In the very heart of the imperial city, far removed from the thick smoke of war and the shadowy webs of palace intrigue, Luo Wen reclined with composed dignity upon his throne carved from fragrant sandalwood. The throne's surface was intricately adorned with intertwined dragons, their sinuous forms symbolizing the new order that was gradually but steadily taking shape under his command. The council chamber was flooded with the gentle glow of early morning sunlight, which filtered softly through latticed windows, casting a tapestry of symmetrical shadows upon the polished marble floor beneath. Though the embers of conflict still smoldered in distant corners of the empire, here—within these walls—everything appeared meticulously under control, as if the storm raged only in whispers beyond reach.
Before him knelt an emissary, his posture humble and respectful, who extended a sealed scroll with steady hands.
"My lord," he began, his voice measured and restrained, betraying none of the urgency behind the news he bore, "recent intelligence from Guangling confirms the death of General An Lu. The official account attributes it to illness, but our sources strongly suggest an internal purge. His widow, Wei Lian, has now been declared regent on behalf of their youngest son, An Xian."
For a moment, silence reigned in the chamber, thick and contemplative.
Without so much as a flicker of emotion crossing his features, Luo Wen took the scroll, delicately unrolling it with deliberate slowness, his eyes scanning the contents with unwavering calm. No surprise, no laughter, no trace of anger flickered across his countenance. When he had finished, he placed the parchment gently upon a bronze tray set before him. Resting his chin upon his palm, he finally spoke, his voice deep and steady, betraying neither excitement nor doubt:
"A woman… as regent?"
His generals, seated with impeccable posture on either side of the hall, exchanged glances, uncertainty flickering briefly in their eyes.
"A woman who betrays her husband, who has slain her own father, and now manipulates a child," Luo Wen continued, a faint, almost sardonic smile playing upon his lips, as if describing a poorly scripted play. "She is no threat. Only a subject for watchful eyes."
Zhao Rui, one of the commanders present, furrowed his brow with concern. "My lord, though Wei Lian's methods have been infamous, her grasp on power has been swift and effective. She has consolidated control over Guangling without significant resistance."
Luo Wen shifted his gaze toward Zhao Rui. There was no irritation in his tone, only a firm certainty:
"And you have spoken the truth. No resistance. Because there is no one left to oppose her. But that emptiness does not make her strong. A city ruled by fear is not a fortress; it is a closed box. A woman who puppeteers a child is not a government... it is a mask."
With measured steps, he rose and walked toward the expansive map spread out upon a long wooden table. With a single, decisive gesture, he indicated the southern border of Guangling, marked by tiny blue banners.
"We will not strike immediately. Not now. Let it rot from within. No one trusts her. The nobles despise her. The bureaucrats fear her. The soldiers obey her out of inertia. How long can she maintain that without a war to justify her rule?"
Zhao Rui nodded thoughtfully. "So, we wait?"
Luo Wen offered a slight, knowing smile and shook his head.
"No. War does not cease. It only changes shape."
He turned to Zhao Qing, his fiercest and most battle-hardened cavalry general, whose reputation still gleamed sharply after their recent great victory, like a freshly honed blade.
"Zhao Qing, I will send you with one hundred fifty thousand men. Not yet to attack Guangling itself, but to prepare the ground. Seize the border fortresses: Jinhe, Shuimen, and Yanyue. Leave no stone unturned in the strongholds still loyal to the remnants of the coalition."
Zhao Qing rose, bowing respectfully, a tense smile barely touching his lips.
"With pleasure, my lord. By the time Wei Lian finishes purging her palace, there will be no border left to defend."
"Exactly," Luo Wen said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "And when she tries to flee... there will be nowhere to go."
Turning back to his other officers, he declared:
"While Zhao Qing takes the fortresses, we will consolidate the heart. I want a thorough cleansing within the capital. The prestige of victory grants me legitimacy... but parasites still hide behind the jade columns. Old nobles, bureaucrats loyal to An Lu's son, merchants playing both sides..."
"Shall we hold trials?" asked one cautious minister.
Luo Wen regarded him with a neutral, almost kindly expression.
"Trials... if they serve the cause. But what matters most is results. We must not govern through fear... but neither with indulgence. Victory has given us the moment. Now we must purge doubt and plant firm loyalties."
Names began to be written. Lists were sealed with wax. Orders were dispatched from the palace before midday.
That very day, in Luo Wen's capital, three bureaucrats vanished from their homes without a single soldier seen entering. Two noble clans were forced to swear fealty in public. And a spy network loyal to Wei Chao was silently dismantled.
The machinery was moving.
From his high vantage in the hall, Luo Wen allowed himself one last reflection before withdrawing:
"History is written by the victors. But power... power is held by those who know how to eliminate without leaving a trace."
And so, while Guangling burned beneath secret purges, and its regent wove iron webs behind a mask of motherhood, Luo Wen did not rush.
Because he understood that empires do not fall by spears to the chest.
They fall when there is no one left who believes in them.
And he was determined not to let that happen.