The dawn over Guangling broke under a canopy of gray skies. A heavy blanket of mist crept in from the river, winding its way between the rooftops and towers, draping the city in a shroud as if nature itself sought to hide it from enemy eyes. In the fortified palace's map chamber, the air was thick with the scent of wax and parchment. Wei Lian stood bent over an immense, painstakingly detailed tapestry map, its lines and markings the product of months—if not years—of careful planning and preparation. Beside her, Zhao Qing remained silent, hands clasped neatly behind his back, brow furrowed in concentration. Around them, several officers murmured in low tones, their fingers tracing routes and borders, whispering about supply lines and defense schedules.
"The chain of fortresses is nearly complete," Wei Lian said without looking up, her eyes scanning the inked ridges and dots that represented so much human effort. "They won't be grand bastions, but each one is built to hold out for weeks on its own. Five hundred to a thousand soldiers in every stronghold—enough to harass, stall, and bleed dry anyone attempting to break through."
"Luo Wen won't stop for a few walls," Zhao Qing replied, his voice low but carrying a note of warning. "If he wants to break the line, he will. He's seasoned in sieges and his troops follow orders like clockwork."
Wei Lian finally lifted her gaze, locking eyes with her ally."That's precisely why we won't fight him in a single, decisive battle out in the open. He'll be looking for a quick kill—but we can't give him that. Each fortress must be a pit he sinks into, a place where his strength is swallowed. And if he survives that first line, Guangling will be the final stone against which his momentum shatters."
Zhao Qing gave a slow, deliberate nod. He wasn't fully convinced, but the logic was difficult to deny. Luo Wen had pushed the empire's war machine to its breaking point in campaigns against the Khan and other formidable enemies. Sustaining such an effort deep in hostile territory would be far more challenging for him.
Across the eastern plain of Guangling, the work never stopped—day or night. Small fortresses of stone and timber rose like the jagged teeth of a defensive gear. Each was placed far enough apart to force Luo Wen into a separate siege for every one he encountered, yet close enough that they could support each other through smoke signals or fast courier riders.
At Beishan Fortress, a hundred newly arrived militiamen unloaded beams, sacks of grain, and barrels of salted meat under the watchful gaze of a veteran captain. These men wore no gleaming armor—many had only quilted jackets and rough-hewn spears—but their faces, hardened by years of toil in the fields, bore a quiet determination.
"Move those provisions faster!" the captain barked. "If the enemy surrounds us, every sack of grain might mean the difference between holding for a month or surrendering."
Far off, on a hilltop, a team of engineers supervised the construction of a watchtower. On clear days, one could see the faint chimney smoke of Guangling from there. The idea was simple: each fortress had to be an unblinking eye, able to warn its neighbors at the first sign of enemy movement.
In Nanshui Fortress's military camp, the clang of metal rang through the air. Makeshift smithies churned out arrowheads, reinforced horseshoes, and repaired battered armor. The smoke was thick, the heat oppressive, but the pace never slowed.
On the nearby plains, a company of light cavalry—drawn from the noble families of the region—practiced maneuvers. Their horses, swift and enduring, were perfect for raiding Luo Wen's supply lines. Wei Lian had given strict orders that these units were never to clash head-on with the enemy's main force; their role was to strike hard, vanish into the countryside, and strike again, like hawks swooping down on prey.
"Peasant militias and the troops of the nobles are cut from different cloth," Zhao Qing remarked to Wei Lian as they walked through the camps. "Some fight for the soil they till, others for the privileges they guard. But if we can make them complement each other, they'll hold far longer than Luo Wen expects."
Wei Lian's gaze fell on a young farmer awkwardly trying to draw a bow for the first time. His fingers trembled, the string barely moving. Beside him, a knight in ornate armor adjusted the man's grip, showing him how to breathe before letting the arrow fly. It was a small scene, but it embodied the unity they so desperately needed.
Logistics—the lifeblood of any prolonged war—had been meticulously planned. Guangling's granaries bulged with wheat, rice, and salt. Mule caravans carried barrels of oil and preserved meat to the strongholds. Along the main roads, checkpoints logged every load to prevent theft or waste.
In Hujing Fortress, closest to the city, a garrison of seven hundred men drilled in layered defense tactics: archers on the walls, pikemen in the inner yard, and a ready reserve for counterattacks. There, a young officer demonstrated how to pour boiling oil on assault ladders, while nearby workshops produced more cauldrons to distribute among the other garrisons.
Back in Guangling, the council chamber was rarely empty. Wei Lian and Zhao Qing held frequent meetings with commanders from each fortress. Maps covered the walls, annotated with notes on supply routes, patrol schedules, and ambush positions. Every day they considered new secondary roads for moving supplies in case the main ones were cut.
"If Luo Wen reaches this point," Zhao Qing said, tapping a fortress on the map, "we'll have lost half the line. We can't let any of these positions fall without savage resistance."
"It's not about keeping them all standing," Wei Lian replied coolly. "It's about making each loss so costly that he starts to wonder if pressing on is worth it."
Zhao Qing's lips twisted into a grim smile."A war fought with slow knives. I see."
Civilian morale was another front Wei Lian tended carefully. Messengers and bards traveled through towns and villages, carrying stories of minor victories and exaggerating the resilience of the fortresses. Even bad news was reshaped into tales of heroic sacrifice. She knew a hopeful farmer would work harder to fill the granaries, while a hopeless one might abandon his land altogether.
In Guangling's marketplace, posters showed smiling soldiers receiving food from women and elders. On the outskirts, artisans made arrows by the thousands, while groups of youths trained in makeshift fields. This was a collective effort, a mobilization that went far beyond the formal army.
Toward evening, Wei Lian and Zhao Qing walked the walls of Guangling. The city, already fortified long before the war, had been reinforced with new towers, outer walls, and expanded moats. From the heights, they could see the torches of the nearest fortresses flaring to life one after another, like a necklace of lights draped across the plain.
"If all goes as planned," Wei Lian said, her cloak billowing in the wind, "Luo Wen will be caught in our web. His men will tire, his supplies will dwindle, and his will to fight will rot away."
"And if it doesn't?" Zhao Qing asked. "Then Guangling will be the last wall. Beyond it, there's no retreat."
Wei Lian didn't answer immediately. Her eyes lingered on the horizon, where the mist had begun to glow crimson with the last light of the sun. She knew Luo Wen was no ordinary foe. But she also knew that victory didn't always go to the larger army—it went to the one that could endure without breaking.
And Guangling, with its chain of fortresses and a people willing to fight until the last grain of rice was gone, was ready to endure.