The wind howled fiercely as it swept down from the eastern hills, tugging violently at the black and scarlet banners that fluttered from the battlements of Qingshi Fortress. Beyond the walls, far in the distance, the Guangling Plain stretched out like a vast shroud of dust and scrub, scattered with ancient graves, dry riverbeds, and the worn tracks of roads soon to be trampled by a hundred thousand marching men. High atop the southern watchtower, Wei Lian stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, lips drawn in a firm line, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on the distant silence of the horizon.
Beside her, Zhao Qing was fastening the gauntlet on his left arm. His armor, though dusted from the road, still gleamed faintly in the dying light—a sharp contrast to Wei Lian's austere appearance. She wore a simple military robe, devoid of ornament or rank, more like the garb of a field scribe than that of a warleader. Yet no one in that tower questioned for a moment who held command.
"He will come," said Wei Lian, still staring eastward, her voice quiet but ironclad. "He will come with everything he has left."
"And he'll come out of pride," Zhao Qing replied dryly, without hesitation. "Not out of strategy."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of Wei Lian's mouth. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against the cold stone railing.
"Luo Wen does not tolerate betrayal," she said. "Even less so when it exposes him—unarmed—before the very Empire he claims to protect. What happened between you two wasn't just disobedience. It was humiliation, played out for all to see. He won't come for Guangling. He'll come for you."
Zhao Qing lowered his eyes for a moment—not in guilt, nor in fear, but in acceptance. He knew the part he played on this board: a pawn, or perhaps a spark, depending on the moment.
"And you?" he asked, lifting his eyes again. "Do you believe we can stop him?"
Wei Lian finally turned to face him, the man who had once stood at Luo Wen's side and now sought a new future in defiance of him. She regarded him for a long, silent moment, weighing not only his loyalty but also the steel of his resolve. Then she stepped slowly toward a wide table where several maps and unrolled scrolls lay marked with thick strokes of black ink.
"We don't have his numbers," she said at last. "Nor his renown, nor the political machinery that feeds his every move. If this comes down to brute force, we lose."
She leaned forward, tracing a slender, steady finger along a series of defensive lines on the map—stretching from the hill chain in the north to the dry bed of the Yuan River in the south.
"But he's been at war for years," she continued. "Fighting tribes, northern clans, even his own rivals to the west. Every so-called victory of his has come at a cost—one he can no longer afford to ignore. His war engine, formidable as it might seem on the outside, is running on fumes. The Empire cannot keep feeding that beast without cracking open from the strain."
Zhao Qing nodded slowly, recognizing the truth in her words—truth he had already glimpsed with his own eyes: endless convoys stretched thin across ravaged roads, weariness etched into the faces of imperial soldiers, and promises of land and rank that sounded increasingly desperate with every campaign.
"And us?" Wei Lian went on. "We are home. Our people are close. Our supply lines are short and steady. The farmers know every bend in the land, every hidden path and ravine. Our troops can be resupplied in days, not weeks. If we force Luo Wen into a prolonged campaign in these hills—if we drag him into a war of attrition—then his numbers won't matter. Each passing day will cost him more than he can afford."
Zhao Qing stepped closer to the map and pointed to the narrow Fengxi Pass, a steep ravine flanked by rocky ridges, where the first layers of fortifications were already rising.
"We could stall his vanguard here," he suggested. "Deploy a light screening force—fast and mobile. Back them with crossbowmen hidden in the ridges and lay traps beneath the soil. Just enough to provoke him into bringing in his full host. If we make him believe he can seize Guangling swiftly, he'll rush in headlong. Patience isn't his strength."
Wei Lian nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful.
"And when he does," she said, "when he crosses into our web of defenses, we close the trap. Cut his supply lines. Burn his convoys. Strike his rear columns and vanish before he can react. It won't win us parades or songs, I know. But victory isn't measured in captured banners—it's measured in days endured."
Zhao Qing's brow furrowed.
"And if our positions don't hold?" he asked bluntly. "What if he breaks through and marches straight for the capital?"
Wei Lian turned once more to face the open plains beyond. Her face remained impassive, but her eyes burned with a calm and ruthless clarity.
"Then let him," she said. "Let him march deep into our land until his army is little more than a hungry ghost. We're not aiming to win the first clash. We're aiming to let him carve out his own ruin, one misstep at a time."
Zhao Qing took a deep breath, the full scope of her plan settling over him like a heavy cloak. Now he understood the intent behind every recent deployment, each quiet order, every troop movement that seemed, on the surface, defensive. This wasn't a traditional stand-and-fight defense.
It was a trap built from time itself.
"We won't stop him with swords," he murmured. "We'll stop him with distance… with hunger… with exhaustion."
Wei Lian looked at him, her nod almost imperceptible but final.
"Luo Wen has forgotten that not every enemy falls beneath his blade," she said. "Some simply slip through his grasp… until he no longer has the strength to close his fist."
Above the tower, a lone crow cawed as it circled in the darkening sky. Both of them lifted their gaze as storm clouds gathered on the far horizon.
And on the ground below, war was coming—step by step, hour by hour.
But this time, victory would not belong to the strongest.
It would belong to the most patient.