"Very well," Zhang Xin said at last, his voice steady as iron striking stone. "Wentai, the vanguard is yours."
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then—
"Thank you, my lord!"
Sun Jian dropped to one knee, fists clasped, his eyes blazing like a war drum before the storm. This—this was what he had waited for.
While Zhang Xin's banners carved victory after victory across the land, while Dong Zhuo was driven like a beaten cur back toward Chang'an, Sun Jian had known only frustration. No glory. No merit. Only the bitter taste of missed battles.
Now, at last, the gates of war opened for him.
In his mind, the enemy was already broken—Dong Zhuo's soldiers were nothing more than scattered dogs, trembling beneath heaven's wrath. To be named vanguard now was not merely trust.
It was opportunity.
It was destiny.
The council dispersed soon after, but the machinery of war did not rest.
Sun Jian dispatched Sun Jing southward, riding hard toward Nanyang to demand grain and fodder from Yuan Shu. Zhang Xin, bearing the authority of Vice Alliance Leader, penned his own letter to reinforce the demand—cold ink carrying the weight of command.
Then he summoned Cao Cao.
The three men rode together into Luoyang.
What they found was not a capital.
It was a corpse.
Ash drifted through the wind like the remnants of a fallen age. Broken walls leaned like the bones of giants. The streets—once filled with silk and laughter—were now choked with rot and silence.
Sun Jian's jaw tightened.
"Dong Zhuo… that beast," he growled, voice thick with fury. "He deserves to be flayed alive."
He remembered this city—alive, radiant, breathing with the pulse of the empire.
Now it was a grave.
Cao Cao's gaze darkened as he surveyed the ruin. "His crimes stain the heavens."
Zhang Xin said nothing.
He simply led them forward.
To the eastern altars.
To the sacred grounds of state and ancestors.
There, amid dust and ruin, they cleared the debris with their own hands. Water washed over stone long defiled. Incense rose once more into the silent sky.
They knelt.
They prayed.
To Heaven.
To Earth.
To the emperors who had once ruled from this shattered throne.
Cao Cao murmured solemn invocations. Sun Jian bowed deeply, his voice fierce with reverence.
Zhang Xin stood between them—
—and for a fleeting moment, something strange flickered in his mind.
A melody.
Faint. Distant. Out of place.
Gone as quickly as it came.
When the rites ended, Cao Cao departed to drill his five thousand volunteers, forging discipline out of raw ambition.
Sun Jian turned to leave as well—
"Wentai."
Zhang Xin's voice stopped him.
He turned. "My lord?"
Zhang Xin placed his hands on his hips, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
"Let's fight."
Sun Jian blinked.
Then grinned.
"Good!" he said instantly. "Who's the opponent? Zhao Yun? Zhang Liao?"
Zhang Xin pointed at himself.
"…My lord?"
There was hesitation now.
Respect, carefully wrapped around doubt.
"You command armies like a god," Sun Jian said cautiously. "But in personal combat…"
"Afraid?" Zhang Xin smirked. "I slew Hua Xiong myself."
A pause.
Then—
Impact.
A dull, brutal sound.
A sharp cry.
Zhang Xin staggered away, clutching his backside, limping like a man who had just challenged reality and lost.
Behind him, Sun Jian exhaled slowly.
"…My lord, are you alright?"
Zhang Xin waved him off without turning back.
Dignity, once lost, could not be recovered.
Moments later—
Sun Jian, too, limped away.
Gripping his thigh.
Face pale.
"…His techniques… are vicious," he muttered under his breath. "This was a spar, not a battlefield…"
A hiss of pain escaped him.
"…Good thing I already have heirs."
War resumed its rhythm.
Zhang Xin sent urgent letters to Yang Feng and Niu Fu. Outside Luoyang, fifty thousand troops encamped like a steel forest.
By day—they rebuilt the dead city.
By night—they forged discipline, spreading strict military law and principles that bound soldiers tighter than chains.
Order from chaos.
Purpose from ruin.
Days later, thunder returned in the form of hooves.
Sun Jing rode in at full speed, dust trailing behind him like a comet's tail.
"Yuan Shu has agreed!" he announced. "Three hundred thousand piculs of grain!"
The army stirred.
The time had come.
Sun Jian wasted no breath.
"I request to march!"
Cao Cao stepped forward as well. "I will accompany him."
Zhang Xin looked at them both—then laughed softly, waving his hand.
"Go. All of you."
Sun Jian's expression twitched.
Of all the reinforcements…
Him?
If Zhang Xin had sent Zhao Yun—or even Zhang Liao—this campaign would be ironclad.
But Cao Cao?
…A man of schemes.
Not war.
Still, alliance duty bound him. Refusal was impossible.
"Very well," Sun Jian said stiffly.
No rigid orders were given.
Zhang Xin trusted him.
But before departure, he spoke once more—quiet, deliberate.
"Wentai… who guards your rear?"
Sun Jian frowned. "Yu Province is far from the front. Why worry?"
Zhang Xin's gaze sharpened.
"A distant campaign leaves emptiness behind. Your soldiers—many are from Yu Province. If it falls… their hearts will follow."
The words struck deep.
Momentum could be shattered not by steel—but by doubt.
After a long pause, Sun Jian nodded.
"You're right."
He turned immediately, issuing commands. Sun Jing would take ten thousand men back to Yingchuan, securing Yu Province against unrest and opportunists alike.
Better fewer troops at the front than a broken army behind.
At last—
the path was set.
Wine was brought forth.
Cups were raised beneath the fading light of a wounded capital.
"May you shatter the enemy," Zhang Xin said, voice calm yet carrying the weight of command.
Sun Jian stood, lifting his cup high.
"I will not fail!"
His voice rang like thunder.
"I will carve open the road to the west—for you to enter Chang'an!"
The wind rose.
Banners unfurled.
Steel sang.
From the ashes of Luoyang—
an army began to move.
"Advance west!"