Several days after Dong Zhuo made Lü Bu his adopted son, a small gathering opened at the house of the Luoyang Minister over the Masses (司徒) Wang Yun (王允). The name of the gathering was “The sixtieth birthday of Minister Wang.” That day was not, in fact, Wang Yun’s birthday. To escape Dong Zhuo’s ear, Wang Yun had borrowed the name of a birthday and hung it above the gate.

At that birthday seat a dozen old loyalists of Luoyang gathered. Beneath the lamps inside the hall, the wine went around twice. Before the third round arrived, Wang Yun’s face fell deeply. His shoulder shook, and the end of his sleeve covered his face. Within that sleeve a man’s weeping flowed out slowly.

“Today is not, in truth, this old one’s birthday. To escape Grand Preceptor Dong’s ear, to borrow your seat, I have borrowed this face. The ancestral altars of the Han are tilting again this evening. The empire of the High Emperor (高皇帝) is sinking day by day within the grasp of one man, and yet no one in this seat brings out so much as a single line.”

At that moment, from a corner of the hall, someone laughed short and loud.

“With the ministers of the court all gathered and weeping all night, weeping again at dawn, weeping again at midday — do tears alone choke the throat of Grand Preceptor Dong?”

Every head turned toward that sound. The owner of the laugh was a young officer. His face was dark, and fatigue had settled around his eyes. His name was Cao Cao (曹操), style Mengde (孟德), thirty-five years of age. His office tonight was Valiant Cavalry Colonel (驍騎校尉).

Wang Yun sprang up from his seat. “Cao Mengde. Were not your forebears also men who ate the salary of the House of Han? And yet you, in this seat today, laugh at the tears of loyal subjects?”

Cao Cao bent his waist. “Minister. I have not laughed at your tears. I only said aloud that weeping by itself cannot knock so much as a grain of dust off Dong Zhuo’s neck. I am unworthy, yet I can say one thing in this seat tonight: within my hand I hold the confidence to lift Dong Zhuo’s head.”

Wang Yun’s eye narrowed. He called Cao Cao to the seat beside him.

“Mengde. If your meaning is truly such, I shall entrust one thing to you.”

Wang Yun untied a short blade from his waist. The scabbard was bound in very old black leather. When he loosened the scabbard, a dagger a little over one chi in length came forth. On the face of its blade seven stars were embedded. With powder of gold, jade, and pearl, the form of the Seven Stars of the Northern Dipper (北斗七星) had been engraved upon the blade. Though old, the light of the blade stood blue as if whetted only yesterday.

“This is a short dagger my clan has long kept, called the Seven-Star Treasure Blade (七星寶刀). Tomorrow morning, if you bear this blade and enter the chancellor’s residence (相府), a short chance may open for your blade to cut out your meaning directly.”

Cao Cao received the blade with both hands. His fingertips trembled lightly above the seven stars. Yet that trembling was not fear. It was the trembling that comes when a resolve long hidden inside a man rises, for the first time, into his fingertips.

That night, Cao Cao hid the Seven-Star Blade quietly in his bosom, and murmured alone in a low voice. “Even if I die, I shall hold no regret.”

The next morning, Cao Cao led a single horse and stood before the gate of the chancellor’s residence. A cold sweat ran at the back of his neck; yet his gait was as usual. The gatekeeper bowed his head lightly, and Cao Cao returned the bow. Within his sash, the seven stars stirred quietly. That stirring did not reach the gatekeeper’s eye.

Inside the hall, Dong Zhuo sat half-leaning upon his couch. Beside him Lü Bu stood with his lance set up. “Mengde. Why are you so late today?” “My horse was lean; I was slowed on the road this morning.” Dong Zhuo turned his head and sent Lü Bu on an errand. “Fengxian. Was there not a good horse that came up from Xiliang? Pick one and give it to Mengde.”

Lü Bu went out of the hall. Cao Cao’s hand slid into his bosom. The hilt of the seven stars came quietly into his palm.

In that very moment, Dong Zhuo caught the movement of Cao Cao’s hand in the bronze mirror at the head of his couch. He turned his head. “Mengde. What are you doing?”

Cao Cao’s hand stopped for an instant. Yet in the next breath it moved again. He turned the blade and held it with both hands before Dong Zhuo.

“Your Lordship. This Cao Cao obtained the Seven-Star Blade several days ago. The master of a Treasure Blade ought rightly to be the Chancellor of all under heaven. I have come up this morning to present this blade.”

Dong Zhuo took the blade. He looked into the seven stars on its face and smiled a little. Cao Cao bowed his head deeply. “I shall take my leave of Your Lordship.” Outside the gate, the sound of Lü Bu leading up a fine Xiliang horse reached them. Cao Cao mounted the horse. “My own horse is lean; I shall test Your Lordship’s horse and return.”

Cao Cao pulled the rein. The hooves of the horse sprang up lightly upon the stone floor of the residence. Behind him the great gate closed. That single closing turned the direction of Cao Cao’s entire life from east to west, this morning.

The sixteenth morning of Book 1 interlocked quietly across two seats: Wang Yun’s hall and the gate of the chancellor’s residence. The three characters Heondogye (獻刀計, the scheme of presenting a dagger) were planted as a seed — the breath in which a stab turned into a presentation. The character in Lü Bu’s mouth from Day 15 (二易父) had, this morning, crossed into the seven stars on the face of one dagger.

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