For the settlers living around Luoyang, war was not an event. It was the weather.
They had grown used to it the way farmers grow used to drought. Armies came like dust storms, loud, suffocating, and always leaving something broken behind. Ever since the first year of Chuping, when Dong Zhuo's great fire had stretched for two hundred li and burned the land down to white ash, this once-glorious capital had not known a single peaceful season.
Once, Luoyang had been praised as a city guarded by four natural fortresses and eight great passes, a place where the empire's veins met and pulsed. Now it was a memory that people stepped over on their way to somewhere else.
Armies marched in, armies marched out. Nobles came with banners and proclamations, then vanished like smoke. The embroidered characters on the soldiers' flags changed again and again, yet not one of those armies had ever paused long enough to care about the ruined capital itself.
Six years after Dong Zhuo's fire, the Son of Heaven had indeed returned, though only briefly. The story went that he looked upon the shattered city, sighed for a long while, and was promptly escorted away by Lord Cao to Xuchang. After that, the surviving people of Luoyang understood something very clearly.
Their city was no longer the capital.
At first that realization had hurt. Later it simply became practical. After all, the title of capital could not be boiled into porridge, and it certainly did not keep the wind out of broken houses. What people wanted was simple. If the Emperor had returned to the world, then surely order would follow, and if order followed, maybe life would stop being so hard.
That was why, when officials in proper robes finally appeared in the area, the people had felt a cautious flicker of hope.
Until those officials announced they had come under Lord Cao's orders to establish agricultural garrisons.
Hope, it turned out, was a stubborn thing. It survived disappointment the way weeds survived frost.
Now, beside the ruins of Luoyang, a modest but tidy camp had been set up. Smoke rose from cooking fires. Timber frames hinted at new buildings. A few cleared streets were beginning to resemble roads again.
Standing there was an old farmer with a face so creased it looked like folded parchment. He had been specifically brought to speak with Liu Bei's group, and once he started talking, his resentment spilled out like grain from a split sack.
"This Luoyang city," the old man said, voice trembling with anger, "to that Lord Cao, it's worthless now."
He jabbed a finger toward the fields.
"But our bones are not worthless. These ten thousand mu of fertile land, those he remembers very well."
Across from him, Liu Bei, Zhuge Liang, and Pang Tong exchanged glances. No one needed to say it aloud. Life under the garrison system had clearly not been easy.
Liu Bei pushed himself up from his knees, dusting off his robes, and looked toward the ruins in the distance. For a moment his expression softened.
"When I studied here in my youth," he said quietly to Zhuge Liang, "the capital's splendor… I cannot forget it even now."
Zhuge Liang sighed, then, almost unconsciously, recited lines from Ban Gu's "Rhapsody on the Two Capitals," his voice calm but tinged with melancholy.
"Majestic its towers, radiant its wings. The Han capital shone among all lands, gathering the eight directions into its center."
"Palaces gleaming, courts divine. Luxury beyond excess, restraint beyond frugality."
"As fields turned into parks, springs gathered into lakes, fish swam beneath water grasses, and beasts thrived in lush gardens…"
Pang Tong rose beside them and stared at the broken city walls.
"Ban Gu praised this place for its schools filling the streets, for its harmony of learning and virtue," he said. "If he saw only rubble now, what would he feel?"
That question lingered just long enough to make everyone uncomfortable. They had all known what Dong Zhuo had done before coming here. None of this ruin was a surprise.
Plans had already been made long before they arrived.
"Rebuilding this city will not be done in a single year," one officer said.
"Indeed. This year we should first clear the outer districts. The people need somewhere to live."
"And most residents are still in Gucheng. If no one moves back here, how could the old capital ever be repaired?"
They spoke openly, without lowering their voices, and the meaning of their words hit the old farmer like a hammer. His wrinkles seemed to stretch in shock.
"My lord… does the Imperial Uncle mean to repair Luoyang?"
"Not repair," Liu Bei said seriously.
The old man's eyes dimmed at once. Reasonable enough. Why would anyone pour resources into a dead city?
Then Liu Bei smiled.
"We will rebuild it."
For the people of Luoyang, this Liu Imperial Uncle was unlike any general they had seen before.
Under the old pattern, whenever armies passed through, men were seized for soldiers, carts were seized for transport, and the last grain in every household was taken in the name of righteousness and grand strategy. Then the army would hurry off to fight Lord Cao somewhere, chasing glory that never fed the hungry.
That was the way of nobles.
This Liu Imperial Uncle did the opposite.
He measured land. He taught new farming methods. He organized workers to clear streets around the old city. He even had shelters built for families before asking anything in return.
Most shocking of all, he sent officials to discuss taxes openly.
The policy was simple. The first year tax free, then an increase of one tenth each year until it reached a cap of forty percent.
Forty percent maximum.
For these battered peasants, that number hit like thunder. Under previous garrisons, promises of fifty percent had turned into sixty or seventy before anyone noticed, and complaining usually resulted in a beating.
But Liu Bei's methods were visible. The new farming techniques really did increase yield. Even the most skeptical farmers could see it with their own eyes.
"If the harvest doubles and the tax halves," one villager whispered at night beside a fire, "maybe my son won't starve."
Another snorted softly. "Careful. Say that too loud and heaven might hear you and take offense."
Still, hope crept in.
By mid July, the old farmer who had spoken before returned to seek Liu Bei again.
This time he came hesitantly, cap twisting in his hands.
"You ask why I do not destroy Cao," Liu Bei repeated after hearing the question. He rubbed his beard, looking almost amused by the absurdity of it.
The old man hurried to explain. "We do not doubt the Imperial Uncle's virtue, it's just… if Cao's army comes, and you all retreat west again, then everything you promised…"
"I understand," Liu Bei said gently. "You fear all this will vanish like smoke."
The farmer gave an embarrassed grin. That was exactly it.
"Rest easy," Liu Bei said. "The passes north and south of Luoyang, Mengjin and Yique, are guarded by fierce generals. At Taigu and Huanyuan, even though we have not taken them yet, our troops are stationed nearby in readiness."
He paused, then spoke with firm confidence.
"At the latest, by August, once you can sustain yourselves, I will personally lead the army south into Yingchuan to strike Cao."
When the old farmer left, visibly relieved, Liu Bei finally allowed himself a satisfied smile.
In truth, this eastern campaign could have skipped Luoyang entirely. The army could have split in two. One force into Yingchuan to fight Cao directly and eat away at Yu Province step by step. Another into Henei to pressure Wei Commandery, linking up with Ma Chao's northern advance toward Ye.
Strategically, it made sense.
Yet neither Liu Bei nor Zhuge Liang, and not even the usually aggressive Pang Tong, had pushed for that plan.
Instead, they had calmly worked together to draft a gradual reconstruction plan for Luoyang.
The people already felt overwhelmed by Liu Bei's generosity. They did not realize that, in Liu Bei's heart, this was simply answering a promise written in history itself.
To pacify the Central Plains from the north.
To eliminate the treacherous enemy.
To restore the Han.
To return to the old capital.
These were the ambitions Zhuge Liang would one day record in his memorial. How could they dare forget them now?
And somewhere beyond the broken walls, as hammers struck timber and children's laughter slowly returned to the ruins, Luoyang felt, for the first time in decades, like a place that might live again.