Making a Name (3)
For several days after that, Liu Bei's volunteer army marched in lockstep with Zou Jing's regular government troops. In truth, the Yellow Turbans plaguing this region of You Province were already on the ropes. With the main force under Grand Administrator Zhang Jiao broken and leaders like Cheng Yuanzi slain or scattered, the remnants had lost their cause. They had devolved into mere bandits and brigands, scrabbling to survive.
The problem was that instead of banding together for pitched battles, they splintered into small packs, launching relentless raids on peaceful villages. They stripped away grain, livestock, and even women with ruthless abandon. Lacking the strength to assault walled cities or official outposts, they fixated on the weak and undefended hamlets, gnawing at them endlessly. To the government troops, these vicious stragglers were far trickier to eradicate than any organized army.
That might explain why, in granting Liu Bei a minor official post, they had ordered him to join Zou Jing in mopping up these Yellow Turban remnants.
The first sweep against the stragglers unfolded in the hilly terrain near a small settlement north of Tak County. Before the cold morning dew and mist had even lifted, Zou Jing's cavalry vanguard and Liu Bei's volunteers split silently into two prongs, encircling the sleeping enemy camp in a crescent formation.
The foes were a ragtag mob of ill-equipped conscripts, numbering in the hundreds. But they knew the land intimately and were seasoned at evasion. Any slack in the encirclement, and they could slip into the dawn fog, vanishing deep into the mountains without a trace.
Liu Bei scanned the terrain with a hawk's eye and swiftly laid out a sharp plan. "The shallow hills to the south have a gap in the defensive line. When they panic under our assault, instinct will drive them straight for that open escape route. Captain Zou, if your main force presses hard from the front to hold their attention, Guan Yu and Yide can lie in ambush on the left and right flanks, tightening the noose. I'll seal the rear and cut off their retreat completely."
Zou Jing kept his composure, but inwardly he marveled. For a mere rural volunteer captain, Liu Bei's battlefield awareness was uncannily calm, his judgment lightning-quick. And without any formal training in the classics of war, no less. It was innate military genius. No wonder so many stalwart men and heroes flocked to his banner.
"Very well. I'll trust your insight and proceed as you say."
As the gongs sounded and the ambush erupted, Guan Yu thundered across the left flank on a steed rivaling Red Hare, sweeping through like a gale. His Green Dragon Crescent Blade flashed in the half-light of dawn, carving the air with each swing. Enemy heads—wrapped in their yellow scarves—flew like harvested wheat stalks amid screams.
On the opposite right flank, Minju—no, Zhang Fei—clenched his teeth and lashed out furiously with his Zhangba Snake Spear. "Urraaah—!"
Surprisingly, unlike the first battle, the tremor in his hands was far less pronounced this time. The chill bite of the spear tip still tore through flesh and bone, spraying blood and churning guts in a nauseating rush up his throat. But he had crossed that threshold once already.
I'm starting to adapt to this body. I can feel it.
The moment a Yellow Turban entered striking range, Minju's will took a backseat. Zhang Fei's massive forearm whipped like a lash, his trunk-like torso twisted like a spring, and the serpentine spearhead plunged with precise, merciless cruelty into throats, chests, and flanks. Thud! Squish! The spear's impacts—ripping meat, splintering bone—rang out in staccato bursts.
Drenched in gore, Minju exhaled deeply and calmly assessed his surroundings. "Don't charge headlong into their center! The situation favors us—stay steady, methodically crush them step by step! Understood?"
"Yes, General!"
With Zhang Fei's fiery temper replaced by cool resolve, Liu Bei and Guan Yu couldn't recall a time when their brother had felt quite so reliable.
That day, over a hundred Yellow Turbans were shredded in the flawless encirclement by the brothers' blade dance. The rest, bereft of fight, dropped their arms and scattered. Most of the sloppy escapees were rounded up by government cavalry scouts holding the passes.
After the blood-soaked clash ended, they rescued terrified children huddled and sobbing in the corner of a half-burned granary, and village women bound hand and foot, bloodied from their ordeals.
The soldiers' fury boiled over at the horrific sight, veins bulging as they ground their teeth. "These beasts worse than animals! What the hell did you do to innocent folk?!"
Minju silently gazed at those he had saved. At first, taking lives had filled him with revulsion. But now, he had saved lives too.
Right. No more hesitation.
He clenched his fist without realizing it.
Afterward, the group pressed on relentlessly through You Province toward Banyang and Guangyang, smashing Yellow Turban dens large and small. In one place, they saved a relay station moments from the torch, preserving the communication lines. In another, they recaptured dozens of carts laden with grain and winter clothes seized by the enemy.
Each bloody skirmish ended with Liu Bei dismounting first to clasp the hands of starving villagers, reassuring them. He strove to return looted spoils to the people, even under the watchful eyes of the government troops—whatever he could.
Even the stern warrior Zou Jing, observing from the side, saw that Liu Bei was no mere sword arm. He instinctively knew the ways of a king: soothing wounded hearts, gathering scattered loyalties.
And at the side of this exemplary lord stood two invincible blades to guard him. One was Guan Yu, cold and mountain-heavy, severing enemy breath with grim finality. The other was Zhang Fei, a raging pillar of fire, rampaging across the field with overwhelming ferocity.
Especially Zhang Fei's fame—it spread like wildfire as the campaign dragged on, exaggerated into myth by soldiers and villagers alike. In one village, they whispered how his leopard head had roared like a lion, dropping a dozen Yellow Turbans vomiting blood, spears unfired. At another tavern, a single swing of his Zhangba Snake Spear like a black dragon cleaved two horses and three armored men in half at the waist. Every tall tale clung to him like the legends of Xiang Yu reborn.
Minju, hearing such absurd rumors in his tent, flushed with embarrassment, his face hardening. But the troops embraced the hyperbole as gospel. In chaotic times, a fierce warlord's reputation was the army's might—and the finest terror for foes.
By the time peace settled over You Province, a few days later Zou Jing quietly summoned Liu Bei to his main camp. Guan Yu and Minju, his shadows, followed naturally.
"Word has finally come from the Luoyang court." Smiling faintly, Zou Jing handed Liu Bei a brief decree stamped with an official seal.
It formally appointed the three brothers' suppression merits with the lowly post of County Lieutenant of Anxi County—a rural backwater sinecure with scant power. Yet its symbolism was immense. The emperor's court had acknowledged this mat-seller named Liu Bei, folding him into the regime.
Liu Bei cradled the light bamboo slip in both hands, throat tight, speechless for a long moment.
Minju glanced sideways at his face. It wasn't mere joy at a post. Pride in elevating his house swelled with the heavy burden of duty to the people, tangled with a deep-seated imperial longing he'd buried as a descendant of royalty—a fierce homesickness for the empire's revival.
"...Brother."
Guan Yu murmured low in congratulations. Liu Bei slowly raised his head, eyes misty, smiling softly. "Yes, brothers. This is just the first step—a tiny beginning."
The words were a vow to his siblings, and a pledge to leash his own surging ambition.
As the Yellow Turbans' red-and-yellow flames flickered out across the provinces, the realm seemed to sigh in relief, reclaiming a fragile peace from the endless war. But it was a false calm—like a thin snowflake perched precariously on rotting bark. The surface looked serene, intact. Yet the empire's rotten core festered beyond repair.
Minju first sensed the tide of that vast era shift one evening, at a rundown relay station during their journey to the new post. It came from travelers' gossip.
"Hey, heard the news? Things in Luoyang are getting ugly."
"The in-laws and eunuchs are slaughtering each other—the court's a bloodbath."
Minju tilted his teacup, murmuring to himself. "It's about time 'that name' starts cropping up..."
"That name?"
No sooner had Liu Bei spoken than the nearby chatter continued.
"And that's not all. Word is some terrifying warlord from the west, Dong Zhuo, is marching beastly cavalry right up to Luoyang's gates, aiming to seize the capital."
The man who would herald the true Age of Chaos. Dong Zhuo's name had finally begun slipping from people's lips.