The wind blew with a persistence that felt almost mocking, dragging clouds of dust across the retreating path. The banners of An Lu—once stiff and proud—now hung like filthy rags, stained with blood, mud, and disgrace. In the distance, columns of smoke still rose from the valley of defeat. The echo of catastrophe resonated in his chest with every step his mount took.
The general said nothing. There was nothing to say. Words were for the victors, and he was not one of them.
During the night, they had managed to put distance between themselves and the enemy. Luo Wen was not pursuing them immediately, which, ironically, felt even more humiliating. It was as if he did not even consider a pursuit necessary. As if he was letting them escape deliberately, so they would live burdened with the weight of shame.
An Lu clenched his jaw, hiding the tremor that began to climb up his neck. The weight of his armor, combined with accumulated filth, felt like a slab of stone resting on his shoulders. The horse snorted in fatigue, just like the captain who rode closely behind him.
"My lord," said the man with a trembling voice, "the scouts report that Guangling is still under our control. However... the western pass has been blocked by landslides. It will take us at least two more days to arrive."
An Lu nodded without turning his head. The captain's voice was little more than noise within the storm of thoughts devouring him from the inside.
Two more days… and what will I do once I arrive there?
He had no clear answer. Guangling was the last bastion before the void. And there, among his supposed allies, awaited the faces that now haunted his dreams with every passing nightmare: the patriarchs.
Li Chang, old as the roots of a mountain, whose voice barely rose but whose influence could tilt governments. Wei Jian, with his steel gaze, always judging, always silent. Cong Qing, elegant like a silk-draped serpent, skilled in words and hidden daggers. And Bei Tao, blunt and direct, whose army had arrived late to the battle—too late, perhaps intentionally.
I was a fool, An Lu thought, closing his eyes for a moment. An arrogant idiot who thought he could bend the Four Families with military strength alone. I treated them like subordinates... and they responded like predators.
He had come into the alliance with promises of victory, radiating grandeur. He had sat at the same table as the patriarchs, but treated them with the distance of someone who already saw himself above them. His marriage to Wei Lian had been part of that arrogance. The daughter of Wei Jian… married to him not for love, nor for respect, but out of calculation. And he, too proud to even pretend affection, had treated her with cold indifference from the very beginning.
Now, he saw the consequences.
Wei Lian does not respect me. And she has every reason not to. His mind returned to the last tense conversation they had had before he departed for the front: she, calm but sharp like a sheathed dagger, and he, ignoring every warning she offered him with her diplomatic tone.
Perhaps… I should have listened.
The crunching of branches under the horse's hooves brought him back to reality. The landscape had changed: charred trees, blackened fields, remnants of abandoned carts. The stragglers from the army walked along the sides of the road, exhausted, speechless, with vacant stares. Some no longer even looked like soldiers. They were walking corpses, wandering memories of a failed cause.
A messenger rode up, covered in dust.
"Lord An Lu," he said breathlessly, "Yuan Guo has sent a pigeon. He has managed to regroup in the northern hills. He expects to meet you in Guangling."
Yuan Guo... The name made him furrow his brow. That man, loyal to the emperor to the point of fanaticism, whose strategic genius had kept him standing even amidst the slaughter. An Lu had underestimated many people, but perhaps none as gravely as Yuan Guo. His army had been annihilated, yes, but its core remained intact… and his influence among the courtiers was stronger than ever.
He could have been a far more useful ally if I had treated him as an equal. Instead, he had sidelined him, questioned his decisions, belittled him in military councils as if he were a subordinate without glory. Yet Yuan Guo never raised his voice. He simply nodded... and fulfilled his duty. His loyalty had kept him on the battlefield beyond all reason.
An Lu swallowed hard. Perhaps it is time I approach him. Not out of weakness… but because he might still rebuild something from these ruins.
"Prepare a response for Yuan Guo," he said to the captain behind him. "Tell him we will meet in Guangling. And tell him... tell him that this time, his voice will be heard."
The captain nodded in surprise and left without delay.
The day began to decline. The shadows stretched long and thin like sharpened fingers across the earth, and the sky began to take on a reddish hue—one eerily reminiscent of dried blood.
An Lu dismounted. He walked a few steps away from the sound of the convoy and sat on a moss-covered rock. From there, he could see the winding road leading to Guangling, and beyond it… nothing.
He thought of Luo Wen.
I underestimated him. I thought he was a bureaucrat with ambition. A tiger tamed by politics. But no. He is a butcher disguised as a chancellor. And yet… he has vision.
Luo Wen had done the unthinkable. Not only had he won; he had rewritten the rules of power. With his maneuver, with his massacre, he had made it clear that war was no longer played by old rules. It was no longer about field victories… it was about symbols, about terror, about absolute control.
But I will not surrender, An Lu thought. Even if I must crawl over the bones of my army, even if I must kiss the hand of every aged patriarch, I will not surrender.
He closed his eyes. The face of Wei Lian appeared in his mind: cold, distant, yet not empty. She possessed a sharp mind, perhaps even sharper than her father's. If only...
If only I could open a real channel of dialogue with her.
Not for love—that now seemed an impossible luxury—but to build something solid. Mutual respect, shared power. If he wanted the families to support him once again, he would have to change. Or at the very least, he would have to convincingly pretend that he had.
He sighed. The wind carried the scent of distant corpses, and with it, the memory of every soldier who had fallen because of his arrogance.
He stood up.
"Resume the march!" he shouted to his officers. "No one gets left behind. If someone cannot walk, they will be carried. If food is short, then we share our own rations. No one dies today."
And then, for the first time in days, An Lu mounted without complaint, straightening his shoulders.
Pride had not left him. It couldn't. But pride now had a new face: the face of silence, of concessions disguised as strategy, of enemies turned into allies—even if only for convenience.
Revenge will come, he told himself as the sun descended like a promise of fire.
But this time... I will not make the same mistakes.