The fall of the outer walls had been a bitter victory, one that tasted of ash rather than triumph. Luo Wen knew it well: the hardest part had not ended; in truth, it had only just begun. The streets of Guangling were narrow, twisting, and treacherous—perfect ground for ambushes and traps. Every corner could conceal a hidden blade, every rooftop might bristle with archers, every cellar could become a tunnel from which enemies would emerge like shadows. To seize this city would not be a swift conquest but a slow, bloody dissection. And Luo Wen, pragmatic as always, had no intention of squandering lives in blind charges.
In the imperial command tent, a massive map stretched across the table, Guangling divided into a grid like the anatomy of some stubborn beast that needed dismantling piece by piece. Candles flickered over markers that denoted towers, inner walls, and the vital arteries of the city. Around the map, the generals gathered, their expressions etched with fatigue and grim determination, as the Canceller listened in silence.
General Han Qiu was the first to speak, his voice low but firm.—If we throw in massive waves of men, we will lose tens of thousands. Their barricades, their collapsed houses—they will choke us in those narrow alleys.
General Gao Ren countered quickly, leaning forward.—But if we move too slowly, the resistance will reorganize. Wei Lian will continue to twist the city into a fortress. Every day we hesitate, our soldiers die clinging to the walls we already shed blood to take.
For a long moment, Luo Wen stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the map as though piercing through it into the very bones of Guangling. When he finally spoke, his words were cold and precise, the kind of voice that cut away all argument.
—There will be no blind waves. Guangling will be dismantled as one dismantles the gears of a clock: piece by piece, street by street. We will advance sector by sector, cleansing each district and securing it before moving forward. Until now, our elite troops have been used only as spearheads—forcing their way through narrow points, breaking barricades, scattering defenders, then pulling back to let the regular infantry and auxiliaries finish the task. That has worked, but it is too slow. Guangling will not fall to half-measures.
The generals exchanged glances and nodded. The plan was unmistakably clear: the city would be carved up into manageable districts, each one crushed in turn, with the veterans of the Empire no longer mere spearpoints but the backbone, the hammer that would break the resistance.
Just then, the flap of the tent was thrown open. A messenger stumbled inside, breathless, covered in dust and sweat, his knees buckling as he knelt. He thrust forward a bloodstained scroll.
—My lord, news from the northern roads. A man calling himself Xu Ping has gathered a great number of bandits and guerrillas. They have begun harassing convoys, torching storehouses, and striking at smaller outposts.
The tent fell silent. Luo Wen accepted the scroll with an expression of cold detachment, scanned the words, and then set it down upon the table.
Han Qiu frowned deeply.—If left unchecked, Xu Ping could threaten our supply lines.
Gao Ren scoffed, his tone dismissive.—A nuisance at best. With our main army here, what can a rabble of outlaws truly accomplish? Should they ever face us in the open, we would crush them in a matter of days.
Luo Wen inclined his head slightly, a gesture of calm certainty.—Indeed. Xu Ping is no priority. Guangling is. Once this city falls, the entire north will be left without sanctuary, and his bands will scatter like dust in the wind.
He leaned over the map once more, pressing a finger firmly into the heart of the city.—The decision is made. Beginning tomorrow, our veterans will no longer be mere spearpoints. They will be both edge and hammer. They will march in mass, forcing open the streets with their iron discipline, while the common infantry follows to hold what is taken. Guangling must fall in weeks, not in months.
The war council murmured assent—some voices firm with conviction, others heavy with silent doubt. They all understood what Luo Wen's decision meant: heavier losses, a harsher grind, but also relentless pressure that would test Wei Lian and her defenders to their breaking point.
Beyond the walls of the tent, in the battered heart of Guangling, the defenders labored feverishly. Civilians piled stones for barricades, dug trenches in the marketplaces, and prepared oil to pour upon invaders. On a tower still under her command, Wei Lian stood with her sword at her side, watching the smoke rise from the walls they had already lost. She knew Luo Wen would not relent—not now, not ever.
What she did not yet know was that the Canceller had resolved to unleash the full might of the imperial elite, no longer in fragments but as a tide of steel.
The city braced itself for an inferno where every street would become a battlefield, and every house, a fortress. And in the distant hills, Xu Ping gathered his host of shadows, not yet heeded by Luo Wen, but waiting, biding his time for the moment to strike.