Clouds of war (3)

The dawn mist crept over the rebel camp like a silent beast, muffling sounds and distorting silhouettes. Droplets of moisture clung to the worn canvas of tents, to rusted armor, to the eyelashes of soldiers huddled in a semicircle, their eyes fixed on the center of the clearing. There, standing atop a weathered wooden barrel cracked by time and rain, Luo Wen loomed like a statue of iron. The flames of nearby torches danced in his dark eyes, casting shifting shadows across his angular face, scarred by old wounds. At his feet, the map of Guangling—a worn parchment stained with wine and mud—rested on an improvised table, pinned at the corners by dulled daggers.

The soldiers breathed heavily, their exhalations forming fleeting clouds in the cold air. Among them were peasants wielding scythes repurposed as spears, women carrying shields fashioned from broken doors, children with trembling hands clutching sacks of arrows. They all shared one thing in common: their gaze locked onto Luo Wen, as if his words could weave invisible armor around their exhausted bodies.

"Brothers," Luo Wen began, his voice rough and deep like a blade scraping against stone, slicing through the mist like a knife. "An Lu sleeps behind walls of stone, believing his gold will buy our silence." A calloused hand clenched into a fist over his chest, where the emblem of Yuan Guo—a rampant tiger, its faded threads barely visible—gleamed faintly. "But we do not sell our own."

A low murmur of approval rumbled through the crowd, guttural, like the growl of a wounded beast. A woman in the front row, her graying hair tucked beneath a dented helmet, pressed her lips together until they turned white. Beside her, a boy no older than fifteen adjusted the bow on his shoulder, mimicking the stance of the veterans.

"Yuan Guo," Luo Wen continued, his voice rising, making the very air vibrate, "taught us that a man with a dagger and conviction can break down doors that ten thousand empty soldiers would never cross." His index finger, marked by a scar that curled from knuckle to wrist, pointed to the map. "Today, we do not fight for walls or titles. We fight because every heartbeat of his in those dungeons is a heartbeat stolen from our cause!"

A roar erupted from the crowd. Shields struck the ground, spears clashed against stone. In the distance, a horse neighed, unsettled by the electricity in the air.

Luo Wen stepped down from the barrel with deliberate movements, masking the stiffness in his left leg—wounded during the siege of Fengshan, where a ballista had torn three men from his side. Resting his palm on the map, the red ink markings—patrol routes, watchtowers, water wells—seemed to pulse beneath his fingers.

"Zhao Min," he called, turning to a man leaning against a shattered wagon. The veteran, whose armor was a patchwork of plates scavenged from enemy corpses, raised his chin with a grin that revealed broken teeth. "You will lead the main assault."

Zhao Min pushed off the wagon with the creak of dry leather. His axe, chipped and rusted, caught a ray of light piercing the mist.

"We'll haunt their walls until they dream of our faces," he growled, licking his cracked lips. "I'll burn their granaries and poison their wells. Let An Lu's rats drink their own fear."

Luo Wen nodded, seeing how the younger soldiers shivered at the ferocity in that voice. He knew Zhao Min was no hero of ballads, but a man who turned cruelty into art. Perfect for sowing chaos.

"Jiang Yu," he turned toward a lean man wrapped in a gray cloak, his long, pale fingers tracing the edges of a parchment scroll.

The strategist inclined his head, revealing a crescent-shaped scar beneath his left ear—a souvenir from a failed assassination attempt years ago.

"The northwest drainage tunnels are rotting," Jiang Yu murmured, unfurling a map of Guangling's sewers drawn with invisible ink. "My scouts will enter before the fourth bell tolls. If Yuan Guo is in the eastern dungeons…" He traced a circle in the air. "We'll have eyes within their walls."

A sigh slipped from Luo Wen's lips. Jiang Yu, the man who saw patterns where others saw chaos, was worth his weight in gold.

"Lin Xue," his voice softened as he turned to the tall, lean woman adjusting the string of her bow with bandaged fingers. "Your archers on the hills. Nothing enters or leaves Guangling."

The archer lifted her gaze. Her eyes, green like poisoned leaves, flickered in the torchlight.

"The wind blows from the east," she said, as if reciting a verse. "The arrows will fall like enraged wasps. Their sentries will hear the hum… before the darkness takes them."

The commanders exchanged glances. There was no room for hesitation in this camp of the desperate.

Luo Wen faced the crowd, feeling the weight of hundreds of lives on his shoulders. He inhaled deeply, smelling fear in the sweat, rage in the iron, hope in the damp earth.

"We are not an army," he shouted, unsheathing his sword—a simple blade with a hilt wrapped in Yuan Guo's worn belt. "We are a storm!" The steel flashed as it cut through the mist. "An Lu thinks he can buy, sell, negotiate…" he spat the last word like venom. "But no gold can pay for the fury of men with nothing left to lose!"

The roar that followed made the mist recoil. Calloused hands pounded against armor, bare feet stomped the mud. In the distance, the walls of Guangling—stained with moss and old blood—seemed to tremble.

"Zhao Min," Luo Wen grasped the veteran's shoulder, feeling the scars beneath his armor. "When the flames touch the sky, I will know you're doing your job."

The man grinned, revealing the gap where a canine tooth should have been.

"I'll make hell look like a children's bonfire, commander."

As the soldiers dispersed to prepare, Luo Wen lingered by the map. His fingers trembled slightly as they traced the path to Guangling's dungeons. Somewhere beneath those stones, Yuan Guo waited.

"Today," he whispered to himself, running a hand over the worn leather belt wrapped around his sword's hilt, "we free you… or we die trying."

On the walls, a sentry rubbed his tired eyes. He could have sworn he saw red fireflies dancing in the mist. Before he could raise the alarm, an arrow whistled from the darkness, embedding itself into the wood just inches from his head.

The battle for the soul of the empire had begun.