Dawn had not yet broken over the heart of the interior capital when Luo Wen rose from his bed.
There were no ceremonies to mark the start of his day—no drums, no lines of waiting courtiers whispering praise or expectation. Just the soft rustle of the morning breeze filtering through a half-opened lattice window, gently tugging at the imperial banners suspended from the ceiling, and the muffled sound of paper and cloth as his attendants entered bearing reports from the night before.
Luo Wen had not slept more than three hours in weeks.
Seated at his massive writing desk, his expression carved from stone, hardened by recent victories and the relentless pressure of command, he scanned the latest intelligence delivered from the north. His gaze flicked over the words with calm detachment.
Baiyuan: sacked.Northern tribes: launching raids.Shen Ruolin: entrenched in Jinhai with 120,000 militia.
And one thought pierced through the haze of strategy and logistics like an unseen arrow:
"The north burns… just as the south still smolders."
Hours later, in the solemn stillness of the war council chamber, Luo Wen stood before his closest commanders and officials. No one dared to sit. The morning sun filtered through the windows and draped his black war robes in gold. Around him, maps unfurled like omens across the walls, and the air buzzed with the weight of what was to come.
The faces of those gathered were drawn tight with tension. Not a single word had been spoken.
Finally, Luo Wen broke the silence with measured precision:
"The empire faces two fires."His voice was steady—quiet, yet razor-sharp."One burns in Guangling. The other rages across the northern plains."
He paused deliberately, letting the words settle like ashes in a brazier.
"And we have only one bucket of water."
To his right stood General Zhao Qing, still stained with the grit and blood of the western campaign—the relentless drive through the frontier fortresses that had once belonged to Wei Lian. To Luo Wen's left were a handful of newly promoted bureaucrats and commanders—those who had risen through the ranks in the wake of the purges. Their loyalty was untested, but their ambition burned bright.
And then came the first of Luo Wen's unexpected decrees.
"We will pardon the nobles captured during the purge—those who stood against me—provided they hold sway in the north."
A ripple of unease passed through the chamber. Some eyes widened. A few jaws clenched.
General Zhao Qing narrowed his eyes.
"What if they're simply traitors in disguise?" he asked bluntly.
Luo Wen met his gaze without blinking.
"Let them be traitors if they must. As long as their names bring calm to the frontier cities, as long as their family crests open storehouses, roads, and militia gates, they serve our purpose. We do not pardon out of weakness. We use them out of necessity."
Silence. Heavy and charged.
"Those with no strategic value," he added coolly, "will die. But those who do… will live—under watch."
This ruthless pragmatism was the blade Luo Wen wielded now—sharp, efficient, without indulgence.
He turned next to the matter of the western campaign.
"Zhao Qing," he said, his voice like a command etched in stone,"you will continue your advance on Guangling. Take your one hundred and fifty thousand. Finish what you began. Wei Lian's coup has destabilized the western frontier, and we cannot allow that seed to bear fruit."
Zhao Qing gave a curt nod. No protest. No hesitation. He understood what a direct order meant: total trust, and total accountability.
Then Luo Wen's finger traced the northern frontier on the grand map before them. Red ink marked the nomads' advance, now edging dangerously close to the inner provinces.
"I will go north myself."His tone was final."I have gathered a personal force of one hundred thousand elite soldiers. I will not entrust this campaign to anyone else."
A young officer stepped forward hesitantly.
"My lord… who will defend the capital while you're gone?"
Luo Wen turned to him slowly, voice low but firm.
"The capital does not need my sword. It needs time. That is why, during my absence, you will recruit one hundred thousand fresh conscripts—train them, equip them, form them into a defensive garrison. They do not need to win. They need only to hold the gates… until I return."
And then, with a voice darker than iron and heavier than stone, he declared the bitter truth—one that everyone in the room already knew, but none had dared to speak aloud:
"We have reached our limit."
He extended both arms toward the war table, his tone echoing through the chamber:
"The war engine of this empire—now under my sole command as Chancellor—is stretched to its breaking point."
He enumerated, with the clarity of someone counting every drop left in a jar:
150,000 troops in the west, advancing with Zhao Qing toward Guangling and the remnants of Wei Lian's rule.
120,000 militia entrenched in Jinhai, under General Shen Ruolin, awaiting annihilation or salvation.
100,000 elite soldiers, prepared to march north under Luo Wen's direct leadership.
100,000 fresh recruits, being hastily trained to protect the imperial core.
80,000 stationed along other frontiers—east, south, mountain passes, and coastal routes.
"That makes 550,000 soldiers in the field. Every man counted. Every sword drawn. There are no reserves. No hidden battalions. No more farmers to spare without letting our fields rot. Our logistics are frayed. Our coffers bleed silver by the hour."
A heavy silence followed.
No one contradicted him.
No one dared.
Then, after a breathless pause, he concluded:
"If we fail… the empire will shatter like glass."
Turning toward Zhao Qing once more, his eyes burned with iron resolve.
"Break Guangling. Leave no stone upon stone if you must.I will go north.And if fate shows us mercy—We will return… with the empire still intact."
And with that, he left the chamber.
Within three days, his war column would march.
The final campaign had yet to begin.
But the cost… was already carved into history.
For when an empire gambles everything—
There is no turning back.