The world had rotted long before the war began.
For generations, the court of the Great Han had been a puppet stage for aristocratic clans. Birth decided destiny. Talent meant nothing. A man of brilliance born in mud would die in mud; a fool born in silk would sit among ministers.
This was the order of things.
And it had poisoned the empire.
Zhang Xin understood this more clearly than most. To save the realm, the rot had to be carved out—not patched, not negotiated with, but destroyed.
The Partisans. The great clans. The system itself.
All of it.
But ideals alone could not move armies. Righteousness required a banner, and power required legitimacy.
Whoever held the Son of Heaven… held the world.
Once, Liu Bian had ascended the throne under the shadow of He Jin. At that time, Zhang Xin had no chance to act. Move too early, and he would be branded a traitor, another Dong Zhuo in the making.
So he waited.
When Dong Zhuo seized the capital, Zhang Xin still did nothing. The Partisans were strong then—too strong. To strike would have been suicide.
So he endured.
Watched.
Calculated.
And now—
Now the heavens had cracked open.
Dong Zhuo had been broken. Luoyang reclaimed. The tyrant fled like a beaten dog.
The Partisans? Dead, scattered, or trembling in ruined halls. Their influence shattered by the very monster they had failed to control.
In Guandong, the so-called lords revealed their true faces. They starved their own coalition, disbanded without battle, then shamelessly tried to enthrone Liu Yu.
Not loyalty. Not justice.
Only greed.
Even Yuan Shao—once the face of noble lineage—now stood disgraced, beaten, and branded a collaborator.
As for Yuan Shu?
A corpse that had yet to fall.
Zhang Xin saw it clearly.
The moment had come.
Seize Chang'an.
Take the emperor—Emperor Xian of Han.
Command the realm in his name.
With imperial authority, he would brand his enemies as traitors, strip away their moral shields, and crush them province by province.
Qing. You. Bing. Ji.
Linked into a single, unbreakable power.
Then reform.
Then rebuild.
Then conquer.
"If Heaven gives and you do not take it," Zhang Xin murmured, eyes cold, "you deserve to lose it."
His gaze lifted.
Resolve hardened.
There would be no more waiting.
A Wuhuan rider arrived, breath steaming in the winter air.
"General Ming, Dong's reinforcements have been driven back. They've returned to the mountain."
Zhang Xin smiled faintly.
"Understood."
He turned to Yue Jin.
"Hold the prisoners."
Then he mounted.
"The rest follow me."
His destination was Bei Mang Mountain.
Because atop that mountain… was something far more valuable than territory.
A man.
Xu Rong had not slept.
For two days and nights, Zhang Xin's forces had hammered his defenses like wolves worrying a wounded beast. Every assault repelled, every moment stolen from exhaustion.
Then came the order from Dong Zhuo.
Reinforce.
Rescue.
Obey.
He obeyed.
He had no choice.
But the moment his five thousand troops descended the mountain, the world turned against him.
Cavalry.
Wuhuan riders, circling like vultures.
They did not charge.
They did not need to.
Arrows fell like cold rain. War cries echoed without end. Horses never tired, never stopped.
Xu Rong's men held formation—barely.
But they could not advance.
And standing still was death of another kind.
Then he saw it.
Fire.
To the west.
Hangu Pass was burning.
Xu Rong froze.
Then he understood.
Zhang Xin had not done this.
He didn't need to.
This was Dong Zhuo.
Burning his own retreat to deny it to others.
Which meant only one thing—
Dong Zhuo had already fled.
The rescue was meaningless.
The battle… already over.
Xu Rong closed his eyes briefly.
Then gave the order.
"Withdraw."
When he returned to Bei Mang Mountain, the truth became suffocatingly clear.
There was nowhere left to go.
North—Zhang Xin's main army.
South—cavalry that would tear them apart in open ground.
East and west—mountains.
Behind them—nothing.
No retreat. No reinforcements. No hope.
Only time.
And starvation.
"Break through?" Xu Rong muttered.
He already knew the answer.
Impossible.
Even if they broke south, they would be hunted, ridden down, slaughtered across seventy li of open land.
A slow death… or a fast one.
"…Surrender?"
The word tasted like ash.
A guard entered, hesitant.
"General… Zhang Xin has sent an envoy."
Xu Rong's heart tightened.
Of course he had.
Not to fight.
To claim.
"…Bring him in."
The tent flap opened.
A scholar stepped inside, calm, composed, untouched by the weight crushing the mountain.
He bowed.
"Sun Qian, Administrator of Qing Province… greets General Xu."
And in that moment—
Xu Rong understood.
The battle was over.
What remained…
Was a choice.