 16

Next Level: 462,000

Renown: 2325

Cultivation: Yin Yang Separation (level 9)

SP: 1,121,700

ATTRIBUTE POINTS

STR: 966 (+20)

VIT: 623 (+20)

AGI: 623 (+10)

INT: 667

CHR: 98

WIS: 549

WILL: 432

ATR Points: 0