The morning mist hung thick over the scorched earth, reluctant to lift, as though the land itself refused to show its wounds. Fog drifted between broken weapons and the twisted bodies of the dead, tangled like discarded dolls in a child's nightmare. Spears stuck out of the soil like impromptu gravestones, and the ground beneath was a morass of blood, rain, and churned mud. Where once fields stretched golden under the sun, there was now only silence, ruin, and the stench of death.
A faint breeze stirred the banners half-buried in the muck. Some bore the phoenix crest of the imperial forces, others the shattered sigils of An Lu's rebellion. But all of them were still now—no wind was left to carry their cause.
Luo Wen walked alone at the head of a small column, his armor blackened by smoke and caked in blood. His boots sank into the ground with each step, the mud clinging like ghosts to steel. His sword, unsheathed during the final charge, now rested at his side, its edge stained dull crimson.
Around him, the remnants of battle moved like wraiths—soldiers dragging corpses into heaps, engineers pulling shattered wagons from pits, officers barking orders with cracked voices. A group of surgeons worked behind a scorched palisade, their hands red up to the wrists, faces set in grim resolve. Flies buzzed thick in the air, attracted by blood and decay.
Some of the prisoners, mostly peasants conscripted by force, huddled in makeshift pens. Their faces were pale and blank, like candles nearly burned out. A few wept silently. Others simply stared at nothing.
A soldier stumbled out of a trench, blood streaked across his brow.
"Commander Luo," said General Han Rui, his voice gravelly with exhaustion, "our final tally is in. Ninety thousand of ours dead or missing. But they… they lost over five hundred thousand. The rebels are broken."
Luo Wen didn't answer immediately. His eyes swept across the battlefield, taking in the burning wagons, the moans of the wounded, the flicker of flames licking the husks of what had once been villages.
He had won. Not just a battle—but the decisive one. An Lu's alliance with Yuan Guo had collapsed under the weight of this slaughter.
And yet… he felt no joy. No surge of pride. Only a strange quiet that filled his chest like frost.
Then a voice broke through the silence—not loud, not disrespectful. But clear. Calm. Young.
"Commander…" said a soldier, a young officer barely out of boyhood. "Was all of this truly necessary? Most of them were peasants. They barely knew how to hold a spear."
A hush fell over those nearby. General Han Rui turned sharply, his face darkening. Another officer clenched his jaw, ready to silence the youth. No one questioned Luo Wen—especially not here, in the shadow of his greatest victory.
But Luo Wen turned, his gaze falling on the boy.
"What's your name?" he asked, voice even.
"Zhao Lin, son of Zhao Qing," came the answer. The youth stood tall, his salute sharp despite the tremble in his fingers.
Luo Wen studied him for a long moment, then stepped closer. The weight of his presence fell like a shadow.
He gestured to the distant hills, where smoke still curled into the sky, staining it gray.
"Look there," he said. "What you see is not a massacre. It is a purge."
Zhao Lin flinched slightly, but held his stance.
"This land," Luo Wen continued, "was rotting. With cowardice. With treachery. With corruption. It was infested with fear. These peasants may have held plows once—but when they took up arms at the call of An Lu, they became weapons. And weapons pointed at the Empire must be broken."
The commander's voice did not rise. It was calm, almost gentle.
"I do not enjoy killing. I do not crave conquest. But peace is not born from mercy. It is carved from fire. Order cannot take root in soil soaked by doubt. These men died because they stood on the wrong side of the blade."
Zhao Lin's fists clenched. His jaw tightened.
"They were used," he said softly. "Thrown into battle like fodder. Used by men who never cared for them."
Luo Wen nodded.
"Exactly," he said. "An Lu and Yuan Guo used them like cattle. They drove them forward to shield themselves. They hid behind their deaths. We do not treat them better. But at least we give them an end with meaning."
He turned then, addressing all who stood nearby.
"Take the survivors. The able-bodied will be sent to loyal provinces and put to work rebuilding what they destroyed. Those with spirit will be trained, re-educated, given new names and new loyalty. The rest… feed them for a day, and let the wind claim them."
A ripple of murmurs moved through the ranks. No one protested.
Zhao Lin, eyes still cast downward, took a step back.
Luo Wen spoke again, this time to Han Rui, his tone quieter.
"We'll need men like him one day. Not just soldiers. But thinkers. Men with questions. When the war is over… someone must help us build something better."
Han Rui snorted.
"If peace ever comes, my lord."
Luo Wen looked out at the blackened fields once more. The fog was lifting now, the first rays of sunlight slicing through the smoke. Birds circled high above, cautious, distant. Beneath their wings lay a land reborn in fire and blood.
And Luo Wen, unflinching, descended the hill toward his next war.