The battle has begun!

In a haze of confusion, Wang Bo’s consciousness gradually returned to his body.

As clarity seeped in, his mind was assaulted by a strange and indescribably foul odor—a stench born of years without bathing, heavy with the musk of sweat and hormones, tinged with the wild, fishy tang of bark and roots. Before his brain could even fully process this smell, a gaunt figure suddenly collided with him.

“Ouch!”

The figure was so thin that it felt almost sharp against Wang Bo, and through a fleeting glimpse in the ragged clothing, he caught sight of the protruding lines of neat ribs pressed against sallow skin.

In the next instant, it was as if his senses snapped into place. Wang Bo’s vision cleared, revealing a dense throng of people stretched out all around him.

Their garments were in tatters, barely sufficient to cover their bodies, all of them bearing an unfamiliar waxen pallor tinged with sickness. There was no semblance of order—some wore long robes, others short jackets, many barefoot or shod in ruined shoes. Exposed limbs revealed little more than the bony outlines beneath the skin, and in their hands they brandished a motley array of “weapons.”

Ordinarily, such a mass of people would stir up a cacophony even in silence, but these people… how to describe them? Wang Bo was an ordinary man, unaccustomed to great spectacles, but the calm that emanated from their eyes—despite their refugee-like appearance—made his skin crawl with cold sweat.

There was a dead silence, an oppressive air, with a thread of madness hidden deep in their gazes—a madness that could turn outward in destruction, or inward in self-annihilation at any moment.

Their weapons were crude: hoes, wooden sticks, bamboo poles, even stones. The only commonality was a strip of yellow cloth tied around every forehead.

Wang Bo dared not stop, nor did he risk asking questions. These people clearly were not normal. Most unnerving of all was that, upon regaining consciousness, he realized he was one of them, gripping a sharpened wooden stick tightly in his hand.

The stick was rough, still reeking of sap and grass.

As he walked along, Wang Bo gradually took in his surroundings. Beyond the sea of refugees, a ring of mounted cavalry encircled them. These riders all wore golden head wraps and wielded proper weapons—iron spears, great sabers, and even some bows and arrows. Their bearing and physique far surpassed that of common soldiers, though their numbers were few.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

As Wang Bo pondered how to slip quietly away from the crowd, heavy drumbeats thundered almost simultaneously from ahead and behind. The procession slowed to a halt, and an unsettling change began to ripple across the faces of the mob, as if a pot of water was coming to a boil—their eyes grew red and feverish.

“What the hell is going on?” Wang Bo gripped his stick, his breath coming fast. The people around him looked terrifying.

“What exactly has happened to me? Wasn’t I dead?”

The memory of dying was so vivid—the terror of sinking into mud, gasping desperately for a last breath, the surge of survival instinct exploding from his throat. Even the memory after death was faintly present.

It seemed he had startled a white serpent, which turned out to be some minor deity of the underworld—a lazy patrol spirit who, caught shirking duties, was surprised by Wang Bo’s impromptu picnic and accidentally fell into the water and drowned. The deity, unwilling for its laziness to be exposed, coaxed the keepers of reincarnation to cast Wang Bo carelessly into a dark whirlpool, and upon waking, here he was in a strange new world.

The drums faded, and the crowd grew restless, tinged with fear. Many shrank into themselves, pushing deeper into the throng.

In the chaos, Wang Bo peered through a gap and finally saw what lay ahead.

“A battle…? Is this a war?!”

Though the scene was fragmentary, the opposing side’s well-ordered ranks, gleaming armor, and bristling spears were unmistakable.

Comparing the numbers and equipment, and recalling the yellow-turbaned cavalry circling them, a dreadful thought leaped into Wang Bo’s mind: “Could this be...?”

“Heaven is dead, the Yellow Sky shall rise!”

“Heaven is dead, the Yellow Sky shall rise!”

The deafening chant swept over the crowd like a tidal wave, washing away all panic and fear from their eyes, replacing it with a frenzy of madness and zeal.

“This is the damned Three Kingdoms era!”

Hearing that fanatical cry, Wang Bo understood instantly.

He had never thought of the Three Kingdoms as a glorious age. Perhaps it was full of heroes and epic sagas, but it was also an age where human life was worth less than a dog’s—where famine and warlords tore the land apart, and only the common folk suffered and died.

“Kill! Kill! Kill!!”

Clangorous gongs erupted behind them, and with shouts, curses, and the blare of orders, the mob surged forward like a flock of ducks being driven to slaughter—shouting, or rather, howling, as they hurled themselves toward the enemy.

It wasn’t as if these refugees were eager to die; aside from a few true fanatics, most were common people forced into this by dire threats.

Behind them, the shouts of “kill” were punctuated by the presence of brawny Yellow Turban soldiers wielding sharp blades. Any sign of hesitation or retreat, and the gleaming sabers would be stained with fresh blood.

Caught in the crowd, Wang Bo saw the frenzy of those around him—caged beasts gone mad—and felt a chill seep into his bones.

He didn’t want to die, and certainly not for some ridiculous slogan about “Heaven is dead, the Yellow Sky shall rise!”

The pushing and shoving from behind grew more frantic. Gritting his teeth, Wang Bo forced his way forward.

Retreat was impossible—the tide of the crowd only allowed one direction: forward.

But Wang Bo had no wish to die meaninglessly. He slipped toward any gaps he could find in the crowd, aiming for the right edge, though not so obviously as to draw attention. When at last he was just a dozen meters from the edge, a sudden crescendo of shouting and screams exploded ahead—the battle had been joined.

“They’ve clashed!”

Wang Bo hunched his shoulders and shrank behind those in front of him, hiding his entire body behind their backs.

As soon as he crouched, the air was filled with the sharp hiss of arrows whistling past.

Thwack!

Like stabbing a water skin, an arrow pierced the chest of the refugee ahead, blood spraying everywhere—some of it spattering Wang Bo’s face.

Staring at the arrow driven through the corpse, Wang Bo’s throat itched and tightened. Nausea welled up uncontrollably.

“Don’t throw up!”

He fought down the urge, desperation for survival flooding him as death loomed close. One hand still gripped his wooden stick, the other braced against the dying man in front—clutching him as a makeshift human shield.

Within a few breaths, the man was dead, leaving his body to serve as Wang Bo’s grim protection.

With a rare moment of respite, Wang Bo finally couldn’t hold back, and vomited violently.

Once emptied, he felt a little steadier and was about to assess the situation when the thunder of hooves rumbled from ahead.

As a man from the modern world, Wang Bo knew all too well the terror of cavalry charges against infantry—the massed assaults in The Lord of the Rings had left a deep impression. Coupled with that earlier rain of arrows, he guessed the Yellow Turbans’ collapse and flight was only a matter of time.

Hearing the thunderous gallop, Wang Bo made another quick decision—throwing himself forward, dragging the arrow-riddled corpse atop himself as a shield.