He awoke amid a violent throbbing in his head. The air was thick with the mingled scents of aged leather and the briny rust of cold steel weapons, while rain pattered steadily upon the canvas overhead.
"Where is this place? I was napping in my office—am I dreaming?"
He propped himself up. His gaze swept across the racks by the wall: to the left hung a long sword with a dark iron swallow-tail guard, its scabbard clouded with patterns worn bright by years of handling; to the right stood a suit of gleaming silver heavy armor, its heart-mirror catching faint gleams in the dim light. He reached out to touch the breastplate; the chill that met his fingers proclaimed this no mere dream.
"This is… where?"
He muttered to himself, his voice coming hoarse and deep, as though it belonged to another.
His eyes fell upon the documents on the low table—several thick bundles of bamboo slips and silk scrolls. The sealing lacquer bore the vivid crimson imprint of the character "Liu."
Drawing a deep breath, he tremblingly unrolled a sheet of bright yellow silk:
"By command: Vice-General Liu Feng is to lead his crack troops forthwith to reinforce Shangyong. There he shall unite forces with Meng Da, Defender of Fangling, oversee provisions and fodder, fortify the strategic passes, and stand as support to Jingzhou. Let there be no delay or error."
"Liu Feng?"
A buzzing filled his mind; for a moment he could not grasp the meaning. He looked again at the signature: the seal read plainly "Han Zhong Wang, Liu Bei"—King of Hanzhong, Liu Bei!
"Liu Bei? This is the era of the Three Kingdoms! I have traversed through time!"
Never had he thought that such a hackneyed plot from cheap television dramas would befall him in truth.
He rose abruptly, staggered to the bronze mirror in the corner of the tent. The face that stared back was young and martial—sword-like brows, starry eyes—yet etched between them was the weariness of long campaigns. It was not his own face, yet the strength surging through this body felt utterly real.
"This is not me… then who? I have… become Liu Feng?"
He stared fixedly into the mirror as history flashed through his mind like lightning: Liu Feng, who in the campaign at Xiangfan had refused aid to Guan Yu; who, for abandoning the Second Master to his fate, was later granted death by Liu Bei himself.
A vast terror seized him. He cried aloud, "Someone come!"
A soldier hurried in. "What is your command, General?"
"Has any military dispatch come from Jingzhou of late?"
"None these past few days."
"Who now holds Jingzhou?"
"Lord Guan Yu, Guan the General."
Liu Feng pressed further: "When came the last report?"
"Ten days ago. Lord Guan led his army northward to strike at Xiangfan."
"Striking at Xiangfan…" Liu Feng pondered, glancing out at the endless rain. The timeline was now clear: Guan Yu had only just begun his northern expedition; no word had yet arrived of the great victory at the flooding of the seven armies, else the camp would ring with joyous tidings.
From the cracks of his fear there suddenly burst an indescribable excitement, spreading through his veins like wildfire.
"Guan Yu… it is Guan Yu!"
To one raised on tales of the Three Kingdoms in the modern age, those two syllables had long transcended mere history. Guan Yu was the incarnation of loyalty and righteousness, the martial sage wreathed in incense smoke, the invincible war-god revered in the hearts of countless Chinese across two millennia.
Soon would come the siege of Fan Castle, the drowning of Yu Jin's relief force, the beheading of Pang De, the震动天下—"shaking all under Heaven." Even Cao Cao would contemplate moving the capital to escape his might. Yet glory would turn to ruin: Sun Quan's Eastern Wu would strike the rear; Mi Fang and Fu Shiren would surrender without a fight; Guan Yu would flee to Maicheng and meet his end at the hands of the enemy. Thus fell a legend.
In history, Liu Feng bore part of the blame for that tragedy. When Guan Yu, beleaguered at Xiangfan, sought aid from Liu Feng and Meng Da, the two pleaded that Shangyong had only lately been secured and troops could not be spared. Their refusal contributed to the disaster, and for it Liu Bei put Liu Feng to death.
"Since I have come here," he thought, "does it not mean… I have the chance to save him? And to save myself as well!"
His hands began to tremble—not from dread, but from the staggering realization that he might alter the course of history and reshape the fate of ages yet unborn.
To save Guan Yu would be to reverse the fortunes of Shu-Han entirely; the grand design of Longzhong would no longer remain a dream of moonbeams and water-flowers. To preserve the Second Master was not merely to keep his own head upon his shoulders, but to restore the broken spine of that divine statue of loyalty.
"Lord Guan the Second," he murmured to the empty air, "you know not how many, two thousand years hence, have sighed and wept for your fate in this campaign."
His gaze, once bewildered, hardened into iron resolve. "Since Heaven has cast me into this chaotic age and clothed me in the body of this wastrel son, then I shall, in this doomed predicament, carve out a path of life—for Shu-Han, and for you!"
He lifted his eyes to the rain beyond the tent-flap, his mind already turning over plans.
The next day, at first light, Meng Da's residence in Shangyong was thrown into uproar.
Meng Da, cloak thrown hastily over his shoulders, strode out, face dark as thunder, to behold a group of trembling musicians and performers huddled in the courtyard.
"What means this?" he demanded of his steward, pointing.
"Reporting to the General… these were sent back by General Liu Feng. He said that some days ago, outside the city, he had grievously offended these 'drummers and blowers' in a moment of indiscretion. Now that he has repented, he returns them intact: 'a fine sword to the hero, fine music to the worthy.'"
Meng Da's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Half a month earlier he and Liu Feng had quarreled bitterly over this very troupe of ceremonial musicians; Liu Feng had seized them by force in public, leaving Meng Da humiliated. The memory still rankled.
"Is Liu Feng mocking me?" Meng Da stood motionless in the yard, hand resting on his sword-hilt.
"General, these performers…" the steward ventured.
"Settle them for now," Meng Da replied curtly, then went out to inspect the camps. All the way he pondered the meaning of this act, yet could reach no conclusion.
On the third day, three wooden chests were carried into Meng's mansion.
"What now?" Meng Da asked.
"General, these are gifts from General Liu Feng—fine Shu brocade."
Meng Da's anger flared anew; he could not fathom what game Liu Feng played. He stepped forward and kicked open one lid. Rays of shimmering color spilled forth; those around gasped at the splendor of the silks, whispering among themselves.
"General, this…" the steward began.
Meng Da's eyes flickered with greed. "Receive them, seal them away. I shall see what this pup intends."
Later that same day, two heavy chests of gold and silver were borne into the main hall.
Meng Da regarded the treasure without joy; cold sweat broke out upon his back. "Another gift from General Liu, I presume?"
The bearer was Liu Feng's lieutenant, Yuan Fei, styled Yuanhong—a collateral branch of the Yuenan Yuan clan. A bold wanderer in his youth, he had roamed the Central Plains before, moved by Liu Bei's virtue, leading scores of fellow villagers to join him at Xinye. Liu Bei assigned him to Liu Feng's command, where he rose to deputy general; a man of great courage and keen sight.
Yuan Fei saluted. "General Liu says that he deeply regrets his former offense against you. These are but trifling gifts in amends; pray accept them with a smile."
Meng Da, having already taken the brocade, saw no harm in more. With a wave he had the chests carried within.
"Return and convey my profound thanks to General Liu for his repeated generosity," Meng Da said with forced courtesy.
Yuan Fei clasped his fists. "I shall report as bidden. Farewell." He strode out without a backward glance.
"An anomaly betokens mischief," Meng Da muttered, pacing the hall. Suddenly he halted and turned to his adviser. "What is Liu Feng doing? Where has he been these days?"
Adviser Pan Qi bowed. "General, Liu Feng rises before dawn each day to drill the troops in person. Moreover, he has summoned craftsmen to repair armor and sharpen weapons, and has audited seven-tenths of Shangyong's grain stores…"
"What?!" Meng Da started, smashing a fist upon the table. "Drilling troops, stockpiling provisions… does Liu Bei secretly order him to remove me and take sole command of Shangyong? These gifts—are they to lull me into carelessness? How vicious!"
Meng Da could sit no longer; he paced frantically, hands behind his back. "He prepares so thoroughly—if it comes to open strife, I cannot prevail. What then?"
Pan Qi's eyes glinted with malice. He stepped closer and whispered, "General, strike first; delay breeds peril." He made a chopping gesture.
Meng Da's face shifted between shadow and light. "Yet if I kill him, will Liu Bei spare us?"
"General is mistaken!" Pan Qi urged. "Cao Wei in the north grows mighty; Cao Cao ever cherishes talent. If you bring Shangyong and Fangling to submit, high rewards await. Why endure the insults of Liu Bei's son here?"
Meng Da was silent a long while. Anxiety slowly gave way to ruthless determination.
"Very well." He raised his head sharply. "Better to act than await doom. Send an invitation to Liu Feng: say I am deeply moved by his gifts and shall host a banquet of thanks at noon tomorrow in the main tent of the camp."
He turned to Pan Qi, voice cold as frost: "Tomorrow you shall conceal twenty axemen behind the tent. When I drop my cup as signal, no matter whose son he be, take his head at once!"