Chapter One: A New Arrival

In the year 184 AD, the Yellow Turban Rebellion erupted, signaling the decline of the Han dynasty and ushering in nearly a century of continuous warfare.

In 189 AD, Dong Zhuo marched his troops into Luoyang, seizing control of the imperial court. In September, he deposed the young emperor Liu Bian and installed King of Chenliu, Liu Xie, as the new emperor—known as Emperor Xian of Han.

Faintly, Liu Xie seemed to hear a rugged laughter, beneath which countless sobs echoed. His head felt as if it were about to explode. He sensed many people carrying him, until finally someone held him tightly—soft and warm.

In March 190 AD, Dong Zhuo set fire to Luoyang and forcibly relocated Emperor Xian and over a million citizens to Chang’an. That same year, an alliance of warlords from the east, known historically as the “Coalition of Eastern Warlords,” rose against Dong Zhuo. Powerful regional leaders gathered their private armies and marched thousands of miles to confront him, marking the official beginning of the chaotic warlord era at the end of the Eastern Han dynasty.

Liu Xie was jolted awake. When he opened his eyes, he found himself lying in the arms of a person, surrounded by a faint, pleasant fragrance—likely a young woman. Lying on his side, he could not see her face.

He carefully surveyed his surroundings. They were in a cramped wooden carriage, and the jostling movement reminded him of an ancient mode of transportation—a horse-drawn cart.

A horse cart?

Liu Xie was startled. Shouldn’t he be in an ambulance? How did he end up in a horse cart? Before, he had been an archivist and a history enthusiast. He clearly remembered working late the previous night. Suddenly, a fire broke out outside the office. When he opened the door, a blast of heat knocked him against the wall, and he had fainted immediately.

Then…

Liu Xie suddenly sat up and inspected his arms. What he saw were two small, jade-like hands—youthful hands. He ran his hands over his entire body and discovered a shocking truth.

At some unknown moment, he had transformed into a boy. He was twenty-eight years old in his previous life. Now, he noticed the clothes he wore: although dirty and tattered, they were a black dragon robe embroidered with golden dragons, and around his waist hung a similarly worn scarlet sash.

Liu Xie, familiar with the regalia of various Chinese dynasties, recognized this as a typical late Western Han dynasty dragon robe.

He was dumbfounded. What was happening? After fainting for an unknown length of time, he had woken up in this strange form. It was more fantastical than any movie.

Could it be… time travel? Surely not something so absurd?

“Your Majesty, you’re awake?” came a gentle, delicate voice into Liu Xie’s ears.

“Your Majesty?”

This form of address snapped Liu Xie out of his daze. Not only was the voice pleasant, but the term “Your Majesty” was a title used during the Han dynasty only by those close to the emperor, signifying the highest status within the realm.

He turned to scrutinize the girl beside him. At first glance, she was stunning: graceful willow-shaped eyebrows, phoenix-like eyes shimmering with autumn pools, skin as smooth as cream, and a face like blooming peach blossoms. Though smudged with dust, her gentle and virtuous aura was unmistakable.

She seemed no older than fifteen or sixteen—a budding beauty who would rival the famed Diaochan when grown.

“You called me ‘Your Majesty’?” Liu Xie pointed to himself, asking a foolish question. Noticing the change in her gaze, he hurriedly explained, “I just woke up and have forgotten many things.”

Upon hearing this, the strange look in her eyes faded, replaced by deep concern. “Your Majesty, is your head alright?”

“I’m fine, just forgot a lot,” Liu Xie quickly waved it off.

Seeing that he seemed otherwise unharmed, she patiently recounted everything she knew—from Liu Xie’s birth to the present—over nearly two hours. Liu Xie learned her name: Fu Shou. He was deeply shocked; he truly had traveled through time. Although born a few years earlier than history recorded, all other historical events unfolded as documented.

The Ten Eunuchs Rebellion, the Yellow Turban Rebellion, Dong Zhuo’s burning of Luoyang…

Fu Shou’s husband was none other than the widely known Emperor Xian of Han—Liu Xie himself.

As Liu Xie absorbed his identity, he pondered deeply. Here, he was fifteen years old—a discrepancy from the historical record which stated nine—but all other events aligned with history.

In this chaotic late Han era, with the dynasty in decline and warlords rising, the emperor was largely a symbolic figure. Whoever held the emperor held the power to shape public discourse.

His imperial identity was his greatest asset for survival. Yet, aside from the title, he held no real power. How many truly remained loyal to the Han dynasty in this fractured world?

If anyone wanted to condemn Emperor Ling, Liu Xie would be first in line.

He had lived a carefree life, only to inherit a broken Han dynasty riddled with wounds and scars. This realization weighed heavily on him.

Lifting the tattered curtain of the crude horse cart, Liu Xie first saw several armored guards wielding sharp weapons. Outside, a vast throng of a million people was being driven by Dong Zhuo’s army toward Chang’an.

The crowd was mostly elderly, women, and children; the able-bodied had been conscripted. Early spring rain fell steadily, turning the unpaved official road into a muddy mess. Wealthy families had carriages for their kin, but horse carts were scarce in the long procession. Most common folk struggled on foot, burdened with heavy luggage. Along the roadside lay many corpses long since dead.

At the front of the procession was a grand dragon carriage, decorated with carved dragons and phoenixes.

That carriage should have been his. Instead, it was occupied by Dong Zhuo, the instigator of Luoyang’s destruction, while Liu Xie was relegated to this cramped, dilapidated cart.

Frowning at the suffering masses, Liu Xie lowered the curtain and sank back into thought. Heroes often emerge in times of chaos, true. But the price of chaos was paved with the flesh and blood of countless innocents.

All this turmoil was born from the greed of a few. How could there be peace amid endless war and wandering refugees?

He was about to be taken to Chang’an, where Dong Zhuo’s power was absolute. There, he would become a mere puppet, a plaything for rival warlords.

That path led only to certain death.

This was not the story Liu Xie wished to live.

His immediate priority was to devise a plan—to escape Dong Zhuo’s grasp before reaching Chang’an and to prepare for what lay ahead.

But looking out the window, he saw Dong Zhuo’s guards watching him closely. For a pampered young noble like himself, escape seemed a fool’s dream.

To stay was a death trap; to run was a dead end.

What was he to do?