It is said that all things under Heaven follow a single rhythm.
What has long been divided must one day unite.
What has long been united must one day divide.
So it was with the world of the Han.
For more than four hundred years, the Han Dynasty ruled the land.
Its laws shaped daily life.
Its name still commanded respect.
And yet, by the final years of the Eastern Han, something had begun to fail.
Not suddenly.
Not loudly.
But quietly.
Villages still woke before dawn.
Farmers still worked the fields their fathers had worked before them.
Taxes were still collected on time.
But the harvests grew thinner.
Floods from the Yellow River swallowed fields without warning.
When the waters withdrew, the soil cracked beneath the sun.
Drought followed flood, year after year, as if Heaven itself had turned away.
For ordinary people, life became an exercise in endurance.
What could be sold today to eat tomorrow?
What could be spared when nothing remained?
And yet, the demands of the state did not lessen.
From the capital of Luoyang, these were distant reports.
Numbers written on bamboo slips.
Problems to be discussed later.
For the people, this was daily life.
Slowly, trust began to erode.
Within the imperial court, decay took another form.
Emperors still sat upon the throne, but power no longer rested in their hands.
Decisions were made behind curtains, within private chambers, by men who controlled access to the emperor himself.
Eunuchs rose in influence.
Honest officials were silenced, dismissed, or destroyed.
When those who spoke plainly were punished, silence became the safest path.
And when silence governs a court, corruption thrives.
The world outside felt this imbalance.
Ancient belief held that Heaven granted rulers the right to govern.
This Mandate was not eternal.
It could be lost.
Disasters, famine, and unrest were signs—not of chance, but of judgment.
Among the suffering people, such ideas found fertile ground.
In the eastern provinces walked a man named Zhang Jiao.
He did not carry weapons.
He carried herbs, water, and words.
Zhang Jiao was a healer.
He spoke to those whom the empire had forgotten.
He told them their suffering was not meaningless.
He told them the world itself was out of balance.
“The Han has exhausted its virtue,” he said.
“Heaven has withdrawn its favor.”
To officials, such words were dangerous.
To starving farmers, they were comforting.
Zhang Jiao taught what he called The Way of Supreme Peace.
He promised healing.
He promised renewal.
Most of all, he promised that change was not only possible—but destined.
Followers gathered quietly at first.
A household at night.
A village at dawn.
A clearing beyond the fields where no official would follow.
They shared charms written on yellow paper.
They drank water said to cleanse both body and spirit.
Yellow cloth was tied around their heads.
Yellow—the color of earth.
Yellow—the color of rebirth.
They did not believe they were rebels.
They believed they were obeying Heaven.
Thus they became known as the Yellow Turbans.
The Han court heard rumors—but dismissed them.
There had always been unrest.
There had always been prophets.
The empire had grown accustomed to ignoring pain until it reached the capital.
That habit would prove costly.
When the rebellion finally erupted, it did so without warning.
Across multiple provinces, followers of the Yellow Turbans rose at once.
Government offices were seized.
Tax records burned.
Local authority collapsed almost overnight.
For the first time in generations, the Han realized it no longer controlled the land it claimed to rule.
Panic spread through the court.
Yet reform was never considered.
Instead, the dynasty turned to force.
Imperial orders were issued, granting local leaders permission to raise troops.
Men with ambition found opportunity.
Private armies formed in days.
The empire did not regain stability.
It fractured.
History would later record that the Yellow Turban Rebellion failed.
Zhang Jiao would die before seeing his promised age of peace.
His followers would be scattered, imprisoned, or executed.
But failure does not mean insignificance.
Because the rebellion revealed a truth the Han could no longer deny.
The dynasty no longer ruled by authority.
It ruled by fear, negotiation, and temporary alliances.
And those who raised armies would not easily lay them down again.
This was how the world began to break.
Not with the fall of a capital.
Not with the death of an emperor.
But with hunger.
With silence.
With belief seeking a new home.
From this fracture would rise heroes and tyrants alike.
Men of loyalty.
Men of ambition.
But before any of them stepped onto history’s stage,
there was simply a world that could no longer hold together.
In the next episode,
a young man of imperial blood will face a choice—
whether to remain a commoner,
or to step into a war that will reshape his fate.
This was Romance of the Three Kingdoms.
Thank you for listening.
When you are ready, the story continues.