The Yellow Turban fires had not yet gone out,
but the shape of the world was already changing.
Across the land, imperial orders were issued in haste.
Local officials were granted authority to raise troops,
to defend their districts,
to suppress unrest—
or to protect themselves.
For the Han court, this was necessity.
For ambitious men, it was opportunity.
In the northern county of Zhuo,
far from the capital’s marble halls,
a man named Liu Bei stood reading such an order.
He was not wealthy.
He was not powerful.
He held no office worth speaking of.
Though he traced his lineage to the imperial house,
generations of obscurity had reduced that legacy
to little more than a name.
Liu Bei earned his living weaving mats and sandals,
selling them in the marketplace like any commoner.
Yet those who knew him noticed something unusual.
He spoke little,
but listened closely.
He treated others with patience.
And when he sighed before the public notice,
it was not from fear—
but from frustration.
“How can I stand aside,” he murmured,
“while the world breaks apart?”
A voice answered him, loud and unrestrained.
“Then why do you sigh, if you have the will to act?”
The speaker was Zhang Fei—
a man of fierce presence and untamed spirit.
A butcher by trade,
a drinker by habit,
and a man intolerant of injustice.
When Liu Bei explained his desire to raise volunteers,
Zhang Fei laughed—not in mockery,
but in recognition.
“If that is your aim,” he said,
“then I will fund it.
I have wine, land, and silver enough.
What good is it, if the world burns?”
As they spoke, a third man approached.
Tall, composed, and silent,
with a long beard and steady eyes.
His name was Guan Yu.
A fugitive from his home province,
he had wandered for years,
seeking a cause worthy of his blade.
When he heard their words,
he bowed once.
“I will join you,” he said.
“Not for reward—
but for justice.”
That evening, the three men drank together.
Not as strangers,
but as men who sensed their paths were converging.
The next day,
in Zhang Fei’s peach orchard,
beneath branches heavy with blossoms,
they made a vow.
They did not swear loyalty to the Han.
They did not swear obedience to emperors.
They swore to one another.
To stand together in hardship.
To protect the helpless.
To live and die without betrayal.
Thus, three men of different births
became brothers by choice.
Their volunteers numbered only in the hundreds.
Their weapons were simple.
Their armor uneven.
Yet when they first faced the Yellow Turbans in battle,
their resolve proved sharper than steel.
Zhang Fei charged without hesitation,
his fury scattering enemy ranks.
Guan Yu’s blade moved with precision,
each strike deliberate and final.
Liu Bei, though less skilled in combat,
held the line—
rallying men who might otherwise have fled.
Victory followed.
Then recognition.
Their small force was attached to larger armies,
commanded by generals whose ambitions far exceeded
the rebellion they were meant to suppress.
Among them was Dong Zhuo—
a man of rank,
and of unchecked arrogance.
When Dong Zhuo dismissed Liu Bei with contempt,
Zhang Fei nearly killed him in rage.
Only Liu Bei’s restraint prevented bloodshed.
But the lesson lingered.
Office did not guarantee virtue.
Rank did not imply honor.
As the rebellion collapsed,
the court celebrated victory—
yet rewarded it poorly.
Officials demanded bribes.
Inspectors abused their authority.
And honest service went unnoticed.
When Liu Bei was finally granted a minor post,
he governed justly.
The people prospered.
Order returned.
But such integrity made enemies.
An imperial inspector arrived,
arrogant and corrupt.
When Liu Bei refused to pay him,
false charges followed.
Zhang Fei’s patience ended.
In a moment that would echo through history,
he seized the inspector,
bound him,
and beat him publicly.
Liu Bei stopped him before death could follow.
Then, without appeal or protest,
he removed his official seal—
and walked away.
The brothers became wanderers once more.
Meanwhile, in the capital,
the true danger gathered.
The emperor fell ill.
The court fractured.
Eunuchs plotted against generals.
Generals plotted against eunuchs.
Amid this chaos stood a young officer,
keen-eyed and ambitious.
His name was Cao Cao.
While others hesitated,
he spoke openly of decisive action.
While others clung to tradition,
he understood power.
When the emperor died,
the struggle for control began.
Summons were sent across the empire.
Armies marched toward the capital—
not to restore order,
but to seize it.
The world that had begun to crack
now split wide open.
Liu Bei and his brothers would soon be drawn back
into this widening storm—
not as officials,
but as men forced to choose
where they stood
when history demanded allegiance.
In the next episode,
the capital will fall into violence,
and one man’s decision
will set the empire ablaze.
This was Romance of the Three Kingdoms.
Thank you for listening.
When you are ready,
the story continues.