Aligning Timelines and the Spark of Rebellion
The very first thing I did after recalling my memories of my past life was to record every scrap of Three Kingdoms knowledge stored in my mind. I didn't trust my brain—it mangled the format every time I tried to retrieve the data, turning it into an unreadable mess. My hands were as spindly as bracken fronds and couldn't form proper letters, but that didn't matter. As long as I could decipher it later, it was good enough.
How many years until the Yellow Turbans rise?
But the real hurdle lay elsewhere: syncing the reign eras with the Gregorian calendar. I'd memorized every event in the Three Kingdoms using the Gregorian calendar from my previous life—the standard one there. Yellow Turban Rebellion in 184 AD, Anti-Dong Zhuo Coalition in 190 AD, Battle of Guandu in 200 AD, Battle of Red Cliffs in 208 AD. Yet my knowledge offered no way to convert those years into reign eras, no clues at all.
Of course, it wasn't odd that I didn't know the reign eras. No one but a historian bothers memorizing those inconsistently shifting labels. So until I turned nine, I had no idea how many years remained until the events I remembered.
Wait. Emperor Ling died at thirty-three, right? Isn't that 189?
I got my breakthrough on Emperor Ling's birthday when I was nine. The fleeting thought became my anchor. I overturned stacks of paper and bamboo slips, back-calculating furiously until I finally aligned my knowledge with reality. Naturally, I didn't forget to curse Emperor Ling inwardly—the man who'd festered the realm with his endless eccentricities.
"Load that onto the cart over there."
Guanghe 7th Year (184 AD), early spring. Now fifteen, I oversaw the servants packing the wagons. Normally, Father or my eldest brother Jang Chong would handle this, but both were laid low by a vicious flu, leaving them unable to travel. That put me, third in line, in charge of this trading expedition.
"Be careful not to burst the sacks."
Spilled grain from a torn sack fetched far less than intact loads. If it burst en route, cleanup was impossible—you couldn't sell contaminated mess at all.
As I inspected the loaded carts, Father's voice called from behind me.
"Why not postpone this trip? Didn't you say a massive bandit uprising was coming this year?"
"How can a merchant achieve greatness by shunning chances to make money?"
I'd known for some time that the Yellow Turbans would soon revolt. So the wagons leaving from Xu Province Langya Commandery were stuffed solely with grain, daily necessities, and coins. If the realm turned yellow with famine this spring, these would sell at a premium.
"You know how much family wealth we've burned preparing for this chaos. With bandits clogging the roads soon, we need fat profits just to stay afloat."
I'd already bribed officials with troops, hired scouts with advance pay to track Yellow Turban movements, distributed food to nearby villages to block Taiping Dao infiltration, and supplied weapons for militias. All that groundwork had eaten our assets; even if the Yellow Turbans vanished tomorrow, we'd lose a couple of family pillars. To avoid before the real chaos hit, I had to turn losses into gains—whether by charging neighboring clans for our "services" or profiting from these runs.
"You're right. As you say."
Father couldn't counter my arguments in the end.
The next day, I double-checked every wagon, mounted up, and settled easily thanks to the stirrups on either side. Father came out to see me off, bundled in layers of outer robes. His reddened nose suggested even that wasn't enough against the chill.
"Ditch the cargo if you must—just come back safe."
"I'll bring back both body and wagons intact. No need to worry."
I'd planned to jettison supplies anyway if needed, and here was Father giving me the perfect excuse.
"Then I'll be off."
Any later, and I'd miss linking with the caravan group. I signaled departure; our doubled escorts and servants for any contingencies trailed behind. My bow and arrows hung secure on the saddle, as always.
As dawn broke and shadows lifted, the common folk who'd huddled in the dark began to stir quietly. Heads wrapped in tattered yellow scarves, they rose from the blighted earth and converged on one spot. Beneath those hoods, different faces bore the same glint of hope.
Zhang Jiao, yet to ascend the platform, held his head high. The piercing blue sky stretched impossibly far overhead—so distant it seemed blind to human suffering. Beneath that vast, indifferent vault, Zhang Jiao climbed the stage, surrounded by countless Yellow Turbans.
"Hierophant!"
"Heavenly Great General!"
Ignoring the roaring cheers, Zhang Jiao gripped his scabbard and sword in both hands. Drawing it now would seal an irreversible path.
Shing.
To endure the unendurable, one needed hypocrisy—even self-deception. And the Taiping Dao Zhang Jiao had devised seemed ample for fooling the world.
After a moment's closed-eye deliberation, he drew the blade.
"The azure heaven shall perish, the yellow heaven shall rise! In the Jiazi year, the realm attains great prosperity!"
His thunderous shout, sword thrust skyward, rang clear. As Zhang Jiao brandished the blade and cried out, the myriad Yellow Turbans responded as one, their pent-up wails erupting into a earth-shaking roar. Yellow banners whipped in the wind, carrying cheers to the heavens.
The sky was blue.
No longer.
Across eight provinces, the Yellow Turbans rose simultaneously, seeking to drag down the lofty firmament. This was the moment they surged forth to overturn the poisoned land and sweep away the rotten order.
The caravan couldn't reach Luoyang and halted in Yanzhou Chenliu Commandery. Rumors swirled of fierce battles blocking the road; no one dared proceed. The fortress we hunkered in had sturdy walls the Yellow Turbans ignored, but whispers of nearby towns and villages falling kept us on edge.
"Shouldn't we head back to the clan now?"
"What about the bandit packs on the return road?"
"You want to watch our families crumble from afar?"
Stay, and we fretted over home; leave, and ambushes lurked unknown. True deadlock.
This tea's damn good.
Not my problem, though. While others fretted over finals, I'd finished and submitted mine solo.
The debate dragged on, both sides having merit—no dismissing outright.
"Let's end here for today."
Geonhyu, the loudest caravan leader, called it. Tensions had turned emotional; cool heads tomorrow.
The leaders dispersed to their lodgings. I returned to my inn.
My cramped room barely topped three pyeong, but solo, it suited. My group rented the whole ten-room place. Refugees hadn't overflowed the city yet; rates stayed affordable.
I flopped onto the bed with a long sigh.
First button secured.
Early this year, I'd chosen Jojo as my lifeline through the chaos. Other warlords took longer to unify the land, enduring harsher trials meanwhile. Unlike Yuan Shao or Sun Jian, Jojo's lifespan held no issues—he was the best available pick.
To make it work, I need that coming chance. No missing it.
My Three Kingdoms knowledge had gaps: years fuzzy to the year, places to the commandery, names decently recalled. But the imminent event? One I'd memorized precisely: time, place, people.
After the Yellow Turban outbreak, in Yuzhou Yingchuan, Cavalry Commander Jojo joins the suppression.
Linger in Yanzhou, and Yellow Turbans mass in Yuzhou Yingchuan. Then Left Commander of the Guards Huangfu Song and Cavalry Commander Jojo smash them.
Why I'd etched this event so sharply? No clue. But it mattered: a pre-Anti-Dong Zhuo shot to impress Jojo.
Offer supplies to the suppression army—they won't refuse.
Approach with grain tribute, meet Cavalry Commander Jojo. Pledge future service then; he'd accept.
We'd bought plenty en route; half as tribute would do. Less than the 3,000 seok Lu Su gave Zhou Yu, but no door-in-face.
For now, just make the impression.
I wasn't rushing to join Jojo yet. Six empty years until the Anti-Dong Zhuo Coalition. Better keep trading, build funds for raising troops.
After days of talks, the caravan split: sixty percent heading home, forty staying.
The returnees hired extra guards for Xu Province and Qing Province. We stayers bought their useful goods. Refugees swelled demand; daily necessities turned profit even at market rates.
Rents rose—we cut to eight rooms. No big deal.
"Young master. What do you think of this rebellion's outcome?"
Back at the inn after errands, my shared-room servant asked. Bored, I obliged.
"The Yellow Turbans won't succeed in toppling the dynasty."
"With that momentum nationwide, how can you say so surely?"
I nearly said I'd seen the future, then pivoted. Twisting a later adage instead:
"Cheng shi zai tian, mou shi zai ren."
Success rests with Heaven, but planning lies with men.
He looked puzzled, uncomprehending.
"Ask away if you want clarity. Have the Yellow Turbans seized Heaven, decider of outcomes?"
"The Emperor sits safe in Luoyang, so no."
"Wrong from there. With their yellow heaven mandate to right a rotten state, they've claimed it."
The Yellow Turbans' banner justified dynastic overthrow. Liu Bang's Former Han succeeded; Zhu Yuanzhang's Ming did too.
"Heaven favors them—if men plan well, victory follows. Who leads the planning?"
"Zhang Jiao, Zhang Bao, Zhang Liang."
"Right. Leaders who collude with eunuchs, eroding their cause, then lose the people's hearts to plunder—their sole pillar."
True revolution via Taiping Dao demanded distancing from corruption, upholding the banner, curbing looting to win the masses.
"But their momentum's impressive, no?"
"They rose on Taiping Dao believers. Do the Yellow Turbans embrace non-believers too?"
Had they truly sought all folk, we wouldn't be stamping our feet here.
"Ku yuan jing jie. A well with a dried source runs dry."
His questions sated, the servant fell quiet. Drained from the meeting hall, I plunged into sleep.