Night had descended upon the military encampment like a thick and suffocating shroud, stretching across tents, banners, and men with a silence so dense it seemed to press down on the very soul. Only the occasional crackle of a fire or the whisper of the wind across the barren plain broke the stillness.
Within his command tent—modest in size but stern in aura—Yuan Guo sat alone, his posture straight but heavy with the invisible weight of command. The solitary lamp flickering on his desk cast wavering shadows on the canvas walls, as though the very fabric of the space were alive with doubt.
Spread across the desk before him lay a worn map of the region, its parchment edges curling from age and use. Inked lines and military symbols sprawled across it, representing not just tactical maneuvers or geographical data—but human lives. Soldiers. Militiamen. Cavalry divisions. Officers. Countless names without faces, each one destined to become part of history... or its forgotten margins.
He inhaled deeply, the scent of wax, ink, and old parchment thick in his nostrils. And beneath that, a scent no one else seemed to perceive—one that clung to his thoughts rather than his clothes: the metallic tang of blood. So much blood.
With a slow hand, he wiped his brow, damp with sweat born of neither heat nor exertion.
"Am I truly doing the right thing?"
The question had lingered for days like a ghost in the background, haunting the edges of his thoughts while he immersed himself in logistics, briefings, and field reports. He had buried it under layers of strategic calculation, hidden it behind conversations with An Lu and the other officers. But now, in the solitude of his tent, with the battle looming on the edge of dawn, the question stood before him, demanding to be answered.
They were going to sacrifice thousands. Entire units of desperate conscripts and barely trained peasants, driven to war by hunger, coercion, or fear. They were to be hurled like a tidal wave against Luo Wen's entrenched army—driven forward with ruthless efficiency, not with the hope of victory, but with the grim purpose of overwhelming through numbers alone.
He rose to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate, like a man rising beneath the pressure of the world itself. Each step he took across the floor felt weighted, as though the ground clung to him, reluctant to let him move.
"How many will die?" he asked himself silently.
There was no precise number. But even the most conservative estimate sent a chill through his bones. Enough to fill entire fields with bodies. Enough to darken rivers with blood. Enough to make any man with a shred of conscience pause.
He came to a stop in front of the imperial banner that hung carefully on the inner wall of the tent. Deep crimson cloth, embroidered in gold thread, bearing the sacred characters of the Mandate of Heaven. Under the flickering light of the oil lamp, the embroidery shimmered like flames.
"For the Emperor," he whispered.
It was a phrase he had repeated like a mantra over the years. A declaration of purpose. A shield against uncertainty. But now, standing on the precipice of so much death, those three words no longer felt weightless or noble. They felt heavy. Fraught.
He reached out and placed a hand on the rough fabric. It felt coarse beneath his calloused fingers.
—Is it worth it? —he murmured, his voice barely audible, as though afraid the air itself might judge him.
Silence.
And then, like floodgates breaking open, the thoughts he had kept dammed up inside came pouring forth, relentless and raw.
"Is it worth sacrificing thousands of peasants just to protect a throne most of them have never even seen? Is it just to condemn them so that an empire—which has often ignored their suffering—might continue to exist?"
He closed his eyes.
And memories rose.
He remembered the early years, when he still believed that fighting well, with honor and strategy, was enough to win. When he thought that righteousness and valor could turn the tide of any battle. But that illusion had long since shattered. He had seen too much—armies composed of men who had no idea why they fought; young boys buried under flags they had never sworn to; betrayal among his own ranks; nobles who confused greed for leadership; and corruption wrapped in ceremonial robes.
And still...
"If I don't act, Luo Wen will win."
That thought sliced through his conscience like a blade.
Because he knew Luo Wen. Not just as a military rival, but as an idea—a vision. Luo Wen embodied ambition unchecked. A rebellion not just of arms, but of order itself. If he triumphed, it would not be merely a change in rulers. It would be the death of an entire world.
The empire would fall. The institutions, the balance between the nobility and the commoners, the rule of law—all of it would crumble. The Emperor, barely more than a figurehead now, would be erased from history. And in the power vacuum, chaos would spread like wildfire.
"And then what?"
He stepped back. Returned to his desk. Sat down once more.
His hand moved instinctively to the brush, and he began writing names—units, divisions, logistics officers. It was a desperate attempt to ground himself. To hold fast to the structure. The discipline. Something rational amidst the emotional storm.
"I do not do this for glory," he thought.
"Nor for revenge."
"I do this because someone must. If no one carries this burden, everything we've built—our cities, our laws, our history—will be lost in a sea of fire and ambition."
The empire was far from perfect. But it was the last bulwark against an age of darkness. The last spine of order in a fractured land. And the Emperor—young, powerless, a symbol more than a man—was the final light of legitimacy. If he fell, there would be no other.
He leaned over the map, studying the plan once more. The militias in the center. The regular troops on the flanks. The cavalry pressing from behind to force momentum. A brutal formation, one designed for slaughter and shock.
"Yes. It is brutal. But it is necessary."
A general has no right to indulge in hesitation on the eve of battle. And Yuan Guo, though still human, had long accepted that his role was more than that of a mere man. He was a wall. A bulwark. A blade wielded by history itself.
He placed both hands on the desk, his fingers stiff, his jaw clenched.
—The sacrifices must be made —he said aloud, as if the air itself required the affirmation.
"For every life lost tomorrow, hundreds more may live in the years to come. If we win, there will be peace. If we lose, nothing will remain."
This was not about ambition. It was about duty. About shouldering a weight that poets would never write about. That bards would never sing. Because real heroes were not the ones who stayed clean. They were the ones who sullied their souls so others could live unburdened.
The sound of footsteps outside the tent broke his thoughts. An aide stepped inside, bowing respectfully.
—Commander, the cavalry is assembled. The morning approaches.
Yuan Guo did not turn his head.
—Tell them to move according to the plan. Maintain discipline. Be ready for the signal.
The aide bowed again and left swiftly.
Yuan Guo remained still for a moment longer.
Then he stood.
He approached the imperial banner once more, looking at it not with reverence, but with resolve.
—For you —he said, softly, but with the tone of a man who had already decided.
—For the Empire.
He exited the tent, walking into the cold pre-dawn darkness without once looking back.
The first hints of morning lit the sky in faint shades of grey and blue. Across the camp, troops stood in tense silence. Armor gleamed faintly. Horses snorted. Weapons were checked and rechecked.
Yuan Guo mounted his horse.
When he gave the signal, everything would begin.
And there would be no turning back.