Winter does not break.
It hardens.
Zhou answers first.
Their retaliation is no longer subtle. Framework towers surge forward in full alignment, geometry slamming into Ling An's northern defenses with brutal precision. Artillery lines thunder across frozen ridges. Siege trenches begin to carve through snow like surgical incisions.
No more patience.
No more distance.
Zhou advances.
The Southern Kingdom answers within the same hour.
Not with maneuver.
With proclamation.
The Southern King declares a holy reclamation of the Liang throne, accusing Ling An of heresy, of regicide, of unnatural rule. Priests flood the riverbanks. Their artillery fires without pause. Infantry columns march beneath banners of restoration.
And inside Ling An—
The whispers return.
"He provoked them."
"He killed the Emperor."
"He brought this."
The city trembles under three pressures at once.
External invasion.
Religious war.
Internal doubt.
This is the fracture Zhou and the South waited for.
Wu An does not retreat into silence.
He steps into the central square at dusk.
No armor.
No elevated platform.
Just him.
The Black Tigers form a disciplined ring around the crowd gathering in fearful clusters. Soldiers from all divisions stand interspersed with civilians—artisans, laborers, families who have lost too much already.
Zhou cannons echo faintly in the distance.
Southern horns answer.
Ling An listens.
Wu An speaks without raising his voice.
"The Liang throne has fallen."
The words ripple outward.
"I killed my father. Wu Jin died defending this capital."
Murmurs spread.
He does not deny.
He does not soften.
"The Southern Kingdom marches to 'restore' a throne that no longer exists."
He turns slightly, gesturing toward the distant river smoke.
"Zhou marches to 'stabilize' what they did not build."
His gaze sweeps the crowd.
"They do not want restoration."
"They want inheritance."
Silence deepens.
"The Liang Emperor's authority was broken before I struck the final blow," he continues evenly. "But if they need a throne to justify invasion—"
He pauses.
"I will reclaim it."
Shock spreads through the square.
Not fear.
Not belief.
Confusion.
"You will crown yourself?" someone shouts.
"No."
He shakes his head.
"I will restore Liang."
The statement lands like iron.
Shen Yue watches from the edge of the formation, unreadable.
Liao Yun understands first.
He says nothing.
Wu An continues.
"Not for dynasty."
"For sovereignty."
Zhou cannons fire again.
Closer.
The Southern Kingdom pushes the outer wards.
Wu An raises his voice slightly—not shouting, but enough to cut through the tremor.
"Choose now."
"Stand and fight for a capital ruled from outside."
"Or fight for one that answers to itself."
The Black Tigers slam spear shafts into stone in unison.
The sound carries.
The crowd begins to respond.
Not with cheers.
With resolve.
Internal dissent does not vanish.
But it stabilizes.
They are no longer confused.
They are mobilized.
But it is not about the throne.
It never was.
That night, while the city rallies under the banner of Liang restoration, Wu An meets privately with Shen Yue and Liao Yun beneath the war chamber.
The map is covered in red and white markers.
"You don't intend to sit on that throne," Shen Yue says quietly.
"No."
"And you don't intend to restore anything."
"No."
Liao Yun folds his arms.
"So what is this?"
Wu An moves a marker.
Not on Ling An.
On the river.
On the ridge.
On the supply routes behind both armies.
"It's distraction," he says calmly.
"While Zhou and the Southern Kingdom prepare for total assault against Ling An…"
He shifts three hidden markers.
"…we remove their ability to sustain it."
Shen Yue's eyes narrow.
"Supply annihilation."
"Yes."
Simultaneous.
Zhou's logistics lines deep in the northern valleys.
Southern powder depots beyond the river.
Coordinated strikes.
If successful—
Both empires will be stranded in winter siege with no sustainment.
If they fail—
Ling An collapses permanently.
Liao Yun exhales slowly.
"You're risking everything."
"Yes."
"And the public restoration?" Shen Yue asks.
"Gives them something to believe in while we move."
The throne is bait.
The rally is smoke.
The war is elsewhere.
Outside the walls, Zhou begins full bombardment.
Southern infantry charges intensify.
Ling An's defenders bleed.
But Tiger strike units slip out under cover of night.
Westward.
Northward.
Southward.
Invisible beneath the noise of open war.
Inside the capital, citizens form auxiliary lines—repairing barricades, carrying ammunition, forging weapons through the night.
They believe they are defending a throne.
They are buying time.
The Southern Kingdom launches its largest assault yet.
Wave after wave crashes into Ling An's battered walls.
Zhou advances frameworks closer than ever before.
The city shakes.
Towers crack.
Civilians scream.
The Black Tigers hold.
Barely.
Wu An stands at the northern wall, snow and ash mixing in his hair.
Shen Yue approaches quietly.
"You've never faced odds like this," she says.
"No."
"You could lose everything."
"Yes."
She studies him.
"You're not afraid."
He watches the converging armies.
"I am," he says quietly.
"Of failing?"
"No."
A pause.
"Of succeeding."
She understands.
If the plan works—
Zhou and the Southern Kingdom will both weaken.
Ling An will stand alone.
Not as a dynasty.
But as a power.
The final rally horn sounds across the city.
And beneath the chaos—
Three Tiger detachments reach their distant targets.
Powder depots.
Supply caravans.
Framework anchors.
Torches are lit.
Winter night ignites.
Far beyond the siege lines—
Flames rise.
First one.
Then several.
Then dozens.
Zhou's northern valleys explode in synchronized fire.
Southern supply columns detonate in the river plains.
The siege lines falter.
Cannons misfire.
Orders collapse.
Both empires realize at the same time—
Ling An is not defending.
It is striking.
Inside the capital, the citizens cheer at the sudden retreat of artillery fire.
They believe the throne has reclaimed authority.
They do not know the throne was never the point.
Wu An watches the distant fires bloom on every horizon.
The most difficult task was never holding the wall.
It was convincing the world he intended to.
The restoration was a lie.
The rally was a mask.
And now—
Both empires burn behind their own lines.
Winter deepens.
The war changes.
And Ling An is no longer surrounded.
It is positioned.