"Who is Zhang Xin?"
"A surrendered Yellow Turban general. Low-born."
Even after crushing barbarian forces and stabilizing the borders… even as a disciple of Cai Yong… in the eyes of the great aristocratic clans, Zhang Xin was still nothing more than a fortunate upstart.
Zhang Xin knew this well.
The scholars under his command had not come willingly. Xun You had been poached. Hua Xin intercepted. Others only arrived because of recommendation letters—or were simply recruited.
To the noble families, Zhang Xin was like a street rogue:
Offer him a position? Fine, he'll take it.Don't? Doesn't matter.
No one sought him out.
Until now.
At Huayin, everything changed.
The moment Zhang Xin's army arrived, the great families within the city opened the gates and surrendered.
Among them—Yang Biao.
A man of stature. A pillar of the court.
And he came willingly.
Zhang Xin stood atop the city walls, looking out over Huayin, a smile slowly spreading across his face.
"So… I am finally known across the realm."
But he did not relax.
Because he knew—
Dong Zhuo would come.
Huayin was no ordinary place.
South lay the rugged extensions of the Qinling Mountains. North flowed the Wei River. The city sat between natural barriers—defensible, but not invulnerable.
With Yang Biao's guidance, Zhang Xin immediately began preparations.
Xu Huang was sent with two thousand men into the southern hills to guard hidden paths.
Zhu Ling took one thousand to garrison Fengling Ford—their lifeline of retreat.
Zhao Yun remained in the city, commanding the household troops and securing internal stability.
And Zhang Xin himself?
He built a fortified camp outside the city.
Because he understood Dong Zhuo's thinking perfectly:
Break the camp. Drive Zhang Xin into the city. Surround and starve him. Cut off Fengling Ford.
A clean, crushing strategy.
But only—if the camp fell.
Zhang Xin prepared for war.
Weapons were seized from surrendered troops. Officers were separated from soldiers. Armor was redistributed carefully.
Of eight thousand troops, five thousand remained in the camp:
1,500 armored soldiers 3,500 regular troops
With fortifications and supplies from the city's elite families, Zhang Xin calculated calmly:
Three days.
That was all he needed.
Three days… until Yu Jin arrived.
The answer came swiftly.
On the fifteenth day of the first lunar month—
Dong Zhuo arrived.
No speeches.
No hesitation.
His gaze fixed on the massive banner rising above the camp:
"Han Marquis Xuanwei — Zhang Xin."
His expression darkened.
"Attack."
The battlefield ignited.
Arrows darkened the sky.
Zhang Xin's men raised crude wooden shields, hastily crafted—but enough.
Scaling ladders slammed against the camp walls.
But at the front—
Dian Wei.
Yue Jin.
Like iron gates, they held.
Again and again, Dong Zhuo's soldiers climbed—
And again and again, they were thrown down.
The first day ended in failure.
Dong Zhuo withdrew ten li, setting camp.
Inside the city, Yang Biao wasted no time—sending supplies and men to repair the damaged defenses.
Night fell.
Zhang Xin did not sleep.
He placed Yue Jin with two thousand men in ambush outside the camp, while he himself stood watch atop the tower.
But the night passed in silence.
Only at dawn did Yue Jin return.
Only then… did Zhang Xin allow himself a brief moment of rest.
He was awakened not long after.
Dong Zhuo had returned.
On the city wall, Yang Biao watched with pale anxiety.
"General Zhao… should we not send reinforcements?"
Zhao Yun stood calm, hands behind his back.
"If my lord has not called for aid—he does not need it."
"But look!"
Yang Biao pointed, voice trembling.
"Dong Zhuo's men have already climbed the walls!"
Zhao Yun only smiled faintly.
"Then watch closely."
What happened next—
Yang Biao would never forget.
Zhang Xin descended from the watchtower.
Gathered several hundred men.
Opened the gates—
And charged out.
"Madness…" Yang Biao whispered, his heart pounding.
Zhang Xin led from the front, spear in hand, charging straight toward the enemy.
Two officers from Dong Zhuo's army rode out to intercept.
Five paces.
Zhang Xin lifted his hand—
One officer dropped from his horse.
Dead.
The second hesitated—
Too slow.
Zhang Xin's spear struck like lightning, piercing through armor and flesh, throwing him from the saddle.
"LORD IS MIGHTY!"
The shout erupted like thunder.
Inside the camp—outside the camp—
Men who saw it roared.
Men who didn't… roared anyway.
Morale surged like a tidal wave.
Zhang Xin pressed forward.
Using shields as cover, his men stabbed upward—striking at the exposed backs of soldiers climbing the walls.
Chaos spread through Dong Zhuo's ranks.
On the walls—
Dian Wei roared.
Yue Jin surged forward.
The defenders counterattacked with ferocity.
The tide turned.
From afar, Dong Zhuo watched—
His face dark as iron.
At last—
The gong sounded.
Retreat.
For the second time—
He had failed.
And across the battlefield, beneath the snapping banner of "Han Marquis Xuanwei"—
Zhang Xin stood unshaken.