In the troubled years of the late Han, when the empire groaned under the weight of corruption and the land was carved apart by ambitious warlords, even the smallest villages could not escape the storm. Changshan, a modest settlement at the edge of Hebei's fertile plains, became one such place.
Here was born Zhao Yun, later called Zhao Zilong, whose spear would one day flash across battlefields like lightning. Yet before he became the stalwart guardian of emperors and the terror of enemy ranks, he was only a child, growing in a land where the sound of the plow was often drowned by the tramp of marching feet.
The chronicler writes: The roots of a hero are often watered by hardship. And so it was with Zilong.
The Village at Peace's Edge
The village lay among rice fields, cradled by low hills and crossed by a gentle river. It was a place where the rhythm of life had long followed the seasons. In spring, the farmers bent their backs beneath the sun, planting seeds with hope. In summer, children splashed in the river, their laughter carrying across the water. Autumn brought harvest and festivals, and in winter, snow lay quiet upon the rooftops.
But beyond these simple cycles, change stirred. Messengers brought tidings of armies clashing in distant provinces, of governors betraying governors, of Yellow Turban rebels rising and falling like waves against the rocks of imperial power.
Zilong's earliest years were blessed by the remnants of peace. He was a spirited child, broad shouldered even in youth, his dark eyes bright with curiosity. His playmates followed his lead when they wrestled in the fields or built wooden swords from branches. Yet what set him apart was not his strength, but the air about him calm, certain, as though even in childhood he bore the weight of unseen destiny.
Lady Wei, his mother, often looked upon him with both pride and sorrow. "You are not meant for a quiet life, my son," she whispered once as she traced the faint dragon shaped mark upon his chest. "Heaven does not grant such signs for nothing."
The First Soldiers
It was in Zilong's ninth year that soldiers first arrived. They wore tattered armor, their banners frayed, but they carried themselves with the arrogance of men who held power over farmers and peasants.
They demanded grain "in the name of the Han." Yet their eyes lingered hungrily upon livestock and tools, and their laughter carried no respect for the people whose fields they stripped bare.
Zilong watched as elders bent their heads and mothers clutched their children. He saw how the soldiers' spears gleamed in the sun, not as protectors' tools but as threats. That day he asked his mother, "Do soldiers always bring safety?"
Lady Wei answered with a weary smile: "Some bring safety. Some bring ruin. You must learn to see the difference, Zilong. One day, you may have to decide which kind you will be."
Chronicle Fragment – "Account of Han Yuan"
"The boy was quiet when soldiers came. Not fearful, not rash only watching. Already, his eyes were sharper than those of many grown men. He asked no foolish questions. It seemed to me he was listening, weighing, as though the burdens of leadership already pressed upon him."
Hunger in Changshan
The year that followed was cruel. The rains failed, and when they finally fell, they came in torrents, drowning the crops. Famine spread.
Children cried through the nights. Elders withered like autumn leaves. In the village square, families bartered scraps of food half a jar of millet for a cracked pot, a bundle of firewood for a single fish.
Zilong felt hunger as sharply as any child, but he bore it in silence. He labored beside grown men, carrying water to what little fields could be saved, splitting wood until blisters tore his hands. His mother often urged him to rest, but he refused.
One evening, he found a stray dog trembling near the village boundary. Its ribs showed like the slats of a broken basket. From his sleeve, Zilong produced the only food he had saved a small piece of flatbread. He placed it before the creature, which devoured it with grateful eyes.
When he returned home, his mother noticed the emptiness in his hands. She did not scold him. Instead, she said softly, "To give when you have little is the mark of a great heart. Remember this, Zilong generosity is strength."
The First Raid
Peace cracked fully when raiders came in Zilong's eleventh year.
At dawn, the village awoke to hoofbeats and shouts. A band of men, their armor piecemeal, their faces scarred, poured through the gates with fire and steel. They cut down those who resisted, seized grain stores, and set roofs ablaze.
Zilong's mother dragged him toward their home, but the boy broke free. In his hands he held a wooden staff, no more than a child's toy compared to the raiders' blades.
One rider, seeing him stand defiant, laughed and swung low with his sword. Zilong ducked and drove his staff upward into the horse's flank. The beast reared, throwing the raider to the ground.
For a moment, the boy stood tall, his eyes blazing. Villagers cried out in awe. But more raiders surged forward, and Lady Wei pulled him inside before he could be cut down.
The village burned, yet survived. The raiders left with plunder, but the memory of a boy standing unafraid against mounted men remained.
Chronicle Fragment – "Words of Elder Han Yuan"
"When the raiders came, the boy did not hide. I saw him strike a rider's horse with such force that the man fell. He was eleven no more! I tell you, Heaven marks this child. Courage beyond years, spirit beyond flesh. Such signs must not be ignored."
Lessons Under the Willow
In the raid's aftermath, Elder Han Yuan took Zilong under his wing. The old man, who had once served as a clerk in the provincial court, knew history and strategy well.
"Bravery is not enough," Han Yuan told him one afternoon as they sat beneath a willow tree whose branches swayed in the wind. "A fool may be brave and rush to his death. You must learn wisdom, restraint, patience. These are the handles of the sword. Without them, the blade cuts the one who wields it."
He told Zilong stories of past generals Guan Zhong, Sun Wu, and the defenders of the Han who had stood against barbarian invasions. Zilong listened, eyes wide, absorbing each tale as though it were a weapon being placed in his hand.
The Dragon's Dreams
That year, Zilong began to dream.
In sleep he saw skies painted crimson, a vast dragon coiling across the heavens. Its scales glimmered like molten steel, its eyes burned with fire. Sometimes it roared, shaking the very earth. Other times, it lowered its head to meet his gaze.
Each time he awoke, breath ragged, sweat cold upon his skin. Though he spoke of it to no one, he felt the truth settle in his chest like a stone his life was not his own. Heaven had cast him upon a path, and turmoil was its forge.
Chronicle Fragment – "Song of the Children"
Zhao Zilong, with stick in hand,Faced the raiders, made them stand.A boy no more, his eyes aflame,The dragon whispered him by name.
Fire Upon the Fields
The chronicles of Changshan often fall silent on the years when chaos seeped into the cracks of the land, but within those silences are stories the bamboo scrolls could not hold. It is in the testimony of survivors, the whispered accounts of elders, and the memories of a boy not yet grown that we find what truly transpired.
The Shadow of War Arrives
When Zhao Zilong was nine years old, the first soldiers came.
They did not march under banners of honor, nor with the precision of disciplined armies. They were deserters, marauders once men of service, now wolves in human skin. Driven by hunger and greed, they poured into villages, stripping them bare.
The village of Changshan was no exception.
"I remember the smoke first," old Yuan the miller would later recall. "It came over the horizon like a black river. The sound of hooves thundered through the earth, and before we knew it, the harvest was gone, trampled beneath boots and spears."
Zilong's mother clutched his hand that morning, pulling him into the shadow of their hut. "Do not run blindly," she whispered. "See first, then act."
Her words would linger with him all his life.
Through the cracks of the wooden door, Zilong saw the soldiers descend upon the fields, ripping apart granaries, seizing livestock, and striking down anyone who dared resist. The boy's heart pounded, his small frame trembling not from cowardice but from the raw electricity of seeing death so close.
Sparks of Defiance
Not all in the village yielded.
A group of farmers armed with nothing more than sickles, staffs, and sharpened hoes attempted to resist the plunder. Among them was Old Tian, the blacksmith whose forge had once given Zilong his first wooden practice spear.
"Back to your holes, rats!" a soldier sneered, raising his halberd.
Old Tian did not flinch. "This is our land, our rice. You will not take it."
The clash was brief and brutal. Villagers were cut down with ease. Old Tian, though strong, was pierced through the chest. He collapsed to his knees, his final gaze falling toward the huts where women and children hid.
Zilong watched, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. Tears stung his eyes, but beneath them burned something else a spark, sharp and fierce, that no child should have carried so young.
The Boy and the Blade
When the raiders turned toward the cluster of huts, Zilong's mother acted swiftly. She pushed her son toward the back window.
"Run to the riverbank," she ordered, her voice firm despite the terror around her. "Hide among the reeds until the sky clears."
But Zilong hesitated. His gaze fell upon the spear Old Tian had once carved for him its wood chipped, its point dulled by play. It leaned against the wall, a toy in peaceful times, yet in that moment it seemed to hum with urgency.
Zilong's hand reached for it.
Later, one raider would remember: "The boy's eyes gods, I will never forget them. Not the eyes of a child. They blazed as though a dragon coiled within him."
With trembling arms, Zilong darted from the hut and thrust the wooden spear at the nearest soldier. It struck only armor, splintering against iron, but the audacity of the act startled the marauder.
A boy defiant, unyielding.
The soldier raised his blade to end him. But before steel could fall, Zilong's mother hurled a pot of boiling water, searing the man's arm. She seized her son's wrist and pulled him back toward the riverbank.
They fled, hearts hammering, smoke and screams filling the air behind them.
Hunger and Hardship
In the weeks that followed, Changshan Village became a shell of itself. Homes lay in ashes, the fields barren. Survivors clung together, sharing what little remained.
Hunger gnawed at bellies, turning children's laughter into weak whimpers. Disease crept through stagnant waters. Each day, the shadow of another raid loomed.
Zilong, though still young, worked tirelessly. He gathered firewood, carried water, and tended to those wounded in the raids. But more than chores, he trained.
With a branch in hand, he practiced thrusts, sweeps, and blocks, imitating the movements he had once glimpsed from traveling soldiers. He moved until his arms burned, until blisters tore upon his palms.
"Why do you push yourself so hard?" his mother asked one evening as he staggered back, sweat dripping, lips cracked from thirst.
Zilong's gaze turned to the horizon, where smoke still sometimes rose. "Because if I cannot fight, we will all be taken."
The Bandits' Return
The marauders did not forget Changshan. Months later, they returned, emboldened by earlier victories.
This time, the villagers were ready.
Under the quiet guidance of Old Yuan and the surviving farmers, crude defenses had been built trenches, hidden pits, sharpened stakes. Young boys carried stones in slings, women held knives close to their chests.
And at the center, though still but a child, stood Zilong with his wooden spear.
The bandits laughed when they saw him.
"A child warrior?" one jeered. "Shall we bow to the little general?"
But when they charged, they found the village less pliable than before. Traps claimed horses, stones struck helmets, and though many villagers still fell, the raiders faced resistance they had not anticipated.
Zilong darted among them, using speed over strength. He struck at knees, jabbed at wrists, and when disarmed, hurled stones with startling accuracy. His bravery was reckless, but it bought precious moments for others to escape.
By nightfall, the raiders withdrew, cursing the stubborn village.
The Seeds of Destiny
The village survived, scarred but unbroken. Yet childhood for Zhao Zilong was forever lost.
He was no longer seen merely as a boy. Elders began to whisper of omens, recalling the crimson sky at his birth. Children looked to him with awe, not playfulness. Even hardened men, weary from toil, nodded with respect.
But it was his mother's words that etched deepest:
"You carry fire within you, Zilong. But fire must be guided, or it will burn everything it touches."
That night, Zilong lay beneath the stars. The fields were quiet, the river whispering nearby. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the day upon him, yet also a strange exhilaration.
For in the chaos, something had awakened within him a certainty that he was meant for more than survival.
Not yet a warrior, not yet a man, but already the path of the dragon stretched before him.
Chronicle's Note
Thus ended the earliest trials of Zhao Zilong's youth. Where other children knew games, he knew hunger and steel. Where others cried for protection, he raised his hand against grown men.
In this crucible of turmoil, a legend began not with triumph, but with defiance. Not with strength, but with resolve.
For the dragon's son is not forged in peace, but in fire.