The air still clung with night's chill when Lu Ming opened his eyes. A faint pale glow touched the horizon, neither day nor night, a liminal hour when most of Luoyang still slumbered. He inhaled deeply, lungs burning with the sharp cold, and for a long moment simply stared at the beams of his roof.
Another chance. No more weakness. No more wasted mornings.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and dressed simply—light training robes, a belt to keep the cloth close to his frame, hair tied back loosely. The weight of silk and luxury seemed suffocating now. Today, he would sweat.
When he stepped into the courtyard, he found two figures waiting.
Sun Rong stood by the gate, yawning so hard his jaw cracked, hair still slightly disheveled despite his attempt to tie it properly. His eyes were half-lidded, and he rubbed them with a sleeve like a child dragged unwillingly from bed.
"Y-young master…" he muttered, stifling another yawn. "Do… do we truly need to rise before the roosters? Even the city guards aren't awake yet."
Zhao Yunliang, in contrast, was a statue of discipline. His broad frame stood tall, arms folded, eyes sharp even in the dim light. His armor was absent, but his stance screamed soldier. He inclined his head slightly when Lu Ming approached.
"Young master," Yunliang said, his voice firm but not unkind. "You've chosen well. The body must be tempered before the mind can command. Foundations first—without them, even the cleverest strategy collapses."
Lu Ming gave him a small smile. "Then let's begin."
The first task was deceptively simple: running laps around the courtyard.
Lu Ming pushed off, body sluggish at first but quickly remembering the rhythm. His breath came raggedly after the first lap, but he forced himself to keep pace. His reborn body was younger, healthier than the broken one he had died in—but still soft from indulgence.
Behind him, Sun Rong stumbled along, panting miserably. "M-master… perhaps… perhaps a dignified stroll would—would serve the same purpose?"
"No," Yunliang barked. He jogged lightly beside them, posture unshaken. "The battlefield does not stroll. Faster, both of you."
Lu Ming gritted his teeth. Each footfall thudded against the earth, lungs screaming. He remembered the countless nights in his second life when he had cursed his frailty, when illness and fatigue kept him bedridden while enemies marched outside his door. Never again.
By the fifth lap, sweat soaked through his robe. His legs trembled, but a strange exhilaration coursed through him. He wasn't just running—he was reclaiming years he had lost.
Yunliang finally raised a hand. "Enough."
Sun Rong collapsed on the ground with a groan, limbs sprawled. "Heaven preserve me… young master, if you keep this up, I'll meet the Yellow Springs before you."
Lu Ming laughed breathlessly, wiping his forehead. "Then perhaps you should take it as training too, Sun Rong."
The servant groaned louder in protest.
After a brief rest, Yunliang placed a simple wooden practice sword into Lu Ming's hands. Its weight felt unfamiliar but not unbearable.
"Grip," Yunliang instructed. He adjusted Lu Ming's fingers, pressing them into proper alignment. "Too tight, you tire quickly. Too loose, you drop it. A sword is not a fan for show—it is an extension of your will."
He stepped back and demonstrated: a clean downward swing, smooth as a falling axe. No flourish, no wasted motion.
"Do not chase prettiness. Flashy moves die on the battlefield. Stance, balance, and strike—again and again until your arms burn."
Lu Ming mirrored him, lifting the sword and bringing it down. At first clumsy, then steadier. Each swing jolted his shoulders and sent vibrations up his arm. His muscles screamed after the tenth, but he kept going.
Yunliang corrected his footing. "Plant your weight. Think of roots sinking into earth. If your stance breaks, the enemy needs only a push to topple you."
Lu Ming nodded, sweat dripping down his jaw. Foundation. Endurance. Discipline. He repeated the words in his mind like a mantra. In his second life, he had been clever, cunning with schemes, but his body had betrayed him. This time he would forge it anew.
Behind them, Sun Rong leaned against a pillar, watching in growing horror as sweat poured from both young master and guard. "You two are mad," he muttered. "Completely mad…"
"Now, movement."
Yunliang drew a square in the dirt with the tip of his own practice sword. "Step within. Forward, back, side, diagonal. Never cross your legs, never trip yourself. Footwork decides whether you stand or fall. A single stumble, and you're a corpse."
Lu Ming stepped carefully at first, then with more confidence. The rhythm of advance and retreat began to settle into his bones, though his thighs burned and calves cramped. Yunliang circled him, barking corrections, forcing him to keep balance even as fatigue gnawed at him.
Time blurred into aching repetition. Step, pivot, swing. Step, guard, retreat. Again and again until Lu Ming's breath came in ragged gasps.
Finally, Yunliang raised his hand once more.
"Enough for today. The body must grow in stages—push too far and you cripple yourself."
Lu Ming leaned on his wooden sword, chest heaving, but his eyes shone. "Tomorrow," he said. "We'll continue tomorrow."
Yunliang's stern expression softened, just slightly. "Good. You have resolve, young master. Do not waste it."
The sun had risen fully now, golden light spilling over the tiled roofs. Servants began stirring across the Lu estate, voices and footsteps carrying faintly in the distance.
Sun Rong still sat slumped on the ground, glaring at the world as though betrayed. "Breakfast," he croaked. "If Heaven is merciful, at least breakfast will follow such torture."
Lu Ming laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. His muscles screamed in protest, but his spirit felt lighter than it had in years. "Yes. Breakfast. And tomorrow, we'll do it again."
As they walked back toward his quarters, Lu Ming glanced once at the rising sun. In its light, he saw not only the start of a day, but the dawn of a different path.
This time, I will not be the same man who stumbled through history. This time, I will be ready.
The courtyard still smelled faintly of sweat and damp earth when Lu Ming returned from training. His robe clung uncomfortably to his back, hair damp against his temples. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into a chair, but Chen Ronghua's stern voice reached him before he even sat.
"Young master," she said with that seasoned calm of hers, bowing slightly. "Breakfast is ready."
Her tone carried no warmth at first—it was the briskness of someone who had served the Lu household for decades, but beneath it lay the faint undercurrent of affection. Sun Rong staggered behind Lu Ming, muttering prayers for porridge like a half-dead soldier stumbling off a battlefield.
The aroma of congee, steamed buns, and pickled vegetables greeted them inside the dining room. A pot of tea steamed gently in the center of the table. To Lu Ming, after the grueling drills, it might as well have been an imperial feast.
"Ronghua," Lu Ming said, motioning toward the table, "join me. You and Sun Rong both. Eat here with me. I've told you before—there's no need to separate master and servant at breakfast."
Ronghua smiled faintly, though she shook her head with practiced firmness. "Etiquette is not something to be discarded so lightly, young master. A servant eats apart from their master. If we sat together, tongues would wag before the dishes cooled."
Sun Rong looked between the food and Lu Ming with desperate eyes, clearly tempted by the idea of eating immediately, but even he muttered, "Maid Ronghua is right… rules are rules."
Lu Ming sighed. He had tried before, and they refused every time. He knew pressing further would only make them uncomfortable. "Very well. But at least see to it you both eat while it's still warm. Don't make me find out you're chewing on cold buns an hour later."
That earned a fleeting laugh from Ronghua. "Yes, young master."
Lu Ming sat and ate, savoring the simple but hearty fare. Every mouthful felt earned after the morning's exhaustion. Outside the hall, he could hear Sun Rong and Ronghua quietly sharing their own meal in the side room. Their presence nearby, even if separated by custom, was comforting.
He was still drinking tea when a servant hurried into the courtyard and bowed deeply.
"Young master, Lord Lu Heng requests your presence in his study at once."
The warmth of breakfast seemed to vanish in an instant. Lu Ming set down his cup, wiped his mouth, and rose. Father rarely calls me in directly. Is this about the brothel still… or something else?
When he entered the study, the air was thick with tobacco and ink. His father, Lu Heng, sat at the head of a long table, his expression severe, lines etched deep from years of command. At his side stood Lu Xian, his elder brother, already armored in light training gear, posture confident.
Two other men were present as well: broad-shouldered captains in the Lu family's service. One bore scars across his jaw, the other had eyes that scanned the room with practiced caution.
"Stand to the side, Ming," Lu Heng ordered curtly.
Lu Ming bowed and obeyed, moving to the periphery. He clasped his hands, head slightly lowered, but his ears pricked for every word.
One captain unfurled a rough map across the table. His calloused finger tapped points outside Luoyang.
"There are troubling reports, my lord. Farmers in the villages south of the city speak of shortages and unrest. Some say tax collectors have grown harsher, others whisper of agitators stirring them."
The second captain added, "And to the east, near the fishing hamlets, nets are abandoned, boats left idle. Men gather in secret. Some wear strange symbols on their sleeves."
Lu Heng's frown deepened. "Symbols?"
"Nothing official, my lord. Cloth tied at the arm, scraps of yellow. Some say it's for good fortune, but… the timing is suspicious."
Lu Ming's breath caught. It begins already. The Yellow Turbans. The storm I once lived through—the storm that shattered everything.
He hid his tension, keeping his gaze lowered, but every word carved into him. In his first life, he had been too blind, too late to act until rebellion consumed the land. This time, he could prepare.
One captain spoke again. "Shall we send troops to disperse them?"
Lu Heng leaned back, eyes narrowed. "No. Not yet. This may be nothing more than peasants grumbling under heavy hands. To send soldiers without cause would only fan the flames."
"But my lord," the scarred captain argued, "if agitators truly are among them—"
"Then we watch," Lu Heng interrupted. "We increase patrols, we gather information. But until we are certain, I will not commit steel where whispers suffice."
The discussion turned to supplies—corruption among eunuchs, grain meant for soldiers vanishing into greedy pockets, equipment rotting in warehouses while petitions for repair were delayed or lost.
Lu Ming clenched his fists at his side. It was the same decay he remembered, the rot that would allow the rebellion to explode.
Still, he remained silent, storing every word in memory.
When the captains finished their reports, Lu Heng finally leaned back, silent for a long moment. The officers bowed deeply and withdrew, their boots striking the wooden floor in steady rhythm until only the faint scent of ink and smoke remained.
Lu Ming stayed at his place, hands folded, head lowered, listening to the quiet.
His father's gaze was still heavy on him.
The world was changing—he could feel it in the scraps of news, the hunger between words. The Yellow Turbans had not yet risen, but their shadow was already stretching across the land.
And this time, I will not be blind.
The meeting room emptied, the captains' boots echoing faintly down the hall until silence reclaimed the study. Only the scent of ink and Lu Heng's tobacco lingered.
"Xian, Ming," their father said finally, his voice firm but quieter than before. "Do not let the troubles of peasants cloud your discipline. Remember—you are Lu men. Strong body, steady hand, sharp mind. A man who cannot keep his body strong will falter before battle even begins."
His eyes rested on Lu Ming in particular, a faint scoff in the lines of his mouth. "Training is not a pastime. It is survival. Do not think swinging a wooden sword at dawn is enough."
Lu Ming bowed his head respectfully. "I understand, Father."
Lu Heng grunted, dissatisfied but unwilling to say more. He dismissed them with a flick of his hand.
The brothers stepped into the corridor, the polished wood warm under the morning light. Lu Xian walked with his usual measured pace, but when they were out of earshot, he cast Lu Ming a sideways look, his tone lighter.
"So it's true, then. You've started training?"
Lu Ming gave a small nod. "This morning, with Zhao Yunliang guiding me. Just the basics—body, breath, movement."
"That's good." Lu Xian's mouth curved into a faint smile, though his eyes were serious. "Father may sound harsh, but he only wants us prepared. Don't let his tone discourage you."
"I know," Lu Ming replied quietly. "He cares, even if he doesn't say it the way others would."
They walked a few more steps in silence before Lu Xian's smirk returned. "Speaking of Father's tone… your little excursion to the brothel is already the talk of the younger crowd."
Lu Ming sighed, rubbing his temple. "I expected as much."
"Expected? It's practically a storm of gossip," Lu Xian teased. "Most are curious, some envious. A few, of course, whisper louder than they should. One in particular… Zhao Cheng has already been stirring mischief, I hear."
At the name, Lu Ming's lips tightened. In his first life, Zhao Cheng had been a thorn—a petty rival, puffed up by his father's position, jealous of Lu Ming for reasons he never admitted. This time, Lu Ming knew the root: Zhao Lingqi.
"Let him stir," Lu Ming said, voice level but sharp. "Provocation only works if I answer it. I won't waste myself on his games."
"Oh?" Lu Xian raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound like the Ming I grew up with."
"This Ming has learned," Lu Ming said flatly. "Zhao Cheng is jealous. Lingqi chose me, not him. That's the truth of it, and it eats him alive. Nothing he does will change it."
For a moment, Lu Xian studied him, then chuckled softly. "As long as you see clearly, that's enough."
Lu Ming slowed his steps, lowering his voice. "Xian… the unrest they spoke of earlier. Have you seen much of it? Truly?"
His brother's smile faded, replaced by caution. "Enough to concern me. Patrols report gatherings in poor districts, whispers spreading. But whether it's organized or not, I can't yet say. Outside Luoyang, I know less—information doesn't travel quickly, and not every city watches their rabble as closely as we do."
Lu Ming glanced around, ensuring the corridor was empty before speaking again. His voice dropped to a near whisper. "Last night… at the brothel, I overheard something. Men speaking in hushed voices. They said: 'The Azure Sky is already dead. The Yellow Sky will soon rise. In this year of jiazi, let there be prosperity under Heaven.'"
Lu Xian's steps halted. He turned sharply, eyes narrowing. "You're certain?"
"I am." Lu Ming's tone was steady, though inside his chest his heart thudded. "And they weren't drunkards spouting nonsense. They spoke like men with purpose. I thought little of it at first, but now—after what Father said—it fits too well."
Lu Xian's brow furrowed. "That is… troubling. And you say they tied yellow cloth to themselves?"
Lu Ming nodded slowly. "It's what I saw. Small scraps, tied to sleeves or waists. Perhaps harmless to some, but in numbers? It's a symbol. Something to rally behind. I think it will spread."
His brother's silence stretched, broken only by their footsteps resuming. Finally, Lu Xian exhaled. "If this is true, then it may be more dangerous than Father realizes. I will have the patrols pay closer attention—watch for yellow cloth, and listen for that phrase."
Lu Ming felt a weight lift. One seed planted. One thread tugged. If his brother took it seriously, they could prepare earlier than before.
But he tempered his words. "It may amount to nothing. Still, better to know than be caught unaware."
"Agreed." Lu Xian's expression softened, though his mind was clearly racing. "You've done well to mention it. Just… be careful, Ming. Sharing rumors can be dangerous, especially if they reach the wrong ears."
"I know," Lu Ming said simply.
They reached the courtyard where their paths diverged. Lu Xian adjusted the strap of his sword, his soldier's instinct already pulling him toward the barracks.
"I'll look into this," he promised. "And Ming—remember what I said. About Father. About Zhao Cheng. Keep your head level, and you'll be fine."
Lu Ming gave a faint smile. "I will. Go on, before the men wonder if their commander overslept."
Lu Xian smirked and strode away, leaving Lu Ming alone in the courtyard.
The noise of the household carried faintly around him—maids speaking in the distance, the clatter of pots from the kitchens, Sun Rong humming as he polished training gear nearby. But to Lu Ming, the world felt sharper, heavier.
He looked up at the pale sky, a faint chill still lingering in the air.
In my first life, the Yellow Turbans rose like a wave, sweeping away villages and cities alike. And I watched, unprepared, until it swallowed me too. Not this time. This time I will carve my own path through the storm. With my own strength, with allies I trust… I will not be helpless again.
His fists clenched at his sides, not in despair, but in resolve.
The Yellow Sky may rise—but I will not kneel beneath it.