The sabotage did not stop.
Grain stores continued to burn in the night. Messengers disappeared between camps and were later found in ditches with their throats cut. Bridges collapsed hours before supply wagons arrived. Wells turned foul. Horses panicked and trampled their own handlers. Orders arrived late, or not at all. And every time something went wrong, someone in the coalition blamed someone else.
Wei accused Chu of burning their grain.
Chu accused Jin of cutting their supply boats loose.
Jin accused Zhou officers of staging incidents to gain control over the alliance army.
Arguments broke out in command tents. Escorts doubled. Scouts began watching not only the enemy, but their allies as well.
The coalition army was still massive.
But now it moved slower.
It slept uneasily.
And it trusted no one.
General Pei knew exactly what was happening, and that was the most frustrating part — he understood Wu An's strategy perfectly, but understanding did not mean he could stop it.
Wu An was not trying to destroy the coalition army.
Wu An was trying to make sure the coalition army could never function as one.
In the Northern Zhou court, the war had begun to turn into something else entirely — politics.
The child emperor sat high on the throne, too young to understand the weight of the crown, while ministers argued below him like men fighting over a burning house.
"The coalition is failing!"
"The war drags on with no victory!"
"Cities are being harassed, supply lines cut, officers assassinated!"
"Chancellor Pei promised victory — where is it?"
Pei knelt in the court in full armor, dust still on his cloak from the road, his sword placed beside him. He did not interrupt. He did not defend himself. He simply listened.
One minister stepped forward and bowed deeply to the emperor.
"Your Majesty, the Chancellor controls the army, the court, and the coalition, yet the war only worsens. If this continues, Zhou will be destroyed. We must appoint a new commander before it is too late."
Murmurs of agreement spread through the court.
The child emperor looked frightened, then looked down at Pei.
"Chancellor," the boy asked quietly, "can you still win?"
The hall fell silent.
Pei lowered his head until it touched the floor.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he said calmly.
One word.
Then he rose, picked up his sword, and walked out of the court without waiting for dismissal.
Behind him, the ministers began shouting again.
But Pei did not stop walking.
Because he understood something the court did not.
If he lost this war, it would not matter who the chancellor was.
There would be no Zhou left to serve.
That night, General Pei sent messengers to every allied commander.
This time, the message was not a request.
It was an order.
"Stop marching separately.Stop guarding your own grain like thieves.Stop suspecting each other while Wu An cuts us apart piece by piece.If we continue like this, we will lose without ever fighting him.Gather all forces.One field.One battle.Decide the fate of Northern Zhou."
This time, they came.
Not because they trusted Pei.
But because they were beginning to understand Wu An.
And understanding Wu An meant understanding that if they did not kill him soon, he would destroy them slowly until there was nothing left to save.
The armies gathered on a vast open plain known as Cangyuan Plains — 苍原.
It was an ancient battlefield, wide and cold, surrounded by low hills and dry riverbeds. The land was flat enough for artillery, wide enough for cavalry, and open enough for hundreds of thousands of men to kill each other without walls or rivers to protect them.
One by one, the banners arrived.
Wei's heavy infantry and grain wagons.
Chu's river soldiers and engineers.
Jin's supply officers and canal troops.
Zhou's imperial army under General Pei.
And smaller allied forces who had come because they believed if Wu An was not stopped here, there would be no stopping him later.
Campfires filled the plain like a second sky of red stars. The ground trembled under the weight of men, horses, artillery, and wagons.
It was the largest army Wu An had ever faced.
And this time, they were not divided.
They were waiting.
Together.
When the report reached Wu An, he read it in silence and then handed it to Liao Yun.
"They've decided," Wu An said.
Liao Yun nodded. "Yes. General Pei is forcing a decisive battle."
Shen Yue looked down at the map, at the large empty space marked Cangyuan Plains.
"If we lose this battle," she said quietly, "Liang is finished."
Wu An did not disagree.
"If we lose this battle," he said, "we die here."
He placed a black stone on the map, facing a cluster of white stones representing the coalition.
"But if we win," he said quietly, "Northern Zhou dies here."
Liao Yun studied the map for a long time.
"He is gambling everything on one battle," Liao Yun said.
Wu An gave a small smile.
"So am I."
A few days later, the Liang army began to march.
One hundred thousand soldiers.
Veterans of Ling An.
Veterans of Zhongjing.
Men who had marched across half the world and were still alive.
They marched north toward Cangyuan Plains, where the coalition army waited like a wall of iron and banners.
As Wu An rode at the front, Shen Yue rode beside him.
"After this," she said quietly, "there is no turning back."
Wu An looked toward the horizon, where dust from the coalition army already darkened the sky.
"There was never any turning back," he said.
Far ahead, on the endless expanse of Cangyuan Plains, the banners of the coalition snapped in the cold wind.
Somewhere among them stood General Pei — chancellor, general, last pillar of Northern Zhou.
Two armies were marching toward the same field.
Two men were marching toward the same decision.
And both of them knew the truth.
After Cangyuan Plains—
One dynasty would live.
And one would disappear into history.