The shift came without warning.
One breath earlier, the small side hall had been merely tense. One breath later, every gaze slid past Ma Liang and fixed itself on the young man kneeling behind him—Ma Su, styled Youchang.
He felt it before he fully understood it.
Ma Su's face drained of color. The words he had prepared—polite, cautious, carefully weighed—collapsed inside his chest. Only now did the fragments align: the glances that had lingered too long, his elder brother's unusual restraint, the way Liu Bei had spoken to him on the road back from Jiangzhou, as if placing a hand on a shoulder already marked for burden.
"Youchang," Liu Bei had said then, his voice gentle, almost tired, "I only hope you can know courage in defeat, and seek strength in weakness."
At the time, Ma Su had smiled and bowed, confused but proud. From Zigui to Jiangzhou, they had known nothing but success. Defeat? Weakness? Those were words for other people.
Now, they returned with interest.
"Youchang."
Liu Bei's voice drew him back.
"Do not let your thoughts scatter. How can the responsibilities of a future life weigh upon you today?"
Ma Su bowed deeply, forehead touching the mat. The Lord truly is benevolent, he thought, a warmth briefly pushing back the chill in his bones.
And yet, beneath that warmth, something darker stirred.
In that future, he wondered, how exactly did I fail?
The others looked away, offering him the courtesy of ignorance. It did not help. Ma Su shifted forward on his knees, inch by inch, until he was close enough to hear the soft scrape of Ma Liang's brush.
"Brother," he asked quietly, "why is your name not mentioned in the screen's account of the expedition?"
Ma Liang did not pause.
"I am already dead by then," he replied, continuing to transcribe the glowing text with steady strokes.
Ma Su froze.
Nearby, Zhang Fei was no longer looking at the screen at all. His eyes were fixed on the map, fingers tracing imaginary lines through mountain passes and choke points.
"High ground," he muttered. "A narrow pass. Water nearby. Even if I sent Fan Jiang or Zhang Da…" He snorted. "Those idiots could hold that."
"Perhaps Wei came with overwhelming numbers," Huang Zhong offered, more out of courtesy than conviction.
Guan Yu lifted a hand.
"Watch," he said. "Speculation is cheap."
Yet even he leaned forward slightly. The Prime Minister's main force was camped at Shangwa. Wei was desperate to break through. Jieting was not merely important—it was obvious.
And obvious positions were not supposed to fall.
[Voiceover]
First, let us speak of resources.
Ma Su had more than enough.
When punishments were later handed down in Hanzhong, the records show that Ma Su commanded no fewer than four generals: Zhang Xiu, Li Sheng, Huang Xi, and Wang Ping.
The screen shifted, numbers assembling themselves with cold precision.
A conservative estimate: one thousand men per general.
Five thousand elite troops.
The Prime Minister began the campaign with fewer than fifty thousand. Between Zhao Yun's diversion and the siege at Shangwa, Ma Su was entrusted with nearly a third of the active force.
Absolute trust.
So how did he lose?
Zhang Fei let out a short laugh.
"Five thousand," he said. "I've lost fewer men arguing with quartermasters."
No one contradicted him.
[Voiceover]
First mistake: Violating the Prime Minister's directives.
Whatever instructions Kongming gave him, Ma Su set them aside the moment he arrived at the pass.
Second mistake: Relying on the southern mountain and refusing to secure the city.
The image shifted again.
When Wei commander Zhang He arrived, he was baffled.
"What is this fellow doing?" he likely wondered.
But Zhang He was a veteran. He did not argue with gifts from heaven.
He cut off the water.
Zhang He surrounded the mountain and waited.
Thirst did the rest.
The only bright point was Wang Ping, who gathered his remaining men, beat drums, raised banners, and feigned a larger force. Zhang He, wary of ambush, did not pursue.
But the damage was done.
By the time the Prime Minister rushed from Shangwa, it was already too late.
Ma Su had broken.
Zhang Fei stared at the screen.
"So he picked the one position," he said slowly, "that turns patience into a weapon."
He shook his head.
"That takes talent."
[Voiceover]
Ordinarily, defeat brings demotion.
Ma Su was executed for a different reason.
Ma Su fled.
He did not merely lose. He abandoned his army and ran.
Under the iron discipline of Zhuge Liang, there was only one end for such a crime.
The word fled hung in the air.
"Abandoned the army?" Zhang Fei roared. "That's not a mistake—that's a decision!"
Even Guan Yu's brows drew together.
Liu Bei said nothing. The disappointment in his eyes pressed down like a physical weight. Losing a battle could be blamed on heaven, on terrain, on fortune.
Losing oneself could not.
Ma Su felt the room tilt. Death—he had debated it endlessly in ink and bamboo slips, measured it in precedent and principle.
None of those texts mentioned how it felt when the word suddenly pointed at you.
He struggled to breathe.
Ma Liang finished the final stroke, set the brush aside, and removed his official cap. He rose, walked forward, and prostrated himself fully.
"My Lord," he said, voice steady, "I request that Ma Su be stripped of rank and reduced to a commoner immediately."
Guan Yu looked at him in surprise.
"Jichang," he said, stroking his beard, "why such haste? How can a man be punished for a crime not yet committed?"
Zhang Fei snorted.
"He's not wrong. This Youchang doesn't lack brains—he lacks bones."
Before anyone could stop him, Zhang Fei stood, grabbed Ma Su by the back of his robe, and lifted him as easily as a sack of grain.
"You read books?" Zhang Fei said, eye level with him. "Good. You'll guard my tent."
Ma Su blinked.
"I'll make you my personal guard," Zhang Fei continued cheerfully. "People say Zhang Fei is brutal and ungrateful. Excellent. I'll teach you responsibility the simple way."
He grinned.
"If you survive, maybe you'll become a man."
Liu Bei studied Ma Su's pale, conflicted face, then Zhang Fei's unyielding one.
"So be it," he said at last. "Ma Su's path is now separate from his brother's."
Zhang Fei leaned closer.
"Remember, boy," he whispered, not quietly at all, "in my camp, if you run, the executioner won't have time to warm up. I'll take your head myself."
[Voiceover]
The First Northern Expedition was the golden window.
Wei was shaken. Panic spread through the court. Only the young Emperor Cao Rui kept his composure, personally moving to Chang'an to oversee the defense.
Zhao Yun executed a flawless retreat, preserving men and supplies despite heavy pursuit.
But heaven favored Wei.
After Shu-Han withdrew, the people of Longyou—who had welcomed the Han banners—were punished or slaughtered. Trust, once burned, does not return.
Back in Chengdu, some called the expedition a "victory."
The Prime Minister did not.
He wrote To Those Who Congratulate Me:
"If even one man dies, the fault is mine."
And yet, the campaign did not end.
Han and Wu were allies.
So where was Sun Quan?
As usual, the King of Wu failed to act.
This led to a rushed Second Expedition in winter—one fought largely so that Sun Quan might receive recognition as Emperor.
Zhang Fei slapped the table.
"I almost forgot!" he barked. "Where was our hundred-thousand-man brother-in-law while we were freezing in the mountains?"
Guan Yu's lip curled.
"Likely being chased out of Hefei again," he said flatly. "One cannot predict that man's disappointments."
Kongming had stopped listening.
He stared at the final line on the screen, eyes widening, calculation unraveling into disbelief.
"I…" he said slowly, as if tasting the words, "I led a winter campaign…"
He looked up.
"…just to help Sun Quan become Emperor?"
No one answered.
The screen dimmed.
And the hall felt colder than before.