“Technically, we don’t have to go back,” said Liao Hua. “Generals in the field are legally allowed to use their best judgement.”
“But they already pre-empted us with that cliffhanger,” pointed out Zhang Yi. “It said they prepared to attack us as we retreated.”
“Shit. Are they attacking now?” Jiang Wei whirled around, but the Wei army was just watching.
“Retreating might be the right thing to do, though,” said Zhang Yi. “The commoners already hate you for fighting so many wars, and at least this time you can go out on a high note.”
“Fair enough,” said Jiang Wei. “Pack up.”
Behind the walls, Deng Ai sighed and turned to Sima Wang. “Shame, that was kind of fun. It’s nice to have an opponent who doesn’t suck.”
“How’s your ass feeling today?”
Jiang Wei burst into Liu Shan’s living room. “Your Majesty, what was that all about?”
“I, uh, figured the redshirts were tired,” said Liu Shan, reluctantly pausing Real Concubines. “Definitely not because I don’t trust you. Why do you ask?”
“I was just about to win!” said Jiang Wei. “I was finally about to win!”
“You’re always ‘about to win.’”
“But this time I really was,” sighed Jiang Wei. “Come on. What did they tell you?”
Liu Shan fiddled with the remote and didn’t answer.
“Look, I’m doing this out of loyalty to the state,” said Jiang Wei. “One of these days, I’ll finally destroy Wei. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you anything else.”
There was a long, awkward silence, before Liu Shan exhaled. “Fine. Go fight your war.”
By the River Wei, Deng Ai and Sima Wang clinked glasses. “Shu is toast.”
Sima Zhao was delighted to hear the news, and as usual, he went to bounce ideas off Jia Chong.
H̤̻͑̄̽ỏ͖͈w͒͛̚ ̟̟͓̒̊̈̏̚d̪͓̲̪̽ͫo̪̱̯̰̤͚̅ͤ̿͑ͨ͌ͅ ͚͖̫̠̩̟̰͂̒͗̐y̯̪͉ͨ͂͌̆̚o̭͎̭͖̜͈̽͂ͩ̒̑ͣ̚u̠̬ ̼̼̯̝ͭͩ͒̾f̀ͭ͒̉̽̈́e̦͕͙̘̥̳͈̓ͭ̿̾̇̃̏ẽ̩̯̣̝͔̇̊l̯̝̼ͨͅ ̰̟͉͎̱̬ͧͧ͑ͣ̂̉ͅab̩͙͓̣̙͆ͧo̩̱͔̭͔̠ͯ̽ͮ̍ͤu͓͕t̓ͤ i͎̎̑̌̍̉̽̆n̠̯̅̇̒͗v̆̒̽͒̚a̳̭̙̲̔d̼͓͔̝ȋ͕͇n̹̟̪ͣͦ̿ͩg̳̱̺̉̌͗̏ͬ ̫͙̆ͤ̂̎̽͆S̿ͭ͒̇̑h͎̟̐͑͂̌ͭͨ͊u̙͔̐̐̓̇ͬ̇͒?̼͙̻̗͕͙͈͌̀ͬ
“In general? I’d love to. Now? Not the time,” said Jia Chong. “The Emperor doesn’t trust you. Have you heard the latest?”
N̟͉̈́̾̔o̞̜̒̓ͥͦ̉̚?̓̀̐ͤͮ
“Last year, some peasants saw a yellow dragon at the bottom of a well,” said Jia Chong. “It was reported to the Omen Board as a good omen, but Cao Mao said, and I quote, ‘Are you kidding? It fell down a well! That’s a terrible omen.’”
T̻̪͉̦̠̞̎͐̎h̦̟̺a̺̰ͨ̾̅͆͋͊t͙̪̣͇̍̍ͧ͗̂̇’͉͚͕̯͎̜ͬ̆̓͊͛̾ṡ̬̺̯̭̱͎̒̓̉͋̐̏ ̖̹r͍̭̅̋̍̈́͆͛̒e̠̲̣̤͍̒͑̂̂a̯ͅs̅͗ͨ̚o̖͔̬̾̽ͥ̎̃̊̓n͑ͪab̹̱͇̥̩͙͋ͮͣͨͯl̬̗̞͒ͭͬͤeͣ.̜͎̰̦ͭ̒̄ͪ
“Maybe, but the poem he wrote about it wasn’t.” He held out a sheet of paper, which Sima Zhao skimmed.
The very Empire did rot: O Heaven!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy Wei.
“It’s clearly a reference to you, sir,” said Jia Chong helpfully.
Ć̼̫͇͌ͅͅl̮̰̙̲͍̯͋ͥͮͨ̀ͅe͓͉̝͈̻͖̠ͬ͑͛ͥͥ̆ä͍́͆r̝̦̲̟͗̇̔ͅͅl̼͍͑͑̿̓̈͛ͣỳͤ.̤͉̹̥̀
Furious, Sima Zhao crawled with legs to court, wearing a sword. Cao Mao smiled and offered him cookies, but he flipped over the tray.
W̯̹̉̅h̬̣̆y̙͇̰͈̐̒͌̂̍ ̣ͥ̍̋̏w͉̫͖̞̳o͍̓n̖̭̤̥̮͊͒̆ͯ͐̇̔ͅ’͖̻̯̼̝̦͆ͥt̹͎̣̒ͮ͋ ̖̳͓̼͚͍̓y͖͈͚̳̭̓̚o̼͖̩̙͍̰u̪̽̈̊͋̅ͦ ͌̽ͣ̒̈́m͔̿̈́́̉̽a̫̠̜͚̞̮ͨ̏̌ͩ̂ͮ͐k͙͆e̻̠͙̫͍ ͇͙̰͓͖̪̖̓̄m͒ȅ̮̻̪͇̦̥͉ ͕̮͛ͥ̅̉̋a͕̣̰̓ͨ̽ ̍̐ͪD̓̉̆ͫ͐̆ǔ̟͎͔̬͔̂ͨͤͬͪ͑k̗̥̲͇̹͎ͭe̳̙̝̪ͯ̏ͧ̽ͦ̊͗,̙̞̪͎̥̯̂ a͙̟͕̼̣̞f̭́̽ͦ̏t̠e̲̼̥͍̘̝͋ͧ̉r͕͔ͦ͋ͯ ̜̣̓ͧa͑͋̂̽lͣ͂͌l͍ͨ̽͌ͥ ͐̅m̞̪̮̟͎̤y̭̑̓ f̭̪̫͈̹̈̄́ͤ́a̭͖̪͕̖ͥ̌̾ͥͅm̜̤̮̮̟̆̿̄̈͆͋i̙͇̞ͤ̒̋ͪ̿lͮyͩͨ̄͋’̥͗ͯ͑s͚͓͕̙̠̄ ̲͎͖͋͗̌̔̚ͅͅḏ̟̠̳͖̉ͬö͎̝̜̠͙́̈́̐ͮn̮̱̫͉̒ͅe͙̝̱̰̮̥̥ͤ̎̃ ͈̰͚͚̮̙̋ͯͥͪf̲͓̯̙̯͇o̻̫r̲͉̝̬̂͆ͦ̉ ỷ̙̠̑̅ͭo̻̬̻̎̓̉̆ͫ̈͗u̞̟͇̳ͪ̊̒̿̍?͔̗͛̊ͅ
“You never asked,” said Cao Mao. “I’ll totally do it-”
W̺̍ͬh̫̃ͥ͛̽ͬy̅ͯ͊͐͛̓ d̫̖̱̞̬̲͒̿ͫ̈́î̥̫̗̱̭̤̇͌̆d̑ͮ͋ͧͧ̋̿ ͕̬̗͐͑̿̏ͩ̏y̟̪͊̅o̟ụ̝̱̋̃̎ͫ͑ ͤͫͨc̤͚̗̪͈̳͌͋̚aͨͯ̅͑l̤͍̞̭̼ͫ̏l̗̝̬ͩ̾ͅ ̯̟̻̘͗̀ͧ̄̋ͪ̓ͅm͚͎e̪̙͋͌ͬ ̞͖̣͖̹̘͗͌ͧ̊a̤̝ͩ ͓̓ͦ̉̚ͅs̳̻͎̠̤̘ͫͤͩͤ̃̍l̫̣̟̗͉̭ͤi̩̤̣͉̫m̉͐̐̉y͕̩̦͈͍̋ ̞͇̄t̘̜̯̩ͮͅh̭͖̦̺̟̖̲i͂̂̋̀͛̇ṇ̳̬̘͈̬ͩ͂͐̉g̣̗ͦͮ?̱̉̾ͧ̎ͭ͑
Something told Cao Mao that “Because you are,” was the wrong answer. He said nothing.
T̪̗̦ͥ̈h̯͔̑i̥͇̼̹̓̈́̔ͦͥͫͅs̼̮̍ͣ͑ͅ ̞̥̤͉̄̈ͭ̏ì̌̓̓s̮̫̥̈́̽̀̇̉̄͂ ͙̠͕̎̄̃̆ͧ̚pͯͤ͒u̱͎̙̫̅̆̃ͤͥ͊r̠̦̼̉̾̚ẹ̠̣͉ͪ ̪͙̀͆͂ḅ̞̝̣̮̦ͥ͛ͨi͓͚ͫ̈̏̿ͭ̍́ͅg̘͇̯ͧͣo͑ͯ͑t̩̝̣͚̠̜̜͆ͭ̈͛͛̓r͕̤̜͔͎͈̫y̟̰̩̼̺ͯͭ͋͌́͋͒.͙̞͎̗̌̍
“Sorry.”
Sima Zhao slithered out haughtily, and Cao Mao sadly rescued what he could of the cookies. “I could really use some loyalists right now. Wang Shen, Wang Jing, Wang Ye – are you guys loyalists?”
“We guess?” said the Wangs.
“Would you guys be willing to kill Sima Zhao?”
“Are you kidding?” said Wang Jing, astounded. “He’s far too powerful. We don’t even know if he can be killed. No, Your Majesty, you’ll have to be patient and wait this out.”
“I’m not just going to sit and wait for him to kill me,” said Cao Mao. “If you guys won’t help, I guess I’ll go talk to my kinda-stepmom.” He ran to the Empress Dowager’s room, and the Wangs stared at each other.
“We’re going to get killed,” said Wang Shen. “And our families, too. Let’s go warn Sima Zhao.”
“That’s treason!” protested Wang Jing. “It’s one thing not to fight the guy, and another to actively help him. Plus, you’ll probably get killed anyway.”
“Desperate times,” said Wang Ye. “I’m with Shen on this.”
“Traitors!” said Wang Jing, but the other two ignored him and went to see Sima Zhao.
Cao Mao stepped out of the Empress’ room with new resolve. “Jiao Bo!”
“Yeah?” said the captain of the guard, snapping to attention.
“Gather the palace guards together. As many as you can find. And bring me my sword.”
Jiao Bo scraped together three hundred guards and a drummer, and soon the small force was marching down the road to Sima Zhao’s palace. Cao Mao rode in the royal carriage, clutching his overly-jeweled sword in his sweaty palm. The sharp end should point forward. He knew that much.
Wang Jing jumped in front of the car, waving frantically. There was a squeal of brakes, and the sword plunged through the windshield.
“Don’t do this, Highness!” begged Wang Jing. “You’re throwing your life away!”
“Doesn’t matter. At least I’ll go down fighting,” said Cao Mao. “How many Emperors do that?”
“Very fair point,” said Wang Jing, stepping aside. Behind him in the distance, was another armed party.
Jia Chong rode in front, flanked by two generals, Cheng Zu and Cheng Ji. “What’s a nice Emperor like you doing out here?”
“I’m the Emperor, I do what I want!” said Cao Mao. “What are you doing out here? With soldiers and weapons, on the palace grounds?” His swordpoint waved wildly in Jia Chong’s general direction.
The soldiers stopped in their tracks and looked at each other in confusion. They were, in fact, off-duty palace guards that Jia Chong had called in with a vague report of “trouble.” This kind of trouble seemed above their pay grade.
Sensing that the redshirts were checking out, Jia Chong turned to Cheng Ji. “You’re up. Do it like Sima Zhao trained you.”
Cheng Ji hefted his halberd, then hesitated. “You mean restrain him, right?”
“Well, Sima Zhao said he had to die,” said Jia Chong.
“Uh, okay,” said Cheng Ji, and he swung.
“How dare you!” cried Cao Mao, but his words were cut short by a halberd going through his chest. The Emperor collapsed on the side of the road, dead.
One of the judges offered him a hand. “You did good, kid.”
Wang Jing screamed. “You killed the Emperor! Treason!”
“Shut him up,” said Jia Chong impatiently. “Put him in the back of the car. We have to go tell Sima Zhao.”
A͍̙͕͔͚̙̲͋̆͛l̮͎͕̖̭̪̈̈̆́̑a̱ͤs̻̳̮̣̜̀̂͑ͮ!̇ A͗̎͛ͥ͌̏̚l͙̠̼̜̯̝̦̋́̄̓̈́ͩa̜͎͚̳͛ͪͣ͂̊̅ș̙̭̖̘ͪ̎ͯ̀!͇͚͕ͩ̊ͧ̈̔͋ͬͅ
Sima Zhao howled and screeched, flattening trees throughout the capital and several buildings that weren’t up to code.
T͙̠͗̔̍ͨ̀̋h̬̝̻̥͍͐ͥ̊̏̐e̤̓̂̄ ͑̍͊̾̓̇͒Ẹ̼̙̾͒͐̋ͦ͒m͈̪p͓͉ë̙͕̰̝͕̩̜r̞̮͖̦̆̓͐ó̤͍̼͍̲̙̈́͑r͎̖͉͍̗͖̜ͪ͛ ̺̟̾ͫͩ͐͌ͦi͇͓͆̒̈́s̃̈ ͔̫̻͚̠̋̽̓d̩̱̣ͤ̾͌e͔̪͔̖̦ͩ̐̿ͤ̿̆͗a͉̪̯͔͆d̩͈ͯ͊!͈͂̆̀ ̳̲̣̆̓̂̒T̮̳̩̲̗̹͑͂͂̍ͩ̿h̘̻͎̦͕ͪ͐̿̂ȅ͖̊͊̿̈́ ̠̹̪͙̫͕̅́̐̀ͅE͓̰͈̦̥͕͐͛ṁ̮̟͖͓̘̫̠̀͑̂ͪ̚p̰̂̈̚e̯̭̠̼͑̉ͮr̻̣͆̆̄̒ͦ͆o̙̘͈̼͉̔ṟ̰ͧ̄̚ ̤̮̤̰͑ͪiͥ̈́ͪ̈́͐̽͆s̫ ̜̩̈́̐̄ͤn̗̹͖̭o̲̻̣͎͐ͫͫ̌̿ ̾̈́̊͆̄m̰̻͒̊̒͐̏o̥̠͓͙̻r̞͎̎ͯ͐͆͋ͅe!̓͒ͮ
As Sima Zhao thrashed on the floor of the hall, where the Emperor lay in state, Sima Fu laid his head on the body. “I dragged you into this. I’m so sorry.” While his nephew wailed just a little too quietly to actually wake the dead, Sima Fu laid the Emperor in a coffin and sadly set up candles and flowers.
One by one, the officials trickled in, all except Chen Tai.
X̯̫̋͊͊̂͗͌ͯu̠̣͕̜͓̦͖̔̌͂ͦn͕̞̞̙̾ͪ̃ ̤͉̼͎̎ͯͨ̒̇ͮY͚̥͕̥ĩ͓͚͂̃ͩ̓,̮̻͆̇͆̇̐͆ ̳̜͍̜̟̭̜gͫ̾ͭ͛r͚͉̟̲͓̜̿̆̔ͬa̲̠̋b̯̯͚ ̘̯͉͍̾͑͌̏̔̚y̱̖̜̫̞̙ͣ̎oủ͓̯̥̖ͦ̈ͦ͗͋rͤ̿ͮ̎ ̲͕̖̟̻̝̮ͪͯ͌̀n̗̩e͍̟̝̫ͣp͓̻̙̏͗ͮ̅̌ͫh̰̝͈̜̯͒̉ͭ͑̓̈e̮̯͔̫͋̎̅̈ͮ̃ͅw̥̣̖̙̙̅ͅ.̲̄͋̇͐̉
Sima Zhao squeezed himself into the high seat and waited. A few minutes later, Xun Yi returned dragging Chen Tai, who was dressed in heavy mourning. His sobs appeared genuine. Sima Zhao took note.
Ț͙ḥ̞͇̯͋͒̂̇e͔͇̅ͣ̃͒ͮ ̼̋̍̅́́́̑f͙̻̳̠̣̥̀͆̑i̮̺͖̫̼ͧ̃̈ṛ͗ͦs̳̣̜͉̉t̯ͥ͗̉ͥͯͅ ̹͍͚̱̪ͥ͗ŏ̫̰̳̲̪r̥̖͈̭͖͙̉̎ͣd̮̙ͤ̅ͪͭ̋e͙͑̔̈̿͂̄̈́ͅr̗̜̙̿͐͆ ͈̼͍͎̭͈ͣ̃͂̀ͤo̹̲̳͈̫̫̐̍f̘̓ͣͧ̉̚ ̲̱̦̖̥̲̟̍͗ͩb̥̬̯̄u͈͇̬̣͕s̟i͖̻͂̋n̻̟̮̫̻͉͗̌́̇̈ͅĕ̩͈̜̼ͬͩ̌͊ͧ̏s̝͍̳͉̼s̤̝͈̗ ͎̣̰̦̗ͪ͒̑͂̿i̇̅s͕͒̓ͯͅ,̳̳͍̒̃ͅ ̽w͉̙̹͚̙ͦ͛ḫ͓̘͔̻̣̜̾̉o͂͛͋̔̎̽ͧṃ̤͇̙ͨ̂ ̹͓̳̣̏̽ͫt̰̤ͭͨ̈́ͣ̂̈́o̻̱̜̥͔͉ ̤̻̏̆ͬͤ͌̂͆s̱̬̖̻̳͕ͤ̐͌̓̿̄́c̣̹̣̯ͥa̘̯̭̙̹̹p̩͙̪̻e̫̣g̳̭̫̻ͤ̐͌͆o̯͊̓̃ͨ̄ͦ̊a̟̘͇̯̒̓͑͗ͧt̤͕̟ͧ̉ͧ́́ͪ.̂̅͗ͧ̋
“I nominate Jia Chong,” said Chen Tai. “That weasel needs to die.”
Sima Zhao was silent for a moment.
O̙͚͎͍̪ͥ̄ͅr̥̋̋ͅ h̞̙̹̜̻̭o͎̩̟̫̝w̾ͦ ͋̈́ȁ͇̲̳̟͍̭b̳̤͎̪̼̹̩̈̉o̥̮͕̪ͩ̿̈̋ṳ̂ͯͥt̺̒͊ ̮͎̮̞̬ͫ͒ͅͅn̯͍̫͖̰̗̎̈́ͦo̦͚̟̭̭̐ͯͦ̾ͮ̚?̻̻ͧ͗
“How about yes,” said Chen Tai. “Unless you have any fates worse than death in mind?”
W̹̫̭̬̲ͪē̤͉̟̣̅͋ͭ̆ͅl̼͛͒͆͂ͪͥͨl̓,͉͍̿ͫ̄̿ ̼͇̠̏Ć̥͔̞̤̔̉̇͆h̰̲̺͔̀̇͂ȇ̤͔̰̞̏ͭͅn̪̺̹̬͕̞̻͐̽̒ͣͮͤġ̞̼̜͚̪̊͑̓ ̹̞͚͈ͯͭ̋ͅJ͎͉̲̦̦̖ͮ̒͒̓̒̇i̱ͫ ̜̦̊̃͑ͫ̄͛̚d̜̟̥͍̤̝͈̚iͫd ̠̻̜ͧ̃̊̾͋t̯͎͉̏̄ḥ͎̫̟̟͖̲̆͑̊͒̍̍̃ẽ͍̰̪̞̫ͧ̂̐̅ͅ ̫̉ͮͯ̿̊͌͂s̗̩̟̮̘t̮͍̫a̭̣̾̒ͭ̔͛b̟̺̝͖͖̰̞ͪ̐̾̾̚b̤̞̩̗̙͊ȉ̮͇̥͚̠̺͍̓ǹ̫͎̺̬̫g̝̳̘.ͤ
“What?” said Cheng Ji. “It was on your orders! And Jia Chong relayed them.”
Sima Zhao made a gesture, and Cheng Ji’s tongue ripped itself out of his mouth. It fell to the floor, where it flopped around uselessly.
D̄͐͒ͪr̝̯̘̰ͪͭ̎a͍͎͓͎̠̹͇̓̐̐͗̃ͬg̠̠̏̀̔͛ ̫̃̑̈h͔̖͔í̞̻̦͇͍̭̳m̫͕͑̓̎͐ͧ̈́̅ ͦͫan̫͔͓̱̠̞̬͋d̻̲͖ͤ͗̋͆ͮ̿̄ͅ ͛ͅh͊̔ĭ̝̲̰̻̳̣̺̄͒s͔̍̇̇̐ͮ̈́ ͖̭ͩ̑̓ͥ̈f̞̖̥̤̎̒͒a̤̖̰̞̘͖m̟͔͍̥̩͓̓i͍ͨ̅ͪ̚l͙͎̖̝̝̔̊y̫͍͔̼̦͈̘͛͑ ̞̹̫̣͖͓̜̀̓̒t͚͈̹ō͊ ̯̜̼̠̙̼̎͐ͨ̒̅ͩẗ͕̣̮̯́ͨ̆͒̎h̗̮̖̫̆̈ͬ̈e͔̪ͮͨ̍͆ͭ̃̂ͅ ̥̱̼̰͚͔̋̎̃ͨͭͧm͙͍͐ͭ̅͑̃ͧḁ͚͖͇̜͇̅̽͆̀͒̚r̰͕̱̝̪̫ͫͭ͗̂k̺̮̰̖̜̋e͚͕ͯ̑t͉̝̂̉ͯp̣̼̱̰̹͖̪̑̾̾͑̈̆ͤl̤͖̓a̘̦̭̮̥͛ͅͅc̮̥̲͇̹ͣ̓̌e̼̰͖̓̈́̽ ̼͇̞̲̜̞̲͒̊͆͂ȧn̻͔̈d̺͓͒ͧͩ̀̆ ̘̩e̬̔͂ͯ͛̏͂͊x̘̱̘͙̅͑̿͒e̬̼̩̦̜͚c̩͇̈ͩ͋̅ͅȗ͎̩͒ͮ̆t̤̜̫̭̣̔͛͒̎ͤͧ̐e̥̼̖͉̬͍ͥ̈́ͅ ͚͖̃t͇̯̝̦͓h̹̘̣̺̞̦ͮͮ̎̆͐ͅe̩̜̜̘̙̾̚m̦̪̹͔̥̟ͅ.̓̆ͦ̓
Wang Jing was led up next.
I͕̲̣̯̭̹ͮ’ͧ̔ͫ͌͌ͤṁ̯͍̣̪ͩ ͥ͆n̩̪o̩͎ͮͤt͊̈́̄ͭͬͬ ̯͕͖͒͌ͪͦ̿̌ḅo̼̼̞̾ͭ̅̆͑ͫ́ẗ̗̦̼h̖̘͚̱͕ͅe͓̠͖̺̖̮͎͂͛̅̍ͥř̹̹̼͈̗͈ͩ̉̂̂î̟̠̩͕͗́̂ͫ̃n̮̩͉̯̣̟͉̋ͫ͊́̒̓̇g̥̺͕͍͖ͯ͆ ̝͉̺̻̹̽͋̂̾̋ͧ͛w͒ͪ́i̹̩̣̞ṭ̼̓̌h̗͕͇̱͊ͬ̒̊̄ͭ̚ ̜͚̽͒č̗̪̫̋̐̈́ͯ̈́ͪh̙͕̟̫ͬͭ̿ͩả̹̖̝͖̠̟̩r̪̻ͪ̒ͤ͗ͅǵ͇͔͈̯̔͂̆͐ͨe͓̘̬̫̞̱ͅs̗̭͗͐̅̓̐̍͆.̱̳̱̬̞̻̱ ̗͊ͨͥ͗̀ͣ̽Y̩͉̦̰̲̳̓̑̌̐́ͅo̘͚̺̥̖̝̜ͨͥ́ͫ̋ͣǘ̟̣͍͎͔̭̝͂ͩ̃̀ ̩̭̘̤̍ͤ̐͛͌ḏ̫̻͒ͥ̐ͦͧi͓̻͒̈́͌ͮ̅̎̋e̯̰̜͖ͫ ̌͊̇͐̐ṱ̺͍͎̰ͧ͆ͤ͊̚o̩͚̔õ̠͇̞̅ͮ͂͑ͩͅ.̩̠͍ ͙̲̱͍̗̬͖Ȁ͍̬̎͂̈́ͪ̅͛ṉ͇̠̅͋̀ḋ͎͍̮̘̬͌̏ ̪̦͉͓͍̰̹̑̅y̰͔͐ͅo͓̦͔̝̣̅ͮͦ̓̑̒̚û̜̋ͩͦͧ̈́r̦̗͍̆̍͐ͩͤ ̭̆̈́͐̃̚w̪̼̘͎h͈͎͖̺̰̱̝o̟̹̭̙̗̙ͫḻ̣͚͉̹̄ͧe̙̬̣͕̖̖͈ͭ͋̾̅̆̚ ̯̋͗ͭ̇̾̂̚f̺̽̃̓̏a͚̟ͅm̤̉̓ͯ̄ͅï̱̬̥̇̓͛l̩̬̠͔̪ͅy̥ͥͧͯ̚.̫̜̠͉̈ͤ̓̇̈́̾
To Wang Jing’s horror, the next prisoner up was his elderly mother. “No!” he screamed. “Mom!”
His mother shushed him. “Chin up, son! We’re up for a perfectly splendid death scene!”
“Oh, right,” he said, and stood up tall. “Viva Wei!”
He and his mother were still high-fiving as their heads rolled on the ground.
Sima Fu crossed his arms and glared at his nephew. “You’re giving that boy a royal funeral. With sacrifices and the whole country mourning. The works.”
A͚̣̥͉͎̠l͈̼͕̣̹̫̋͊̅ͫ͒͛̐l͉̥̭̥̍ ̙͌r͂i̥̰̘̍g͕̺̖h̼̯̠̬̗̑̍̉t̬̹͕͎,̩̫̺͔̫͉̆̓ ̺͓̼͇̐̿̃a͚͕̺͊̌̉̒̍ḽ̹̖̲̠͕̺͑ͫͭͫͬ́l͚̱̩̬̻͇͋ͣͨ̓̓ͅ ̞̦̊ͫ̒̒̍ͯ͋r̅̓ͤi̦̰͂̀̌̄gͥh̘̘͇͇̰̖ͅt̗̱͌̏̄.̭̘̗̈ͫͨͅ
Sima Zhao gave his uncle the slip, and met up with Jia Chong yet again. “Now’s the time!” said his friend, beaming. “You can finally take the throne!”
N̥͖a͛̒͒̏͐̍ͣh̏͂ͣ.̽̄͋̏
“What do you mean, ‘N̥͖a͛̒͒̏͐̍ͣh̏͂ͣ.̽̄͋̏’?”
I̮͖̣̩͔̔̑ͩͯ͊ ͇͗m̭̹͆ͤe̘̟̤̺̣̤ͬ̿̚a̦̲̯͂n̦̗̞̻̪̠̋ͅ ̤͍̬̦̭͛ͨ̓ͨ̽͌͆n̞͓̓ͤͧ̂a͋̍h̘̜͆.̰͔̹̥
“After all that?”
I̗͔͎͈ ͌̃̎d̿ͤo̮̥͉͓͇ͮͬ͂͌ń̬͓͂͆͑́’̟̮̟̟͐ͭ̃̾t̖̊ͣ̔ ̠̯̘ͧͫ̃͆ͦ͊̊w͈̻̘ͩͯa̝̫̳̪͛̈̅ͯͤn̠̣tͩͮͬ̊ͥ ̣̀ͧͭ̚t̺̭ͨͦ̄͛o̥̪̪̟͇̲̺ ͌̇͑ͯ̍l̺͎̖̞ö̜̹͎͇̼͓̱̉̏̿o̝͇̙͇̘̬k͕̣ͩ͒ͨ̐̂̋̇ ̳ḛ͈̮̱͈͍͚̾ͣ̇͒ͪͮͬv͍͓͕̀͊͛ͩ̅i̠̻̻͗̔̆̾ͭ̑l̪̩̘̹̳̃ͯ̈̍̽̅ͦ.̗̰̣̞͕͗̉̾
“That ship has sailed a long time ago,” said Jia Chong, his eyes bulging.
̩̒͋̌̾ͅC̮̝̣̓͆̋̍̅a̱̤̣͇̲͊͑͐o̖̜̟̬͎͓̞̿̈́̌̊̆̃͋ ̞̦̮̫̳̰̃͂ͦͣͭC̙͎̪̱̟̪͔a͔̯ͧ̀͛ͬ͛ͣo̪͈ ̝ͣ͐̎̀̐ͬd̲̳̰̼ͧͨ̃́̿ͯ̏ͅi͈̲̱ͭͧ͋̏d̘͉̉͂ͤ̏̄̚n̻̯̉’̇̇̅ͮt͎̪̮̅̒ͫ̉ ͔̺̏̀ͧ͌̏̄d͋̅͂ȏ͂̆ ͔͍̮̣͇̊ͅi̯̻̖̖̫͖̱̇ͧt͔,̻̲̪͕͙̗͓̌ ̳͓͍̓s̖͉̔͑̊ͬ̓ͩo͇̘͇͕̗̳̜̍́̄ͯ͗ͬͯ ̖͈̖̝͇͈̥͋͒Ī̔̒̃ ̱̫̺̻̮̇̄ͯͫ͒̐͒w̳͎̬͂o̲̟̗͔̲̲̞͐̅͐n̼͔̥͎͍ͣ͌ͅ’̼̦͉͚͌̓͛̂t̩̗͒̑͑̈̈́ ͬ͌̅ͫȇ͇͙̚i̅͛̑̆ͩͭț̹̹͛h̝̦̩̻̖ͅe͕͔̬ͩ͋̈ͭŕ̼͓̪̼͖͕͐͌ͬ̚.̪̳̉̿ ̖ͦCȏ͕͚̙̙͊͐n̙̗̟ͅf̹͚͉̟͍̋͐ͬ͆̂̌̚ͅu̝̿̄ͨ̽͒cͩ͆ͬ̄͐ͧi̬ͤ̋u̩̻̝͉̻̞͗s͉̘̱̗͖̋̑ͩ̀̋ ̞̟͍̤̺̹͗̐ͅs̬̣̘̉ͪa͖̒̎ͭ͌ÿ̻͎̺̟͈ŝ̠͍͕̰̻͗ͤ̃ͮ͋̾,̹̬̻̱̮̃͆ ̔̌’̦̪̹̖̣͐̂ͬͩ͑ͅH͍̮̜̙̱̮̰̽ͦ̊͆e̠ͭ̏ͬ͗͒ ̹͇̖̟̄̉͋̽̌w͎h̼̲̖͔͐ͅo͍̻̥͌̅͌ͨͩͅ ̈̀ͬ̇͂̓ͨg͔͋̽̆̓͋̐e̜̘͇̤̊ͭ̒t͕̻̑̍̐̄s̭̟̬͚͆ ̻͎̪̝͙̹̊̿ṭ͈͖̪̘̀ͥ̍ͣo̝̬̹̤̤ͥ̐̉̿͋ͮͩó̰͉̞ ̦ͨͩ͌̊̔̈́̚b̰͈͎̹̗̩̦̀i̠̘͓̠̻̺̜̎ͧ̔͊͋̃͋g͖͓ͪ ͕̯̟̳f͍ͪͥ͐͂̚o̬͚̺̪̱͎͉r̹͔̦̤̯͓̖͆ h͙̳̰̘́͒̈̿̔̿i̾̅ͣs̟͕̫̖͒ ͕̺͓̮ͣͫͯ̓b͚̫ri̺̟̞͛͋̽̔͐̍ͨṱ͓̿ͥ̈̿č̪͍̣̪̳̗̲h͕̩ͤͣ̅̈́e̲͖͔͓̹̖͐̚s͇̣̞̳͇̆ͤ ̟̤̹̹̟̺̏̿͆͆͗̒ẇ̭̤̫͍̮́̀i͉l̠͂ͮl̗̟̯̫͍̬ ̣͇̭̹͚͂ȯ͍͇͎͂͑n͗̒ͫ̏̔̈l͇͖͉̖͔͑̽͛ͣy͇̳̳͌ ̤̗͉͈͖̼̝̇͑̑̈́̅s̗̦͙͉ͬp̺̆ͫ͑͊ͬ̂l͉͙̠͕͉ͩ̈́ͨ̓͗ͩi̦̲ͦt̻̯̺͉͚ ̱̥̦̮ͦͨ̎̉̅̓ͩẖ̲̞͛ͦ̈́̉i̻͓ͦ̎s͎̥͎̗̮̭͔͗̓͂̾̾̈̏ ͖͇̠͍͚͛̾ͬp̄̈ͫạ̠͗̅̎n̤̙̖͚̭ͦͯͅt͉̻̞ͩ͗s̟ͬ͑ͥ.̜̩͓͙͍̓͛ͣͭ̈̐ͩ”͙͓̝͍͋̾͆
“You don’t wear pants,” said Jia Chong. “But I get it. You want your son to take the throne, not you.”
So that year, another Cao cousin named Huang was placed on the throne, and the era name was changed to Full Frontal View. Sima Zhao, of course, got all the promotions he asked for, as did his surviving loyalists.
“What an outrage!” sputtered Jiang Wei. “Time to fight them again!” He dashed off some letters to Wu, and gathered up his soldiers and generals. In days, they were headed off to Qishan once more.
Deng Ai paused his morning calisthenics. “Again? Oh well. What’s the plan this time, guys?”
“I have a plan,” said Wang Guang, one of his officers.
“Let’s hear it.”
“I wrote it down,” said Wang Guang, handing Deng Ai an envelope. “Didn’t want the narrator to see.”
Deng Ai read it and laughed. “I like it. But I don’t know if it’ll fool him.”
“It’s my life on the line,” said Wang Guang.
“So it is. Go ahead.”
Wang Guang grabbed five thousand redshirts and marched to Jiang Wei’s camp. “Don’t shoot!” he called. “I’m switching sides.”
“Come in alone!” Jiang Wei called back, so Wang Guang dismounted and walked inside. “Wang Jing was my uncle, but Sima Zhao murdered him! I’ll do anything for revenge, even join you guys.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” said Jiang Wei. “What I really need right now is grain. It’s all in Shu, just inside the borders. Your first assignment is robotherd duty. Take the Plank Trail.”
“Yeah, no problem!” said Wang Guang.
“You don’t need five thousand redshirts for that,” said Jiang Wei. “Keep three thousand, I’ll take two.”
Wang Guang didn’t want to be suspicious, so he said “No problem,” again, and headed out. As soon as he left, Xiahou Ba ran in.
“What the hell, Jiang Wei! I’m from Wei. Why didn’t you ask me? There are a lot of Wangs around. He’s not related to Wang Jing.”
“I’m from Wei, too,” said Jiang Wei. “And I knew he was lying. Sima Zhao would never have left a nephew alive.” He set up an ambush on the road, and sure enough, ten days later they captured a stealth mailman carrying a letter from Wang Guang to Deng Ai.
“Hmm,” said Jiang Wei, skimming it. “It looks like he’s planning to divert the robots to Wei on the twentieth.”
Some careful use of white-out, and the letter said the fifteenth, not the twentieth. Jiang Wei beheaded the mailman, making sure not to splash his uniform with blood. Then he dressed a redshirt in the mailman’s outfit and sent him on to Deng Ai.
“Load the carts with shredded paper and gunpowder!” he ordered. “Sprinkle them with gasoline, too. We’re setting a trap.”
The hapless Wei soldiers Wang Guang had left behind were put on the bomb squad, and rolled the carts into the valley. Jiang Wei and Xiahou Ba hid in the hills, Jiang Shu was sent one valley over, and Liao Hua and Zhang Yi were to capture Qishan while Deng Ai was distracted.
On the fifteenth, Deng Ai and an army of fifty thousand crept stealthily into the valley. It was getting dark, but they could make out a long baggage train. The flags were certainly Shu flags, but the redshirts were in Wei uniforms.
“It’s Wang Guang,” whispered his officers. “Let’s go help him!”
“Shhhh.” Deng Ai put a finger to his lips. “There could still be an ambush in there.”
That’s when two horsemen galloped up. “Wang Guang’s in trouble! He needs help!”
“Oh, shit,” said Deng Ai, forgetting what he’d just said. “Move! Move! Help him!”
As he raced over the hill, Fu Qian jumped out from behind a tree.
“Ha-ha! You fell for it, dummy.”
“Crap.” Realizing what had happened, Deng Ai turned around, but before he could move, all of the wagons exploded simultaneously. He was knocked to the ground.
“Get him, boys!” hollered Fu Qian. “He’s worth a thousand pieces of gold!”
Deng Ai shook his head, dazed. Then he snapped out of it, and dropped his sword. Off came his crested helmet. Off came his shining armour, revealing a red shirt underneath. He grabbed a fallen spear and ran, mingling with the fleeing soldiers. The frustrated Shu officers crashed through bushes and stopped horsemen for hours, but they never spotted him.
Wang Guang waited anxiously on the Plank Trail. “Five more days,” he muttered, but a singed redshirt came running in. “Boss! It’s all gone wrong. They’ve already beaten Deng Ai.”
Horrified, Wang Guang ran to the top of the nearest hill. The redshirt was right. Black smoke was rolling out of the valley, and he could see the Wei soldiers scattering like ants.
“So much for that,” he sighed, and kicked the nearest robot. Then he paused, and stared at it. “But they did give me all their grain… and I’m still between them and their base.”
Raising his voice, he turned to his own redshirts. “Burn the robots! Burn all the grain!”
In minutes, everything was in a giant heap, quickly being reduced to ashes.
“March for the border!” he ordered. “The road’s wooden. Burn it as we go. Burn all the forts, and the rest stops. Make the road impassable. Onward! To Shu! Let’s see how far we get.”
His doomed men cheered, and did an about-face. Lighters flickered. The rearmost men carefully sprinkled gasoline behind them.
Jiang Wei stared at the ribbon of fire leading towards Shu. “I thought he’d run…”
“He didn’t,” said Xiahou Ba.
Jiang Wei facepalmed. “And I probably shouldn’t have given him all our grain.”
“Probably not,” agreed Xiahou Ba.
“And he controls the road home…”
“What’s left of it.” Xiahou Ba nodded.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuckity fuckin’….shit!” Jiang Wei took off down a byroad as fast as his legs could carry him.
He caught up with Wang Guang right on the Shu border, as he crossed the last bridge. “Halt! We have you surrounded!”
“You do, don’t you?” said Wang Guang, calmly. In his hand, he held the last can of gasoline.
“Your little trick failed!” screamed Jiang Wei.
“Did it?” Wang Guang turned the can upside down and shook it. Oily liquid splashed at his feet.
“Get off that bridge,” said Jiang Wei in a hoarse whisper.
“Oh, I will.” Wang Guang struck his last match and dropped it. The dry planking burst into flame. Laughing, Wang Guang mock-saluted and did a backflip off the bridge, hit his head on the guardrail, and disappeared into the white water underneath.
Jiang Wei looked over the wreckage of his entire operation. “At least I won?”
“At least you won,” said Xiahou Ba.
“Stop agreeing with me like that,” snapped Jiang Wei. “This campaign’s over. We’re going home.”
“How?”
Deng Ai trudged back to Qishan, where he had a hot bath and then wrote a painfully honest report to Sima Zhao, in which he blamed himself for everything and asked to be demoted. Sima Zhao wouldn’t hear of it.
Ḧ͔̼̭͎̆ͧͦͪ̽e̥̟̯͗ͤ’̰͉̰̘s̲̠̤̿ͯ ̰͖̻͒̓ͬͩ͌̚ò̹̭̯̥̂̊̊͋͂̈́u̙̠̤͎̰̟r̞̻͚ͣͧͮ̍͛ͪ͛ ̣̜̤̤̯͈̈́ͭͅb͓͚͙̘͓̖̣̿̿̑ͮes̝͙̫͓̰̬ͫ͌t̺́ͦ̿͌ ̹̱͉͍̭̌̃̅ͤ͑͆g̳̲̞̠̒ͭͥ̍̅͐̓e̝̖̖͎͍̹͆n̒ͬ̓ͭ̚e̥̪͖̪͔͚͓r̳͕̥͈͇̩͕̍̂͆̑̎̾ạ̣̼͇̜̣̺̅̍̊lͥ̏́̋͂ͬ̚.̰̲͚͍̠̅ͧ̾ ̩͍̥̯ͯ̓İ̩̟̯̼̣̫ͦ͒̀’̜̼͓̖̓̉̈́̐̈l̠̘̬͎̺̜̪͆́ͥl̞̜̗̺̟̲̈́ ̪r̫̩̹̪̜̼͇͌͂ͨ͊̑e̩̙̱̫̯͔͊̆w̟̮̤a̳̰̥ͩ̎͂r̳̰͚̜̭̽ͩ̄d̬̮̉̓͋ ̼̖͈͙̳̓̽͑h͙̲͍̘̫̱͋̂̒͂͆ͧ̌ͅi̦ͧ̑̍ͪͧ̚m͖̠̦̭͇̩ͦ ̟̞ͤ̿͂ͤ̓̇̆i͔͚̹̯̪ͥn͓͍s͇̘̗̼ͅt̫͚͖̆ͯea͇̮̬ͅd͈̗͈ͥ̏̏ͅ.̰͇͇
Deng Ai distributed the rewards among the families of the soldiers who’d been killed, especially all the Wangs, as he wasn’t quite sure which ones were the correct ones. He was more cheered up when he saw that Sima Zhao had sent him fifty thousand more redshirts “f̱̱̖̹̀o̴̻̫̝̼͓̱r̷͖̤͎͕͕̥ ̶̯̹n̯̤̘̦ex̦̮̗̪t̯̀ ͔̹́t̡̳̳i͓͓m̨͓̥̮̩̦̦e̢̯̖̘.͓̲͔͎̞”
And in Shu, Jiang Wei grumbled and started laying down new planks.
Saxo Dramaticus 