The Tragic Wang Mang

At the same time, the Xin Dynasty was already like a guttering candle in the wind.

The news of Kunyang's defeat, of a falling star descending from the heavens and four hundred and twenty thousand troops being reduced to ash and smoke, swept through like the most terrifying plague, instantly crushing the Xin Dynasty's last reserves of fate and popular support.

Beacon fires burned even hotter across the land. Liu Xiu's prestige soared, and his momentum split bamboo all the way forward.

Within Chang'an City, inside Weiyang Palace, everything was already shrouded in gloom and misery.

Wang Mang slumped on the cold imperial throne. The system panel was dim and lightless; its last trace of energy had been exhausted saving his life.

"Points depleted. Host, you are on your own..." The cold mechanical voice became its final farewell.

"No! Wait! My tech tree! My modernized army! My ideal nation!"

Wang Mang shouted in vain, but all he received in return was dead silence.

Outside the palace, the sounds of killing drew ever closer.

He let out a bitter laugh, stripped off his tattered imperial robes, and changed into a set of worn cloth garments he had no idea which attendant he had peeled them off from.

Then, blending in among the fleeing palace servants, he slipped out of the imperial palace where he had once dreamed of building an everlasting foundation.

The "new emperor" who had once looked down on the world and intended to reshape history with a transmigrator's knowledge...

Had now become a beggar with disheveled hair, a filthy face, and hollow eyes.

He mixed in among the refugees, wandering without aim.

After an unknown length of time, he drifted to a desolate mountain range.

Few human traces could be found here; only birds and beasts cried out