The sea breeze lashed against the masts of the refugee fleet anchored along the rugged harbors of the western isles. These rocky shores, once quiet outposts for fishermen, had become a hive of feverish activity. The clang of hammer on iron echoed day and night as blacksmiths reforged dented armor and repaired battered blades. Carpenters labored tirelessly to transform humble fishing boats into nimble war skiffs. Scribes bent over wooden tables, their quills racing across parchment, drafting sealed letters destined for the mainland—letters that would be carried by couriers prepared to risk death at every mile for the survival of their cause.
Wei Lian, her armor still scarred and her body still bearing wounds from Guangling's inferno, convened an emergency council. The makeshift great hall had been erected on wooden beams hammered into the rocks above the port. Smoke from oil lamps filled the air, mingling with the damp scent of salt and the collective weight of despair. Zhao Qing stood at her right, alongside the battered remnants of their officer corps, and nobles who had escaped with their families and loyal retainers. The silence before her words was as heavy as iron.
She rose, tall and unyielding despite exhaustion, and unfurled a worn map over the table. Her eyes swept across the markings of red and black—fortresses lost, villages reduced to ash, the Imperial army now firmly entrenched in Guangling. When she spoke, her voice carried the solemnity of someone who knew that her words were the only bulwark against collapse:
"Guangling has fallen," she said, her tone cold yet steady, "but we have not. The Chancellor believes us broken, believes he has ground us to dust. But as long as we hold these islands, we possess the seed of rebirth." She lifted her hand toward the western edge of the map, where only faint sketches of isles were drawn. "Here, upon these rocks, we will build a new bastion."
A noble, pale and trembling, leaned forward with desperation in his voice."My lady… our strength is spent. We have barely provisions for a handful of weeks. The villages of the mainland no longer feed us. When the Chancellor sends his fleet, how will we endure?"
Wei Lian fixed him with a gaze sharp as steel."We will endure because we are not alone. The Empire has sown hatred in every field it burned, in every home it despoiled. Farmers, brigands, mercenaries—each one now carries reason enough to take up arms against Luo Wen. It is our task to fan that hatred into fire."
Her fist slammed upon the table, rattling the map."Messengers will be dispatched to every noble who still clings to land on the continent. I demand that every remnant of our armies retreat to the isles. No matter how small their garrisons, no matter how far—they must abandon their keeps and march for the sea. Here they will find shelter. Here they will find an army that endures."
Zhao Qing frowned, his voice measured but urgent."And what of the resources we cannot carry? Time will not allow us to strip the continent bare."
A thin smile, cold as the winter wind, curved Wei Lian's lips."What we cannot bring, we shall give away. Not to the Chancellor, not to cowards—but to the resistance. To guerrillas, to armed peasants, to those brigands who already bleed the Empire from the shadows. If grain is left behind, let it feed our insurgents. If weapons must be abandoned, let them arm ambushers. Luo Wen must learn that in every valley, in every village, unrest awaits him. Nothing shall fall into his hands unspoiled."
A ripple of unease spread among the nobles. They glanced at one another, reluctant to imagine their treasures, their land's wealth, handed to vagabonds and cutthroats. Wei Lian sensed the hesitation, and her voice cut through it like a blade.
"Understand this: this is not about titles, nor estates, nor your pride. It is about survival. Cling to your possessions, and the Empire will tear them from you along with your lives. But if we turn them into powder and steel for the resistance, then every bushel of wheat, every spear left behind, will strike at Luo Wen himself."
Zhao Qing nodded fiercely."If the Chancellor burns every village to ashes, then we will make certain every ash rises against him."
The murmurs softened. Resignation gave way to grim determination. Some nobles bowed their heads, others clenched their fists, but all knew the truth: the choice was already made.
Wei Lian pressed on."The fleet must grow. Already, the islanders aid us—fishermen lending their boats, shipwrights turning their craft to war. These waters will be our shield. While the Empire wastes its strength trying to pacify the west, we will rebuild our forces, train the young, and bide our time. And when the moment comes, we will return to the mainland, stronger than before."
The council lasted deep into the night. Pledges of loyalty were sworn in hushed but fervent voices, and orders were issued for envoys to depart at once.
At dawn, the first small vessels slipped from the island harbors toward the coastline. Their crews bore sealed letters—promises of refuge, commands to abandon doomed fortresses, instructions to rally to the western isles. Meanwhile, in the shadows of the continent, caches of weapons were buried, barns stocked with hidden grain, horses handed over to guerrillas who waited with eager eyes. Soon, peasant bands and brigand companies, emboldened by these gifts, began harassing isolated Imperial garrisons, striking like sparks in the dark.
That evening, Wei Lian walked alone to the shore. The black waters stretched endlessly before her, dotted with ships rocking gently at anchor. The wind tangled her hair, and the scars of battle etched upon her face seemed to harden in the torchlight. Guangling still burned in her memory—not as a defeat, but as a sacrifice carved into history.
"We are not finished," she whispered into the roar of the tide. "These islands will be our refuge, and from here, we will rise again. Luo Wen may think himself secure, but the war has only just begun."
Behind her, the sound of hammers rang like drums of defiance, voices of men swore loyalty into the night, and the timbers of ships creaked as they were prepared for the voyages to come. The future was uncertain, but as long as there was a place to rally, as long as the will to fight still smoldered, the flame of Guangling would never die.