The battlefield had settled into a strange rhythm.
Steel rang, men shouted, arrows hissed—but beneath it all ran an undercurrent of waiting.
Zhang Fei felt it.
Mounted high above the churn, he watched the assault like a man listening for the moment rain finally breaks. His face was calm, heavy, unreadable. Orders rolled from him in steady bursts, not loud for their own sake, but timed—plugging holes, redirecting pressure, tightening the line before it could sag.
On the walls of Yangping Pass, Yang Ren stood just as still.
Only his eyes betrayed him.
The siege engines advancing below were wrong. Not unfamiliar—wrong. Every assumption he had made before the battle unraveled the moment those contraptions unfolded and locked into place.
This wasn't how the city was supposed to fall.
The soldiers noticed.
They remembered the briefing.
Those things can't be used.
No one said it aloud. The rule was clear: disrupt morale and die.
But silence has its own voice.
General, more than one man thought bitterly, you're the one shaking us.
Yang Ren felt none of it. Or refused to.
"Push them back!" he shouted. "The wall must not fall!"
Below, Zhang Fei glanced once more at the sky.
The light had shifted. Not much—but enough.
Another unit surged forward, boots slipping on blood-darkened earth.
Behind him, Ma Su's hands had started trembling again. He leaned close to Liu Feng, voice low and embarrassed, asking for another piece of malt sugar. Liu Feng passed it to him without comment, his own heartbeat pounding just as fast.
Zhang Fei exhaled through his nose.
That was enough.
"Fan Jiang. Zhang Da."
His voice cut cleanly through the noise.
"With me."
Liu Feng's breath caught.
Zhang Fei swung down from his horse and crossed to the pile of equipment as if strolling through a market. He grabbed a massive shield, then a long blade—no ceremony, no inspection—and turned back fully armed.
He stopped in front of Liu Feng.
Liu Feng straightened without thinking.
Zhang Fei didn't look at him.
Blade struck shield.
The sound cracked across the field like something splitting open.
"Sons of Han," Zhang Fei said, voice flat and immense.
"Follow me."
Then, louder:
"Kill the thieves."
Something hot surged up Liu Feng's chest.
Of the three men he had been commanding, he had seen the least real fighting. One desperate retreat from Jing Province—that was all. Mi Fang had followed his father through Xuzhou. Ma Su had taken cities alongside his own father in Yi Province.
Yet staring at his uncle's back, broad and unyielding, Liu Feng felt the pounding in his chest slow.
What am I afraid of?
That's Zhang Fei.
He lifted his shield and answered the sound.
"Great Han—victory!"
At first, the response came scattered, uneven.
Then voices began finding one another.
"Great Han—victory!"
A commander can enforce discipline from the rear.
But only one who climbs first sets men on fire.
From the rear, Pang Tong watched, lips curled in something like a smile.
"Breaking a city is never easy," he murmured. "But today, the pieces are aligned."
Machines. Ambush.
Their morale fraying. Ours tightening.
Still, the smile never reached his eyes.
If they failed today, once the defenders understood how those ladders worked, the siege could drag on for weeks.
He looked toward the wall.
Let's see if the stories are true, Zhang Yide.
The folding cloud ladders slammed into place.
Their iron hooks bit deep into the parapet, locking fast.
The defenders didn't understand leverage—only effort.
Several men heaved together, managing to lift the ladder just a little.
The weight came down on them all at once.
They looked.
Zhang Fei was climbing.
Not rushing. Not hesitating.
Two steps at a time, as if the ladder were solid ground.
He vaulted onto the wall and swept his blade once.
Space opened.
A defender lunged forward, eyes bright with the hope of a name remembered.
Zhang Fei turned and smashed him with the shield.
Below, Liu Feng saw the man tumble from the wall, limbs flailing, like a kite whose string had snapped.
Zhang Fei didn't fight cleverly. He didn't need to.
He hacked, battered, drove forward with sheer weight until the blade curled and ruined itself.
He tossed it aside and used the shield instead, iron rim crunching into bone, bodies scattering before him.
Men fell.
Men fled.
A wide, ugly pocket cleared around him.
When Liu Feng hauled himself onto the wall, that was what he saw—his uncle charging back and forth like a blue ox tearing furrows through earth.
"Victory!" Liu Feng shouted, slamming shield to blade again, then cutting down a man who mistook him for an easy kill.
He lacked experience, but not discipline. His training showed.
A few exchanges later, Zhang Fei's shield finally shattered.
He didn't slow.
An enemy general rushed in.
Zhang Fei hooked a foot, kicked up a fallen blade, caught it without looking, spun it once in his hand.
"Surrender," he said. "Live."
"Damn you—who do you think you are?!"
Yang Ren charged. In Hanzhong, no one beat him head-on. Even the men of Baishui Pass had never dared test him.
The first clash drained the color from his face.
How can anyone be this strong?
"Yang Ang!" he shouted, panic cracking through pride. "Help me!"
Two against one, they barely held.
Then shouting broke out behind them.
"Fire—fire in the rear!"
Smoke rose.
Just for a breath, both men faltered.
"Die."
Zhang Fei's roar struck like thunder breaking inside the skull.
Their thoughts went blank.
He seized them—one head in each hand—and smashed them together.
Blood filled Yang Ren's vision.
So this is how it ends.
Below, Pang Tong saw the smoke and let out a slow breath.
"Fa Zheng and Liu Feng succeeded."
"Yangping Pass is finished."
Then Zhang Fei's voice rolled across the walls, heavy and final.
"I am Zhang Yide of Yan."
"The enemy general is dead."
"Surrender and live."
"Resist—and die."
That first month of the new year was the busiest Liu Bei and Zhuge Liang had ever known.
It was also the simplest.
Their families were still in Jiangling—no celebrations, no noise.
They shared a modest meal together, and Zhuge Liang hurried off again.
Salt works near Jiangzhou needed inspection. The brocade and iron offices demanded attention. Sugar production was expanding.
Liu Bei had it harder.
New Year's Day vanished in an endless haze of raised cups.
Officials, gentry, and powerful clans streamed in without pause. With Zhao Yun at his side, the great families were suddenly much more agreeable—at the very least, they caused no trouble.
Then—
"You are Li Miao?"
Liu Bei studied the official offering him wine.
"I am," Li Miao replied, chin lifted.
Liu Bei smiled lightly. "What counsel do you offer me, sir?"
Li Miao did not hesitate.
"You are of the imperial clan, General, yet you entered Yi Province under the banner of suppressing rebels. Many criticize this. Worse, you overstepped the authority of the provincial governor. Your method of taking the province was… crude."
Liu Bei paused, then asked quietly:
"Do you believe Liu Zhang was a worthy governor?"
"When you entered Hannan," he continued, "did you see what lay outside the offices?"
Li Miao answered proudly, "The people gathered to thank you. I am aware."
"But the common people lack understanding and propriety. Would you govern Yi Province by relying on them?"
Liu Bei lost interest.
"If you believe my taking of the province was crude," he said gently, "then return home and wait for a better master."
Li Miao stood stunned. Liu Bei said nothing more.
With a furious flick of his sleeve, Li Miao stormed out.
Only then did Liu Bei sigh to Zhao Yun.
"So that's why Guanghan speaks of the 'Three Dragons of the Li Clan'—and never mentions Li Miao."
Zhao Yun nodded. "My lord saved his life today."
Liu Bei chuckled, stretched, and said, "Zilong, invite the people waiting outside into the hall."
"It's cold. They'll warm better inside."
For the first time, the people of Chengdu stepped into the grand offices they themselves had built.
Their titles for Liu Bei tumbled over one another—Governor Liu, General Liu, Imperial Uncle Liu.
They spoke nervously of crops and family worries. Liu Bei smiled and spoke of hopes for the coming year.
When he promised taxes would not rise—and that laws would restrain the great clans—a small cheer broke out.
Outside, young nobles fumed.
"How dare commoners drink in the governor's hall! This Imperial Uncle Liu—"
"Hush!" another hissed. "Do you want to test Zhao Zilong's cavalry?"
After the first month passed, news finally arrived from the east.
Zhang Fei had taken Yangping Pass, marched straight into Hanzhong, smashed Zhang Lu's forces, and driven him fleeing toward Guanzhong.
Yi Province fell silent.
Men of ambition rejoiced, crowding the Chengdu offices, begging for service.
The great clans whispered instead:
That three-foot sword of Liu Huangshu—
terrifyingly sharp.
Some thought faster.
If Liu Bei was truly this strong, perhaps he could contend with Cao Cao himself.
And if not?
Selling loyalty later would still fetch a fine price.
Thus fear mingled with desire in the way they looked at him.
Liu Bei, now the center of it all, sat calmly in the governor's hall, reviewing intelligence with Zhuge Liang.
The sealed letter had come from Jian Yong, sent through the Qishan Road after Zhang Fei broke through Hanzhong.
Zhuge Liang read and praised at once.
"Xianhe truly has a silver tongue."
"Ma Chao's winter strike forced Xiahou Yuan back to Chang'an. The plan to cut the Long Road has succeeded."
Then he sighed.
"Yet Yong and Liang will tear themselves apart in time."
He counted on his fingers.
"Ma Chao can command the warlords, but not the scholars—one danger."
"Han Sui allies in name but schemes for Liang Province—two."
"Yan Xing urges Han Sui to surrender to Cao—three."
Liu Bei rubbed his temples.
"And Zhang Lu fled to Guanzhong," he added. "With nowhere left but Cao Cao. The world will soon know Yi Province has changed hands."
Zhuge Liang clapped his hands and laughed.
"My lord now wields Yi Province's three-foot sword. Let the realm take notice."
Liu Bei laughed as well.
"With your plans and Yide's courage—how could today exist otherwise?"
Then he paused.
"I wonder how Yuanzhi spent New Year's Day."