The morning after the coup in Guangling was not greeted with rooster crows or familiar market chatter. Instead, the city woke to a thick, mournful fog that clung to rooftops and lanes, suffocating any sound of life. Although activity had resumed—vendors reopened their stalls, bells called people to prayer, and children filed into schools—an oppressive stillness hung over everything. It was as if the heart of Guangling had been replaced with ice.
But beneath that fragile calm, unrest churned.
Heavy carts rolled silently through narrow backstreets—simple, unmarked wooden wagons, draped in dark tarps, drawn by horses whose hooves struck the ancient stones with a steady drumbeat. Armed guards flanked them in grim formation, their eyes cold and deaf to the soft morning song of birds. Whispers passed among anxious onlookers, eyes following the wagons as they disappeared into hidden alleyways. Was that blood staining the wood? Some peered; others turned away.
Soon, rumors rustled through the city far faster than dawn's first light:
—"They say An Lu died… poisoned."
—"I heard he drank tea during a meeting, and the mixture was tampered with."
—"They're hiding something."
By the time the official announcement arrived—blared three times through every square by heralds in black and crimson robes—an anxious hush had already fallen over Beijing Street and beyond. The declaration was stark and concise:
"The honorable Guardian An Lu has passed away from a severe illness contracted after the last campaign. His youngest son, An Xian, will serve now as the new Guardian of Guangling. Because he is still a minor, his widow, Wei Lian, shall act as Regent until he comes of age."
The proclamations paraded through the streets, but the silence that greeted them spoke volumes more than the public message ever could.
For in Guangling, what people whisper under their breath—as they glance over their shoulders—matters infinitely more than the version read aloud in the squares.
Soon, soldiers wearing black armor without any heraldry appeared in every district. Not the familiar banners of the old regime, but a new force: silent, disciplined, and merciless. These were not guardians—they were hunters.
Their stated mission: to root out the "traitor" behind the Guardian's death. The hunt was relentless, merciless, and indiscriminate.
The first accused was a respected council administrator—outspoken, once vocal in criticizing Wei Lian's policies. He was dragged from his home at dawn, his family told he would only be "temporarily detained." None ever saw him again.
One after another, others "under suspicion" vanished: palace guards, minor nobles, scribes. Some were quietly executed; others disappeared without a trace. A few were paraded through town and hung high on gallows inscribed with signs that read:"Traitor to Guardian An Lu."
In open markets and shadowed fields alike, soldiers seized suspects with no warrant, no trial—only accusations of poison, betrayal, and disloyalty. Families wept; neighbors averted their eyes.
A young new recruit asked quietly in camp whether An Lu really died of illness. That same night, he was found drowned in the canal—with his pockets stitched shut.
The chilling lesson was written in blood: Dare not question the official story.
Amidst this fear-forged silence, Wei Lian appeared in public only rarely—always dressed in somber robes, walking beside the young Guardian, An Xian. The boy, barely eight, looked bewildered beneath robes far too large for him. At his side, Wei Lian spoke to select council members:
"Our city needs stability. While we await An Xian's coming of age, I, Wei Lian, will honor the legacy of his father and ensure Guangling remains strong."
Beneath her calm gaze were currents of iron and calculation. She had formed a "Provisional Protection Council," staffed with obedient bureaucrats, ambitious nobles, and generals bound to her by promises of land and future honors—for now united by the shared priority: no dissent.
For the moment, Guangling appeared to stand again on steady ground.
Markets re-opened under tight guard. Temple priests offered prayers for An Lu's recovery and for the wisdom of Wei Lian, "Regent of the Realm." Schoolmasters led children in rote recitations of the official version: "Guardian An Lu died of illness, and his courageous wife has restored peace."
Yet in back-alley murmurs, dark rumors persisted:
—"They say she killed her own father that night…"
—"They say Wei Chao's sons tried to stop her, but the spears came too fast."
No one spoke it openly—but everyone believed it.
By now, Wei Lian no longer required proof to quell unrest. Fear alone would suffice. She had control.
Guangling was hers.
An Lu was dead.Opposition eradicated.An Xian, the child-Gardian, a mere figurehead.Wei Lian, the Regent by decree—and by force.
Yet, even in the hush and horror of total control, small voices dared to question:
—"How long will she hold onto 'provisional' power?"—"How much longer before she discards the child and claims the title for herself?"
No one asked aloud. In Guangling, questioning the Regent—no matter how covertly—brought a swift death.And the message whispered through every street was clear: The rules were now written in blood.