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墨書 Inktalez
In the ruined village, thick smoke continued to rise slowly. The scorched earth was littered with firewood and shattered tiles, telling tales of yesterday's chaos. Once neatly arranged fields had now become a hasty camp for the Yellow Turban Army. A peasant woman sat beside a collapsed wall, holding her crying child, staring blankly into the distance. She hadn't eaten for two days; her husband had been conscripted into the Imperial Army and had not returned, and her village had been attacked by the Yellow Turban Army last night. It was already a miracle that she managed to escape.
"The Azure Heaven is dead; the Yellow Heaven shall rise!" The cries from last night still echoed in her ears as soldiers wrapped in yellow turbans stormed into the village. They seized food, drove away the villagers, and set fire to homes that held nothing of value. Among these soldiers were young farmers and elderly men. Their eyes held no hatred, only numbness and despair. Someone whispered to a companion, "We are just like them, merely farmers. But to survive, we must first steal; otherwise, we will starve to death sooner or later."
At the other end of the camp, a few soldiers sat around a fire. Their clothes were tattered, their weapons a mix of makeshift tools—some wielding their own sickles while others carried spears taken from enemies. A new recruit lowered his head, confusion etched on his face: "Last night we burned that village; were they really our enemies?"
An old soldier snorted disdainfully as he gnawed on a hard, dry bun. "Don't think too much about it. In these times, whoever has food is the enemy. We rob from the Imperial Army and from the common folk; if we don't steal, we can't survive. Just look at what Zhang Jiao says—this is heaven's will; we must change our fate to live."
In the distance, a commander sat on horseback, listening to the murmurs of his soldiers. He tightened his grip on the reins, his expression heavy. These men were part of the Yellow Turban Army but also common folk—people who had taken up arms out of desperation. They killed and stole out of necessity. Zhang Jiao was right; heaven had died, but its death was cruel—every drop of rain felt like blood, every gust of wind carried cries of sorrow.
Further away in another village, the remaining townsfolk searched through the ruins for anything useful. A barefoot boy crouched in front of a collapsed thatched house, digging with his hands tirelessly. His nails had long been worn down by dirt and stone, and his hands were covered in blood, yet he paid no mind to it. He was looking for his mother or at least her body. Beside him stood an old farmer clutching a broken tile, murmuring, "The court doesn't care about us; our whole family is doomed..."
A flag of the Yellow Turban Army fluttered in the wind, emblazoned with the words "The Azure Heaven is dead; the Yellow Heaven shall rise." This slogan was like an invisible knife that cut through a society already ravaged by hunger and cold, dividing everyone into two sides: followers or enemies.
Outside the village, the march of the Yellow Turban Army continued forward; flames and cries echoed each night, gradually spreading throughout Youzhou and even further afield. They shouted "In this year of Jiazi, all under heaven shall prosper," but this "prosperity" was merely a deeper disaster for many common people.
The sounds of clashing weapons thundered like rolling thunder as blood splattered across the muddy ground; limbs and cries filled the battlefield. The Yellow Turban Army wore tattered yellow headscarves and simple armor; some even donned only short farmer's tunics. Their weapons varied wildly—from hoes to wooden sticks—but each soldier charged toward the heavily armored troops of the court with a frenzied determination. There was no fear in their eyes because behind them lay burned villages, deceased loved ones, and their last glimmer of hope for survival.
The Imperial Army stood in orderly ranks; their shield wall was as solid as iron with pikes raised high to block the advance of the Yellow Turban Army. However, despite their armor protection, fatigue and indifference marked their faces. Most had long lost their passion or any belief in this war. The war drums boomed from atop a platform as a low-ranking officer shouted from behind the shield wall: "By order of the court, those who kill bandits will be richly rewarded! Those who disobey will face military law!" Yet this voice sounded hollow and empty; even he doubted if anyone still believed those words.
A wave of assault from the Yellow Turban Army pierced through the spear formation as many bodies clad in yellow turbans fell to the ground; however, more surged forth from behind them without regard for life or death—only driven by anger and despair toward those soldiers representing a decaying court. A young Imperial Soldier thrust his spear into an old soldier from the Yellow Turban Army; as he fell lifelessly to the ground, he froze in shock at what he had done. The old soldier's face bore not hatred but an expression of relief. The young soldier stared at his blood-soaked hands filled with fear and helplessness.
On a distant hilltop stood a general clad in iron armor atop his horse. He surveyed the battlefield as waves of Yellow Turban soldiers crashed against his lines without any sign of emotion on his face. His deputy approached him quietly and said, "General, if we continue fighting we can hold our ground but losing half our forces may leave us unable to fight again." The general coldly replied, "What does it matter if we hold? The court doesn't care about these lands at all; if I weren't here to command it would have fallen into bandit hands long ago! Even if we defeat the Yellow Turbans, our merits will be snatched away by those eunuchs!" With that said he yanked on his horse's reins and pointed his sword toward the battlefield: "Let them tire themselves out; after all, orders from above have long lost their meaning."
On the other side, a middle-aged general sat alone in his tent, drinking wine as the distant sound of war drums echoed. He merely smiled faintly, as if this war had nothing to do with him. His loyal soldier reported softly, "General, should we send reinforcements to the front lines?" He waved his hand dismissively, a hint of mockery in his tone. "Let them fight it out until both sides are exhausted. We will see how the situation unfolds. The court has long since collapsed; the emperor's command is nothing but a joke. In times of chaos, only the strong can survive."
The loyal soldiers watched all of this, feeling a deep sense of helplessness. Each charge on the battlefield, each clash of blades, was for the sake of power struggles that did not concern them. Yet their efforts were met with cold indifference and neglect from those above. One comrade after another fell, their weapons growing heavier in their hands, and the sounds of battle became distant. Some swung their swords numbly, while others thrust their spears with closed eyes, even questioning themselves in their hearts: "For what? What is all this for?"
The flames of war spread across the Central Plains like a raging wildfire. The Yellow Turban Army surged like a tide from all directions, countless towns fell, and numerous villages turned to ashes. Each counterattack by the Imperial Army felt like struggling in the mud. The blood of loyal soldiers stained every piece of land, while scheming warlords sneered in their power plays. This war was no longer just a confrontation between the Yellow Turbans and the court; it had become a silent elegy of good and evil, human hearts and despair.
The Yellow Turban Rebellion burned like wildfire, consuming the Central Plains. Each battle deepened the scars on this land; the court's orders seemed to have lost their power. Officials and generals acted independently—some passively observing while others seized opportunities to expand their influence. Loyal soldiers fought desperately, but countless sacrifices yielded only a corrupt court and a fractured army. In this chaotic era, everyone's fate began to change.
Youzhou was not spared from this catastrophe.
News arrived that Zhang Jiao's army was already approaching Youzhou's borders. Youzhou Governor Liu Yan sat in the main hall, listening to his subordinates report. His once handsome face now appeared grim with worry. He was a member of the Han Dynasty royal family, hailing from Jiang Xia and Jingling, born into nobility and known for his talents. However, faced with the overwhelming momentum of the Yellow Turban Army, he could not help but feel powerless.
" Honorable Duke," Colonel Zou Jing said firmly from below, "the Yellow Turban Rebels are gaining strength; wherever they go, the Imperial Army is collapsing. Our forces in Youzhou are already weak; if we do not take action soon, we may struggle to resist."
After pondering for a moment, Liu Yan finally nodded. "Let it be as you say; quickly issue a call to recruit the Righteous Army and spread it across all counties. Command brave men to come forth!"
The recruitment notice was soon posted throughout Youzhou. In villages and towns, people paused to read it aloud. The notice stated: "The Yellow Turbans are rebels invading our territory and endangering our people. Today, Youzhou Governor Liu Yan recruits the Righteous Army to combat these rebels. Anyone with courage may gather at Zhuo County to protect our homeland and its people; those who succeed will be richly rewarded!" Each line was written with deliberate force as if trying to ignite the blood within people's hearts.
When the notice reached Zhuo County—where flames of war were about to ignite—crowds gathered outside the county office. Some whispered among themselves while others hesitated with uncertainty. Suddenly, a deep and steady voice rang out among them: "If heaven has no way, then people must strengthen themselves! How can we allow the Yellow Turbans to rampage unchecked?"
The crowd turned toward the voice; it belonged to a tall young man with a resolute expression. Dressed in simple cloth garments yet exuding an extraordinary spirit, he gazed at the notice with unwavering determination in his eyes. This man was none other than Liu Bei—a hidden hero of Zhuo County.
In this chaotic era, legends were beginning to take shape on this land, and Liu Bei would be one of its most important figures.
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