Dawn broke over Guangling shrouded not in light, but in smoke and ash. After more than a month of siege, the bells of the city no longer rang to greet the morning or summon merchants to the marketplace; now they tolled only to warn of fresh battles. And on that grim morning, even their mournful echo was drowned out by a different sound: the thunderous, metallic cadence of the Chancellor's veterans, their boots striking the stones like war drums as they poured into the city's streets in disciplined waves.
The imperial elite had been unleashed in full. Not as isolated spearheads, probing and retreating, but as entire columns of hardened steel, advancing with the same ironclad discipline that had made them invincible in the open fields of past campaigns. Their armor shimmered with deadly reflections beneath the pale sun, their shields interlocked into walls that seemed unbreakable, and their long, heavy swords moved like sweeping curtains of iron, cutting down anything that dared stand in their path.
The defenders of Guangling, who until then had grown accustomed to fending off clumsy waves of conscripted peasants and poorly armed auxiliaries, were caught off guard. Within the first hours of this new assault, barricades that had taken nights to construct were shattered and burned. Entire squads of militia collapsed in terror before the cold precision of the dismounted knights, who pressed forward like an unstoppable river of steel.
Yet in the very heart of the city, Wei Lian did not lose her composure. From the tower of the governor's hall, standing shoulder to shoulder with Zhao Qing, she watched the enemy advance and understood instantly the magnitude of the danger.
"They've changed the rhythm," Zhao Qing muttered grimly, his brow furrowed. "No longer peasants at the front. This is their elite."
Wei Lian's lips tightened into a hard line."Then we, too, must answer with the best that remains to us."
Summoning her captains, she issued rapid, uncompromising orders. The elite of Guangling—battle-hardened veterans forged in years of skirmishes along the northern frontier—would be mobilized not in massed ranks, but in small, agile, lethal units. They would not meet the Empire's compact formations head-on. Instead, they would strike from the shadows, ambush and dismember them, breaking their cohesion when they became isolated in the labyrinth of alleys and crooked streets.
At the same time, the city militias—artisans, merchants, hunters, and farmers who knew every passage, every rooftop, and every hidden stairway of Guangling—were given their task: harass, entrap, and wield the city itself as a weapon. In Wei Lian's mind, the urban battlefield must become a swamp of blood and ruin, a place where even the finest imperial veterans would tire, bleed, and fall step by step.
By dusk, Guangling had turned into a battlefield of shadows.
An imperial column marching confidently along the broad market avenue suddenly found itself under a storm of death. Shutters flung open on both sides, and a hail of improvised arrows rained down from the rooftops above. At the same moment, militia fighters surged from behind overturned carts and sharpened barricades, driving long spears into the pressed ranks. The imperials, caught in the narrow confines, could barely maneuver. And then Wei Lian herself appeared—armor scarred, sword flashing—as she led a furious charge of her elite guards down a side alley. The clash became a whirlwind of steel and screams, and by the end, the imperials lay slaughtered, their bodies heaped upon the blood-soaked cobblestones.
Elsewhere, Zhao Qing staged an ambush even more ruthless. Feigning retreat, he lured a cohort of imperials into what appeared to be an abandoned plaza. As soon as the soldiers reached the center, warehouse doors burst open and dozens of spearmen surged out like a tidal wave. From the upper windows, militiamen hurled stones, jars of boiling oil, and crude javelins. Within minutes, the flagstones were slick with gore, and the imperial formation, suffocated and broken, collapsed into chaos.
The struggle for Guangling became a ceaseless inferno. Every street the Empire seized had to be defended at once against counterattack. Every building conquered transformed into a nest of resistance, one that needed to be cleared room by room, cellar by cellar. Women dropped blazing braziers from balconies, children darted like shadows as messengers between barricades, and even the elderly raised knives and sickles, stabbing at invaders when they least expected it.
Chancellor Luo Wen, apprised of the mounting ambushes, remained icy in his response. From atop a captured tower he surveyed the city, its neighborhoods aflame in dozens of scattered firefights.
"They're scattering our forces," said General Han Qiu with unease. "Every detachment we send is swallowed by traps."
Luo Wen's eyes never left the flames leaping from a nearby district. His voice was as cold as a drawn blade."Then we will not send small detachments. We will advance with compact columns and crush each district with overwhelming force. If they wish to turn every street into a trap, then we shall turn every street into a river of corpses."
The imperials regrouped into tighter blocks, supported by light catapults dragged directly into the city, hurling stones against improvised barricades. Mobile siege towers, once used against walls, were hauled into spacious plazas to dominate from above. The assault grew more methodical, but also far more ruthless: entire buildings were put to the torch, their defenders burned alive inside, the value of civilian lives weighed as nothing.
Wei Lian answered in kind. Dividing the city into sectors, she deployed her elites for swift, savage strikes—hitting hard, withdrawing before they could be surrounded, then reappearing elsewhere to bleed the enemy anew. Her strategy was plain: never allow imperial numbers and discipline to dictate the fight. Strike, vanish, and strike again.
The struggle dragged on for days without respite. At night, the sky above Guangling glowed with fire, as if the stars themselves had been replaced by a sea of torches. The cries of battle echoed endlessly, bleeding into dawn. Every street bore its own tale of horror: houses remade into fortresses, plazas carpeted with corpses, and gutters running red with blood.
Yet despite the ambushes, despite the ferocity of the resistance, the Empire pressed on. Slow, relentless, like a boulder rolling down a mountain. For every cohort obliterated, two more pushed forward. For every barricade set aflame, another rose further back. Guangling had become a monstrous maw devouring both armies alike. But Luo Wen had more men to feed the monster, more steel to grind its defenders down.
Still, Wei Lian did not falter. From atop a barricade in the central district, her sword glinting beneath the smoke-filled sky, she raised her voice so that all could hear:"Let them know that every street of Guangling will be their grave! Let them bleed for every stone, for every house, for every life!"
And in that cry, the weary defenders found their strength. They did not know how long they could endure, but they knew this much: the Empire would not claim Guangling without paying a price so steep, so seared into memory, that neither Luo Wen nor his army would ever forget it.