Chapter One: The Three Kingdoms Descend from the Heavens (New Book—Please Add to Your Collection)

The rise and fall of empires is a tale as old as time; when unity endures too long, division inevitably follows, and prolonged division begets unity. In the waning days of the Zhou, the seven kingdoms vied for supremacy until Qin emerged victorious. Yet soon after, the contest between Chu and Han ended with Liu Bang's triumph and the unification of the realm. From the Restoration under Emperor Guangwu to the time of Emperor Xian, the land fractured once more into three kingdoms...

In the second year of Jianning, in the fourth month, a fierce wind arose. Dark clouds gathered, thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed as a blue serpent descended from the heavens. Emperor Ling was greatly alarmed, murmuring ominously of ill fortune, and immediately summoned the most esteemed masters in the palace to divine the meaning of these portents.

A Daoist of youthful visage and graying temples gazed up at the heavens and performed the Circular Light Technique, seeking to glimpse the fate of the people below. The Circular Light Technique, akin to the folk art of opening the heavenly eye, reveals supernatural truths by communing with the spirit world, allowing one to divine glimpses of the future, and even to lay bare the forms of wandering spirits.

Clad in a robe of yin and yang, water and fire, the Daoist sat cross-legged. He pressed the thumb of his left hand into the web of his right, pinching the lines of the hour, while his right thumb curled beneath the left, forming the shape of a Taiji diagram and sealing the secret of time within. Before him stood a green stone altar, carved with dragons, upon which lay offerings and the tools for consecrating a new idol. All was prepared: cinnabar, white ginseng, and golden cockerel. Outside, a Daoist used a mirror to reflect sunlight into the eyes of the idol, symbolically granting it the vision of the divine.

Chanting incantations, the old Daoist drew a dagger from his robe and, in a sudden gesture, slashed his wrist, letting his blood flow into a bowl. He raised the bowl high, moved lightly, and, steadying his breath, strode three steps to the kneeling mat, planting his feet at the circle’s center.

After a long while, the old Daoist heaved a sigh. “The mandate of the Han is at its end. In the east, Sirius blazes with ominous light. Calamity approaches—a time of chaos, both blessing and curse. Heaven’s will cannot be defied.” With that, he spat a mouthful of blood and fell lifeless to the ground.

Clearly, the Circular Light Technique is not without peril. Some secrets must not be revealed; should one utter them, not only does the spell lose its power, but the practitioner suffers grievous backlash.

Meanwhile, torrents of rain fell across Shandong and Shanxi. The people starved, the officials oppressed. Driven to desperation, the people rose in rebellion.

In 184, the Yellow Turban Uprising erupted. The brothers Zhang Jue, Zhang Bao, and Zhang Liang spread their message: “The blue heavens are dead, the yellow heavens shall rise!” Thus they rallied the masses. Zhang Jue styled himself “Great Virtuous Teacher,” mastered the Way of Great Peace, and could summon wind and rain. In mere days, he gathered tens of thousands; the court was shaken.

Within ten days, the Yellow Turbans captured much of Youzhou. Zhuo County and Lingdi fell in rapid succession. Fleeing the chaos, villagers swarmed to Luoyang. That night, a fiery meteor blazed across the sky, its trail reviving the withered grass wherever it passed, astonishing all who saw it. The meteor landed near Luoyang.

In a dilapidated hut there, a young man slowly awakened—amidst broken walls and a thatched roof. “Where am I?” he exclaimed. “Where’s my phone? Where’s my game account?”

His name was Hu Zifan, a young man of twenty, somewhat handsome, but recently defeated in both career and love. Every desire seemed to elude him—a typical Libra, indecisive and fond of escaping reality, ever hesitating and lost, never knowing what to do next.

Just yesterday, he’d been fired. Alone and dejected, he drowned his sorrows at a bar, fell asleep in a drunken haze, and now found himself in this bizarre place.

“Who took my phone? Show yourself!” He cursed as he climbed from the straw bed and shuffled to the door.

“Is this a film set?” he wondered aloud. “What’s going on? Was I struck by lightning? Ouch, it really hurts…”

Everyone he saw wore long robes, their garments ragged and patched. He glanced at his own hands—so slender, his body oddly small. Dazed, he stared into a bronze mirror: he had become young again, but the face was not his own.

He opened the creaking door. An elderly man sat just outside. Zifan hurried over, desperate to make sense of this cosmic joke.

“Sir, where am I? What year is this?” Zifan asked, bewildered by the unfamiliar surroundings.

The old man looked at him askance. “It’s the fourth year of Jianning, of the Han. Has your mind gone soft? Poor boy—studied too hard, lost your wits.”

“Fourth year of Jianning, Han dynasty…” Zifan murmured, stunned. “I’ve transmigrated? I’m in the Three Kingdoms era?”

Memories surged—his surname was Wu, courtesy name Zifan, third son of a poor family in Luoyang, well-read and once a top scholar. Yet, with corrupt officials in power, he had been falsely accused of cheating, his anger festering with no outlet. He fell into despair, drinking heavily every day, railing against the injustice of the world until he drank himself to death.

“So, I really have transmigrated—into a poor scholar of the Han, with a name so like my own. Heaven surely mocks me,” he whispered, tears welling. “I never even had a chance with women in my last life, and now even the cash I just got is gone. My life…”

Misery indeed! It was the time of the Yellow Turban rebellion, and here he was in a hovel. Why, he wondered, could fate not grant him the body of a wealthy man? Not even an identity to his name.

“Are you playing with me, Heaven? I’ve just been reborn and I’m already bankrupt—and now, nameless?”

He searched his patched garments and, after a lengthy hunt, turned up twenty coins—his entire fortune. “Well, since I’m here, I might as well make the best of it,” he consoled himself.

Better to live poorly than not at all.

The streets bustled with life. Vendors hurried to market, their wares dazzling the eye, their cries rising and falling in a lively chorus. Zifan wandered among them, curiosity on his face, pondering how to survive in this era of chaos.

He was, after all, a modern man thrown into ancient times. He ought to make something of himself—even if he could not achieve greatness, he would not disgrace the name of his own era.

Standing at the prow of a ferry, gazing upon the scenery of the Three Kingdoms, he felt a sudden poetic urge. What better time to show off his talent for verse?

“The mighty Yangtze rolls eastward,
Waves sweep away the heroes of time.
Right and wrong, success and failure, all turn to empty air.
The green hills remain, beneath many a sunset red.
White-haired fishermen and woodcutters on the islet,
Unmoved by autumn moon or spring breeze.
A jug of cloudy wine brings laughter in meeting.
How many tales of old and new,
Are all turned to idle talk and jest…”

“A fine poem, a fine poem indeed!” came a voice. Zifan looked up to see a young man in blue, teeth like pearls, lips as red as vermilion, a striking and elegant figure—like a jade tree in the wind, wine cup in hand, eyes turned skyward.

The youth approached and bowed. “Your verse is splendid, my friend. I hope I’m not intruding. My name is Guo Jia—may I ask your name?”

Guo Jia! Zifan’s mind raced. Was this the famed Guo Jia himself? He scrutinized the youth, delight and calculation flickering across his face.

“Do you know me?” Guo Jia asked. “I’m just out in the world, a stranger to these parts. How did you recognize me?”

“You’re a fine fellow, Brother Guo. My name is Wu Zifan, of Luoyang. Call me Wu Zifan from now on.”

“As they say, ‘Is it not a joy to have friends come from afar?’ Come, come! Fate has brought us together. Now that we’ve met, let us not part.” With that, Zifan seized Guo Jia’s hands, determined not to let such a worthy companion slip away. A man of talent—just what a rootless newcomer needed to secure his future.

“A friend from afar—what a pleasure!” Guo Jia exclaimed. “There’s a tavern nearby, come—let’s go!”

At the mention of wine, Guo Jia’s scholarly composure vanished, replaced by the eager look of a true tippler.

“Waiter, a pound of chicken and your best daughter’s red!” Zifan called. “Let us drink together until we’re satisfied!” For, as the saying goes, nothing fosters friendship like wine.

“Brother, what are you singing? I don’t understand at all…”

“No matter, no matter—cheers!”

As they drank, Guo Jia grew expansive. “Out here, alone and without support, meeting you is a true comfort. I was born into troubled times, my heart set on serving my country. Many years of study—I am sure to accomplish something if I can find a worthy lord. Now, with the Yellow Turban rebellion in full force, the empire is surrounded by chaos. Luoyang itself is besieged—the imperial court is in peril. If the enemy surrounds us, the Han dynasty will be on the brink of collapse!”

“I’ve heard,” he continued, “that in Luoyang there is a Filial and Incorrupt Gentleman named Cao Cao, recently appointed as North Captain of the city. Luoyang is the capital, crowded with nobles and powerful families—hard to govern. Yet as soon as he assumed office, Cao Cao enforced strict laws, hung multicolored staves at the courthouse, and decreed that any who broke the law would be beaten to death. Even the uncle of the emperor’s favorite eunuch, Jian Shuo, defied the curfew, and Cao Cao had him put to death without hesitation. Since then, none dare break the law in the capital. What do you think of this Cao Cao, Brother Zifan?”

At the mention of Cao Cao’s name, Zifan sobered, recalling his history books. “Cao Cao stands seven chi tall, slim-eyed, with a long beard. He was wild and unrestrained in youth, but possesses great talent and cunning, able to adapt to any situation. Xu Shao, a famous judge of character, once said of him: ‘A hero in times of peace, a villain in times of chaos.’ But for now, his power is limited—his official rank is low, and his talents have no outlet.”

“Profound words, Brother Zifan! I see we are of one mind,” Guo Jia replied enthusiastically.

“Of course,” Zifan thought to himself. “I’m a time traveler, after all—that’s what the history books say.” Outwardly, he maintained a humble composure.

“As for Liu Biao of Jingzhou,” Guo Jia continued, “though he commands many troops and vast lands, he is old and lacks ambition—indecisive and hesitant, content with his own corner.”

Hearing this, Zifan encouraged him, “In troubled times, men like us will surely find our place. Do not despair, Brother Guo—our time will come.”

They drank deep into the night, reveling in their new friendship. Though the wine was weak by modern standards, they drank so heartily that both were soon dead drunk.

Waking from his drunken slumber, Zifan rubbed his aching head and stretched. Seeing Guo Jia still fast asleep beside him, he laughed and shook him awake.

Guo Jia blinked blearily, then smiled. “Good morning, Brother Zifan. Drinking with you was a rare delight—I haven’t felt so free in ages.”

They left the tavern into a bright, sunlit world—a lively chaos, with vendors’ cries filling the air.

Ahead, a crowd had gathered. Zifan pushed forward and saw a woman in white, kneeling by the roadside, a sign beside her: “Twenty coins to sell myself to save my mother.” Though her hair was tangled and her face gaunt, she was still pitiable—her beauty marred by suffering.

“How pitiful,” Guo Jia sighed. “In these turbulent times, people have nothing to eat, their homes are bare.”

The sickly old woman beside her, hair in disarray, her wrinkled face yellowed with hunger, wore little more than rags—a sight to evoke anyone’s sympathy.

“Move aside, move aside!” Two sharp-faced, monkey-like petty officials shoved through the crowd. Leering at the young woman, they jeered, “Such a beauty—why not let me keep you? I promise you’ll live in comfort. What do you say, sweetheart?” With that, they reached out, their intentions clear.

The woman recoiled, fighting back fiercely.

The officials, enraged by her resistance, rolled up their sleeves and prepared to beat her.

Zifan’s anger flared. “Is there no law here? Even if you hit someone, you can’t hit a woman!” Emboldened by wine, he leapt forward like a dragon, delivering a swift kick. As his foe fell, the second official charged, fists swinging. Zifan’s eyes flashed—“Witness the Invincible Kick of Foshan! The Black Tiger Steals the Heart!”

Cries of pain echoed as the petty officials were sent sprawling, their faces scraping the ground, blood flowing freely.

Guo Jia, his eyes covered, winced at the spectacle—it was truly hard to watch.

Unrepentant, one official drew a knife and lunged, but Zifan twisted his wrist, disarmed him, and with a wrench dislocated his shoulder. Another scream rang out.

The bystanders cheered, their spirits lifted to see the two bullies receive justice.

The officials, humiliated, glared at Zifan but, seeing his resolve, realized he was not to be trifled with. They spat threats, “We’re with the authorities! Just you wait—don’t run!” Yet, limping and cursing, they slunk away without a backward glance.