Reborn In The Three Kingdoms - Chapter 934

Chapter 934: 891. Wei Army Retreat From Zitong

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His reflection wavered on the slick surface of the table, a tired emperor, his pride wounded, yet still defiant. “Lie Fan…” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself. “You think to shame me with your grand display of force. But I will show you. I will return to Luoyang not as prey fleeing the hunter, but as the storm returning home.”

The order, when it spread through the massive Wei encampment, was met with disbelief that quickly curdled into confusion and anger. The sound of construction—of new siege works and assault towers—was replaced by the frantic noise of dismantling. The army’s forward momentum, built over months of bloody effort, was thrown violently into reverse.

The uproar was immediate. Among the most vocal were Cao Cao’s own sons. Cao Ang, the martial and impetuous heir, and the more calculating Cao Pi, both stormed into the command tent, their armor still smeared with the grime of the front lines.

“Imperial Father!” Cao Ang burst out, barely remembering to bow. “What is the meaning of this? We have them! The southern wall is ready to buckle! Why are we retreating?”

Cao Pi, though more controlled, echoed the sentiment. “Father, the men do not understand. After all we have sacrificed to get here… this feels like a betrayal.”

Cao Cao looked at his sons, the future of his house, and saw their frustration mirrored his own. He did not show them the letter. He did not speak of cowardice or prestige. He gave them the unvarnished, strategic truth. “Lie Fan has moved,” he said, his voice flat. “He has sent three contingent of army numbering in total 750,000 men and split them to attack both Shangdang and Hulao Gate. Luoyang is threatened. We have no choice. The war here is over. The war for our home has begun.”

The shock on their faces was a painful sight. The distant threat in the north had suddenly become an existential crisis. Cao Ang bowed his head, fists clenched at his sides. “Then… the letter from Luoyang—”

“From Xun Yu,” his father confirmed, his tone grim. “He asks permission to evacuate. Evacuate, can you imagine!? That is how dire it has become.”

For a long moment, none spoke. The rain outside had grown heavier, a steady drumbeat on the canvas above, like the slow tolling of a funeral bell.

Finally, Cao Pi muttered, “Then we have no choice.” His tone, though bitter, carried reluctant acceptance.

Cao Cao looked at both his sons, the future of his house, the only legacy he could trust to outlive the chaos of the age, and placed a gauntleted hand on each of their shoulders.

“Remember this,” he said, his voice low but fierce. “A true ruler does not win by taking what is easy. He endures what must be endured. Even retreat can be a weapon, if wielded with purpose. We will turn this shame into fury. When next we march, it will be to destroy Lie Fan utterly.”

Both young men bowed, the fire of humiliation and determination kindling in their eyes.

That night, under Guo Jia and Xi Zhicai’s meticulous coordination, the Wei Army began their preparations. The siege engines were quietly dismantled and drawn back from the walls. Supply wagons were loaded, wounded soldiers secured in the rear columns, and the banners of Wei furled to half mast under the drizzling sky.

Yet for all the discipline of the command, the ranks buzzed with unrest. Many soldiers, who had fought tooth and nail to reach the city’s outer defenses, could not understand why they were turning away now. To them, victory had been within reach, only to be snatched away by an unseen hand from the north.

The night before the retreat, Cao Cao stood outside his tent, the flickering light of the campfires dancing across his armor. Guo Jia approached quietly, bowing low before speaking.

“Everything is ready, Your Majesty. At dawn, the columns will begin to withdraw. Xi Zhicai will oversee the rear guard, I will take command of the vanguard.”

Cao Cao nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of Zitong’s walls. “Good. Keep the formation tight. If the Han Army sally out from Zitong to make some moves against us, I want no panic. Let them break their blades against our discipline.”

Guo Jia hesitated, then ventured, “Your Majesty… once we reach the open plains, we can make for Hanzhong or Luoyang directly. Do you intend to regroup with Xun Yu’s forces immediately?”

Cao Cao’s lips thinned. “No. First, we must ensure the army survives the road. Luoyang may already be aflame. To rush blindly would serve no one. Once we reach the river crossings, we will reassess.”

Guo Jia bowed again. “As you command.”

When Guo Jia departed, Cao Cao lingered alone, watching the faint torchlight flicker along the walls of Zitong. For a heartbeat, he almost imagined the voices of the dead, the countless men who had fallen for that city, crying out in vain.

He closed his eyes and whispered, too softly for anyone to hear. “Forgive me.”

But above that whisper, louder than all, the unspoken vow burned in his heart, that this retreat would not be remembered as weakness. It would be the pause before vengeance.

He could also imagine Liu Zhang’s men up in Zitong, confused and wary, wondering if the rumors of Wei’s retreat were true.

“You’ve bought yourself time, Lie Fan,” he murmured under his breath, his voice cold and heavy with venom. “But every heartbeat you steal from me will cost you a hundred lives before this war ends.”

Meanwhile, inside the besieged city of Zitong, a different kind of activity was underway. In the governor’s command chamber, Fa Zheng, Zhang Song, and Meng Da were studying their own maps when a figure, clad in the plain robes of a merchant, was silently ushered in. He was an Oriole Agent, one of Lie Fan’s unseen eyes.

“The Wei army is preparing a full retreat,” the agent said without preamble, his voice a quiet monotone. “Our Emperor’s offensive in the north has forced their hand. They will begin to disengage within hours.”

A wave of fierce, vindicated joy washed over the three defenders. The relentless pressure was finally breaking.

“Praise the heavens,” Zhang Song exhaled, a genuine smile breaking through his usual shrewd expression.

“This is our chance,” Meng Da growled, slamming a fist into his palm. “We will hit them as they pull back! Make them pay for every inch of ground they’ve taken!”

But Fa Zheng, the most cunning of the three, held up a hand. His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, remained on the agent. “You said ‘preparing’. And you counsel caution. Why?”

The agent gave a slight, respectful nod. “The Emperor advises vigilance. Cao Cao’s strategists, Guo Jia and Xi Zhicai, are no fools. They will be expecting a pursuit. Their retreat will not be a rout, it will be a fighting withdrawal, layered with traps and rearguard actions. If you attack recklessly, you will bleed your own forces against a shield that is designed to maul you.”

The warning was a bucket of cold water on their fervor. Fa Zheng nodded slowly, understanding. “So,” he mused, “we let them go? After all they have done?”

“Not let them go,” the agent corrected. “Harass. Probe. Attack their flanks, their supply trains, but never commit your main force. Your goal is not to destroy them, that is the role of our northern armies. Your goal is to add to their misery, to deplete them further, and to ensure they cannot return to the north as a fresh, cohesive force. Make their retreat a long, painful bleeding. But do not be the anvil upon which they are broken. That is not your purpose.”

The message was clear. They were to be a swarm of gnats, not a hammer. It was a less glorious role, but a strategically sound one. Fa Zheng looked at his comrades. “We understand. We will make their journey home a waking nightmare, but we will not throw away the lives of our men in a futile attempt to stop the inevitable.”

As the Oriole Agent melted back into the shadows, the three defenders of Zitong turned their attention to new maps, maps of the routes back to the north. The siege was over. A new, more mobile and dangerous phase of the war was beginning.

Outside, the sounds of the Wei camp breaking apart were a symphony of salvation, but it was a symphony that promised one last, bloody movement.

The morning that followed broke gray and heavy, the sky laden with low clouds that pressed down upon the earth like the weight of fate itself. A damp wind swept across the muddy fields of Zitong, carrying the acrid tang of burned oil and the ghostly scent of corpses that had yet to be buried. The campfires of the Wei army sputtered weakly in the drizzle, their smoke curling upward like the last breaths of a dying beast.

Cao Cao rose before dawn, as he always did. Sleep had eluded him, his mind had been a battlefield of its own. When Guo Jia and Xi Zhicai entered his tent, they found him already armored, his cloak fastened, his sword strapped to his side, standing over a map lit by the trembling flame of an oil lamp. His expression was carved from stone.

Guo Jia bowed low, his tone steady but subdued. “Your Majesty, all is prepared. The siege engines have been dismantled, supplies divided, and the columns assembled according to your command. The men await only your word.”

Xi Zhicai added, “Our formation for withdrawal is complete. The front column will be led by Your Majesty and the central command, while I oversee the rear guard. Our strongest generals are already in position. We can begin at your signal.”

Cao Cao did not respond immediately. He stood in silence for a heartbeat, eyes fixed on the inked lines of the map, the rivers, mountains, and roads that had defined months of bloodshed. Then, with a slow breath, he looked up.

“Then it begins,” he said quietly. “Sound the horns. We march.”

Within moments, the deep, resonant blare of the war horns rolled through the misty morning. The Wei camp, which for months had known only the rhythm of siege and assault, now moved in reverse. Rows upon rows of soldiers dismantled the final fortifications, loaded wagons, and tightened formation lines. The retreat had begun.

Cao Cao mounted his steed, a black warhorse named Shadow Gale, its breath steaming in the chill morning air. At his side rode Guo Jia, the two men rode at the head of the army, flanked by banners bearing the sigil of Wei, a coiled dragon beneath the sun, now dulled by grime and rain.

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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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