The "negotiation" had never been a negotiation at all.
It was theater.
Every decision—troop movements, territorial claims, lines of advance—had already been settled long before ink touched paper. What remained was merely the ritual… a performance to preserve appearances.
And at the center of it all was ambition.
The first act was self-promotion.
No one said it outright, of course. That would be too crude. Instead, they cloaked it in righteous language—acting in the empire's interest, temporary necessity, expedience.
So the titles came.
Not true ranks—no one dared overstep that far—but something close enough to taste power without openly grasping it.
"Acting General."
"Acting" or "Leading"—empty words meant to disguise hunger.
Bao Xin named Cao Cao the Acting General of Martial Might. Cao Cao returned the favor, granting Bao Xin the title of Acting General Who Breaks the Barbarians. Kong Zhou became Acting General of Establishing Might.
One by one, they crowned each other with hollow honors.
Then came the second wave.
If the masters rose, how could their followers remain nameless?
Deputy Generals. Auxiliary Generals. Miscellaneous titles handed out like scraps from a feast. Bao Tao, Wei Zi, and countless others were elevated—not for merit, but for loyalty.
Power, divided and consumed in advance.
Finally, they turned to Yuan Shu.
A petition was drafted, signed, sealed—he would be Colonel Director of Retainers, Inspector of Sili. A legitimate title. A justification.
Now they could march on Luoyang with righteousness on their lips.
The tent erupted into forced laughter and louder voices. "General this." "General that." Flattery flowed thicker than wine, each man feeding the other's illusion.
Only one man remained apart.
Zhang Xin.
A true General of the Han, recognized and appointed—he had no need for these childish games. He watched silently, his expression calm, but inside…
He scoffed.
So little power… and already they lose themselves.
If this was all it took to intoxicate them, then this alliance was already doomed.
Where there was laughter, there was also bitterness.
At the center seat, Yuan Shao sat rigid, his face shadowed.
Something was wrong.
He had been promised the title of General of Chariots and Cavalry.
So why… had he been reduced to Acting General of Martial Might?
The answer lingered in the air, unspoken, suffocating.
Before the tension could break, a soldier rushed in.
"Report! An envoy from Sun Jian of Changsha seeks an audience with General Zhang Xin!"
Before Zhang Xin could respond, Yuan Shu straightened, his voice cutting through the hall, thick with self-importance.
"Bring him in."
The envoy entered swiftly.
Zhao Yun stepped forward, received the letter, and placed it in Zhang Xin's hands.
Zhang Xin read.
Sun Jian's words were direct.
Yuan Shu had summoned him to Ruyang. Now that his army stood in Nanyang, he sought clarity—should he obey Yuan Shu's command, or march north to join Zhang Xin in Henan?
One word from Zhang Xin… and Sun Jian would move.
Yuan Shu leaned forward, unable to hide the tension beneath his forced smile.
"Well, my virtuous brother… what does Sun Wentai say?"
"Alliance Leader, see for yourself."
The letter passed hands until it reached Yuan Shu.
As he read, his grip tightened.
Sun Jian.
A blade he desperately needed… but one he feared losing.
If Zhang Xin asked for him, could he refuse?
"…What do you think?" Yuan Shu asked carefully.
Zhang Xin smiled faintly.
"Let Wentai remain in Nanyang. He will assist the Alliance Leader."
Relief crashed over Yuan Shu like a wave.
Zhang Xin's gaze, however, grew distant.
Of all these so-called lords, only a few would truly fight.
Sun Jian.
Cao Cao.
Bao Xin.
The rest?
They would posture. Delay. Protect their own interests.
In another lifetime, this entire campaign would revolve around Sun Jian alone—his victories, his blood, his losses.
Others would advance briefly… only to be crushed.
Zhang Xin had no intention of inheriting their fate.
To gather Sun Jian under his own banner might strengthen him—but it would also bind him to a single battlefield, a single front.
Predictable.
Exposed.
No.
Better to let Sun Jian remain in Nanyang—another blade pressing against Dong Zhuo's throat from afar. A second shadow. A second threat.
Flexibility was survival.
"My virtuous brother is truly righteous!" Yuan Shu laughed, his earlier anxiety forgotten.
Zhang Xin only replied, "All for the Han."
Night fell.
The alliance drowned itself in excess—slaughtered animals, overflowing wine, empty boasts.
By the time the revelry ended, Zhang Xin had already withdrawn.
In the quiet of his camp, he wrote a letter.
No witnesses.
No hesitation.
He summoned a handful of Yellow Turban veterans—men who knew how to move unseen.
"Take the hidden paths," he ordered. "Reach Luoyang."
The main roads were sealed. Dong Zhuo was not blind.
But there were always other ways.
There always were.
At dawn, the illusion shattered.
The alliance dispersed.
Zhang Xin marched north, stationing at Wild King, his gaze fixed on Mengjin.
Yuan Shao and Wang Kuang followed, reinforcing Huai County.
Han Fu retreated to Ye, feeding the war machine from afar.
Kong Zhou moved to Yingchuan, threatening Hanyuan Pass.
Yuan Shu returned to Nanyang—where Sun Jian would soon stand beside him.
Others lingered behind, circling Aocang, eyeing Xingyang and Chenggao.
Each took their place.
Each played their role.
The stage was set.
The curtain rose.
And beneath it all… the cracks had already begun to spread.
At parting, Cao Cao gripped Zhang Xin's hands, his composure breaking.
"The one who can defeat Dong Zhuo… must be you."
His voice trembled—not with weakness, but with conviction.
"Plan well. Act decisively."
Zhang Xin met his gaze and nodded.
"I will."
But before they could say more—
"Zi Qing! Zi Qing!"
Yuan Shu's voice rang out again, loud, insistent.
Zhang Xin turned.
"I'll return shortly," he said to Cao Cao.
Cao Cao released him.
Yuan Shu beckoned eagerly, a smile stretched too wide.
"What Alliance Leader? What hierarchy? In the future, we decide things together… or better yet—you lead, I assist!"
"Very well," Zhang Xin replied calmly.
Yuan Shu froze.
"…I was joking."
Zhang Xin's smile deepened, faint and unreadable.
They spoke a while longer—empty words, veiled intentions. Zhang Xin fed Yuan Shu's ego just enough to leave him satisfied… and blind.
Then he left.
Without looking back.
One by one, the warlords departed.
The alliance dissolved into distance and dust.
Soon after, Chen Lin's proclamation reached Luoyang.
Now Chief Clerk of Zhang Xin's General's Mansion, his words carried weight—and venom.
In the imperial palace, Dong Zhuo was indulging himself when the document arrived.
He read it once.
Then again.
His face drained of color.
Cold sweat poured down his back.
When he learned whose hand stood behind it—
Zhang Xin.
Rage consumed him.
The fear vanished, replaced by something darker.
"Bring Cai Yong to me."
His voice was low.
But the storm behind it…
had only just begun.