The capital had not yet ceased celebrating the triumphant return of Chancellor Luo Wen. The imperial banners still fluttered proudly across every plaza, the laughter of children filled the streets as they played at being soldiers waging imaginary battles, and merchants thrived by selling exaggerated accounts of the northern campaign. On the surface, all was glory.
But within the Imperial Palace, the air was heavy with a different weight.
Luo Wen stood in silence before a wide map sprawled across a massive cedar table. His eyes remained fixed on the west, where thick red markings now dominated the borderlands. There, Wei Lian held firm after delivering what could only be described as a masterstroke: the defection of Zhao Qing—one of the most seasoned and respected generals of the empire. He had surrendered after being promised land, power, and prestige.
Luo Wen had not spoken a word since receiving the report. But the silence was more telling than any outburst. When he finally did speak, his voice was ice.
"Summon the marshals. All of them."
The scribe, who had been standing nearby, blinked in disbelief. "A direct assault, Chancellor?"
"No." Luo Wen's voice did not waver. "A sentence."
He slowly turned his head, his gaze sharp as a blade. "Prepare an expedition. Two hundred thousand men. Only the veterans. We march west. Wei Lian will be erased from this continent."
And just like that, the gears of war began to turn once more. Orders were drafted, sealed, and dispatched with the speed of lightning. Armies were mustered with ruthless efficiency. Veterans from the northern campaigns were recalled, and supplies began to flow like rivers into military stockpiles.
But then, a new thread threatened to unravel the fabric of this plan.
A messenger arrived from the east, collapsing on the marble steps of the Hall of Statues. His robes were torn, his face pale, and blood soaked through the crude bandage wrapped around his abdomen. Still, he spoke before losing consciousness.
"Rebellion… in Dongyang Province… Xu Ping has returned…"
That name—though forgotten by many in the court—still echoed like an old wound suddenly reopened. Xu Ping, once an officer of the Imperial Army, had led a peasant rebellion years ago. Most believed him to have died in the aftermath of his failed uprising. But now, against all odds, he had returned—and not alone.
He had rallied the outcast and the destitute: peasants stripped of land, former soldiers cast aside after peace, and those broken by the very reforms Luo Wen had pushed through to consolidate imperial control. Together, they raised no imperial flag, no provincial banner. Only a piece of black cloth, with a single character hand-painted in white: "Justice."
And yet, Luo Wen's reaction was coldly indifferent.
"A barking dog doesn't warrant the attention of a hunting party," he said flatly. "Send the local garrison. Have them cut off his head and hang it over the city gates."
A young official stepped forward hesitantly. "And if that proves insufficient, Chancellor?"
Luo Wen didn't look up from the map. "Then we will burn the east to ash when we are done with the west. Now is not the time to be distracted by insects."
His focus was unshakably fixed on the western front. Wei Lian was digging in, strengthening her mountain fortresses and securing her supply lines through fiercely loyal villages. She was not preparing to conquer, but to endure. She knew that after the betrayal of Zhao Qing, Luo Wen would never again place his trust easily. Every step westward would be a march through hostile ground.
But Luo Wen was not interested in a drawn-out war.
He wanted something absolute.
A victory that would leave no room for interpretation. A reckoning so total that none would dare to whisper of rebellion again. Not just to reclaim lost ground, but to make an example—to show that there is no redemption for traitors, and no sanctuary for oathbreakers.
"Send another message to Shen Ruolin," he commanded. His voice remained composed, but the steel in his tone was unmistakable. "Tell her to lock down the north. Secure every route, every pass. I don't want a single barbarian foot stepping into this campaign. Nothing moves unless she permits it. Once the frontier is sealed, she is to send any additional support she can muster."
The scribe hesitated. "And what about Xu Ping?"
"I already gave my answer. If I must choose between a serpent in the west and a rat in the east…" Luo Wen's hand clenched slowly into a fist over the map. "I will crush the serpent first."
Thus began one of the greatest military mobilizations in the empire's recent memory.
One hundred and fifty thousand battle-hardened veterans—men who had faced death under northern skies and survived—assembled on the western frontier. Another fifty thousand marched in their wake, hauling siege engines, food supplies, and every resource necessary for a long and bloody campaign.
On the surface, the capital still wore a mask of celebration. But beneath the silk and music, the heart of the empire beat with cold fury. The war against Wei Lian would not be another battle. It would be a purge.
Yet while the west stirred with the thunder of approaching war, the east was beginning to smolder.
In the quiet rice villages of Dongyang, whispers spread like wildfire. Xu Ping's movement, once dismissed as nothing more than noise, was gathering strength. Among the forgotten, the overtaxed, and the embittered, his call for justice began to resonate. And behind closed doors, those who despised Luo Wen but dared not speak it aloud began to listen.
The war for the soul of the empire had just begun.