The lingering melody from the future era drifted through the hall, thin and mournful, as though it had seeped into the grain of the rotten wood on the screen itself. Sound and image intertwined, forming a quiet, merciless harmony.
No one spoke.
They were ministers of Liu Bei, not of Liu Shan. Whatever anger, sorrow, or shame they felt—it was not their place to trespass upon a father's grief.
Before Guan Yu or Zhang Fei could break the silence, Liu Bei rose.
He was calm now. Too calm. His face was composed, but his eyes were cold, like flint struck and waiting for steel.
"Draw it," he said evenly. "Make a grand diagram. Exactly as shown. Place it here—within this hall."
He did not turn around, but Ma Liang already knew the order was meant for him.
"Yes, my Lord," Ma Liang replied softly, spreading fresh paper before him.
To draw rotten wood—how difficult could that be?
[Voiceover on the Light Screen]
"Standing opposite Liu Shan's former position is his fifth son, Liu Chen, the Prince of Beidi.
Historical records tell us little of him. We know only this: he was enfeoffed as Prince in 259, and he died in 263."
Liu Bei let out a breath that was almost a sigh.
"You were not the Sovereign," he murmured. "Why must you die for the state?"
"My poor grand-nephew…" Zhang Fei's voice was thick. "Using his own life to salvage the dignity of the Han."
[Voiceover]
"In the winter of 263, Deng Ai executed a surprise march from Yinping and appeared outside Chengdu.
Huo Ge, son of the renowned Huo Jun and governor of the southern regions, immediately requested permission to lead troops to relieve the capital.
Deng Ai's success relied entirely on the impossible terrain of Yinping. Wei records state that he wrapped himself in felt rugs and rolled down mountainsides to survive the descent.
Such a route made large troop movements impossible. Deng Ai's force was small, isolated, and without retreat. Meanwhile, Jiang Wei still held Jiange against the main Wei army.
Had Liu Shan approved Huo Ge's relief force, Deng Ai's army would have been annihilated.
Yet Liu Shan refused. He claimed he 'had a plan.'
His plan was to heed the scholar Qiao Zhou—teacher of Chen Shou—and surrender.
Thus, in the winter of 263, Liu Shan led his heir and sixty officials, hands bound behind their backs, escorting their own coffins, and surrendered to Wei."
The hall froze.
Bound hands. Coffins in tow.
Zhang Fei glanced sideways, bracing himself for an explosion—splintered wood, shattered cups, fury unleashed.
Instead, Liu Bei remained seated.
Still. Silent. Terrifyingly so.
"Hands bound, escorting coffins…" Liu Bei said at last, voice flat. "He certainly spared no effort in submitting."
The words were mild. The meaning was not.
Mianfu yuqin—the ultimate abasement. To present oneself as meat on the butcher's block, awaiting mercy.
A mere raiding force.
Hold the city, wait for relief, and the enemy would have been erased. Yet reinforcements were refused outright.
What could even be said?
"The screen mentioned earlier that Chen Shou's criticism of Chen Zhi stemmed from personal resentment," Zhuge Liang said slowly, thoughts racing. "Is it possible Chen Zhi only pretended to comply with Huang Hao—to preserve Jiang Wei's northern campaigns? And was that why Qiao Zhou and his disciples despised him so deeply?"
A heavier realization followed, sinking like lead.
If the historian's brush belonged to such a man… how much of Shu's history had been bent?
[Voiceover]
"Before the surrender, Liu Chen confronted his father one final time.
Facing a ruler who favored Qiao Zhou's proposal, Liu Chen cried out:
'If disaster is upon us and there is no way forward, then father and son, sovereign and subject, should die together! Let us perish with our shrines and fall with our state—only then will we have the face to meet the First Emperor!'
Liu Shan refused to listen. He expelled his fifth son from the palace.
As Liu Shan marched out in bonds, Liu Chen went to the Zhaolie Temple.
There, he killed his wife and children, then took his own life.
He chose to become a ghost of the Han rather than a subject of a fallen state.
Some later said: 'Liu Chen did not fail his grandfather; Liu Shan failed his son.'
Others said: 'The Sovereign was cowardly, but the Prince of Beidi gave the Han one final blaze of glory.'"
This was no battlefield death.
No charge. No clash of blades.
It was defiance, sharp and absolute, carved into history with blood.
"Steadfast," Guan Yu said quietly. "Valiant."
His eyes gleamed. "Brother has a fine grandson."
"And we have a fine grand-nephew," he added.
"What a waste that his father lacked a backbone!" Zhang Fei slammed the table. "An army before him, reinforcements behind him—and he surrendered to a lone raiding force! Where was his courage? His dignity?"
He sneered, bitterness spilling over.
"Our dear nephew excels at two things: favoring eunuchs and kneeling early! If that was his nature, he should've abdicated the moment the Strategist passed. Why cling on for years just to end like this?"
"Yide!" Guan Yu snapped.
He turned to Liu Bei. "Brother… A-Dou is only four—"
Liu Bei raised a hand.
No anger. No denial.
Only iron.
[Voiceover]
"Later generations held great sympathy for Liu Chen.
In Romance of the Three Kingdoms, Luo Guanzhong wrote a poem in his honor.
Television adaptations in the 1980s captured his spirit with remarkable fidelity."
The screen shifted.
Zhang Fei read aloud, his voice ringing through the hall:
The sovereign and his ministers were glad to kneel—
Yet his awe-inspiring presence still seems to linger.
Who dares say the Han has truly perished?
Zhang Fei laughed hoarsely, eyes reddened.
"Magnificent! Prince of Beidi—what a poem! What a lad!"
They watched the dramatized Liu Chen rebuke Qiao Zhou, pride swelling in their chests—only to break as he took his life in the ancestral temple.
Liu Bei's gaze fixed upon one line:
Better to die with the shrines than surrender mountains and rivers with both hands.
"Write that down," Liu Bei said. "Hang it in A-Dou's bedchamber."
[Voiceover]
"That line—His awe-inspiring presence lingers—reminds me of the Prime Minister's Later Proclamation on Starting the Expedition.
There, he mourns the generals lost after Hanzhong, writing:
'The elite gathered from all four corners over decades, not merely the strength of a single province.'
We all know the 'Imperial Uncle' began with nothing. How did a man armed only with a title gather the heroes of the age?
Because they followed that spirit.
Who dares say the Han has perished?
As long as men like Liu Chen exist, the flame endures.
But when a Sovereign resembles Liu Shan, the fall of the Han is no surprise at all."
Clarity struck Liu Bei like lightning.
For years, he had leaned on the title Imperial Uncle. He had sought imperial recognition, genealogies, validation.
Now it seemed almost laughable.
How many in this hall followed him for blood alone?
They followed the dream.
"The Later Proclamation?" Zhao Yun asked. "There's another?"
Zhuge Liang met his gaze—and gently looked away.
[Voiceover]
"Historically, Liu Chen's death may have been a mercy.
Of Liu Shan's seven sons:
The heir Liu Xuan died during Zhong Hui's rebellion.
Four others perished in the Yongjia Disaster of the Western Jin.
Only Liu Cong died of illness before the fall, his descendants fleeing south to preserve Liu Bei's bloodline.
Liu Chen's death preserved the final shred of dignity—for the state, and for himself."
Dignity. Face.
Liu Bei rolled the words over in his mind and shook his head.
To lose a country and still speak of face—it felt indulgent.
But… at least he had a grandson like that.
It steadied his heart. Just a little.
[Voiceover]
"I've spoken at length about Liu Chen—perhaps out of bias.
Now, let us proceed to the side halls.
We'll begin with the one on the left."
"What an ugly statue!" Zhang Fei blurted out, scowling.
"To be that hideous and still enshrined here—Second Brother, is that you?"