At the break of dawn, when the sun was still a pale specter veiled behind wisps of drifting clouds, the march of the colossus began. The first rays of light stretched across an ocean of men and banners, a tide of warriors whose march shook the very earth beneath them. War drums pounded in the distance, their relentless rhythm echoing through the vast plains like a heartbeat of destiny, signaling the advance of an army so immense it seemed to stretch beyond the horizon.
Hundreds of thousands of soldiers moved as one, yet within their ranks, the differences were stark. Each banner told a different story, each sigil represented a faction with its own ambitions, its own grudges, and its own reasons for war. But for now, all were bound by a single purpose—the fall of Luo Wen.
Leading the vanguard, the Crimson Dragons, the legendary heavy cavalry of the Wei Family, rode with unwavering discipline. Their warriors were clad in armor of overlapping crimson and black scales, gleaming under the golden light. Each rider was mounted on a warhorse bred for endurance and battle, beasts trained to charge fearlessly into enemy lines. The long lances they carried, adorned with flowing red tassels, shimmered like a thousand flickering flames against the morning sky.
These were no mere soldiers. The Crimson Dragons were an elite force, warriors who had been forged in the crucible of war since childhood. Each of them was worth five ordinary soldiers, their reputation carved into history through countless battles. They did not just ride into war—they dictated its course.
Behind them, the shock infantry of the Bei Family advanced in heavy formations, their steps synchronized like the relentless march of an unstoppable tide. Encased in thick iron plates, their shields reinforced to withstand a storm of arrows, they were the anvil upon which battles were broken. The Cong Family, masters of guerrilla warfare, deployed their finest scouts and skirmishers, slipping like shadows between the ranks, their arrows always ready to strike unseen. And at the rear, ensuring no weakness could be exploited, the Li Family's well-financed troops marched in perfect order, their spears forming an unyielding wall of defense.
In the very center of this grand procession, An Lu's banner flew high and proud. Among all the warlords, his army was the most battle-hardened, forged in the brutal campaigns against the western barbarians. His forces moved with both calculated discipline and an undercurrent of predatory aggression. His crossbowmen marched with strings drawn tight, ready to unleash death at the slightest sign of hostility. His officers, veterans of countless sieges and skirmishes, barked commands with precision, though the sheer size of the army made perfect coordination nearly impossible.
And yet, above it all, from a lone hill overlooking the endless flood of soldiers, Yuan Guo watched in silence. His sharp, calculating eyes missed nothing—the shifting formations, the disagreements between commanders, the underlying tension simmering beneath the surface of this uneasy alliance.
Though he held no official authority, Yuan Guo had become the unseen pillar of stability within this fractured coalition. Without him, this would be nothing more than a gathering of opportunists waiting for the first sign of weakness to turn against each other.
From his vantage point, he could see the cracks forming in the seemingly formidable march. Columns of troops stretched too far apart, supply wagons were becoming entangled in the confusion of movement, officers argued over routes instead of enforcing order, and lesser lords focused more on securing their own provisions than on the grand strategy.
"This cannot continue," Yuan Guo murmured, his voice barely a whisper against the wind that played with the edges of his robe.
A veteran of the former imperial guard, standing nearby, leaned in slightly.
"If we do not establish a clear chain of command, this army will collapse into chaos before we even reach the capital."
Yuan Guo gave a slow nod. He knew full well that enforcing a unified leadership was impossible with so many egos at play. But he also knew that without some degree of control, this campaign was doomed before the first sword was drawn.
So he took the path of subtlety. He could not command, but he could influence.
As the army advanced, Yuan Guo moved through the ranks, speaking with generals, advising officers, subtly shifting the balance of authority without ever directly challenging it. He reminded commanders of the necessity of discipline, quietly corrected flawed formations, and ensured that communication flowed efficiently between divisions. Not all welcomed his presence, but none could ignore the weight of his reputation.
Slowly, order began to emerge from the chaos.
The militias protecting the supply routes were reorganized into smaller, more mobile units, given clear marching orders to prevent them from obstructing the army's advance. The Cong Family's scouts were deployed with precision, securing the roads ahead and ensuring no ambush would catch them unaware.
But though Yuan Guo had managed to impose a semblance of coordination, the underlying tensions within the coalition remained unresolved.
An Lu watched him in silence, his expression unreadable. He recognized Yuan Guo's growing influence, how effortlessly he commanded respect without wielding an army of his own. And that made him dangerous.
Elsewhere, within the secrecy of a dimly lit tent, the Four Patriarchs met in hushed voices.
Wei Zhong, leader of the Crimson Dragons, leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.
"Yuan Guo is accomplishing something none of us have—uniting the troops under his authority, without even drawing a blade."
Li Yuan, the elder Patriarch of the Li Family, tapped a finger against the wooden table, his gaze dark with thought.
"He commands no army of his own," he mused. "But what if, after we take the capital, the soldiers look to him rather than to us? What if they decide that he should hold power instead of the emperor?"
A heavy silence settled over the tent. No one wanted to say it aloud, but the idea had already taken root.
Finally, the Patriarch of the Cong Family spoke, his voice like silk hiding steel.
"When this war is over," he murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips, "we must ensure that Yuan Guo disappears."
The march pressed on, the army looming ever closer to its target.
And on the horizon, the walls of the imperial capital rose like the back of a sleeping dragon, its presence unshaken, its gates unbroken. Luo Wen waited behind those walls, and though the coalition's forces vastly outnumbered his, not a single commander among them underestimated the man they had come to overthrow.
A storm was coming.
And despite their vast numbers, despite their strength, not all of them would live to see the battle's end.