The chaos of the Han court did not end with blood spilled inside the palace.
It only changed hands.
With He Jin dead and the eunuchs destroyed, Luoyang was left trembling —
leaderless, frightened, and exposed.
Into this uncertainty marched Dong Zhuo, governor of the western frontier.
He arrived not as a savior, but as a man who knew power when he saw it lying unguarded.
Dong Zhuo commanded vast armies.
He spoke loudly, laughed freely, and carried himself as if the capital already belonged to him.
Soldiers in iron armor roamed the streets.
Citizens shut their doors and whispered his name with fear.
At court, Dong Zhuo made his intentions clear.
“The emperor is weak,” he declared.
“He cannot command respect, nor protect the realm.
The throne requires strength.”
Silence followed.
Then one man stepped forward — Ding Yuan, an upright official from Jing Province.
“This is treason,” Ding Yuan said.
“The emperor has committed no crime.
Who are you to decide the fate of the Son of Heaven?”
Dong Zhuo’s hand moved toward his sword.
But before steel could fall, others intervened.
The meeting ended in tension, not resolution.
Yet Dong Zhuo noticed something else that day.
Behind Ding Yuan stood a warrior.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Eyes sharp as drawn blades.
He carried a halberd and moved with the confidence of a man who feared nothing.
His name was Lu Bu.
That night, Dong Zhuo spoke privately with his advisor, Li Ru.
“That man,” Dong Zhuo said, “is worth more than a thousand soldiers.”
Li Ru nodded.
“Lu Bu is brave,” he replied, “but ambition guides him more than loyalty.”
And ambition, Dong Zhuo knew, could be purchased.
Far from the palace, Ding Yuan prepared for conflict.
Lu Bu stood at his side — adopted son, trusted general.
But loyalty is fragile when weighed against desire.
Dong Zhuo sent an emissary: Li Su, a man skilled not with weapons, but with words.
Li Su arrived bearing gifts.
Gold.
Jewels.
And a horse unlike any other.
The steed was called Red Hare.
Its coat burned like fire.
Its hooves struck the earth like thunder.
It could cross mountains and rivers as if the world itself moved aside.
Lu Bu’s eyes widened.
“A man like you,” Li Su said softly,
“should not serve beneath another’s shadow.
Dong Zhuo recognizes your greatness.”
Lu Bu hesitated.
“I owe Ding Yuan my life,” he said.
Li Su smiled.
“A hero chooses the worthy master,” he replied.
“Is virtue found in obedience — or in destiny?”
The gifts remained.
That night, Lu Bu did not sleep.
Before dawn, he entered Ding Yuan’s tent.
The old man looked up and smiled.
“My son,” he said, “what brings you here so early?”
Lu Bu did not answer.
His blade fell.
With one strike, the bond between father and son was severed forever.
At sunrise, Lu Bu rode to Dong Zhuo —
Ding Yuan’s head carried before him as proof of allegiance.
Dong Zhuo dismounted and bowed.
“Today,” he said, “I have gained a son.”
Lu Bu knelt.
“From this moment,” he replied, “you are my father.”
Power shifted quickly after that.
With Lu Bu at his side, Dong Zhuo no longer hid his intentions.
He summoned the court.
Armored guards filled the hall.
Lu Bu stood behind the throne, hand resting on his weapon.
Dong Zhuo spoke calmly.
“The emperor shall be removed.
The Prince of Chenliu will take his place.
Those who agree will live.
Those who oppose… will not.”
No one spoke.
Swords did not need to be drawn.
Fear had already done the work.
Thus, without a battle, the Han dynasty fell into the hands of a warlord —
and a warrior who had traded loyalty for glory.
But the story did not end there.
Because ambition does not rest.
And betrayal never travels alone.
In the next episode:
Power invites resistance,
alliances begin to fracture,
and the realm prepares for war.
This is Romance of the Three Kingdoms.
History does not whisper.
It roars.