An entire month had passed since the siege of Guangling had begun. Day after day, night after night, the city's walls had endured the relentless pounding of catapults, towering siege engines, and the unyielding crash of battering rams. Guangling was no longer a city of proud streets and proud towers—it had become a fortress of smoke and ruin, where every stone bore the scars of fire and blood. The defenders were spent, their quivers running empty, and even the corpses lying unburied in the streets served as a grim reminder of how unsustainable their resistance had become.
Luo Wen knew this. From his command hill, he gazed upon the city with the frozen stare of an executioner, like a man sharpening his blade while waiting for the condemned to bow their head. The reports were unambiguous: the walls groaned, the defenders teetered on the brink of collapse, and even the civilian militias—so defiant at first—were beginning to fracture under the pressure. Guangling still stood, yes, but it stood like a tree split down the middle, needing only one more strike of the axe to fall.
In council with his generals, Luo Wen's voice cut like steel:—The time has come to break them. The infantry has done its part, but now I want our most disciplined troops to carry the weight. Order the heavy cavalry to dismount. Today, they will not fight from horseback. Today, they will fight upon the stones of Guangling.
The announcement rippled through the tent like a shockwave. The heavy cavalry of the Empire was its pride, men trained for years to unleash devastating charges atop armored steeds. They were the thunderbolts of the battlefield, the hammer that shattered lines. Yet the Chancellor was unyielding: what was needed now were not lightning strikes across open fields, but soldiers who could endure fire and arrows, who could advance step by step, shield by shield, sword by sword, and carve a path through ruins and barricades.
At dawn the following day, the sentinels of Guangling witnessed the unthinkable. It was not forced peasants or lightly armed infantry columns that advanced this time, but compact ranks of imperial knights, stripped of their mounts, marching as though they themselves were a living wall of iron. Broad shields locked in front, spears and swords at the ready, armor gleaming in the sunlight like a river of steel—this was no rabble. This was the Empire's beating heart, the elite striding toward Guangling's battered ramparts.
Wei Lian understood instantly the peril. She gathered Zhao Qing and the captains of the garrison.—They've sent their finest. If we do not cast them back now, the walls will be lost.
With fierce determination burning in her eyes, she ordered a counteroffensive. She did not remain in the safety of the towers—no, Wei Lian descended herself, placing her life beside her soldiers. Dust and blood streaked her armor, but her very presence breathed fire into the weary garrison. Once again, the commander of Guangling would not simply order the defense—she would lead it.
The clash was nothing short of cataclysmic. Upon the walkways of the siege towers and along the most battered stretches of the wall, Wei Lian and her men hurled themselves at the dismounted knights with savage fury, trying to push them back into the abyss. Arrows fell in sheets like rain from a storm, stones were hurled from above with bone-crushing force, and in the narrow breaches, hand-to-hand combat erupted—combat where every inch of ground was paid for in blood, in dozens of lives lost.
But this time, the enemy was not a starving peasant or a ragged militia. These were the knights of the Empire, fighting with a discipline as cold as forged steel. When one man fell, another stepped forward to seal the gap, the line never breaking, the formation never faltering. Shield slammed against shield, sword met spear, and slowly, inexorably, the defenders were pushed back until blood cascaded down the battlements.
Wei Lian fought in the very front, her curved blade cutting arcs of silver through the air, striking down enemy after enemy with unerring precision. More than once she opened a breach in the imperial lines, and her men, emboldened, rushed to exploit the gap. Yet the response of the imperial elite was unrelenting: they regrouped with machine-like precision, closed the gap, and pressed forward again. Their momentum was like a rising tide, impossible to hold back forever.
From another tower, Zhao Qing witnessed the grim reality. His heart sank as he saw Wei Lian's line buckling under the relentless push. He rushed with reinforcements, but even his efforts could not stop the inevitable—the Imperials established footholds on the most damaged sectors of the wall.
The struggle dragged on until the late afternoon, a storm of screams, steel, and smoke. At last, the defenders were forced inward. One after another, the outer towers and passages fell. Imperial banners, red as fresh blood, began to rise above the battlements.
Wei Lian, her body trembling with exhaustion, her armor smeared with her own blood and that of countless others, gave the only order left to her:—To the streets! —she cried, her voice hoarse but unyielding—. Abandon the walls! Prepare the defense within the city!
Reluctantly, bitterly, the defenders obeyed, retreating through the inner gates while the Imperials secured their grip upon the outer ramparts. Guangling had not yet fallen, but its proud outer walls no longer belonged to its people.
The entire city was transformed overnight into a battlefield of stone and shadow. Barricades rose in the main avenues, trenches were hastily dug in the marketplaces and squares, and the remaining civilians armed themselves for resistance. Children carried water, women sharpened knives, artisans raised makeshift spears—every soul prepared for the firestorm to come.
From atop the conquered wall, Luo Wen surveyed the retreat with a thin smile, cold as winter steel.—The first wall is ours, —he declared, turning to his generals—. But do not be deceived: the true fight begins now. Guangling will not fall with one breach. It will be taken street by street, house by house, until the city itself bows to the will of the Empire.
And beneath the shadow of towers still standing, Wei Lian drew a deep, ragged breath. Guangling had lost its walls, but not its spirit. The days of open-field battles were gone. Now, the war would be waged in the veins of the city itself—in every alley, every barricade, every shattered home.
The walls were gone, but the heart of Guangling was only beginning to fight.