Famous Thugs of Zhuo Xian
"Hey!! You lanky bastard with the sword!!"
The shout made him whip his head around immediately. Three obvious lowlifes were cackling and beckoning him over.
Yep, classic late Han apocalypse. Strolling around looking like easy prey had drawn them right in.
"What's with the sword on your hip? Struttin' around like hot shit, huh? You wanna die?"
"You any good with that thing? Ever actually cut a man?"
They laughed as they closed in. A tall, skinny one. A short, fat one. And a balanced third. Like some arcade game's three stooges. The front guy looked like the speedster, middle was the tank, and the last was all-rounder. In the end, balanced characters were just cheats.
I can take these clowns. The protagonist might be cannon fodder against Yellow Turban soldiers, but street punks like these? No problem.
Of course, gotta play it smart. Unlike regular games, even trash mobs here knew slashes, thrusts, grapples. And they had decent toughness. The author must've been really into Soulslikes. Tough games are fun games, right?
"Yo. Hand over that sword... and everything else you got. Got it?"
"Defy this great elder of Zhuo Xian, and you'll regret it."
Classic thug zoning—they'd pinned him down so he couldn't bolt.
"....."
Sensing a knife fight brewing, the bystanders scattered. Smart move. Run fast in situations like this.
"Quit yappin' and come at me."
He fired back cool and collected. Trading insults just made you look weaker.
"Oho, still frontin' to the end?"
"Uhahat! This guy's the type to pose even if he fell in the river!"
They bellowed with laughter, but tension lingered in their eyes. Wait, they weren't backing down? Did that mean a real fight? They looked like they were weighing their shitty options.
They doubled down on threats instead.
"Aw, killin' folks ruins my appetite...."
Nonstop trash talkers.
"Hey, quit gawkin'! Scram!"
One barked at innocent passersby. That was their fatal mistake. Talking instead of acting handed him first strike.
"Kkkiyaaaak!!!!"
He roared, drew his sword, and charged.
"Head!!!!"
Channeling the kendo tournament defeat from his childhood, he unleashed a clean overhead chop. Straight for the forehead—a simple skull-splitter. Brutal. Deadly. The kind that pricked a modern man's conscience. That so-called triangle of guilt, spinning endlessly, jabbing remorse with its edges every rotation. Murder would hit one of those points hard... or so he thought.
But peering into his clear mind, he saw his own triangle of guilt. It was a perfect circle, spinning smoothly. Practically a sphere. His conscience was worn smooth. No hesitation here. Gotta protect himself in this apocalypse world. No regrets.
"Wha—"
The lead punk's smug face froze mid-taunt.
Thwack!!
Dull blade or not, a metal lump to the skull did real damage. Skin split on his forehead, bone crunching beneath.
"Guhek!!"
Half his dome caved; the fatty toppled.
"W-wait...."
The others fumbled for crude daggers, caught off-guard.
Idiots. Like he'd give them time to regroup.
"Haaap!!!"
He yanked the sword free from the shallow forehead wound and swung sideways.
Splurt!!
Lucky hit—it sliced clean toward the skinny one's neck.
"Purgheuk!!"
Half-decapitated, the lanky one clutched his throat and crumpled. The blood spray said zero HP. Combat ineffective.
"W-wait! Big bro!! Mercy!!"
The last one groveled instantly, sensing the gap. But these were prime XP farms. No mercy planned.
"Ugaaak!!"
Sword out, he swung at the final punk. First kill ever... felt like nothing!!
"Please!! PLEEEASE!!"
The guy bolted, realizing talk was pointless. Back turned? Easiest target. One stab to the spine dropped him.
"Hoo...."
Whooping in victory would've ruined the vibe. Better to play it stoic. Clunk. Sheathed the sword, steadied his breath, hid shaking hands. Cool under pressure.
With the mess cleared, folks trickled back to the market. No freakout over a few dead bodies.
These people... death's routine here. Peak apocalypse realism. What kinda lives did late Han folks live?
Post-kill ritual: check status window. The game-like interface lit up with gains.
[Strength] ↑
[Agility] ↑
[Vitality] ↑
Melee combat stats slightly increased.
Old-school game vibes. Stats ticked up from relevant actions. Max 100, but he'd barely scraped 30s through the entire Yellow Turban chaos. That pathetic growth tanked the game's rep. Devs hyped diverse builds... but players never reached endgame. Smoke.
Opened the skills tab next to stats. Classic retro system—separate stat and skill proficiency. Stinky design.
[Swordsmanship] ↑
Sword victory—slight proficiency gain.
Combat damage? Messy calc from stats and skills.
Grim. All at 1. Grinding from zero sounded brutal.
Anyway, errands first. He'd hole up in Zhuo Xian awhile. Prove his worth to Zhang Shiping with ass-kissing diligence.
Steady steps forward with that resolve.
Then—
"Who's causin' a ruckus with the town sheriff right here?! Tch."
A booming, vulgar voice like shattering pottery. Pure meathead timbre, phlegm-clogged throat holding a liter.
Turning, a massive musclebound giant bow-legged his way over. Identity clear from the rat-whisker mustache.
Zhang Fei...! Named NPC, stupidly strong general.
"Yide. No intimidatin' folks. We're vigilantes now, not thugs. Cut the riffraff act."
Beside him, a smaller but solid-framed big-eared man approached. Plain, rugged face with odd charm. And those ears—huge lobes dominating his profile.
Liu Bei...! Zhuo Xian's other named. Fake cult leader, mat boss. Recruited ghosts if you hit fame or stats thresholds. Ignored scrubs otherwise. Picky personality.
"What? You the troublemaker? Hey!! You!! Spill it!"
Zhang Fei puffed his pecs, bellowing. Up close, even scarier. No wonder Cao Cao's troops froze against Leopard Battalion. Spear-twirling gorilla blocking the road? No thanks. Was Yanzhou royalty mixed with gorilla blood?
"No, sir! These punks picked a fight, and this hero chopped 'em down! I saw it clear!"
A nosy commoner chimed in with eyewitness flair.
"Ah, is that so."
Liu Bei's eyes widened, appraising him top to bottom. Usable or not?
"They've been stirrin' trouble lately. Meant to round 'em up for a lesson... pity."
Liu Bei chuckled warmly.
Damn, game model spot-on. Shady vibe, but the laugh disarmed suspicion.
"My apologies for the disturbance."
Best play polite. Liu Bei's crew ran Zhuo Xian. Game painted him mafia don—eyes and ears everywhere. Boost affinity, boost local rep. Locals consulted him over officials. Basically the magistrate without the title.
"We'll handle these. Even scum deserve funerals. Heh."
Liu Bei grinned.
"Then I'll be off—got business...."
Yeah, Zhang Shiping's booze run.
"No, can't have a hero sour on Zhuo Xian. As town sheriff, y'know. Heh."
Liu Bei flashed a folksy smile, grabbing his collar. Town sheriff? Like that crazy uncle from his old neighborhood. Trauma flashback.
"My rudeness aside, let me show you Zhuo Xian's charms. What say you?"
Liu Bei beamed, grip firm.
"Uhahat! You swing a blade decent—wanna sweat it out man-to-man with me?"
Zhang Fei slung an arm around him like old pals. Shit. Busted. He swallowed hard, plotting escape. True to the game's Romance of the Three Kingdoms fidelity, Liu Bei's faction was a life-drainer once hooked. Middle Kingdom's Suicide Squad. Hanging with them? Bad for health.
But Liu Bei was reaching out. First real brush with death post-isekai. The plague named Liu Bei began tightening around his neck.