The thunder of political purges had not yet fully faded when a new sound began to echo across the northern provinces of the realm. It was not the rhythmic thunder of Zhao Qing's heavy cavalry marching westward, nor the steady and disciplined tramp of Luo Wen's elite troops rallying to crush Guangling.
No—this was something different. It was chaotic. Untamed. Savage.
It was the wild, scattered, pounding drumbeat of nomadic hooves.
A storm unannounced had begun to descend from the endless, windswept steppes of the north. And with it came not just destruction, but destiny.
For weeks on end, Luo Wen had concentrated every fiber of his power and attention on the campaign he believed would bring an end to civil resistance. Guangling—the western bastion held by the last remnants of An Lu's legacy, now commanded by the newly empowered Wei Lian—had become his singular target.
With his purges complete, the great families humbled or erased, and the central provinces under his iron-fisted administration, Luo Wen had begun executing the final stage of his grand strategy.
One hundred and fifty thousand soldiers—an enormous force in both size and quality—had been mobilized toward the southern front under the trusted command of Zhao Qing.
Supply wagons rumbled along newly repaired roads, reinforcements trickled into key fortress towns, and the military foundries burned day and night to produce steel, leather, and arrows. Every corner of his war machine roared toward one outcome: to erase Wei Lian and her claim to power, and to smother the memory of An Lu once and for all.
And yet...
The north was left unattended.
At first, the signs were faint—whispers brought by terrified peasants fleeing from distant hamlets, reports of plumes of smoke rising on the distant horizon, strange disappearances of merchant caravans. Most local commanders scoffed. Surely it was no more than bandits or a disorganized tribal skirmish.
Then the survivors arrived.
Their faces smeared with dried blood and ash. Their garments torn and burnt. Their eyes hollow with terror, some unable to speak, others muttering only one word again and again:
"They've returned."
The northern nomads.Forgotten by diplomats. Dismissed by strategists. But never—never—truly defeated.
After suffering a crippling defeat at the hands of the imperial army years earlier, the scattered nomadic tribes had splintered—rudderless, without purpose or leadership. But now, something had changed.
A new leader had risen. His name remained a mystery. His speeches were rare. But his actions spoke in blood and fire. Beneath banners of black leather and bone-carved sigils, they surged southward like a dark tide.
Over one hundred thousand mounted warriors, maybe more, now thundered across the northern plains. This was cavalry in its most primal, terrifying form—light riders hardened by years under the unforgiving sky, their horses small but resilient, their tactics refined by generations of survival.
They didn't need formations or banners. What they brought was speed, terror, and chaos.
The city of Baiyuan, long fortified and considered unassailable from the open plains, was the first to fall. It was not lost to siegecraft or brute strength, but to betrayal—a garrison captain whose family had been captured was coerced into opening the gates under the cloak of night.
By sunrise, the city was engulfed in flames.
The governor was dragged through the streets. The city's internal defenses collapsed from within. The imperial granaries were looted, archives burned to cinders. Women were taken. Temples desecrated.
Not even the horrors of civil war compared to the brutality of that night.
And the nightmare did not end there.
Like wind made flesh, the nomadic riders struck again and again—destroying guard posts, annihilating small forts, murdering envoys, and severing crucial supply routes.
In the span of ten short days, three northern provinces were in complete disarray, their officials overwhelmed, their armies scattered or slain.
Luo Wen had believed the north pacified. He had believed wrong.
Local commanders begged for reinforcements.There were none.
The bulk of the imperial army—nearly all of it—was now locked in position along the western frontier, preparing for the final conquest of Guangling. The elite units, the veteran generals, the siege engineers—they were all elsewhere.
And Luo Wen, confident in his previous victories and surrounded by loyal bureaucrats, dismissed the growing threat.
"A tribal flare-up," he said at a council meeting, waving away the reports like flies."Nothing more. Let the frontier generals do their jobs."
But then came the messenger.
A young soldier—barefoot, barely alive, with an arrow still lodged in his shoulder—collapsed before Luo Wen's dais. His voice, hoarse and rasping, delivered a single, chilling warning:
"They're marching on Jinhai.And there is… no one left to stop them."
A silence as cold as death fell over the council chamber.
Luo Wen's eyes narrowed. He did not speak at first. But in his mind, he understood the implications.
Jinhai was not just any city. It was the northern jewel—a logistical heart, a weapons depot, a hub of trade and authority. If the nomads seized it, the entire northern flank of the empire would disintegrate. Worse, it would cripple the planned offensive on Guangling.
And just as the fires of the north spread across his maps…
News of the same disaster reached Wei Lian in Guangling.
Her response was calm. Almost too calm. A flicker of a smile—more calculating than joyous—played across her lips as the reports were read aloud.
"Heaven is not blind," she murmured to her inner circle."The West does not bleed alone."
She did not yet know how much this new invasion would reshape Luo Wen's ambitions. But one thing she did know:the longer chaos reigned, the longer she had to prepare.
And chaos—swift, ruthless, unstoppable—had returned, riding on a tide of hooves and flame.