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Hundreds of miles to the west, beneath the same indifferent sky, the siege of Tianshui had reached its own, quieter crescendo. Here, there was no world shattering cannonade, but the pressure applied by Fa Zheng and Meng Da was no less effective. It was the pressure of a python, deliberate, patient, and inescapable.
For three days, the Southern Hengyuan Army had conducted its masterful campaign of controlled violence. Zhang Ren and Yan Yan's probing attacks were like the taps of a physician finding a bruise, then pressing harder.
Meng Huo's ferocious but brief assaults were hammer blows to the spirit. Li Yan, Wu Lan, and Zhang Ni executed flawlessly, rotating their troops, keeping the defenders perpetually off balance, never allowing them a moment to believe the worst was over.
And now, Fa Zheng could taste it on the wind, the metallic tang of imminent collapse. Reports filtered in not just of casualties, but of desertions. Under cover of darkness, soldiers were slipping away from the northern gates, melting into the countryside rather than face another day of the Hengyuan grind.
The Wei commander, a competent and loyal man named General Hao Zhao, was trapped in a desperate calculus. He knew the strategic importance of Tianshui had just skyrocketed, the orders to strip the west and fortify Chang'an meant his city was the last cork in the bottle before the capital.
Holding it was paramount. But how does a commander hold a city when the will of its garrison is evaporating like morning mist? To crack down harshly on deserters would be to pour oil on a smoldering fire of resentment, risking a full blown mutiny that would hand the city to Fa Zheng on a silver platter.
From their observation post, Fa Zheng and Meng Da watched the slow, painful death throes of the defense through their telescopes. The movements on the walls were sluggish, dispirited. The return arrow fire was sparse and ill aimed.
"The fruit is ripe," Meng Da said, his voice low with anticipation. "Another day of this pressure, and the branch will snap of its own accord."
Fa Zheng, ever the precise strategist, nodded. "But we should not wait for it to fall. We must be the hand that plucks it. Tomorrow. We will commit everything. A full scale assault from three sides, with the main force under Zhang Ren and Yan Yan striking the weakened southern gate. We will give them no room to breathe, no corner to hide. Tonight, we inform the generals. Tomorrow, we end it."
The orders were conveyed. A new energy, sharp and predatory, hummed through the Southern Army camp. This was no longer about attrition, it was about the kill.
Siege towers that had been built slowly were given final checks. More Climbing Tigers were prepared. Men sharpened blades with a grim focus, knowing the next day would bring not skirmishes, but the decisive, bloody work of taking a city.
That very afternoon, as if sensing the coming storm, the Hengyuan attacks intensified. The probing became pushing. The feints carried real weight.
For General Hao Zhao, trying to coordinate a desperate defense from his command post in the city's central keep, the world had narrowed to a series of crises.
A report of a breach near the east gate needed plugging. A shortage of arrows at the west wall. Morale in the northern sector at breaking point. He was a man trying to hold back a flood with his bare hands, feeling the water seep between his fingers faster with each passing moment.
In the dim light of his map room, surrounded by the exhausted faces of his junior officers, he wrestled with the impossible. "We must hold," he muttered, more to himself than to them, tracing the line of the walls on the map. "Every hour we give to the Emperor efforts… we must hold on."
It was in this moment of utter, isolated despair that a familiar presence approached. His deputy and childhood friend, Colonel Deng Liang, entered, his face drawn but calm.
He carried a tray with a simple meal and a flask of water. "You haven't eaten, old friend," Deng Liang said, his voice gentle. "The men need you sharp. You can't command on an empty stomach and a heart full of lead."
Hao Zhao waved a dismissive hand, not looking up from the map. "What does it matter? The walls are crumbling faster than I can patch them. The men are leaving. The order from the west… it means we're abandoned here. We're just… a delay."
Deng Liang set the tray down quietly. He moved behind Hao Zhao, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We do our duty. That is all we can do. Our duty to the state… and to our families."
There was a strange weight to his words. Hao Zhao, fatigued beyond measure, missed it. He simply sighed, a sound of ultimate weariness. "My family is in Chang'An. At least they will be safe in the capital. Yours are here in Tianshui. I have failed them too."
"No," Deng Liang said, his voice suddenly very quiet, very close to Hao Zhao's ear. "You haven't."
The pain was so sudden, so profound, that for a moment Hao Zhao's mind refused to comprehend it. A cold, sharp agony blossomed in his back, once, twice, three times. He gasped, the breath torn from his lungs. He tried to turn, his hands flailing to the map table for support. The world swam, the lamplight blurring.
As he slumped forward, strength pouring out of him with his blood, he managed to twist his head. His eyes, wide with shock and betrayal, met those of Deng Liang. His friend's face was a mask of profound, wrenching grief, tears cutting tracks through the dust on his cheeks. The bloody dagger was still in his hand.
"I… I received an offer," Deng Liang whispered, the words choked. "One I could not refuse. My family… they are already outside the walls, under Hengyuan protection. They promised… they promised your family would be spared too. Treated with honor. I am so sorry, Hao Zhao. Forgive me."
The despair in Hao Zhao's eyes hardened into a final, futile rage, then dissolved into the infinite sadness of understanding.
He saw not just a traitor, but a man broken on the same wheel of impossible choices that had been grinding him down. His lips moved, but no sound came. Then, the light fled from his eyes.
Deng Liang stood over his friend's body, shuddering with silent sobs for a long minute. The grief was real, a searing wound in his soul. Then, with a force of will that was its own kind of horror, he straightened.
He wiped his face, sheathed the dagger, and walked to the door. His own loyal guards, men he had prepared over tense, whispered days, stood outside.
"The General has fallen to a sudden illness," Deng Liang announced, his voice raw but firm. "By his last command, and to prevent the utter slaughter of this city's soldiers and people, I am assuming command. Order the gates opened. Signal the defenders to lay down their arms. Surrender to the Hengyuan forces. Ensure the word spreads, resistance is over."
The orders, born of treachery, grief, and cold pragmatism, rippled out into the besieged city. Confusion reigned. Some units, leaderless and exhausted, simply dropped their weapons where they stood, a numb relief washing over them.
Others, loyal to the dead Hao Zhao or to the Wei dragon banner, hesitated, shouting questions that had no answers. But the critical momentum was lost. The southern gate, under the control of Deng Liang's faction, groaned open.
From the Hengyuan lines, the sight was as shocking as a thunderclap on a clear day. One moment, they were preparing for another day of bloody assault.
The next, the main gate was swinging inward, and the sounds of combat from the walls were dying away, replaced by a strange, spreading silence and the distant, confused babble of voices.
A messenger sprinted to Fa Zheng and Meng Da. "The south gate! It's open, my lords! The defenders are… they are standing down! Some are surrendering!"
Meng Da's face lit with triumphant surprise. "A mutiny! Their will broke!"
But Fa Zheng's sharp eyes narrowed. He saw no raging mob, no chaotic struggle on the walls. This was too orderly, too sudden. It had the scent not of spontaneous collapse, but of orchestrated capitulation.
He recalled the subtle, unseen network his emperor have under his commanded an shave used it to contact them, the Orioles, flitting through the shadows, whispering promises, applying pressure where blades could not reach.
In a low voice, almost to himself, Fa Zheng murmured, "This is not a mutiny, Meng Da. This is a transaction. The Orioles have been at work. They found the price of this city, and it was not paid in our soldiers' blood, but in promises and a friend's betrayal."
He felt no jubilation, only a cold admiration for the efficiency of it. It was a different kind of warfare, clean and brutal in its own way.
"Order Zhang Ren and Yan Yan to advance with caution," Fa Zheng commanded, his strategist's mind shifting gears instantly from siege to occupation. "Secure the gates. Disarm the garrison peacefully. Anyone who resists, cut down. Anyone who surrenders, spare. And find me the man who opened the gate. I would have words with the architect of this… efficient conclusion."
As the Hengyuan Southern Army began its orderly, wary advance into Tianshui, the fall of the city was confirmed not with a bang, but with a whispered deal and the closing of a dead man's eyes. The western jaw of the vise had snapped shut.
The road from the western garrisons to Chang'An was now severed. Cao Cao's desperate plan to gather his forces was crumbling even as he tried to enact it.
The hedgehog of Chang'An was still being formed, but two of the spines meant to protect it, Tong Pass was under pressure, and Tianshui were now in the hands of the hunter.
After that, the atmosphere inside Tianshui's Governor Castle was thick with the ghosts of the recent past, the scent of old incense, cold stone, and the faint, metallic trace of blood that no amount of scrubbing could fully erase.
The grand hall, once a symbol of Wei authority in the west, now served as the stage for a cold, pragmatic transfer of power.
Fa Zheng entered at the head of the group, his sharp eyes missing nothing, the hastily removed Wei banners, the nervous twitch of the castle guards who was now disarmed, the way the very dust seemed to hang in uncertain silence.
Behind him, Meng Da walked with the swagger of a victor, while Zhang Ren and Yan Yan flanked them, their veteran gazes constantly scanning for threat even in surrender. Meng Huo, Li Yan, Wu Lan, and Zhang Ni fanned out, a physical manifestation of the new order's martial might.
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Name: Lie Fan
Title: Founding Emperor Of Hengyuan Dynasty
Age: 36 (203 AD)
Level: 16
Next Level: 462,000
Renown: 2325
Cultivation: Yin Yang Separation (level 11)
SP: 1,121,700
ATTRIBUTE POINTS
STR: 1,010 (+20)
VIT: 659 (+20)
AGI: 653 (+10)
INT: 691
CHR: 98
WIS: 569
WILL: 436
ATR Points: 0