The first light of dawn bathed the imperial encampment in a deep crimson hue, as though the heavens themselves were foretelling the blood that would soon soak the earth. Luo Wen stood tall upon a wooden command platform, his posture unyielding, eyes sweeping over the vast sea of soldiers arrayed before him in flawless formation. Two hundred thousand elite warriors — veterans forged in the crucible of endless campaigns — stood ready, their discipline palpable even in the still morning air. The rising sun caught upon the endless rows of spear tips and polished armor, turning the army into a glittering, unbroken tide of steel that stretched as far as the eye could see.
There was no question — the force Luo Wen had gathered before Guangling dwarfed anything Wei Lian could muster in both size and skill. He knew it, and the knowledge burned in his gaze, a cold, implacable flame. This was not to be a swift strike at a single city; this was to be a deliberate, grinding march, dismantling Wei Lian's defenses stone by stone, fortress by fortress, until nothing of his power remained. Every step forward would be paved with the ruin of his enemy.
"Today," Luo Wen's voice cut through the low murmur of thousands like the ring of steel, "marks the beginning of the Empire's vengeance. Wei Lian has chosen to hide behind his walls and gamble on endurance. We will give him no such luxury. Every fortress that rises before us will be destroyed. We will leave no enemy garrison behind our lines. We will advance as fire devours a forest — slowly, relentlessly, and utterly unstoppable."
Beneath the platform, his generals and captains exchanged tense glances. The plan was simple in its brutality: maintain constant pressure, never break the momentum, and crush each position head-on. It was the kind of strategy that demanded absolute control of the battlefield — and Luo Wen was wagering his superiority in both numbers and quality to overwhelm any resistance.
General Han Zheng, a grizzled veteran of dozens of campaigns, stepped forward. "Chancellor, Wei Lian has fortified more than just Guangling. He maintains a chain of smaller strongholds, each capable of holding between five hundred and a thousand men. If we assault each one head-on, our advance will slow. The enemy will gain precious time to regroup."
Luo Wen regarded him with a blend of respect and iron certainty. "Precisely, Han Zheng. We will take them one by one. Each victory will bring us closer to our goal, and each defeat they suffer will fracture their morale. I am not seeking a rapid arrival at Guangling… I intend that, by the time we stand before its gates, no army will remain to defend it."
The younger General Xu Fan, fiery and ambitious, interjected. "My lord, with our strength, we could send detachments to bypass and isolate these strongholds. There is no need to crush every one—"
"No." Luo Wen's interruption was sharp as a blade. "No fortress will remain at our backs. I will not tolerate our supply lines being threatened, nor enemies striking from the shadows. Wei Lian must learn there is no place of safety left to him."
Beyond them, the camp swarmed with purposeful motion. Engineers inspected the disassembled siege towers, carpenters tightened the frames of battering rams, and columns of infantry rehearsed assault formations in the dust. The heavy cavalry — the pride of the imperial host — stood ready, their black warhorses snorting clouds of steam into the cool morning air, armored necks tossing as if eager to charge through crumbling walls.
Descending from the platform, Luo Wen strode among his troops, offering curt nods to the men he passed. He inspected spearpoints, weighed shields in his hands, and drew blades to test their edge, the gestures of a commander who not only demanded readiness but embodied it. His every movement radiated assurance, yet beneath that calm there pulsed an urgency like the steady beat of a war drum. Somewhere beyond those distant hills was Zhao Qing — the traitor who had humiliated the Empire and evaded justice. Every day Wei Lian held out was another day Zhao Qing could slip further from his grasp.
"Captain, has this cohort received incendiary arrows?" he asked as he passed a line of archers.
"Yes, my lord. Ready to set the sky ablaze on your command," the captain replied, striking his breastplate in salute.
"Good. Wei Lian's walls will not burn on their own."
The air was heavy with discipline, absent of chaos. There were no shouts of disorder, only the constant hum of preparation. Luo Wen paused before a massive siege engine — a great catapult bound in iron. Running his hand along its darkened timber, he spoke quietly, almost to himself.
"Every stone we hurl will be a warning. Every wall we tear down will be a verdict."
By midday, he summoned his war council to the grand pavilion. A vast map of the region sprawled across the central table, marked with the positions of enemy strongholds.
"We will begin with Xuyuan Fortress," he declared, tapping the location with his finger. "Three days' march from here. It serves as the first link between Guangling and the rest of the frontier. It is not the strongest, but its fall will send the message we need."
Han Zheng's brow furrowed. "Xuyuan was built to endure weeks of siege. Its double walls are high, and the main approach crosses a narrow, elevated bridge."
"Perfect," Luo Wen replied with a thin, cold smile. "Then it will serve as the example we require."
Xu Fan added, "If we take Xuyuan quickly, the other garrisons may panic and abandon their posts before we arrive."
"Let them," Luo Wen said flatly. "I want no prisoners who can feed the resistance. If they flee, we will burn their strongholds to the ground. If they remain, they will die within them."
A heavy silence settled over the tent. This was no clean war of measured conquest — it was an unrelenting campaign to break Wei Lian's military spine and erase his defensive network from the borderlands.
That night, as the camp prepared to march at dawn, Luo Wen rode out alone to a nearby hill. Below him, the glow of countless campfires stretched into the distance like a sea of stars scattered across the dark earth. He drew in a deep breath, the mingled scents of woodsmoke and oiled steel filling his lungs.
Weeks earlier, word had reached him that Zhao Qing still lived, sheltered under Wei Lian's protection. This was not merely a military campaign; it was a personal reckoning. And while Wei Lian might be the visible target, Luo Wen knew the shadow of Zhao Qing was the true prize of this war.
Returning to his pavilion, he took up a scroll and penned an order to all units:
"We march without respite. There will be no truce, no negotiation. Every step will be over conquered ground, and every obstacle will be reduced to ashes."
When the dawn came, the blare of trumpets rolled across the camp like a wave. Columns of troops began to move, the wheels of supply wagons groaning under the weight of provisions and siege gear, the earth trembling under the synchronized tread of tens of thousands of boots. Far ahead, along the dusty road, the first leg of their campaign awaited — the path to Xuyuan, and the beginning of the end for Wei Lian.
The war had begun, and Luo Wen would not halt until every stone of his enemy's walls lay scattered across the dirt.