Retreat

The cold breeze of dawn swept across the battlefield, carrying with it the stench of blood and charred flesh. It seeped into every crevice, clinging to armor, banners, and the very earth itself. The air was thick, heavy with the acrid scent of death, mingling with the dust kicked up by the restless hooves of warhorses and the weary, dragging steps of soldiers who had seen too much. Luo Wen, mounted atop his exhausted, sweat-drenched steed, gazed out over the vast, war-torn expanse. His expression remained unreadable, an impassable mask of hardened steel, but his eyes—dark, sharp, unwavering—swept over the carnage with a calculating intensity.

The battlefield was a grim tapestry of destruction. Shattered weapons and broken bodies lay strewn like discarded dolls, their silent agony etched into twisted limbs and lifeless stares. War had devoured everything in its path, leaving behind nothing but desolation and a haunting reminder of mortality. Yet, despite the overwhelming loss, one thought gnawed at Luo Wen more than anything else.

No messengers. No flickering torches on the horizon. No signal of victory. The silence was suffocating.

By his calculations, Jiang Yu should have already taken the imperial capital. If the plan had succeeded, the empire would now be under their control. But no news meant uncertainty. And uncertainty was the enemy of strategy. If the capital had not fallen, then the entire plan had collapsed, and with it, their hope for victory.

There was no time to wait for confirmation. There was no luxury for doubt. The retreat had to begin now.

"Zhao Min," Luo Wen called out, his voice steady and commanding, never once tearing his gaze away from the distant battlefield where their troops were still holding back An Lu's relentless forces. "Prepare the detachments for a staggered withdrawal. We cannot allow this to turn into a slaughter."

Zhao Min, a veteran warrior whose battle-worn face bore the scars of countless campaigns, spat onto the ground before giving a firm nod. His demeanor was hardened, but not shaken. He had seen this before. He knew the danger of withdrawing too late or too recklessly.

"I knew this would get ugly," he muttered, running a calloused hand over the handle of his massive battle-worn axe. His gaze flicked toward the enemy lines, where An Lu's forces were beginning to reform. "They can smell our blood. If we don't time this right, they'll rip us apart before we can regroup."

Luo Wen gave a curt nod. An Lu was a ruthless tactician; he would not pass up an opportunity to turn their retreat into a massacre. But Luo Wen had no intention of giving him that satisfaction. Retreat was not defeat—it was strategy.

"Lin Xue," he continued, shifting his attention to the archer standing nearby, meticulously inspecting the fletching of one of her arrows. "Your archers will cover our withdrawal. Anyone who tries to break our lines, cut them down."

Lin Xue, ever composed, lifted her gaze, her emerald eyes reflecting the cold precision of a hunter watching its prey. She gave a small, deliberate nod, strapping her quiver tightly across her back.

"They will not chase us easily," she assured him, already moving towards a higher vantage point where her archers would have the best range.

The war drums began to sound, deep and rhythmic, signaling the beginning of the retreat. Luo Wen had planned it meticulously—units would fall back in waves, one covering the other before moving, minimizing exposure. The cavalry took their positions at the rear, ready to intercept any pursuers. Lin Xue's elite archers let loose a deadly rain of arrows, striking down enemy officers and messengers before they could relay orders. The battlefield was a deadly chessboard, and Luo Wen played his pieces with absolute precision.

High above, in his fortress, An Lu observed the withdrawal with narrowed eyes. He was no fool—he knew Luo Wen was not running out of fear, but rather out of calculated necessity. Something about this sudden retreat felt off. His instincts screamed caution.

"Pursue them," he ordered his generals, but his tone carried a warning. "But do not break formation. If we chase recklessly, we may be walking into a trap. I want reports on their movements before we commit fully."

Luo Wen had anticipated this reaction. As his forces retreated, they set fire to supply caches and sabotaged roads, leaving An Lu's army with little to chase after. Bridges were destroyed, paths were blocked, forcing the enemy to slow their pursuit.

By the time the sun began its ascent, casting long golden streaks over the battlefield, Luo Wen and his remaining forces had reached the designated regrouping point. He swung off his horse with measured movements, his body aching from the weight of prolonged battle.

He took in the sight of his soldiers—bruised, bloodied, but alive. Their numbers were smaller now, but they had made it out with far fewer losses than he had expected. He turned to Zhao Min, who approached, his axe still gripped tightly in his hand.

The veteran gave a slow nod. "We bought ourselves some time. But time won't matter if Jiang Yu hasn't done his part."

Luo Wen exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. "If the capital has fallen, we regroup and march back to end this war. If it hasn't…"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. They all knew what it meant. If the capital had not been secured, the rebellion was over. An Lu would crush them, and the Four Families would ensure no remnants remained. There would be no mercy. No second chances.

Above them, carrion birds were already circling, their dark wings cutting across the pale sky, drawn by the feast of fallen soldiers left behind. Their distant cries were a chilling reminder that history would not remember the dead, only the victors.

The war was reaching its climax. The fate of the empire teetered on the edge of a blade.

Luo Wen knew that no matter the outcome, his name would be etched into the annals of history. Whether as the liberator of the empire or the architect of its ruin, his legacy would be forged in these final days.

As his soldiers tended to their wounds and gathered their strength, Luo Wen stepped away from the camp, seeking a moment of solitude. He needed to think. To plan. The retreat had been a success, but victories were not won by fleeing. The final confrontation with An Lu was inevitable, and this time, there would be no room for error.

The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of ashes and death. Luo Wen closed his eyes, drawing in a slow, steady breath. He had sworn to protect the empire, and he would see that vow through, no matter the cost.

For in war, there was no turning back—only forward, through blood and fire, until the end.