Chapter Thirty-Five: Slaying a Father, Accepting Another

Wen You’s words last night were absolutely true. I, Lu Bu, am no longer young, and to this day, I have achieved nothing. For over ten years, I have fought on the battlefield for Ding Yuan. Though Ding Yuan treats me like his own son, I still remain a mere subordinate general. Is this truly where my superior martial skills have led me? Thinking thus, Lu Bu was overcome with grief, tears streaming down his face. Even a mighty warrior has moments of sorrow, his heart unwilling to accept such a fate.

Li Ru, observing this scene, his eyes flickered and he quickly put on a gentle smile tinged with subtle sadness. He stepped forward, patting Lu Bu on the shoulder.

“A true man rises from where he has fallen. In my view, my worthy brother, your martial prowess is unmatched, your character peerless. It is truly a pity that you remain a mere subordinate general. What you lack is not skill, but a true patron who recognizes your worth. My lord Dong Zhuo is that very patron.”

“My lord Dong Zhuo cherishes talent above all. If you were to join the Xiliang army, it would be like a fish taking to water, a tiger gaining wings. In the future, you would surely be showered with rank and riches.” Li Ru fanned himself with a folding fan, smiling as he offered Lu Bu a pot of warm tea.

“But… but… Ding Yuan is my father. To bear the infamy of patricide…” Lu Bu drained the cup, a trace of hesitation on his face.

“Haha! Though Ding Yuan is your father, it is but a relationship of mutual benefit; besides, he is not your real father. How could there be talk of patricide? Rest assured, my worthy brother.” Encouraged by Li Ru’s words, Lu Bu nodded in agreement.

“Since you have joined our Xiliang army, you will certainly thrive. The Grand Chancellor has taken a particular liking to you and sends you a precious steed as a sign of his determination. This fine horse, capable of running a thousand miles a day, crossing rivers and mountains as if on level ground, is named Red Hare. It is presented to you, my brother, to aid your might.”

Lu Bu was overjoyed and hurried over to examine the horse. Indeed, the steed’s entire coat was fiery as burning coals, without a single blemish; from head to tail, it measured over ten feet, and from hoof to neck, eight feet high. Its neighing sounded as if it could leap into the sea and soar into the sky.

The name Red Hare originated from a legendary horse called Flying Hare in pre-Qin mythology. In legend, the Flying Hare could cover thirty thousand miles a day, and Red Hare was a nickname for the “Red Flying Hare.”

A hero deserves a fine steed. For a warrior, a horse is a second life, the sole companion and utterly trustworthy partner on the battlefield. Given such a horse, how could Lu Bu not try it out himself?

“Excellent! Excellent! My worthy brother truly is a peerless hero! Such a fine horse can only be put to its greatest use in your care. Truly, among men there is Lu Bu, and among horses, Red Hare!” Li Ru continued to flatter Lu Bu with great enthusiasm.

“I must ask you, brother, to speak well of me before the Grand Chancellor. I, Lu Bu, will present him with Ding Yuan’s head as a gift.” Buoyed by the praise, Lu Bu grew even more pleased with himself.

Night fell…

Lu Bu, sword in hand, entered Ding Yuan’s tent. Ding Yuan was reading by candlelight and, seeing Lu Bu enter, set aside his book with fatherly warmth. “My son, what brings you to me?”

Without a word, Lu Bu narrowed his eyes, strode forward, and with a single stroke, severed Ding Yuan’s head, showing not a trace of regret. Exiting Ding Yuan’s camp, Lu Bu called his attendants, stood atop a large stone, and raised Ding Yuan’s head high: “Ding Yuan was unjust; I have killed him. Those willing to follow me, stay. Those unwilling, may leave.”

Though Ding Yuan was a regional lord who led his troops with diligence and was strict but never abusive, always paying his men on time and never shortchanging them, most of his soldiers scattered at once.

Some long-time followers of Ding Yuan hurled curses at Lu Bu, calling him a wretch for killing his own father. Unable to bear such humiliation, Lu Bu ordered his men to execute them all.

The next day, Lu Bu took Ding Yuan’s head to Dong Zhuo. Dong Zhuo was overjoyed. Now that Ding Yuan was dead and Zifan had been exiled to a remote region, no one could oppose him. The situation now turned in his favor. All that remained was to await the arrival of reinforcements led by Hu Zhen and others to surround Luoyang. Whether by coercion or threat, or by ruthless punishment, everything would be at Dong Zhuo’s whim.

Dong Zhuo immediately held a grand banquet to welcome Lu Bu. It must be said, Lu Bu’s speed in changing fathers was unprecedented. Whoever benefitted him, he would recognize as his own. Lu Bu knelt and declared, “If the Grand Tutor does not despise me, I wish to recognize you as my foster father. Hereafter, I shall ride into battle and expand your domain.”

“Ha ha ha! My son, quickly rise… My son Fengxian, rise!” Dong Zhuo laughed as he personally helped his new foster son up. Meanwhile, the blood on Ding Yuan’s severed head had yet to fully coagulate. Though Lu Bu had foreseen patricide, in Dong Zhuo’s eyes, it was merely a sign that Ding Yuan lacked cunning and adaptability. A ferocious tiger like Lu Bu could be tamed to perfection, and with such a tiger, the fame of the Xiliang army would spread far and wide. Yet Dong Zhuo forgot… this was a man-eating tiger, one that left not even the bones behind.

“Since you are now my foster son, I cannot be stingy. You must have a proper gift.” Dong Zhuo appointed Lu Bu as a Colonel of the Middle Army…

Placed in command of an elite regiment of Xiliang cavalry…

With a single word from Dong Zhuo, Lu Bu’s fortunes soared. In an instant, he leapt from an unknown, low-ranking officer to a fourth-rank Colonel of the Middle Army, a meteoric rise.

Congratulations poured in for Dong Zhuo on gaining a foster son. The generals flocked to offer their praises, for flattery was an art—done well, it could pave the way to promotion; if not, it at least made them familiar faces in Dong Zhuo’s eyes. Now, Dong Zhuo’s influence far outshone that of the young emperor.

Ding Yuan’s severed head was hung above the gates of Luoyang. Once a mighty minister, now reduced to a gory, lifeless head, never to regain his former glory. The head swayed gently in the cold wind, as if voicing unspoken grievances. The once-bright eyes, now dull and wide open, brimmed with disbelief. He could never have imagined his own son would kill him with his own hands, let alone for the sake of rank and riches.

And so, Ding Yuan died without understanding, and the last army capable of opposing Dong Zhuo was utterly destroyed. Ding Yuan was defeated by his trust in Lu Bu and, even more so, by his own blindness—making Lu Bu his son. What cruel irony!

Ding Yuan’s head hung above the city gate—a renewed warning from Dong Zhuo, plainly telling the court’s high ministers, “No one can stop me now. Don’t bother struggling. Just wait for death.”

A great commotion swept through the court and the land; their last pillar of support had collapsed. Some old ministers wailed in despair, lamenting why Heaven would not grant Han another chance to rise. Others quietly brought gifts to pay their respects to Dong Zhuo. Grand Minister Wang Yun wiped away his tears, but his chest remained proudly upright—the spirit in his heart had not yet been extinguished. The Han dynasty would forever be the Han in his heart.

The Han shall never perish…