Chapter Five: My First Intimate Encounter with a World in Chaos

The northern lands at the end of the Han dynasty ought to have been painted with a deep, clear blue sky. Yet at this moment, the heavens hung grim and yellow, as if to signify that the long-suppressed chaos of war was far from truly abated.

It was Zhang Yu’s first time stepping beyond his family’s threshold, his first true stride into the world. Zhang Shiping and Madam Liu were reluctant to let their frail son venture outside, but after sixteen years of keeping him confined—and now, after his hard-won recovery—they could no longer deny him the simple wish to walk freely.

So, they arranged for the most skilled guard in the Zhang household, Zhang Biao, to accompany Zhang Yu closely. Four other attendants, each with their own talent, were dispatched in disguise among the crowd, silent protectors, their presence kept discreet.

Zhang Yu asked a servant for a coarse linen robe, donned it, and spent a long time before the mirror. At last, he took a bit of soft mud from the courtyard and smeared it carelessly across his fair face. When Zhang Shiping saw his son, once as radiant as jade, transformed so, he was first startled, then nodded in satisfaction, his gaze full of praise for Zhang Yu’s careful deliberation.

Zhang Yu stepped over the threshold and, together with Zhang Biao, turned into the street. Behind them, Zhang Shiping remained at the gates, watching intently. Soon, Madam Liu joined him.

“Shiping, he’s gone far enough, come inside,” she urged.

“You say that, but you’re just as anxious.”

“I’m so afraid… afraid that when I see Yu again, he’ll be as he once was.”

“He won’t. He is heaven’s gift to us—a treasure, precious enough to demand hardship and patience to obtain.”

Zhang Shiping placed an arm around Madam Liu’s shoulders, his voice gentle: “When we first met in Zhuo County, I was nothing but a penniless youth. Through years of toil and tribulation, we carved out what we have today. I have always believed that, as long as we are united in heart, no obstacle is insurmountable. Even after sixteen years of waiting, we have finally seen Yu awaken. Trust me, Yu will become clever—more clever than anyone. If he wishes to make his mark, I will give everything, even to ruin and poverty, to ensure my son lives freely!”

“Nonsense. If it’s ambition you want, my restless brother is enough. I only hope Yu can live a peaceful, happy life.”

The couple, bound together for two decades, exchanged a gentle smile. Madam Liu slowly leaned her head against Zhang Shiping’s shoulder, both gazing in the direction where Zhang Yu vanished. In the gloom, it seemed there was warmth greater than the sun.

Around them, maids and servants dared not openly spy; the boldest cast furtive glances before retreating back into the estate.

Yet Zhang Yu’s mood was far from serene.

The goddess Luo was his betrothed, Liu Bei his uncle by marriage, and he realized that from the moment he crossed into this world, he was inextricably bound to it. Joy and bewilderment mingled, prompting him to step outside and clear his mind.

But since leaving home, what he encountered most were disciples of the Beggar Gang.

Refugees were everywhere, driven and cursed by the local people of Zhongshan. Not only here—in every native’s eyes, these refugees were little more than marauding vermin, blamed for the Yellow Turban Rebellion that swept the land, and so, treated with no kindness.

Until the natives, too, were forced to wander.

People hurled objects and venomous words at them, as if they were the root of all the city’s turmoil. Yet the refugees, too, waited—waited for someone to throw them moldy grain or rotting vegetable leaves, so they might carry these scraps home to feed their waiting families.

They dared not walk openly in the streets, hiding instead in shadowed corners—faces sallow, skin stretched over bone.

Their eyes brimmed with longing, tinged perhaps with the stubborn will to survive.

But they were soulless.

Like walking corpses.

Zhang Yu noticed a little girl, filthy and frail.

She lingered with several adults. While the grown-ups fought bitterly over food, she could only watch, wide-eyed and bright, not yet hollowed by despair. She caught Zhang Yu’s gaze as he passed.

Instinctively, she rose and walked toward this elder brother, drawn to him as if something about his unfamiliar presence made her abandon all caution.

“Uncle Biao, give me the flatbread.”

“Young master, these refugees—”

“Hand it over.” Zhang Yu’s tone was not harsh, but brooked no refusal.

“Yes, sir.”

Taking the steaming bread from Zhang Biao, Zhang Yu offered it to the little girl. She hesitated, reaching out—just as—

“Yan, come back!”

One of the adults, disentangling himself from the brawl, called to her—a voice yet unbroken by age, a youth. The girl froze, her hand suspended between reaching and withdrawing.

The sturdy youth, as robust as any grown man, strode over in a few quick steps, pulling her back.

“Do you want to die? They’re all bad people. How could they be so kind? Have you forgotten how mother died?”

“But…”

“But nothing. If you want food, I’ll snatch it for you. Eat their food and you’ll lose your life!”

The little girl fell silent, clear tears streaming down her cheeks, turning to muddy tracks.

“You—won’t take it?”

“Bah! I won’t!”

“How dare you, brat, insult my young master!” Zhang Biao, quick-tempered, was incensed by the affront and moved to chastise the youth. Before Zhang Yu could intervene, the youth squared up, and their fists collided with a resounding force, dust swirling in the air.

The youth, struck, landed heavily on the ground. To Zhang Yu’s surprise, Zhang Biao staggered back several steps as well.

How young was this boy, and surely he had gone hungry for days? Zhang Biao was at the peak of his strength!

“Brother!” The girl cried, rushing to his side.

“Enough!” Zhang Yu called the pair to a halt, holding out the bread to the youth. “Why won’t you eat?”

“My mother died from eating the food you gave her!”

“I promise you,” Zhang Yu fixed his gaze on the youth’s eyes, solemn and earnest, “this time, nothing will happen.”

“Why should I believe you…” The boy wavered.

“Believe me or not, but she—” Zhang Yu pointed to the girl, “may not last much longer.”

Zhang Yu was no saint. He did not stay to see whether the siblings took the bread. In truth, he was seeking his own peace of mind.

The feeling was like a heavy stone lodged in his chest.

There was no such thing in novels, games, films, nor even in the chronicles of history—where all is sketched in a single line.

History books would only record: “The Yellow Turban Rebellion was a famous peasant uprising in our nation’s history. Though ultimately defeated, it left a rich legacy, struck a heavy blow against the Eastern Han dynasty, and broadcast the spirit and noble character of the rebels to the world.”

Songs only sang: “The end of the Han, three kingdoms divide, flames of war unceasing.”

A soft sigh, slow and sorrowful.

Zhang Yu continued onward, walking until dusk, his mind filled with images of the refugees, unmoved even by the ancient charm of the streets. Looking up, he wondered if the distant walls belonged to Zhongshan’s city—they were neither grand nor imposing, merely a crude barrier, keeping outsiders out and the trapped within.

Several battlements were damaged and collapsed, emblematic of the turbulent end of four hundred years.

Like a stone cast into a lake, the Yellow Turban Rebellion stirred but a small ripple upon the Han empire. Yet that stone struck the dragon slumbering beneath the waters.

The dragon awoke, the dragon roared, and as it churned the waves beneath its power, the real storm was only beginning.

The air was thick with myriad scents—the dust of warhorses, the salt of tears, the stickiness of blood, the sorrow of countless exiles, and the pain of those forced to theft. Breathing became difficult for Zhang Yu.

Returning the way he had come, he found more than a dozen refugees gathered where he had given bread to the siblings.

“Young master, to put it plainly, these people are like wild dogs. Show them kindness and they’ll cling to you! Please step back, let me drive them away!”

With that, Zhang Biao prepared to defend, the four attendants closing in.

Thump!

Thump! Thump!

Instead of the expected robbery, the dozen refugees all knelt before Zhang Yu.

“Sir, please grant us another mouthful of food. My mother hasn’t eaten for two days, she’s barely holding on!”

“We heard the brave man call you ‘young master.’ Surely you have more food. Please, just one more piece—half is enough!”

Zhang Yu trembled. Since crossing into this world, his tears had not ceased. He wanted to help them—even in his previous life, in the modern era, seeing a starving soul rooting through garbage left him heartsick, let alone witnessing such scenes firsthand.

But he could not do it. Give one loaf, and a second mouth waits. How many people are there in the world? How could he save them all?

Just as Zhang Yu steeled himself to leave, an old man struggled up from the crowd and cried, “I offer this wretched life in exchange for a mouthful of your food for my son!”

Before anyone could react, the white-haired elder smashed his head against the nearby wall, blood pouring, silent forever.

“Father—!”

“Zhang Biao!”

“…Present.”

“Open the granary.”