The first rays of dawn barely brushed the black tiles of Guangling when An Lu already stood tall, clad in his military robe, flanked by his secretary staff. Though exhaustion clung to him, wounds still raw and moral burdens heavy from recent defeat, his mind remained razor-sharp—like a resilient flame refusing to go out.
From the fortress's inner office came the urgent sound of hurried footsteps and whispered exchanges among officials, the faint scraping of brushes on parchment, and the crisp click of seals stamping new decrees. Guangling was awake again—not with timid hesitation, but under An Lu's steely grip, it breathed with renewed urgency.
"I want a full report on the state of our crops," he ordered in a steady voice as he paced the chamber with composed precision, hands folded behind his back. "Include details on our granaries, fallow fields, and any settlements suitable for rehabilitation before winter arrives."
"Yes, my lord," one officer answered, furiously scribbling notes.
"To rural lords who cooperate, grant partial tax exemptions," An Lu continued without raising his voice. "Those who refuse will have their lands requisitioned in the name of state necessity."
Even in measured tones, his words shaped an agricultural emergency directive. He understood: without food, there would be no war. Without war, there would be no victory.
"And establish a new recruitment system," he stipulated. "No mass conscription like last time—no untrained peasants. This time we will do it properly."
One captain looked up, curious.
"A quota-based draft?"
"Precisely," An Lu affirmed. "Each village will provide a limited number of healthy young men with prior militia experience if possible. They will train at border camps—not gathered in Guangling. We'll monitor them closely."
"And what about our current battalions?"
An Lu paused by the massive mural map on the wall, where fabric pennants marked the positions of his forces, most now tattered, gray, defeated.
"They will undergo two months of rigorous training. Discipline first—reformation next. If they wish to face Luo Wen again, they will do so as soldiers, not stray cattle."
He also commanded a full inspection of the outer walls, renovation of guard towers, strengthening of mountain passes to the west, and construction of a new defensive bastion to the south—precisely where Luo Wen's forces might make their next advance.
He wasn't preparing to attack. Not yet.
He was preparing to endure.
With time, order, discipline, and provisions.
He intended to rebuild a war machine from the ground up, while the enemy—he hoped—withered beneath revolts, betrayals, or sheer ambition.
At that moment, An Lu ceased thinking like a defeated general. He was thinking like the last bastion of autonomous power left in the empire.
Meanwhile, in a private east wing pavilion of the palace, another conversation unfolded.
Wei Lian, clad in white silk with a gold-embroidered sash, sat poised before a small inner garden, a cup of untouched tea cradled between her fingers. Sunlight filtered through the open panels, illuminating her serious, composed… yet watchful expression.
Opposite her sat her father, Wei Chao. The patriarch of one of the empire's oldest families looked weathered—not so much from age, but from the erosion of authority. He had survived the battle, yes. But his soldiers, territories, and influence had bled away alongside the coalition's dreams.
All he had left now was his daughter.
"You've seen the reports," he said, sipping slowly as he spoke. "Guangling stirs again. An Lu remains. He stands here, intact. Meanwhile, we have no army. He has walls, men, and fertile fields."
Wei Lian remained silent.
"We must face reality," Wei Chao continued. "The Four Families no longer stand as they once did. You know this. Bei Xian lies ill. Li Chang has fled to his hill mansion. Cong Qing… refuses even to answer my letters."
"And you remain here," she finally replied in a frosty tone. "Talking alliances with a man who publicly humiliated you."
Her father did not flinch.
"Kingdoms aren't ruled on pride, daughter. They're ruled on survival."
"And now you expect me to cozy up to An Lu?" she snapped. "After he ignored me during the campaign? Treated our troops like cannon fodder? Destroyed everything left of our family's prestige?"
Wei Chao exhaled, laying down his teacup with a gentle tap of porcelain on wood.
"I'm not asking you to kneel. Just to open your mind. Think of the power you could wield if he trusts you. If you act as the bridge between him and what remains of the noble houses. Not as a submissive wife, but as an influential advisor—someone who can shape the future."
"I don't need to shape the future beside a man I loathe," Wei Lian retorted and rose abruptly.
Her father raised a palm, calm and steady.
"Then what will you do? Refuse? Push him to cast us out? Load us like baggage, so that one day a farmer's revolt or Luo Wen's army storms in and slaughters us?"
Wei Lian fell silent, breaths shallow. Anger warred with a reluctant truth: he was right. Easy choices were nonexistent. Natural allies were gone. Only cold, unforgiving political survival remained.
Wei Chao stood as well, his voice gentler this time.
"You are the family's brightest hope—I knew it the moment I saw your tutor's evaluations. If you were male, I'd name you heir to Wei... But you are a woman. Someone as intelligent as you knows that your best path is the one I propose."
"I'm not a bargaining chip," Wei Lian said, her gaze unwavering.
"No," he said, moving toward the exit. "You're the last card we have. Not to hand over... but to play wisely."
He left without another word.
Wei Lian sat again. Her tea remained undisturbed. The surface trembled as a breeze drifted through the panels.
In a corner of her mind, she was already plotting her next move.
But her heart still burned.
Not with fear.
But with fury.