Dawn broke over Guangling not with relief or hope, but with the deafening roar of a city in its death throes. The inner walls had crumbled, the streets burned with fires set by enemy engines, and the air was so choked with smoke and ash that every breath felt like swallowing embers. Yet still, imperial banners did not fly from every tower. Local militias and ragged bands of veterans refused to yield, fighting from house to house, turning every courtyard and alley into a furnace of resistance that consumed both attacker and defender alike.
Amid this chaos, Wei Lian moved with the clarity of a commander who had long prepared for such a moment. Hidden behind barricades that still held and using the confusion of scattered battles as her shield, she gathered the last fragments of her army in the central square. Under the flickering light of torches, the remnants assembled: her personal guard, battered officers, nobles who had not fled, and weary militiamen who still had the strength to hold a spear.
Her armor was torn and scorched, her curved sword chipped and stained, but when she spoke, her voice rang firm and unwavering:—Guangling has fulfilled its duty. We have bled the Empire, we have shown them that we are not an enemy to be crushed lightly. But if we all fall here, our people fall with us. The time has come to withdraw, so that we may live to fight another day!
A ripple of unease passed through the square. Many clenched their jaws, unwilling to abandon the city they had sworn to protect. Others, gaunt with exhaustion, understood the necessity. Survival now meant the survival of their cause. Then Zhao Qing, standing unshaken beside her, lifted his sword high and shouted:—What our commander says is the truth! Guangling may fall, but our struggle does not! All who can march—march now!
The order was clear. Every loyal soldier, every noble who remained, was to leave Guangling and make for the hidden harbor where their fleet had waited in silence. Runners dashed into the embattled districts to spread the command. Many never returned, cut down in the labyrinth of fire and steel, but enough did. Scattered groups of defenders, civilians and soldiers alike, slipped through the chaos and began to converge on the withdrawal point.
The march toward the river was nothing less than a gauntlet of blood. The alleys had become traps, where imperial formations advanced like streams of iron. Every step forward was purchased in sword strokes and screams. Wei Lian led from the front, her elite guards forming a wedge that ripped holes through startled cohorts of imperials. Behind her, Zhao Qing commanded the rearguard, holding back the tide that threatened to envelop them completely.
The struggle lasted for hours. The streets shook with the crash of collapsing buildings, the clang of steel, and the wailing of the wounded. But slowly, painfully, the remnants of Guangling's defenders forced their way toward the river. There, in the shadow of smoke and ruin, lay the ships that had been kept hidden for this very moment—moored among narrow canals, loaded with supplies, their decks ready for flight.
When Wei Lian finally reached the docks, her armor blackened and her face streaked with blood and ash, the night air brought with it a bitter breath of relief. The river stretched before them like a dark road into freedom. She wasted no time. The command rang out sharp and urgent: soldiers first, followed by nobles and the families entrusted to her protection. Each vessel cast off as soon as it was filled, while her guard stood as the last shield, fending off imperial scouts who began to sense what was unfolding.
In the imperial camp, news of the escape reached Luo Wen. He received it with the same cold composure that had marked every decision. His generals urged him to unleash cavalry to cut them off at the river, but he dismissed them with a curt gesture.—Not yet, —he said, his tone like steel on ice—. Guangling is not yet secured. While militias still bite at us in the streets, to scatter our strength would be folly. First we will grind the city into dust. Guangling will be our fortress, the base from which imperial rule will be restored across the west. As for that woman—when she flees to her islands, she will be dealt with in time.
His officers bowed, some reluctantly, but none dared press the issue. Luo Wen's gaze remained fixed on the burning skyline of Guangling. For him, the city was the prize—its complete conquest more important than a fleeing enemy.
Meanwhile, on the river, the retreat unfolded as a desperate exodus. The ships groaned under the weight of the wounded, of noble households, of battle-worn soldiers and the last scraps of militia. Wei Lian stood on the deck of the lead vessel, her sword still in hand, her eyes locked on the horizon where Guangling burned. The city's towers were torches in the night—monuments of ruin, but also monuments of sacrifice.
Zhao Qing came to her side, his armor dented, his breath ragged from the final defense that had bought them these precious moments.—We made it, my lady, —he said, voice hoarse—. Guangling is lost… but we are not.
Wei Lian's features hardened. Her reply came low and steady, as though carved from iron:—Guangling was a wall built with blood. Now it will be a tomb, but the flame of resistance still lives with us. Luo Wen thinks he has broken us. He is wrong. As long as our banners fly over the islands, the war is not ended.
The sails unfurled with a snap, and the fleet, finally gathered, began its slow drift downriver. Ahead lay the western isles, their harbors waiting to shelter this battered remnant. There, under the shield of their naval strength, Wei Lian would rebuild. From those waters, the embers of resistance would burn anew, striking the Empire from the sea and biding time until a counterattack could rise.
Behind them, Guangling glowed like a funeral pyre, its flames licking the heavens. Ahead, the endless sea stretched, dark and uncertain. Yet within Wei Lian's heart, there was no despair—only the tempered edge of resolve. She had lost a city, but she had preserved a cause. And as her ships carved their way westward, she swore silently that one day the flame of Guangling would blaze again—not as ruin, but as the banner of reconquest.