Around 2,000 years ago, in the waning years of the Eastern Han Dynasty, the imperial capital lay engulfed in blood and fire. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and the metallic tang of spilled blood, trembling under the weight of treachery.
At the heart of this turmoil stood the Ten Eunuchs, a cabal of power-hungry schemers who had woven themselves into the very fabric of the imperial court. Cloaked in silken robes but harboring venomous hearts, they manipulated emperors, queens, and concubines alike, tightening their grip on the crumbling empire.
The imperial court, wary of their growing influence, conspired with the Grand General to rid the dynasty of these eunuch overlords. But the eunuchs struck first. With a web of deceit already spun, they orchestrated the Grand General's assassination, turning the palace into a battleground. Marble floors ran red as chaos erupted.
Among the Grand General's lieutenants stood the infamous warlord Cao Cao and his vengeful comrades. With swords drawn and banners raised, their forces stormed the palace, their boots pounding like thunder against stone. They vowed to purge the treacherous usurpers who had strangled the empire in their iron grasp.
But the eunuchs would not surrender. In a final act of defiance, they seized the newly enthroned emperor and his brother, the King of Chenliu, vanishing into corridors wreathed in smoke and flame, determined to escape the fate that loomed over them.
The capital trembled. Whispers of fear rustled through the streets like dry leaves before a storm.
From the west, Dong Zhuo, governor of Liang Province, caught wind of the chaos. Under the hollow banner of loyalty to the throne, he marched with two hundred thousand iron-clad riders, their hooves turning the earth into a blood-soaked mire. Swords flashed like lightning beneath a storm-wracked sky, and rivers ran red.
The rebellious eunuchs fell beneath his blades, their severed heads rolling in the dust. But his wrath did not stop there. Anyone tainted by association with the Ten Eunuchs—be they palace maids, commoners, or even beardless officials—met the same fate. Death spread like a plague, consuming a city once radiant with prosperity, leaving only ashes and despair in its wake.
Worse still were his men. Hardened by years on the frigid frontier, guarding endless plains of sand and desolation, the soldiers of Liang were beasts barely leashed. In their barren outposts, even a sow was a rarity; now, thrust into this perfumed paradise of slender waists and kohl-rimmed eyes, they became unhinged. Lips stained with rouge parted in screams as the soldiers descended, their hands clawing at silk, their snarls drowning out pleas. The streets, once alive with the hum of merchants and laughter, turned into a hellscape of ravening lust—each corner a stage for their primal frenzy.
At the heart of this depravity loomed Dong Zhuo, a colossus of chaos, the warlord who birthed this storm of debauchery.
His frame was a mountain of flesh, broad and unyielding, his chest matted with coarse hair like a beast's pelt. His breath rasped, heavy with the stink of wine and years of excess, his skin gleaming with a greasy sheen, swollen and slick as if slathered in fat. Even amidst the demands of war, he indulged without restraint. Each night, a harem of naked beauties attended him—their skin soft as jade, their warmth a fragrant balm against his bulk. His hands, vast as fans woven from reeds, roamed their trembling bodies, kneading tender flesh with a predator's delight. He savored their quivering sobs, the way their voices broke under his touch, but more intoxicating still was the shuddering submission they offered—forced beneath the weight of his power, their gasps a melody to his twisted soul.
Yet it was not enough.
Dong Zhuo held the capital in his iron fist, his authority a towering shadow over the land, and still his greed gnawed at him. His eyes, bloodshot and ravenous, lingered not just on the curves of women but on greater prizes: the young emperor Liu Bian, the King of Chenliu Liu Xie, and the very throne of the Han itself. The empire was his to plunder, and he meant to claim it all—body, soul, and crown.
But in the flickering shadows of this brutal game, another player watched. Wang Yun, a minister of the court, his mind a labyrinth of cunning, stood poised like a spider at the edge of its web. His face betrayed nothing, but beneath his calm, a storm brewed—a plan as beautiful as it was lethal.
The beauty trap was about to unfurl.