Chapter Twenty-Two: Undercurrents

The manifesto against Dong Zhuo, stirring and impassioned, filled readers with boiling blood. Beyond the various warlords, even common folk discussed its contents, while scholars saw in it the chaos engulfing the realm. Those with insight began to ponder their own ambitions.

In Yingchuan, Yuzhou—a place that was the capital of the first dynasty, Great Xia, thousands of years before this era—political, economic, and cultural life had flourished, earning it the title “cradle of Chinese civilization.” Even now, Yingchuan retained deep roots, embodied by the famed Yingchuan Academy, revered as a sanctum for scholars across the land.

The academy was housed in a modest estate belonging to the Xun family, one of Yingchuan’s great clans. There were no towering walls, gilded signboards, or brass beast-headed door knockers. Only a low, snow-white wall, an inconspicuous wooden door, and above it, a simple wooden plaque with bold red characters on a black background: “Yingchuan Academy.” Below, the inscription read: “Written by Sima De Cao, student of Yingchuan Yangzhai.”

The academy faced the Ying River, backed by green hills, its path paved with stone slabs. In the main courtyard stood a large, square house of blue bricks with carved eaves. A fragrant incense table occupied the center, with nothing enshrined but a single character—“Literature.” On the table sat a brass incense burner, from which wisps of smoke rose, wafting through a side door into a larger chamber filled with hundreds of desks: a sanctuary for scholars to study. At the head of the room, a centuries-old, eight-foot-long carved table held an ancient zither. A pair of graceful hands played upon it, sending forth lingering notes.

The academy was empty save for the musician—a young man clad in a blue robe, overlaid with a finely made fur coat. Though Yingchuan was wealthy and such attire was common, his bearing was exceptional. His delicate features suggested he was not yet twenty, his skin pale, his black hair casually tied, a few locks trailing behind his neck, giving him a look both ethereal and slightly wild.

“Who can truly understand this melody? Was it not the wife of Qi Liang who played it, sighing again and again—passionate yet mournful. I do not begrudge the singer’s pain, only lament the rarity of those who truly understand. If only we could be a pair of wild swans, spreading our wings and soaring high together…” As he played, the musician sang, his mood at first melancholic but soon turning fervent. By the last two lines, even the music carried an undertone of boldness.

When the song ended, the notes gradually faded, and silence settled once more upon the academy.

A burst of applause sounded—three crisp claps. From the side door of the hall emerged a young man of twenty-five or twenty-six. His demeanor was elegant and scholarly, standing eight feet tall, handsome and well-proportioned. He wore a pale blue robe with a glossy black fur coat, accentuating his extraordinary presence.

The young man laughed, “Fengxiao, your zither playing is exquisite—but your song is even better! ‘I do not begrudge the singer’s pain, only lament the rarity of those who truly understand’—does this not reflect our own plight, lacking a worthy lord to serve? Now that the manifesto against Dong Zhuo resounds across the land, next year will surely see heroes rise; then we might choose a wise ruler and finally display our talents. Just as the song says: ‘If only we could be a pair of wild swans, spreading our wings and soaring high together!’”

The musician was none other than Guo Jia, known as Guo Fengxiao, the strategist who never failed in devising plans for Cao Cao. The speaker was Xun Yu, later called “my own Zhang Liang” by Cao Cao—both men of great service to the Cao clan, and both alumni of Yingchuan Academy.

“Wenruo, you’re in high spirits today, coming to listen to my zither on a day of rest.” Guo Jia replied with a gentle smile.

Xun Yu gave a bitter laugh and seated himself at a desk. “When I served in Luoyang, seeing Dong Zhuo’s tyranny, I knew chaos would soon erupt. Now, the manifesto has been published, and Cao Mengde’s words ring with power. Soon, heroes will rise. Yingchuan is so close to Luoyang—warlords will come and go, and this place will become a battleground. It’s not wise to linger, but the elders of my clan are attached to their homeland and refuse to leave. They will inevitably be forced to submit. Rather than wait for others to decide our fate, we should choose our own lord now!”

Guo Jia lightly strummed the strings, producing a resonant note. He replied, “Yingchuan is not far from Luoyang, but it’s even closer to Runan! I fear that soon the four great clans of Yingchuan will submit to Yuan Gonglu. Wenruo, perhaps you simply do not wish to serve under Yuan Gonglu.”

Xun Yu smiled, “You know me well, Fengxiao. Yuan Gonglu, as Rear General, not only failed to oppose Dong Zhuo, but returned to Runan and seized Nanyang, recruiting troops. Nanyang is our largest county—his ambition is clear, and he has no intention of restoring the Han.”

Guo Jia chuckled, “No matter how long a dynasty’s fortune lasts, decline is inevitable. Without great chaos, there can be no great order. Whether to support or not is not the key; it’s Yuan Gonglu himself who—well, enough. Since you have this intention, I’ll watch with you and consider which hero in the realm is worth our allegiance.”

Xun Yu was delighted. “My elder brother Xun Chen serves under Yuan Benchu and often writes that he is a true hero. He will surely join the campaign against Dong Zhuo. Let us see how he performs!”

Guo Jia smiled but said no more, continuing to play. Xun Yu listened quietly. Like them, scholars across the land waited to see which hero would let them shine.

While the warlords stirred and scholars waited expectantly, the Grand Tutor’s residence beside bustling Luo River in Luoyang also received a copy of the manifesto. It now lay before Dong Zhuo himself.

Dong Zhuo was a giant of a man, towering over two meters. His beard resembled a lion’s mane encircling his broad face, and his eyebrows were thick as caterpillars, making him look fierce and terrifying. Yet a mocking smile now played across his face.

“Cao Mengde, Cao Mengde! What an audacious ant, to dare challenge my authority!” Dong Zhuo laughed as he read the document.

Besides Dong Zhuo, only two others were present—one scholarly, one martial. The scholar was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six, with dark skin and resolute features. Medium in build and slightly lean, he was Dong Zhuo’s advisor Li Ru, his chief counselor.

The warrior was even taller than Dong Zhuo, broad-chested and wide-shouldered, wearing a scaled belt at his waist and clad in purple-gold armor. A lion’s head guarded his chest, fierce and intimidating, while a qilin motif adorned his shoulders. He wore a towering helmet, and his presence radiated an overwhelming aura at all times.

This was Lu Bu, the mightiest general of the Three Kingdoms, known as Lu Fengxian. His physique was imposing and robust, his features strikingly handsome, with lips like red jade and gleaming teeth. His martial prowess was unrivaled, almost matching legends like Leng Shouguang and Lu Nüsheng.

As Dong Zhuo finished speaking, Li Ru gave a contemptuous smile. “Even if all the realm rises, they are but a rabble. Grand Tutor, you need not worry.”

Lu Bu remained silent, his lips curling in disdain. Suddenly, his expression changed—his sword-like brows furrowed, a murderous air darkened his face as he shouted, “Show yourself!” With a kick, he sent a six-foot wooden table flying out the door toward a banyan tree three yards away. The rush of wind startled the two guards at the gate.

From the tree came a surprised sound, and a cloud of yellowed leaves and dead branches flew out, striking the airborne table. The table and leaves shattered with a crash, and the leaves, like arrows, pierced the guards’ armor, killing them instantly. Flying splinters embedded themselves in the courtyard walls.

The commotion alarmed the guards of the Grand Tutor’s residence, whose shouts and footsteps surged toward Dong Zhuo’s courtyard like a tide. But Lu Bu thundered, “Useless fools! Hold your positions!”

Silence fell. Lu Bu stood before Dong Zhuo, his face grim. “Who are you, villain? Show yourself!”

At that moment, laughter erupted from the tree. “Ha, hahaha! Excellent! Wonderful! There are such skilled men in the realm! Another day, I’ll challenge you again. Today, I, Tang Yu, come only to deliver a message!”

A circle of silk flew from the tree, passing through the gate toward Lu Bu. At the same instant, a dark figure flashed away, leaving the Grand Tutor’s residence without ever being seen.

Lu Bu wished to pursue, but the silk came with force, ready to strike. If he dodged, Dong Zhuo might not withstand it; if he struck it hastily, his own energy would be disrupted, making pursuit difficult. He knew Tang Yu’s reputation—a master among few in the land, able to match him was no surprise.

He snorted, spread his fingers, and caught the silk steadily. On it were five bold, wild characters: “For Grand Tutor Dong’s eyes only.”

Dong Zhuo, unsettled, asked, “Fengxian, what is it?” The fame of the Three Friends of Dongting was legendary—they claimed no one could block their assassinations. Even the great Zhang Jiao, whose cultivation touched the heavens, died at their hands. Though Dong Zhuo himself was formidable, he harbored fears toward these elusive men.

Lu Bu turned, presenting the silk. “Father, it appears to be a letter.”

Dong Zhuo unfurled the silk and, upon reading it, burst into laughter. “Wonderful! Wonderful! The Three Friends of Dongting choose to stand aside—what need have I to fear the petty heroes of the realm!”