The vast plains stretching south of the Huai River became the grand stage for a spectacle not witnessed since the era of the great emperors. As far as the eye could see, an endless sea of banners billowed in the wind, their vibrant hues shifting like a living mosaic of ambition, betrayal, and fragile allegiances. Each flag bore the insignia of a feudal lord, a warlord grasping for power, or a noble house answering the call of rebellion.
The armies had arrived.
From the east, the Four Great Families had begun their march. Each had summoned their most trusted warriors, rallying their banners under the weight of ancient grudges and simmering conspiracies. Yet, for all their rivalries and hidden vendettas, they were bound together by a single, undeniable truth: their shared hatred of Luo Wen. They knew that only through an uneasy alliance could they maximize their gains and ensure their survival in the shifting tides of war.
The Li Family, renowned for its immense wealth and deep-rooted influence within the imperial bureaucracy, had mustered a formidable host of well-equipped infantry. Their soldiers, clad in gleaming armor adorned with intricate engravings, stood in disciplined formations. Though they were not the most fearsome warriors, their ranks were bolstered by lavish funding, ensuring a steady supply of provisions and an army of mercenaries ready to fight for coin. The Bei Family, rulers of the rugged northern highlands, had forged generation after generation of hardened warriors. Their contribution to the battlefield was a battalion of heavily armored shock troops—grizzled veterans clad in thick iron plating, their reinforced shields designed to withstand the deadliest volleys of enemy arrows. The Cong Family, masters of unconventional warfare, had deployed their deadly vanguard—skirmishers and scouts with an almost supernatural ability to move undetected. Expert archers and assassins lurked among their ranks, poised to infiltrate enemy lines with ruthless efficiency.
Yet, despite the formidable forces mustered by the other families, the true jewel of this great army was, without a doubt, the elite forces of the Wei Family.
From the eastern gates, a host of warriors emerged, moving with impeccable discipline. Then came the thunderous arrival of the Crimson Dragons, the legendary heavy cavalry of the Wei Family. Draped in suits of red-and-black scale armor, each rider sat astride a warhorse of immense stature, a beast bred and trained from birth to charge headlong into the heart of battle without an ounce of fear. Their lances, adorned with crimson silk ribbons, gleamed beneath the sun, reflecting its golden light like a thousand flickering flames poised to engulf the battlefield.
They were the pinnacle of martial excellence—the elite among the elite. Trained since childhood, the Crimson Dragons were not mere cavalrymen; they were battle-hardened tacticians, each possessing a keen understanding of the art of war. They knew precisely when to charge, when to retreat, and how to exploit the shifting chaos of combat to their advantage. It was said that a single Dragon could cut down five ordinary soldiers with ease, and the annals of imperial warfare were filled with tales of their countless victories.
As the cavalry came to a halt, their leader dismounted with the fluid precision of a seasoned warrior. Wei Zhong, commander of the Crimson Dragons, strode toward the grand command tent with an aura of controlled menace. His gaze, sharp and calculating, swept across the gathered warlords and nobles, measuring each man in silence.
"The forces of the Wei Family stand ready," he declared, his voice steady and commanding. "If the Chancellor believes he can withstand us, he will soon come to understand the true meaning of a dragon's charge."
The Four Patriarchs exchanged approving nods. They knew that with the Crimson Dragons spearheading the assault, any resistance on the open battlefield would be crushed before it could even begin to mount a proper defense.
To the west, another banner rose proudly against the sky—the sigil of Guangling. As the army of An Lu made its entrance, the battlefield bristled with anticipation. Unlike the rigid, hierarchical forces of the noble houses, An Lu's army was a fluid, pragmatic force, reflecting the very nature of its leader. His troops advanced swiftly, their light infantry moving like a wave over the terrain, followed by well-armored soldiers marching in disciplined formations. At the rear, battalions of crossbowmen took position, their bolts ready to rain destruction upon any foe that dared to stand in their path.
At the heart of it all stood a lone figure clad in simple, unadorned robes. Yuan Guo, the old master of war, the brilliant strategist who had once guided the empire through its golden age. Though he wore no gilded armor nor bore any extravagant title, his very presence had already begun to alter the atmosphere within the assembled ranks.
Despite the unspoken distrust lingering between the coalition's leaders, there was one thing no man could deny—Yuan Guo's name carried weight. On the battlefield, his reputation was as mighty a banner as any house sigil. Among the common soldiers, his presence did not inspire fear but something far more powerful—a sense of purpose.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the vast plain, Yuan Guo ascended a makeshift platform at the center of the encampment. A hush fell over the assembled warriors, an army forged from a thousand shifting loyalties, each man eager to hear the words of the old general.
The master strategist let his gaze drift across the ocean of expectant faces. Then, when silence reigned supreme, he spoke.
"We stand at the precipice of the greatest military campaign of our era." His voice, though not particularly loud, carried the weight of history itself. "We are not here as petty lords squabbling over land, but as men who have watched a traitor seize that which does not rightfully belong to him."
Some heads lifted with pride; others nodded solemnly.
"Luo Wen has treated you all as mere pawns in his grand game of ambition. He has deceived, manipulated, and destroyed without mercy. But hear me now—this war is not about him. It is about what comes after."
Yuan Guo paused, allowing his words to take root in the hearts of his listeners.
"If we fight only to replace one despot with another, then we have already failed. If our goal is merely to grasp at power for our own greed, then we are no better than him."
Some expressions darkened, particularly among the gathered nobles and generals. But among the common soldiers, his words struck a different chord. For them, this war was more than just the ambitions of the powerful—it was a chance for something greater.
"We fight to restore balance," Yuan Guo continued, his voice unwavering. "To return dignity to the throne and to the land we have bled for. We fight so that our children will never have to wield a sword for the whims of a tyrant again."
At that moment, the wind surged through the camp, causing banners of every faction to ripple and dance in the twilight. Yuan Guo raised a steady hand.
"Today, we may wear different colors, bear different names, and serve different houses. But tomorrow, when we march into battle, we will move as one. And when we enter the capital, it will not be as mere conquerors… but as the heralds of a new order."
A murmur swept through the ranks. At first, it was only a handful of voices. But then, like a rising tide, the sound grew—a thunderous roar of soldiers striking their spears against the earth, shields clashing in unison, voices crying out in fierce, unwavering resolve.
At dawn, as the first rays of sunlight spilled over the horizon, the combined army stood ready. From the crest of a nearby hill, the sight of countless soldiers stretched like an endless sea.
An Lu swung himself onto his horse, raising his blade high into the air.
"Onward—to the capital!"
A deafening battle cry erupted across the plains.
And with that resounding roar, the march that would decide the fate of the empire had begun.