Chapter Thirty-Two: Banished from Sight

Dong Zhuo never imagined that his move to depose and enthrone the emperor would meet such immense resistance. It wasn’t just the grand ministers of the court— even Her Highness the Princess herself appeared in person. Though Dong Zhuo was not afraid of killing, he could not possibly slaughter every soul under heaven. And so, after a moment’s hesitation, he slowly lowered the treasured blade in his hand.

If he were to kill all those who opposed him under heaven, it would be an impossible task... The grand ministers, the common people of the realm, the old officials who had served two dynasties, the heroes and talents of the empire—by then, the court would be empty, a hollow shell with no one left to serve. His purpose in dethroning the emperor was to control the court, not to destroy it. What good is a commander-in-chief with no one left to command?

“Seek Zifan when in trouble”—this had become Princess Taiping’s usual stratagem.

Even in the midst of this tense confrontation, Princess Taiping did not forget to cast a sorrowful glance at Zifan. Catching her look, Zifan felt a pang of bitterness in his heart. In that instant, a kingly aura, awe-inspiring and world-shaking, emanated from him. His wickedly handsome face wore a rakish, unrestrained smile.

Dong Zhuo stood silently aside, saying nothing, his gaze sharp and venomous upon the princess. Yet the princess, though a woman, was not to be outdone; her eyes locked steadfastly on Dong Zhuo, resembling a tigress defending her cubs. The two stood in fierce opposition, neither yielding an inch.

Suddenly—Zifan drew his sword!

The blade gleamed clear as frost and snow, a silver radiance enveloping him. Though the long sword flashed with the force of a rainbow, it did not diminish his gentle elegance, as if he were a tranquil lake, more refined with each breeze. The sword’s aura seemed to come alive, dancing around him in freedom. His robes fluttered gracefully, giving the illusion that, with such swordplay, he might ride the wind and vanish, light as drifting clouds, untouched by dust.

Reciting, “Zhao’s guest’s silken cap and Hu’s tassel, the Wu dagger gleaming with frost and snow,” Zifan turned with his sword, declaring, “Such refined pleasure is rare today, General Dong, do not take offense at my boldness.” His sword flashed as he continued, “A silver saddle shines on a white horse, swift as a shooting star.”

Murderous intent clouded the hall. Only the chilling lines could be heard: “Ten steps to slay a man, a thousand miles without pause...” In that instant, Zifan’s demeanor transformed—sword in hand, as if the world belonged to him. When the sword thrust out, all the world’s splendor resided in that stroke, like a dragon ascending through the clouds, life and death decided in a breath.

Swayed by this killing aura, Dong Zhuo’s personal guards immediately surrounded Zifan, some raising shields to block him from approaching. Yet Dong Zhuo’s expression did not change; he remained unafraid. They were all men who lived by the sword—such storms did not trouble him. The intention was clear: “When Xiang Zhuang dances the sword, his target is not the wine, but the Duke of Pei!” Everyone knew as much.

Dong Zhuo waved away his guards and strode forward, seizing a wine cup and draining it in one gulp. “Since Brother Zifan is in such high spirits today, why not let my men play along with you?” With a wave of both hands, the armored Xiliang troops surged forward.

Toes barely touching the ground, Zifan retreated swiftly!

His sword moved like a white serpent flicking its tongue, hissing through the air, or a swimming dragon weaving between bodies. Sometimes as light as a swallow, leaping with a touch of the blade; sometimes as sudden as lightning, scattering leaves in its wake—a silver streak rising in the courtyard, as if a celestial demon descended, a god of death among mortals.

Suddenly, a metallic clang rang out. Zifan turned to see two sword auras clash. A great Han warrior had drawn his blade to intervene. This man stood over seven feet tall, slender at the waist but broad at the shoulders, his features as though powdered, sword-shaped brows merging into his hairline, a pair of striking eyes clear as day and night, nose like carved jade, lips red as cinnabar, ears large, crowned with a gleaming silver headdress adorned with twin dragons and pearls that shone brilliantly, a pheasant tail plume waving behind—a truly imposing sight.

Like a fierce tiger crossing a river, Zifan unleashed his killing intent, his sword a roaming dragon... The blade flashed, but out of consideration for Dong Zhuo’s dignity, Zifan knew he must not press the matter too far and withdrew at the right moment.

With a swish, the sword tip hovered at a throat—a gasp echoed as the blade pointed directly at Dong Zhuo’s neck.

The sword trembled in Zifan’s hand, emitting a deafening hum, as if yearning for blood. Zifan feigned surprise and remorse, saying, “General Dong, forgive my poor skills and unintended offense.”

“Hold!” came shouts from all sides. “How dare you! Protect the general!” Xiliang soldiers swarmed forth, blades pressed against Zifan’s back—he could see the deadly edge at Dong Zhuo’s throat, but dared not act rashly.

The fighting around them ceased abruptly. The man in red robes—none other than Lü Bu, adopted son of Ding Yuan—had easily routed the Xiliang soldiers in his path, scattering them like leaves. In this critical moment, he stepped forth.

“General Dong’s life is precious—can you bear that responsibility?” Half intended for the Xiliang soldiers to dissuade them, half for Dong Zhuo himself—life is worth more than anything.

Sure enough, Dong Zhuo first froze, then burst into laughter, the enmity in his eyes fading, replaced by admiration for Zifan. His gaze kept drifting to Lü Bu, who had intervened. Clearly, Dong Zhuo’s schemes were already taking shape in his mind. Since Zifan could not be used, why not recruit this imposing Han warrior? Lü Bu’s heroic bearing marked him a rare general. “All stand down. I am unharmed.”

“Yes, sir!” The discipline of Dong Zhuo’s army was legendary; his authority absolute. The Xiliang troops withdrew like a receding tide, though their hands remained tight on their sword hilts, not daring to relax.

“This banquet has turned unpleasant enough. Let us discuss the matter of the throne another time, in the court.” Zifan gripped his sword, and with a wave of his right hand signaled the ministers to withdraw.

Zifan then bent to pick up a wine cup from the table, bowing deeply to Dong Zhuo. “General Dong, forgive my earlier offense,” he said, downing three cups in quick succession. Without another word, he strode out, all the while having devised his own countermeasures.

“System, purchase three thousand Iron Pagoda cavalry!” Sword in hand, Zifan focused all his attention—should Dong Zhuo utter the word “kill,” three thousand Iron Pagodas would instantly materialize among the Xiliang soldiers at the feast.

Ha... ha...! Dong Zhuo, sensing the shift, hurriedly ordered his men to let Zifan go. He then lifted his own cup and drank deeply.

Yet Dong Zhuo’s eyes remained fixed on Lü Bu. As Lü Bu stepped out of the grand hall, Dong Zhuo called him back—a warrior with his hair bound in a triple-pronged golden coronet, pheasant plume fluttering, clad in chain-linked armor, a crimson brocade robe from western Sichuan, and a lion-embroidered belt—a figure whose very presence declared his might. Dong Zhuo’s desire to win him over was plain for all to see.

The fate of those who offended Dong Zhuo was grim indeed. As Zifan set foot in the army camp at Youzhou, a messenger arrived with orders: General Wu Zifan, famed for his gallant achievements, is hereby dispatched to repel the Xiongnu, who have invaded Han territory with cavalry. This was, in truth, Dong Zhuo’s way of warning Zifan—though he admired the man’s character and could not bring himself to kill him, he wished to keep Zifan far from the capital, away from court affairs that might obstruct his own plans; thus, he drove Zifan out in a roundabout way.

Upon the vast, flat expanse between the borderlands and the Xiongnu, two lines of Han cavalry stretched as far as the eye could see, camped like a tide awaiting the enemy’s approach.

A high-ranking Han commander, yet to don his armor, patrolled the front lines atop his horse, sword and spear ever at his side—a habit he could not break. Suddenly, he halted, facing south, man and horse as one. The Han cavalry’s hooves had thundered from north to south, piercing an entire province. Their reputation for deadly skill was known not just across a province, but throughout the realm. Now, in this land, they would slay countless Xiongnu.

Leading them, Zifan raised his iron spear, pointing southward. “Those who dare come here, I will grind you all to dust!”