The night over Guangling was, at first glance, no different from any other. The sky lay hidden beneath a blanket of thick clouds, the moon veiled behind heavy shrouds that cloaked its light, and the humid air hung suspended like a breath held in fearful anticipation. Yet this night was unlike the others. Something subtle had shifted. The silence carried an edge, sharp as a blade, and the wind brought more than just drifting leaves or the whispers of the restless—it carried fate.
At the heart of the city, the inner palace blazed with light. Not with the warmth of celebration or the pageantry of ceremony, but with the flickering flames of tension and cold calculation. In the great council hall, An Lu—his face hardened by weeks of exhaustion, anxiety, and crushing defeat—stood surrounded by what remained of his crumbling world: a gathering of wounded generals, a handful of loyal bureaucrats, and the scattered remnants of the once-mighty patriarchal families.
Among them sat Wei Chao, father of Wei Lian, flanked by his two sons—both tall, proud, still clad in polished armor that glinted as if untouched by defeat, as if arrogance alone could fend off ruin.
"The southern frontier remains exposed," An Lu declared, tapping a wooden pointer against the edge of a map unfurled across the long table. "If Luo Wen moves again, we won't have time to react. I need firm commitments from each of you—troops, supplies, regional stability. Otherwise, this structure will collapse beneath us."
Wei Chao crossed his arms tightly. "You're asking for blood from stone, general. My lands lie in ashes. My soldiers… buried."
An Lu fixed him with a cold, unblinking stare. "I'm not asking for favors. It's your duty. If Guangling falls, you fall with it."
The tension in the hall was thick enough to choke. But none of them suspected that their fates had already been decided.
Elsewhere, in the shadows that wrapped around the city like a second skin, Wei Lian moved like a melody long rehearsed. Her black cloak rippled behind her as she slipped through narrow streets, and in her gloved hand she held a covered torch—one she would ignite when the time had come.
The soldiers disguised as peasants, the false citizens, the armed servants, and the long-disrespected nobles had all been deployed across the city. Beneath the surface, tunnels guided strike squads toward the palace cellars. The outer gates—sealed by General Bao Shun's orders—stood firm and silent, as impenetrable as tombs carved from stone. No one entered. No one left.
With composure, Wei Lian lit her torch and raised it high above the roof of a house near the city wall. It was the signal. Silent. Final. At that very moment, every man and woman loyal to her began to move as one, like a single breath held and then exhaled.
The first to fall were the outer palace guards. One by one, throats were slit by blades that emerged from shadowed corners, hidden chambers, and beneath servant's garb. No cries rang out. Only short gasps, the wet choke of disbelief. Then came the footsteps—swift, coordinated, precise.
Wei Lian's troops surged into the palace through lateral wings. This was no wild battlefield charge. It was a calculated slaughter. Every corridor, every stairwell, every room was secured by men and women who knew the palace layout like the lines of their own palms. The maps Wei Lian had studied for years were proving flawless.
In the council hall, a breathless attendant burst through the doors."Intruders! In the eastern wing!"
An Lu stood immediately. "Guards!"
But no guards came.
Instead, through the main doorway, soldiers in light black armor stormed into the room. No banners, no insignia—only cold steel and covered faces. Their eyes burned not with rage, but with chilling purpose.
An Lu drew his sword, though his armor lay untouched in another room.
Wei Chao rose, indignant. "What is this? A bandit raid?"
A voice sliced through the room like a dagger in fog."No. This is justice."
Wei Lian stepped forward.
Her footsteps were measured, deliberate. Her white robe stood in stark contrast to the blood now pooling across the stone floor. Her hair was pinned neatly, her expression carved from ice.
Wei Chao stumbled back, disbelief etched into his aging features. "You… what are you doing?"
"Cleansing the city," she answered calmly. "Starting with the ruins of the old world."
"You're my daughter!" he roared, stepping toward her.
Wei Lian raised her hand.
An arrow flew.
Wei Chao crumpled to the floor, the shaft embedded in his chest. He gasped—a low, wet sound—his arm flailing once toward her, then falling still.
His sons charged forward, but didn't make it more than two steps. Spears struck them down in perfect synchrony, as though destiny itself had ordained their end.
An Lu, still standing, met Wei Lian's gaze with furious eyes.
"All this… for what? To take my place? At the cost of your own father? Of this city?"
Wei Lian approached him, unwavering.
"Not to take your place," she said softly. "To create a new one."
She stopped just before him. An Lu lifted his blade.
She did not flinch.
"This city deserves more than a broken general clinging to broken dreams."
The soldiers closed in around him. An Lu did not yield. With a roar, he lunged toward her.
He didn't reach her.
A blade pierced his side. Another slashed across his throat.
An Lu fell.
Wei Lian regarded him for a moment—impassive, silent. Then she turned, stepping calmly to the center of the hall.
"Secure the exits. No one leaves. No one speaks. The story is this: he died of illness. His son has inherited his title. Guangling remains… stable."
Her soldiers dispersed.
Echoes of steel still clanged in distant hallways, but the battle was already over. Guangling had changed hands.
Wei Lian ascended the steps to the ceremonial throne—a place where she had once stood quietly beside An Lu, unheeded. This time, she sat. Not out of vanity, but necessity.
Yao approached, her robes splashed with blood."What now?"
Wei Lian looked upward, toward the vaulted ceiling of carved beams."Now begins order. A new order. A true one."
Behind her, flames licked at the curtains.
No one moved to douse them.
The palace was not burning by accident.
It was a cleansing.
A birth.
A moment of history.
And she—the one who had written it.