The dawn broke beneath a leaden sky, its heavy clouds hanging low like the lid of a great cauldron. A biting wind swept down from the hills, carrying with it a swirling dance of dust and brittle leaves. Before the blackened walls of the small fortress of Yanshan, the imperial host stretched outward like an unending tide of steel and banners. Row upon row of tents stood in perfect formation, their orderly lines vanishing into the misty horizon.
From the command tower, Luo Wen stood with arms folded, his face carved from stone, brow faintly furrowed as he studied his prey.
Yanshan was the first link in the chain of fortresses Wei Lian had raised as a shield for Guangling. Small, yes—no more than five hundred to a thousand defenders—but stubborn to the last. For six days, it had endured the siege. Luo Wen's original plan had been simple and brutal: crush it in a matter of hours beneath the overwhelming weight of his two hundred thousand elite soldiers. Yet the enemy knew every stone in those walls, every bend and hollow in the surrounding ground, and they had met his advance with a ferocity that bordered on the fanatical.
"Chancellor," said General Han Zhi, bowing slightly, "our engineers have opened a second breach in the northern wall. However, the enemy has erected barricades inside. The sappers lost more than a hundred men just this morning."
"And the artillery?" Luo Wen asked without taking his eyes from the fortress.
"The catapults have hammered it without pause, but our stone reserves are running low. We've been forced to use beams and scavenged timber."
Luo Wen gave a slow nod. His voice carried no anger, yet there was a weight in it that made his officers measure every word with care.
"If Wei Lian thinks he can bleed us here, we will make him pay for every single hour he steals from us." He turned to his captains. "Today, we end this."
The order spread through the camp like a lightning strike. Within minutes, battalions were forming ranks, assault ladders were stacked high, and the catapults were tightened and primed once more. The air filled with the crackle of torches and the deep, steady boom of war drums, rolling across the field like distant thunder.
Seventh Day of the Siege
At first light, the catapults hurled a rain of flaming projectiles onto Yanshan. The walls groaned and shuddered beneath the pounding, while thick columns of smoke coiled upward into the gray sky. From the battlements, the defenders answered with arrows, stones, and cauldrons of boiling oil that poured down in blazing sheets, engulfing the attackers below.
On the army's right wing, General Xu Jie advanced first. Shields locked in front, his men pushed toward the main breach—only to be driven back by a storm of arrows so dense it seemed the air itself had grown teeth.
Luo Wen watched from above, hands resting lightly on the railing of his command platform, calculating every move as though reading the black-and-white lines of a Go board.
"Send another column from the east," he ordered at last. "We'll force them to split their attention—and wear them down from the inside."
The assault began anew. Men and ladders surged against the walls while the catapults battered the watchtowers without mercy. Bit by bit, Yanshan's defenses began to buckle. Yet the cost was steep: stretcher-bearers stumbled back through the mud with bodies slicked in blood, and the ground before the fortress was carpeted in shattered shields and lifeless men.
By late afternoon, Xu Jie's forces managed to push through the northern breach. Fighting devolved into a savage struggle, house by house. The defenders, far from surrendering, turned every alley into a killing ground—throwing up barricades, pouring boiling water from the rooftops, planting caltrops and hidden spikes in the streets. Each step toward the heart of the fortress claimed dozens of lives.
When night fell, Luo Wen entered the captured quarter himself. The acrid reek of smoke and blood closed around him. Torchlight threw restless, jagged shadows over the broken walls. Among the wounded, some struggled to stand and salute, fists pressed to their chests. Luo Wen answered each with a curt nod, the gesture brief but heavy with recognition.
"At dawn," he told Han Zhi, "the imperial banner will fly over these walls."
The Fall of Yanshan
The eighth day began with a thunderclap of destruction. The catapults launched one final, concentrated barrage against the main gate. With a groan of splintering timbers and a roar of shattering iron hinges, it collapsed in a choking cloud of dust. Through the gap poured the imperial infantry in disciplined columns, banners unfurled, followed by lancers and swordsmen sweeping the streets clean.
By midday, resistance had shattered. The enemy captain—wounded, his armor blackened with soot—was dragged before Luo Wen.
"Surrender," the Chancellor told him, voice calm yet unyielding, "and your men will live to see another day."
The captain spat blood onto the dirt."Wei Lian will never fall. This fortress is only the beginning."
Luo Wen did not bother to reply. A flick of his hand sent the man into the custody of the guards. His gaze lifted to the central tower, where his soldiers hauled down the enemy standard and raised the golden dragon of the Empire in its place. A roar of victory swept through the ranks, though Luo Wen felt its weight more than its triumph.
The cost was staggering—over two thousand men lost in the assault. Surgeons worked without rest, their knives flashing in the torchlight, while funeral pyres began to burn beyond the camp. Luo Wen did not hide the toll; he walked among the dead and wounded himself, noting each covered body, hearing each ragged cry torn from the injured.
"Every life taken here," he murmured, "will be repaid to Wei Lian—with interest."
The Front in Motion
News of Yanshan's fall spread swiftly. To the north, at Shuilin, imperial forces captured another small fortress after five days of siege, meeting only moderate resistance. But in the eastern sector, General Meng Rui was beating himself bloody against the walls of Heifeng. Three assaults had already failed, and the casualty lists were growing longer.
Wei Lian's war of attrition was working with surgical precision. Each fortress fought until its last gasp, delaying the imperial advance and forcing Luo Wen to spread his army thin to maintain pressure along the entire front.
Inside the command tent, a vast map sprawled across the central table. Red marks showed fortresses taken; black circles marked those still holding out. Surrounded by his generals, Luo Wen traced bold strokes with his brush.
"We cannot allow these fortresses to reinforce one another," he said, tapping three points at the center. "We'll break the chain here, in the middle—and crush the ends afterward."
"But Chancellor," Han Zhi interjected, "that means leaving garrisons in each captured position. The advance will slow."
"I'd rather move slowly and safely than rush forward and leave my flanks exposed," Luo Wen replied without hesitation. "Wei Lian wants us exhausted—we will not give him that satisfaction."
The generals nodded, though unease flickered between some of them. Time was not on their side. Every day they lingered, Wei Lian stockpiled more grain and strengthened Guangling's defenses.
Outside, the army was already shifting into formation for the next offensive. In the distance, the smoke from Yanshan still rose into the sky—a black, twisting reminder of the cost of victory. Luo Wen mounted his horse and rode the lines, studying the hardened faces of his soldiers. Many bore fresh bandages; others stared into the middle distance, their exhaustion etched deep. Yet when they saw him, backs straightened and fists struck breastplates in salute.
"We have not marched this far to stop now," he told them, his voice carrying like iron through the cold air. "Every fortress we take brings us closer to Guangling. Every day we stand here, Zhao Qing and Wei Lian feel the shadow we cast over them grow heavier."
A shout of approval rolled through the ranks. Luo Wen allowed the faintest of smiles, but his eyes remained like tempered steel. He knew the road to Guangling would be paved with blood and ruin—and that the true test of strength had not yet begun.
The war of attrition had started in earnest. And he was determined to win it, even if he had to grind every stone between Yanshan and the enemy capital into dust.