The Sun Sets
The sun was setting. You Province Governor… You Province Governor, huh? What the hell is that?
“What exactly does the position of You Province Governor entail?”
“Ah… yes, of course. Young people these days might not know about it. It’s been quite a long time since the post was abolished.”
From what I was told, the office of provincial governor had been gone for over a hundred years. It was eliminated in the first year of Emperor Cheng’s reign and split into the roles of Inspector and Administrator. No wonder I had no idea. It was a position that held both military command and administrative authority… In name it was an official post, but in reality it was like being a king or viceroy of a vassal state. Any ambitious man would naturally covet it.
“I’m good.”
“What?!”
“When I said I’d rather live out my days running a business in Liaodong, I wasn’t being modest. After spending a few years there, it really started to feel like home.”
In this era, distillation technology didn’t exist yet. Even the strongest liquor was barely stronger than makgeolli, and my body—far beyond the physical limits of people in this time—certainly wasn’t going to be defeated by mere turbid wine. I reeked of a horrible mix of alcohol and sweat, but my mind remained perfectly clear.
After sharing stories and drinks while thinking it over carefully, I reached one conclusion: the position of You Province Governor didn’t appeal to me at all. The land of You Province wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t some incredibly prosperous paradise either. Being closer to Luoyang would only increase the risk of inspectors breathing down my neck, and it was the kind of territory that made the locals drool with envy. Considering the era of great warlords that was coming, it was a poisoned chalice—too many risks of getting dragged into war while piling on endless responsibilities.
I had no grand dream of becoming one of this era’s great warlords and pacifying the chaotic world. The authority held by the emperor of this time was, in reality, less luxurious than what a 21st-century African rebel commander enjoyed. Sure, I could play with as much gold and silver as I wanted, but neither I nor Lady Jin were the type to get excited over a few shiny metal trinkets.
The crops, not yet fully improved through selective breeding, tasted awful. The meat was tough and dry. Unless I dumped massive amounts of Sichuan pepper or black pepper on everything, that gamey smell showed no signs of becoming tolerable. Women? If I were the kind of guy who lost his mind over them, I wouldn’t have survived this long in the first place. Or would I? I’m not sure.
Just loving Lady Jin was already more than enough for me. Taking three wives and four concubines like in the old stories was someone else’s business.
“T-then what position do you want?!”
“I simply wish to return to Liaodong. The achievements I earned were due to luck, and the rewards I received were far more than I deserved.”
“…”
It was an expression I’d seen occasionally. The classic what the hell is wrong with this guy? look. Well, I understood. I’d never once thought that the natives of this world could possibly understand the values of an outsider like me. That said, I had no obligation to understand them either.
“If you need a successor, you can hand over my post anytime.”
“…Very well. So be it.”
If the Inspector of Pingyuan doesn’t want it, then that’s that. What can you do if someone says no? It’s not like you’re going to pull a knife and threaten them.
---
Several more years passed.
Even after my declaration of a work stoppage, finding a proper successor proved incredibly difficult. It was only when the book I’d been writing as a hobby—like any other scholar—neared completion that my replacement for the position of Colonel of the Left Army finally arrived.
“So, you’re my successor?”
“It appears so.”
His name was Ha Mo. Seriously, the guy’s name was literally “Mo.” It reminded me of that legendary first baseman who once dominated the internet, but since I wouldn’t be seeing him for more than a few days, I decided not to think about it too deeply. Like most officials of this era, he had bought his way into the Colonel position with money. In other words, he was someone I didn’t need to pay much attention to.
After our meeting that day, the Grand General never sought me out again. I heard he found another useful “pawn” and was living quite happily.
“I’ve compiled all the essential information in the study. Since Colonel Ha will know military strategy better than I do, you’ll probably only need the basic soldier training manual.”
I had written it so that anyone who could read Chinese characters—which was the standard in this era—could understand it, so there shouldn’t be any problems. Besides, the position of Colonel of the Left Army wasn’t all that prestigious to begin with. Whether it had always been this way or not, it was essentially just a post responsible for training new recruits. It wasn’t unimportant, but if it had been truly critical, they wouldn’t have let me go on strike for an entire year. It was just one of those countless dead-end staff positions that existed in every army.
“I see… I heard you’re returning to Liaodong.”
“Yes. Others might find it strange… but I’ve grown quite fond of the land there.”
It was close to my heart’s true home, and it was a city where I could use salt as freely as I wanted. It even had iron mines nearby—enough that modern times would have turned it into a heavy industrial complex. By the standards of this era, it was a hidden goldmine that produced every usable mineral. According to the letters Lady Jin had sent, they were even attempting rice cultivation starting this year. Brave souls who had set out to explore the seas were also beginning to return one by one.
In my personal opinion, it was already a city as prosperous as Luoyang—if not more so—and it would only continue to develop further. Gongsun, the Administrator of Liaodong and my distant relative, was a man with just the right amount of patriotism. He agreed that we should enjoy this prosperity among ourselves. My father-in-law, who had retired around the time of the Yellow Turban Rebellion, wasn’t exactly overflowing with loyalty to the Han imperial family either. He had been a loyal subject once, but the times had simply gone to complete shit.
My personality from my days as a low-level clerk—lounging in a recliner with my legs stretched out—hadn’t changed one bit. My Tico Mark II… the biggest horse back in Liaodong… Damn. Ah, my original family? I don’t really know. They’ll probably manage on their own. A bastard son doesn’t need to worry about family matters. That’s what the legitimate heir is for. That’s why they get all the inheritance, right? They’ve got to earn their keep.
I heard Mother was doing well.
The handover process was expected to take a few more days. The training grounds of the Western Garden Army, which I hadn’t visited in a long time, felt deserted.
“This is the drill field… hmm?”
The sky suddenly darkened.
It was the third day of the fifth month, 189 AD.
“The sky…?”
It was only natural that Ha Mo, who had been following me around the Western Garden Army headquarters, turned his gaze upward. I, too, naturally lifted my head to look at the sky.
Just as the sowing season was ending, night had arrived in the middle of the day.
“Colonel of the Left, this doesn’t feel auspicious.”
“It’s probably just an eclipse.”
Considering it was a perfectly clear day with not a single cloud in sight, it was likely a total solar eclipse or some similar astronomical phenomenon. The superstitious primitives of this era would no doubt call it an ill omen, but it was simply one of nature’s laws.
“Colonel of the Left! Colonel of the Left!”
There was no need to make such a fuss, nor was there any reason for that anxious look in his eyes.
“What is it, General of the Central Army?”
“His Majesty has collapsed!”
…I take it back. There was a reason people believed in omens. At least in this era, there was.
---
In his own way, Gongsun Zan had been on strike, but he hadn’t truly abandoned all his duties. At the very least, he wasn’t the kind of rotten soldier who would sit idly by while the military discipline of the late Han—already a complete disaster—grew even worse. Although he had decided to quit and therefore didn’t participate directly in training, he had still written training manuals as a way to pass the time.
Naturally, those manuals had found their way to his only drinking buddies, Cao Cao and Yuan Shao, who used them as snacks with their wine. There was no way that men holding the ranks of General of the Central Army and General of the Front Army would miss a two-thousand-year-old history written in blood.
Some of the content didn’t fit this era, but the fundamental abilities demanded of soldiers hadn’t changed much between then and now. Hold your position. Obey your superiors’ orders. March when told to march, run when told to run, and fight when told to fight. Whether the tool of war was a gun or a sword made little difference—the required behavior of a soldier remained the same. Therefore, training methods from two thousand years in the future could still be applied effectively in this age.
Since both men were still classified as part of the Clean Stream faction at the time, and because his teacher Lu Zhi was one of its leading figures, Gongsun Zan was naturally perceived as a member of that group. His strike was also viewed as the behavior of a scholar disappointed in the Han imperial court who wished to retire to the countryside.
The words he had spoken to He Jin were, strictly speaking, the ancient version of NCND. They were interpreted as a stance of neither confirming nor denying. Having failed to secure the best possible hand, it was only natural that He Jin would join hands with Yuan Shao—just as he had in the original history—another member of the Clean Stream faction.
Therefore, when the ill omen appeared right at the end of the sowing season and news arrived that the emperor had collapsed, the Clean Stream faction’s first move was naturally to secure Gongsun Zan.
It might have been exaggerated, but the fact that he had broken through an army of a million and taken Zhang Jue’s head was undeniable. The number of people who had witnessed that sight was easily a million, and tens of thousands of them remained within the military.
The sky being covered did not mean the affairs of the world were hidden, and not everyone in this era was a fool. While not all members of the Clean Stream faction in this age were on bad terms with the Ten Eunuchs, every person on bad terms with the Ten Eunuchs was part of the Clean Stream faction. And the Clean Stream faction was, by nature, a group tightly bound by the spirit of “us versus them.” It was hardly strange that they would soon stand in total opposition to the Ten Eunuchs.
A faction that desired strong ministerial power could not coexist with strong imperial authority, and since the eunuch faction was considered part of the imperial power structure, this outcome was inevitable. Still, the ministerial faction had not yet grown strong enough to openly challenge the throne. Those who found themselves cornered and in the minority always preferred to rally behind a single massive icon.
If the previous icon had been Yuan Shao—the very embodiment of filial piety—then now, with everyone sensing the coming chaos, they had simply chosen Gongsun Zan as the new one. It was a story repeated countless times throughout world history.
At least, that was what everyone believed.