Days after the Liang army stormed the capital, Dong Zhuo prowled the imperial palace like a hawk circling prey. His gaze, sharp and predatory, raked over every glimmer of opulence—the golden filigree curling across pillars, the jade tiles gleaming underfoot. But it was not the grandeur alone that quickened his pulse. It was the women: palace maids and concubines, their waists swaying like reeds in a breeze, their almond eyes lowered in shy deference. To him, they were ripe peaches dangling just beyond reach, their skin flushed with the promise of sweetness, their silken robes whispering against the marble with every trembling step.
Even the mightiest heroes of old had bowed before passion, and Dong Zhuo was no exception. Visions of beauty stirred him, his blood surging with restless, animal heat. The court, now drenched in the blood of eunuchs and filled with the wails of the fallen, had soured in his mouth. Emperor Shao was young, frail, and unfit to rule. Dong Zhuo had no intention of bowing to such a feeble figure.
To cement his authority over the empire, he sought to become an emperor-maker—a master behind the throne, with a puppet dangling from strings he could snap with a flick of his meaty wrist. Ambition coiled tighter in his chest as his gaze fell upon the emperor's half-brother, the King of Chenliu. A pliable boy. A hollow crown. Through him, Dong Zhuo would reign supreme, his shadow swallowing the Han whole.
But the path was not as smooth as his hunger demanded. When he summoned the court's ministers and generals to unveil his scheme, a voice rose like a blade against the tide. Replacing an emperor was no small matter—it invited chaos, shattered stability, and upended sworn loyalties. Many officials, bound by duty and honor, refused to betray their sovereign.
Among them stood Ding Yuan, governor of Jing Province. Though his rank was not high, his presence carried weight. His defiant words crackled through the court like thunder, his opposition not merely a thorn in Dong Zhuo's side, but a spear aimed at his heart. Yet his audacity did not come from mere principle alone. Behind him loomed a force so formidable that even the warlord's iron-clad confidence wavered. It was this power that gave Ding Yuan the boldness to stand unbowed, daring to challenge the brute who sought to rule from the shadows.
The clash was instant, electric. Two titans faced off, their wills clashing like swords in the dark, the air thick with the musk of impending war.
Unbeknownst to Dong Zhuo, a storm concealed a secret—Ding Yuan's true strength rested on a single pillar: Lü Bu.
He was born with a commanding presence, his stature noble and imposing. A fierce aura radiated from him, exuding an air of unshakable might. Whispers spoke of his invincibility—a god of war clad in mortal flesh. In his grasp, he wielded the legendary Fangtian Halberd, a weapon fit for a warrior beyond men.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and striking in appearance, Lü Bu was more than just a warrior—he was a force of nature. His strength was matched only by his exceptional skill in battle, and no one could rival his mastery of mounted combat. He and his steed moved as one, an unstoppable storm upon the battlefield. Soldiers who saw him charge did not fight—they fled.
To forge a strong alliance and bind Lü Bu's loyalty to him, Ding Yuan had adopted the fearsome warrior as his son. This bond was more than familial—it was a pact of loyalty and power, one that would keep Lü Bu firmly at his side.
When Lü Bu rode forth, the battlefield itself seemed to shift. Armies parted like waves before an oncoming tempest, for those who laid eyes upon him knew at once—he was no ordinary warrior.
And when the drums of war thundered, he erupted like a tiger unleashed. His halberd tore through the air, each strike a blur of lethal precision. In a single heartbeat, Lü Bu's blade carved through Dong Zhuo's banner, sending it crashing to the ground—a warning and a declaration.
No warrior in Dong Zhuo's ranks could rival Lü Bu's raw power. Like a war god descended upon the battlefield, Lü Bu led his forces with unstoppable fury, charging forward and crushing all who stood in his way. The sight struck terror into Dong Zhuo's soldiers—panic spread like wildfire, sending them scattering in disarray. Amid the chaos and dust, Dong Zhuo's fury boiled over, his pride wounded as deeply as any blade.
Dong Zhuo sighed, "Lü Bu is no mere mortal. If I could claim such a warrior as my own, nothing could stand between me and the empire!"
Consumed by rage, he desired Lü Bu—not as an enemy, but as a weapon to wield. He no longer saw Lü Bu as a threat, but as a prize to claim—his might, his power, to bend to his will.
In the aftermath, as the warlord nursed his wounded ego, his trusted captain, Li Su, stepped forward. The Tiger Guard commander wore a sly smile, his eyes glinting with the promise of a scheme. "My lord," he murmured, voice smooth as oiled silk, "if you'll hear me, I have a plan to turn Lü Bu to your side."
Dong Zhuo's gaze sharpened, hunger flaring anew. "Speak," he demanded, leaning forward, his bulk casting a shadow over the flickering torchlight. "How do I bind him to me?"
Li Su bowed his head, his grin deepening. "I knew Lü Bu in our youth—we shared a schoolroom, a bond of ink and rivalry. He's a storm of courage, unmatched in battle, but his mind is a shallow pool. Dangle a trifle before him, and he'll trade his honor for it. More than that—" Li Su paused, letting the words hang like perfume in the air—"he's a slave to beauty. A woman's glance, a soft curve, and he's lost."
A spark ignited in Dong Zhuo's chest, spreading like wildfire through his veins. He saw it now—a leash forged not of iron, but of desire. He commanded Li Su to gather treasures worthy of a war god's desires: his prized Red Hare, a steed with a coat that blazed like embers, its speed rivaling lightning—an irresistible gift for any war god; ten women, their skin as smooth as porcelain, their laughter like the chime of distant bells; and a hoard of gold and gems that sparkled like stars torn from the heavens.
"Take these to Lü Bu," Dong Zhuo commanded, his voice thick with anticipation. "Promise him wealth beyond dreams, power at my side. Make him mine."
Li Su did not falter. That night, the gifts arrived at Lü Bu's camp, a caravan of temptation slipping through the shadows. In their casual conversation, Li Su learned that Lü Bu remained with Ding Yuan not out of loyalty, but because he had no better option. It was Ding Yuan who had sought to bind him beneath his wings, trapping him in a gilded cage.
When Li Su presented the Red Hare, Lü Bu's eyes widened in awe. A lover of fine steeds, he marveled at the horse, its muscles rippling under the torchlight, the powerful creature snorting in challenge.
Then came the women, gliding forward like shadows in the night. Their veils slipped to reveal lips parted in silent invitation, and the air thickened with the fragrance of lotus and musk, drawing Lü Bu's gaze. Their eyes glittered with admiration, all focused on the mighty warrior, their beauty a silent plea for his attention.
Heavy chests of gold clinked softly in the background—a siren's song of wealth and power. The allure of the riches was irresistible, but more so was the promise of freedom from the chains of duty.
Lü Bu's resolve—his loyalty to Ding Yuan—crumbled like dry earth beneath a sudden rain. The bond forged over years, the oath of a son, was torn apart by the weight of such temptation.
By dawn, the deed was done. Lü Bu slipped into Ding Yuan's tent, his movements swift and sure. The blade flashed with a muffled sound, and the night thickened with silence. He emerged with his foster father's head and knelt before Dong Zhuo, offering it as a grim token.
"I am yours," he swore, his voice heavy with the weight of the moment, his eyes burning with resolve and something darker—an act that sealed his fate and bound him to Dong Zhuo in an unspoken pact.
When Dong Zhuo saw Lü Bu approach, his heart swelled with immense satisfaction. He immediately arranged a feast in Lü Bu's honor, showering him with golden armor and a brocade robe. Dong Zhuo declared, "Today, having gained such a general, I feel as though a drought-stricken plant has finally received the sweet rain it desperately needed."
Impressed by Lü Bu's commanding build, his striking appearance, and, most importantly, his reputation as an invincible warrior, Dong Zhuo made a calculated decision, naming Lü Bu his adoptive son. Lü Bu's legendary prowess in battle, his ability to cut through entire enemy lines with his Fangtian Halberd, and his unyielding might on the battlefield made him the perfect weapon for Dong Zhuo's ambitions. The adoption was a strategic move, a way to bind the formidable warrior to him, solidifying their alliance with the weight of familial ties in a court where loyalty was as fickle as a passing shadow.
For Lü Bu, the adoption was more than just a symbolic gesture. It cloaked him in the wealth and prestige of Dong Zhuo's name, swelling his coffers with gold and elevating his standing among the warlords. It was a glittering reward for his bloody allegiance. Yet beneath the formality of their bond, there simmered a shared thirst for power, each man sharpening the other's ambition like a blade.
Dong Zhuo's laughter boomed, a sound that shook the palace walls, his new son's ferocity a testament to his own dominion. With Lü Bu at his side, he was a tiger with wings, his power swelling until the court quaked in awe and fear. The ministers whispered, the generals bowed—none dared defy him now, not with the shadow of Lü Bu's blade cast long and lethal beside the tyrant's throne.