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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 broken tiles, telling the tale of yesterday's chaos. The once orderly field ridges had now become a hasty camp for the Yellow Turban Army. A farmer's wife sat beside a collapsed wall, holding her crying child, staring blankly into the distance. She had not 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 a miracle she had managed to escape.
"The Azure Heaven is dead; the Yellow Heaven shall rise!" The shouts from last night echoed in her ears as soldiers wrapped in yellow turbans stormed into the village. They looted food, drove away 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, and their weapons were a mix of makeshift tools—some wielding their own sickles, others brandishing spears taken from enemies. A new recruit lowered his head, confusion etched on his face: "Did we really burn that village last night? Were they truly our enemies?"
An old soldier snorted derisively as he chewed on a hard, dry bun. "Don't think too much about it. In these times, whoever has food is the enemy. We steal from the Imperial Army and from the common people; if we don't steal, we won't survive. You see what Zhang Jiao, our great teacher, says—this is heaven's will; we must change our fate."
In the distance, a commander sat on horseback, listening to the murmurs of his soldiers. He gripped the reins tightly, his expression heavy with concern. These men were part of the Yellow Turban Army but were also common folk—people driven to take up arms out of desperation. They killed and stole out of necessity. Zhang Jiao was right; the old heavens had died, but this death was cruel—every drop of rain felt like blood, every gust of wind carried cries of anguish.
Further away in another village, the remaining villagers searched through the ruins for anything useful. A barefoot boy crouched in front of a collapsed thatched hut, digging frantically with his hands. His nails were worn down to nothing by dirt and stone; his hands were covered in blood, yet he paid it no mind. He was searching for his mother or at least for 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 slogan "The Azure Heaven is dead; the Yellow Heaven shall rise." This slogan acted like an invisible knife that cut through a society already suffering from hunger and cold, dividing everyone into two sides: followers or enemies.
Outside the village, the Yellow Turban Army marched forward relentlessly; flames and cries of battle echoed each night, gradually spreading throughout Youzhou and even beyond. They shouted "In this year of Jiazi, may all under heaven prosper," but for many common people, this "prosperity" was merely a deeper disaster.
The clash of blades roared like thunder as blood splattered across the muddy ground; severed limbs and cries filled the battlefield. The Yellow Turban Army wore tattered yellow cloth headscarves and simple armor; some even wore only short tunics like farmers. Their weapons varied wildly—from hoes to wooden sticks—but each soldier charged toward the heavily armored Imperial soldiers with wild determination. There was no fear in their eyes because behind them lay burnt villages, deceased loved ones, and their last glimmer of hope for survival.
The Imperial Army stood in orderly formation; their shield wall was like iron and their long spears stood tall against the advancing Yellow Turban Army. Yet even with armor for protection, fatigue and indifference marked the faces of many soldiers among them. Most had long since lost their passion or any belief in this war. The war drums thundered 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!" But his voice sounded hollow and empty; even he doubted whether anyone still believed those words.
A wave of assault from the Yellow Turban Army pierced through the spear formation; many bodies clad in yellow turbans fell to the ground. Yet more surged forward from behind them without regard for life or death—driven by anger and despair toward those soldiers representing a decaying court. A young Imperial soldier gripped his spear tightly and stabbed an old soldier from the Yellow Turban Army; as his opponent fell lifelessly to the ground, he froze in shock. The old soldier's face bore not hatred but an expression of relief. He looked at his bloodied hands filled with fear and helplessness.
On a distant hilltop stood a general clad in iron armor on horseback. He surveyed the battlefield as wave after wave of Yellow Turban soldiers crashed against his formation 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 if casualties exceed half we may not be able to fight again." T General He 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 destroy the Yellow Turbans, our merits will only be seized by those eunuchs!" With that he yanked on his horse's reins and pointed his sword toward the battlefield: "Let them waste their strength; after all, orders from the court have long since 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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