The journey to Luoyang began before sunrise.
Guo Jia sat in the carriage, wrapped in layers of silk that did little to shield him from the morning chill. His breath fogged the air. Outside, the world was still—fields of frost-covered wheat, distant silhouettes of farmers bent over their labor, and a sky that hung low and colorless, as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath.
He had requested the journey himself.
Cao Cao had granted it with a nod and a warning: "Luoyang is no longer the heart of the empire. It is a corpse dressed in gold. Do not expect answers—only echoes."
But Guo Jia needed those echoes.
He needed to see the ruins of the old capital with his own eyes. To walk the streets where emperors once ruled, where scholars debated, where the Mandate of Heaven had once felt tangible. If he was to change the future, he had to understand the weight of the past.
The carriage rattled over uneven roads. Lin, his attendant, rode beside him in silence, occasionally glancing at his master with concern. Guo Jia's health had improved, but his body remained fragile. Every bump in the road sent tremors through his ribs. Yet he did not complain.
Pain was a teacher. And he was ready to learn.
They arrived at Luoyang by midday.
The city was smaller than he had imagined. The outer walls were cracked, patched with mismatched stone. The gates stood open, guarded by soldiers whose armor bore the dust of neglect. Inside, the streets were wide but empty. Vendors called half-heartedly from stalls with wilted vegetables. Children played in alleys where once ministers had walked.
Guo Jia stepped down from the carriage, his legs trembling. He leaned on Lin's arm as they entered the city proper.
The palace complex loomed ahead, its once-grand towers now faded. Roof tiles were missing. Courtyards lay overgrown. Statues of dragons and phoenixes had lost their luster. And yet, there was a strange dignity in the decay—a quiet reminder that even greatness could be worn down by time.
They passed a temple where incense burned in cracked bowls. An old monk bowed as they entered.
"You seek the past," the monk said, his voice like wind through reeds.
Guo Jia nodded. "I seek what remains."
The monk led them to a chamber lined with scrolls. Dust coated the shelves. Many texts had been eaten by insects or warped by moisture. But some remained—records of court debates, edicts, poems, fragments of philosophy.
Guo Jia sat and read.
Hours passed.
He traced the rise and fall of emperors. He read of Dong Zhuo's tyranny, of the burning of the palace, of the flight of the court. He saw the names of warlords etched into history like scars—Yuan Shao, Liu Biao, Sun Jian. And he saw the gaps, the silences, the places where Guo Jia's name should have been but was not.
He was still alive. But history had already begun to forget him.
That night, he walked alone through the palace ruins.
The moon hung low, casting pale light across the broken stones. He stood in what had once been the Hall of Eternal Harmony. Now it was a skeleton—pillars cracked, roof collapsed, weeds growing through the marble floor.
He closed his eyes.
In his mind, he saw it as it had been: ministers in silk, the emperor on his throne, the sound of bells and ritual chants. He saw the illusion of order, the performance of power. And beneath it all, the rot.
This was the world he had entered.
A world on the brink.
The Han dynasty was dying—not with a bang, but with a slow unraveling. The court had lost its authority. The provinces were ruled by warlords. The people suffered. And the scholars—those who should have guided the empire—were either silenced or corrupted.
He opened his eyes.
The dust swirled around him, catching the moonlight like ash.
He was not here to mourn.
He was here to intervene.
Back in his quarters, he wrote.
> "Luoyang is a grave.
> The empire is a body without breath.
> But the bones are still strong.
> If we act swiftly, we may yet revive the heart."
He paused.
> "I see now that I have arrived before the fracture.
> Yuan Shao has not yet overreached.
> Liu Bei is still a wandering noble.
> Sun Ce is young, ambitious, and untested.
> The chessboard is still being set."
He turned to a fresh page and began sketching a map—not of terrain, but of influence. Circles for warlords. Lines for alliances. Dotted paths for potential betrayals. He marked Cao Cao's position in bold ink, then added his own name in the margins.
Not as a player.
As the architect.
The next morning, he visited the archives again.
This time, he asked for medical records.
The monk hesitated. "Few remain. Most were lost in the fire."
"Anything on Guo Jia?" he asked.
The monk searched, then returned with a single scroll—thin, brittle, nearly illegible.
Guo Jia unrolled it carefully.
It was a physician's report. Chronic lung weakness. Episodes of coughing blood. Prognosis: poor. Life expectancy: under forty.
He stared at the words.
So it was true.
This body was dying.
He could feel it—every breath a negotiation, every exertion a risk. He had perhaps ten years, if he was careful. Less, if he was not.
He returned to his quarters and sat in silence.
Then he wrote:
> "I must change the ending.
> Not just for Guo Jia.
> But for the world he could have shaped."
He folded the scroll and placed it beside his ledger.
Outside, the sky was beginning to clear. The dust had settled. The sun broke through in pale gold.
And in that light, Guo Jia made a vow.
He would not die young.
He would not be forgotten.
He would rewrite the fate of the Three Kingdoms.