The war room of Jinhai was once again filled before the first light of dawn had dared to kiss the frostbitten stones of the northern city. The torches, half-burnt and flickering, still clung to life after a sleepless night. Their glow cast trembling shadows across the walls, giving the assembled officers the look of specters rather than men. Laid out on the table before them, the map of the north stretched like a charred wound—blackened with soot, smudged with blood, and torn at the edges from too many fingers and too much desperation.
The messenger, pale and thin, lay resting on a makeshift cot at the edge of the room. Though his message had been short, it struck with the force of a hammer upon glass—it shattered assumptions, reshaped the war.
Luo Wen stood silently near the tall window, hands clasped behind his back, posture carved from stone. His gaze was not upon the tired soldiers or the weather-beaten walls of Jinhai, but beyond—beyond the hills, beyond the rivers, beyond the reach of what had once been known. There, in the smoke and shadows, a new enemy had taken root.
"They are no longer just nomads fleeing with cattle and silver," Luo Wen said at last, his voice cold and deliberate, heavy with the finality of a verdict. "They've founded a kingdom. They call it the 'Northern Empire.' Capital: Baiyuan. Standard: red, marked with a black claw. Language: imperial. Laws: imperial. But their loyalty... belongs to the Khan."
Shen Ruolin's jaw clenched as if to suppress a bitter taste.
"They speak with our tongue," he muttered, "but only to seduce our people."
"They're succeeding," added one of the captains, bitterness etched deep in his voice. "Unprotected farmers, abandoned soldiers, scattered officials—they all crave order. And they'll accept it, even if it wears the wrong face."
"They've begun to recruit," Luo Wen confirmed grimly. "Not just peasants, but former officers, deserters, allied tribes. They're forming organized battalions. They train in drills. They distribute rations and speak of justice. But the most dangerous thing they offer… is stability."
Ruolin looked down at the map. Baiyuan, circled in black ink, now radiated outward with marked lines—east, south, west—spreading like roots through fertile soil.
"This isn't a shield," he whispered. "It's a bridgehead."
Luo Wen gave a single nod.
"If we allow this to continue unchecked," he said, voice steely, "within a year they'll have diplomats. Within three, their own minted currency. And within five… a crown with legitimacy. To the world, they'll look like a dynasty reborn."
A heavy silence followed. Every man present understood what that meant—not just for strategy, but for history.
"That's why we must rip this plant out before it flowers," Luo Wen continued. "Shen Ruolin, your campaign shifts from this moment forward."
Ruolin met his eyes without flinching.
"I suspected as much," he said.
"You are no longer tasked with merely recovering villages and fortifications. Your new objective is the annihilation of the Northern Empire. You will march on Baiyuan, tear down every tower, erase every sigil of false authority, and hang every collaborator. This isn't a reconquest. It's an execution."
"Then a hundred and fifty thousand troops won't be enough," Ruolin said, voice sharp. "Their forces grow each day. They have former imperial advisors. These are no longer raiders. They are soldiers."
"You'll have two hundred thousand," Luo Wen replied without hesitation. "Before you march, you'll raise fifty thousand more militia. Scour every village, every crossroads, every hamlet. I don't care if they've never seen a sword. I care only that they obey."
Ruolin's nod was grim, heavy with the weight of command. He understood the cost better than anyone.
"And you?" he asked after a moment.
Luo Wen turned fully, the torchlight brushing against his features, revealing a face calm yet drawn tight like a bowstring at full draw.
"I will no longer strike from the shadows," he said. "I won't settle for merely harassing their supply lines. I won't aim to delay them. I intend to break them."
The officers exchanged uneasy glances.
"You mean… a full assault?" one of the colonels asked.
"Yes," Luo Wen affirmed. "With the fifty thousand elite cavalry I still command, I'll launch a deep and daring offensive into their rear. I will strike their heart—burn their depots, obliterate their reserves, sever their leadership. It will be fast. It will be brutal. It will be decisive. All or nothing."
Ruolin studied him closely.
"If they trap you…" he began.
"They won't," Luo Wen interrupted. "Because you will press the front relentlessly. While they scramble to defend Baiyuan from your siege, I will slip behind them like a blade in the dark."
A breathless silence filled the chamber.
"It's dangerous," Ruolin admitted.
"Not risking everything would be far more dangerous," Luo Wen replied. "I have no intention of fighting this war again in five years. I will not leave behind seeds of rebellion. I want our grandchildren to read about this campaign as the moment the empire bled, but did not break. A final war. A final verdict."
No one disagreed.
Luo Wen raised his voice, loud and clear:
"Let the villages hear the call. Let Jinhai ready the stores. The recruiters will ride out at dawn. In seven days, we march. And the so-called Northern Empire... will be erased from history."
That night, as the officers dispersed and messengers were dispatched like flocks of birds across the north, the moon shone down upon Jinhai like a pale and silent witness.
The true war had begun.
Not for the past.
But for the right to shape the future.