Capital taked

The icy dawn breeze slithered through the cobbled streets of the imperial capital, carrying with it the acrid scent of burnt iron and fresh blood. The first rays of sunlight, hesitant and tinged with crimson, seeped through the towering watchtowers, casting long, wavering shadows over the remnants of the previous night's carnage. The once-imposing city walls, symbols of strength and authority, now bore gaping wounds where the gates had been shattered. Smoke curled lazily from the broken stone, painting ghostly tendrils against the pale sky. Jiang Yu marched at the head of his men, his boots striking the debris-strewn pavement with a rhythmic, unyielding cadence. Hours ago, this city had been a bastion of order and control. Now, it was a labyrinth of ruin, an empire's heart laid bare.

The rebels moved with calculated precision, their formations like the gears of a well-oiled machine. Each street they secured, each district they claimed, was another step toward solidifying their hold. In the central squares, imperial banners lay trampled underfoot, replaced by black flags emblazoned with Yuan Guo's rampant tiger. From behind shuttered doors and boarded windows, wary eyes peered at the advancing soldiers. Some were filled with hatred, others with reluctant hope. The city's people—caught between the shifting tides of power—held their breath, uncertain of whether to rejoice or fear the change that had come upon them.

"Maintain discipline," Jiang Yu commanded, his deep voice cutting through the crisp morning air like a blade. "No looting, no harm to civilians. We are not marauders."

His words were carried through the ranks, murmured from officer to soldier like an incantation. Still, the hunger for vengeance burned in the eyes of many. The taste of victory, sharp and intoxicating, was difficult to restrain. A ragged soldier, his face streaked with soot and dried sweat, reached for a weeping woman's necklace. Before his fingers could close around the delicate chain, he felt the cold weight of Jiang Yu's gaze upon him. The general's expression was as unyielding as stone.

"You lay a hand on the innocent, and you will answer to me," Jiang Yu warned, his voice devoid of emotion yet heavy with promise. The soldier hesitated, then dropped his hand, muttering a hollow apology before stepping away. Discipline was not merely a demand; it was the foundation of the new order they sought to build.

The central market, once a hub of vibrant life and commerce, now lay in eerie silence. The wooden stalls had been reduced to splintered ruins, their contents scattered across the ground—fruits crushed underfoot, bolts of silk shredded by passing swords. Among the wreckage, bodies of imperial soldiers lay slumped against broken carts, their lifeblood pooling in the dirt. Zhao Min, ever the pragmatist, rested his massive battle-worn axe against his shoulder, surveying the aftermath with an appraising eye.

"They put up more of a fight than expected," he remarked, nudging a makeshift barricade of overturned wagons and burlap sacks with his boot. "Didn't do them much good in the end, though."

From a rooftop above, Lin Xue crouched like a sentinel, her keen gaze sweeping across the cityscape. Her archers, hidden in the shadows of the tiled roofs, kept their arrows nocked, ever vigilant for lingering threats. A flicker of movement caught her eye—a wounded imperial soldier attempting to slip into an alley. Before he could vanish into the warren of streets, her arrow found his throat, his body collapsing soundlessly into the dust.

"The streets are clear," she reported as she descended with feline grace, landing lightly beside Jiang Yu. "But the palace is another matter entirely."

Jiang Yu followed her gaze toward the heart of the city. The imperial palace loomed like an indomitable fortress, a testament to centuries of absolute power. Its spires clawed at the heavens, gilded rooftops gleaming despite the heavy overcast sky. The reinforced walls, lined with steel and ancient hardwood, reflected the morning light ominously. Along the ramparts, imperial crossbowmen moved with the rigid discipline of seasoned warriors, their bolts poised, waiting for the inevitable assault.

"They won't let us walk through the front gates," Jiang Yu murmured, running a cloth over the length of his bloodstained blade. "And we can't afford a prolonged siege."

Zhao Min exhaled sharply, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Those bastards are the best the empire has to offer. Raised from childhood to fight and die for their emperor. They won't break."

"Then we won't fight them on their terms," Lin Xue interjected, unfurling a map onto a makeshift table—a barrel covered in scraps of cloth. She pointed to a section of the outer perimeter. "Here, the southern service gate. It's less guarded but reinforced. If we can divert their attention, we might breach it before they can regroup."

Jiang Yu's gaze followed the markings, considering every possible maneuver. Time was not their ally. Luo Wen waged his own war in Guangling, and the moment news of the capital's fall reached the Four Families, reinforcements would pour in from all corners of the empire.

"Rest. Resupply," he finally ordered, turning his eyes to his men. "When night falls, we end this."