Reborn In The Three Kingdoms - Chapter 890

Chapter 890: 848. Siege Of Vyadhapura Begins

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“The cost,” Zhou Yu said, his gaze never leaving the city, “is blood. Ours. If we want Vyadhapura intact, its walls unbroken, its palaces untouched, then we cannot scorch it with fire and steel as we would any other city. We must be precise. Surgical. That means a siege. That means casualties.”

For a heartbeat, silence lingered. Then Sun Ce spoke, his voice low, solemn. “If that is the price for His Majesty’s dream, then we pay it. He has never failed us. He has led us to greatness before, and he will lead us to greater heights still.”

Ma Chao gave a grim nod. “The men know it too. They march under the dragon banner because they believe. Even if they do not return, they know their families will not suffer for it. His Majesty will see to that.”

Zhou Yu closed his eyes briefly, the fan trembling ever so slightly in his grasp. He, too, knew that truth. And yet, the weight of it pressed on him like a millstone. Every life spilled was a note in a dirge only he could hear.

And so, he vowed, as he always vowed, to make the plan as flawless as mortal wit could shape it. To carve victory from the fewest possible corpses.

Zhou Yu then opened his eyes and inclined his head slightly, acknowledging their resolve. “Then I will make the plan foolproof. We will bleed, yes, but they will bleed more.”

His voice snapped like a bowstring. Instantly, aides spurred forward, awaiting his command.

“Sound the halt!” Zhou Yu ordered. “Here, we make our camp.”

The drums boomed, deep and rolling, echoing across the plain. From the head of the column to its trailing tail, the signal rippled. Standards dipped, wagons ground to a halt, ranks broke into ordered chaos as men peeled off the road in disciplined files.

“Engineers to the fore!” Zhou Yu called. “Begin assembly of the trebuchets and tower frames. I want the first battery ready by nightfall tomorrow!”

The army unfurled like a great serpent coiling for the strike. Tents blossomed across the grassland, neat as chessmen. Fires sparked. Stakes were driven. The clang of hammers and rasp of saws rose as the siege train rolled forward, timbers creaking, ropes groaning, iron fittings glinting like fangs.

The Funan auxiliaries, herded toward the rear, watched with wide, awestruck eyes. They had never seen such engines, these towering skeletons of wood and sinew, beasts that would hurl boulders heavier than oxen, rip walls as a tiger rends flesh. Some murmured prayers. Others whispered of omens. All knew this, the northmen were gods of war.

And while the camp of conquest bloomed beneath the dying sun, Vyadhapura trembled.

Inside Vyadhapura, a different kind of dread was taking root. The sight of the enemy host—a seemingly endless swarm—settling into a methodical, encircling camp was somehow more terrifying than a sudden assault. It spoke of a cold, patient inevitability.

King Kaundinya III’s drastic order, the seizure of all grain, was being implemented with brutal efficiency. Squads of royal soldiers, their faces set with grim purpose, moved from merchant warehouses to noble villas to temple storehouses, breaking down doors and commandeering sacks of rice, jars of oil, and bundles of dried fish.

The protests were immediate and furious.

“This is tyranny!” screamed a wealthy spice merchant, his silks rumpled as soldiers emptied his granary. “I am a loyal subject! This is my property!”

A high born noble, his face purple with rage, stood blocking the door to his family’s storeroom. “My ancestors stocked these grains for generations! You have no right! The king cannot do this!”

Even priests, usually revered, stood before their temple granaries, arms outstretched. “This is an offering to the gods! To take it is to invite divine wrath!”

The soldiers, under orders from a king who feared internal collapse more than external attack, were unmoved. “By order of the king,” was their flat, repeated response.

Those who resisted too vehemently were shackled and dragged away to the city’s dungeons, their cries adding to the general atmosphere of panic and betrayal. Anyone who defied the royal decree was struck down or thrown into the black pits beneath the palace.

And so the grain flowed, not to the rich, but to the starving mouths of the poor. For the first time in weeks, the smoke of cooking fires curled once more above the common quarters. Children ate again. Mothers wept as bowls of rice filled their hands.

Yet even as hunger eased, fear did not. For beyond the gates, the enemy campfires now flickered in the jungle night, a sea of flames stretching to the horizon. The drums of the northern army rolled like distant thunder, each beat a hammer on the hearts of Funan’s people.

In the great hall, King Kaundinya III stood once more before his generals and ministers. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed, but his voice was iron.

“Report,” he said.

General Phanindra stepped forward, bowing low. “The census is complete. The stores are secured and rationed. The riots have ceased, for now, Your Majesty.”

“And the enemy?”

Phanindra’s jaw tightened. “They have halted within sight of our walls. They are building siege engines, Your Majesty.”

The words fell like stones. The ministers shifted uneasily, their silks whispering like frightened birds.

King Kaundinya III’s hand clenched on the arm of his throne. Siege engines. The word was a death knell. Vyadhapura’s walls were strong, yes, but against the fire breathing monsters of the north?

“Then we make ready,” the King said. His voice did not waver. “Every man who can hold a bow will guard the walls. Boil the oil. Stack the stones. And pray, to every god who walks the heavens.”

He rose, his robes sweeping like storm clouds. “For tomorrow, the storm will break.”

That night, Vyadhapura did not sleep. The streets were hushed, save for the murmur of prayers and the distant wail of drums beyond the walls. From the parapets, the enemy camp glowed like a second city, its countless fires mirrored in the black water of the moat.

On the encampment beyond, Sun Ce stood beside Zhou Yu, watching the flames rise. Ma Chao paced like a caged tiger, his hand tight on his spear, while Ma Dai leaned against his horse, eyes sharp.

“Tomorrow,” Sun Ce said quietly, his voice like steel drawn from the scabbard. “Tomorrow, Vyadhapura falls.”

Zhou Yu’s fan whispered through the night air. His eyes never left the city. “Yes,” he murmured. “But let it fall like a flower in autumn, graceful, intact. For in its fall, our dynasty will rise to much greater heights than it was before.”

The dawn came like a blade drawn from its sheath, swift, cold, and merciless. A pale mist clung to the ground, coiling between the legs of men and beasts, veiling the glitter of spearpoints and the iron bones of siege engines.

Upon the command platform, an elevated terrace of timber overlooking the plain, stood Sun Ce and Ma Chao. Zhou Yu, was there as well, standing behind the two of them. His gaze, keen as a falcon’s, never left the distant walls of Vyadhapura.

Below them stretched the host, a living ocean of steel and sinew, ranks upon ranks, shields glinting, spearheads bristling like a forest turned to metal. Behind, the siege engines loomed like titans of wood and iron.

Trebuchets crouched on their thick legs, their slings yawning wide, ready to spit death, siege towers rose like monstrous stairways to heaven, draped in hides soaked in brine to ward off flame. Between them, the infamous “Climbing Tigers”, ladders bound with hooks and iron claws, lay stacked in readiness, their cruel teeth thirsting for stone.

Zhou Yu’s eyes narrowed, gauging distance, wind, and the mood of the sky. Then, with a slow incline of his head, he spoke softly, but the words were iron.

“It is time.”

Sun Ce exhaled, his breath a curl of frost in the cool morning air. He stepped forward, planting one foot on the railing of the platform, and raised his sword high. The blade flashed, a shard of sunlight cutting through the mist. His voice rang out, deep and thunderous, carrying across the plain like the roar of a war god.

“Advance!”

Beside him, Ma Chao’s voice joined, a clarion call of pure fury and iron resolve. “Forward! For His Majesty! For glory!”

The drums answered. A rolling thunder that shook the marrow of the earth. Gongs clashed like brazen war cries, and horns bellowed, long and mournful, like the trumpeting of beasts before the hunt.

The army moved.

With a great, grinding groan, the siege engines lurched forward, dragged by teams of oxen and sweating men. The trebuchets creaked as their counterweights were wound tight, ropes groaned, timbers shuddered. Slings were stuffed with boulders big as coffins, hauled by chains that rattled like serpents.

Siege towers rolled ponderously on their iron shod wheels, inching toward the walls like grim towers of doom, their upper decks bristling with archers, their sides crawling with soldiers ready to pour death from above.

Beneath and between them surged the infantry, shields locked, spears leveled, banners dipping and lifting in a rhythm as old as war. At the flanks, cavalry pawed the earth, snorting, their riders, Ma Dai, Ma Tie, and Ma Xiu among them, leaning low in their saddles, eyes fixed with the predatory hunger of wolves scenting blood.

From the walls of Vyadhapura, bells clanged madly, their wild peals stabbing through the morning haze. Shouts rose, shrill and frantic.

The defenders scrambled like ants across the battlements, archers racing to the parapets, soldiers heaving cauldrons of oil to the merlons, others dragging up stones to hurl upon the foe. Gongs boomed in answer to the drums beyond the walls, calling men to their posts, calling gods to witness.

Panic boiled in the streets below. The common folk fled like startled birds, clutching bundles, dragging crying children, streaming toward the inner precincts. The nobles and merchants, pale and sweating, pounded at the palace gates, screaming for sanctuary. But the gates stood firm, barred and guarded by spearmen whose faces were masks of stone.

Only the richest, the most powerful, the most necessary were admitted. The rest, lords of lesser name, merchants fat with silver but lean in influence, were turned away, their pleas drowned by the rising roar of battle.

On the walls, General Phanindra stood like an old oak in a storm, his armor dented but gleaming, his white beard fluttering in the wind. His eyes burned with a fire that years could not quench.

“Archers!” he bellowed, voice like a temple bell. “Loose at will! Bring down those engines! Drench them in fire!” The first volley leaped skyward, a black storm of arrows hissing like angry snakes. They fell upon the advancing tide, drumming on shields, biting into flesh. Men screamed, stumbled, fell, and were trampled underfoot. But the host surged on, relentless as the sea.

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Name: Lie Fan

Title: Founding Emperor Of Hengyuan Dynasty

Age: 35 (202 AD)

Level: 16

Next Level: 462,000

Renown: 2325

Cultivation: Yin Yang Separation (level 9)

SP: 1,121,700

ATTRIBUTE POINTS

STR: 966 (+20)

VIT: 623 (+20)

AGI: 623 (+10)

INT: 667

CHR: 98

WIS: 549

WILL: 432

ATR Points: 0

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