"True loyalty is not bought with coin nor crushed with fear—it is earned by those who bleed beside you." — said by Mei Xuan
The flags of Han Yu no longer flew over Longchuan.
For the first time in years, the imperial banners—red suns on fields of black—were torn down from the walls. In their place rose makeshift cloths: white backgrounds, ink-drawn phoenixes, some elegant, some crude, but all burning with the same defiance.
Yet not all battles ended with sword and flame.
The fortress barracks remained full. Hundreds of imperial soldiers—those who had surrendered during the final push or were captured in the aftermath—sat shackled in the eastern courtyard. The atmosphere was tense. Some rebels wanted them executed. Others whispered about forced labor or exile.
But Huai Shan stood in the center of the courtyard, flanked by Mei Xuan and Xu Liang, bareheaded and unarmored, his wounds freshly bound but still visible beneath his linen shirt. He looked like a man who should be resting, not leading. But his voice was steady.
"You served a man who ruled through fear," he began, loud enough for every soldier to hear. "But fear dies with the man who commands it."
A hush fell.
"I was once one of you," Huai continued. "I wore the empire's armor. I held their seal. I believed I was protecting peace—until I saw what that peace cost others."
He began to walk slowly between the lines of kneeling soldiers, his steps uneven but purposeful.
"Some of you were ordered to torch homes. Some to drag children into prisons. Some to look away while your commanders made monsters of themselves. And yet you stayed, because leaving meant death."
He stopped. Looked at a grizzled sergeant whose eyes refused to meet his.
"I don't offer you revenge," Huai said. "I offer you choice."
The courtyard was silent but charged. Even the wind seemed to pause.
"You can walk away. No blade at your back. No one chasing you down. Leave this war behind. Or—" he paused, letting the word hang, "—you can stand with us. Not as prisoners. As brothers. Build something better from the ashes you helped create."
No threats. No promises of gold. Just choice.
The silence held for several heartbeats.
Then a single soldier—a young man, barely past twenty—stood. Slowly, uncertain. He unbuckled his scabbard, dropped it to the ground, and knelt again. Not in submission—but in oath.
More followed.
Dozens. Then a hundred.
By sundown, two-thirds of the captured army had pledged to serve under Huai Shan—not as conquerors, but as rebuilders.
In the days that followed, Longchuan breathed for the first time.
The markets reopened. Graves were dug. Water flowed again through the broken aqueducts. The rebellion no longer hid in shadows—it stood in the light, weary but resolute.
Mei Xuan oversaw the repair of the eastern walls. Liang Yu coordinated food storage and rationing. Even the former imperial soldiers, now reborn as the Phoenix Guard, began rebuilding what they had once broken.
But peace, as always, was temporary.
On the fifth morning, a scout arrived. His face was pale, and dust clung to his cloak.
He brought a sealed letter, marked with a familiar symbol: the imperial sun, but this time wrapped in a black ribbon.
Xu Liang read it aloud in the war chamber.
"To the rebel leader Huai Shan,
Word of my father's death has reached the capital. I do not yet hold the crown, but I have assumed stewardship as Regent until full rites are observed.
I offer this: a temporary peace.
Longchuan will not be retaken—yet.
In return, you will not march beyond the River Heng.
We bury our dead. You bury yours. We sharpen our blades separately.
The next time we meet… it will not be to talk.
— Han Zhen"
Silence followed.
"He's buying time," Mei Xuan said coldly. "They'll march in the spring."
"Maybe," Huai Shan said, folding the letter and placing it beside the map of the empire. "Or maybe the next storm's already begun—in their own court."
Liang Yu looked uneasy. "You'll accept the truce?"
Huai didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he stood and walked to the window of the chamber, looking out over the phoenix flags fluttering from the city towers.
"I'll give the people time to breathe," he said at last. "But I won't sheath the sword."
He watched the wind shift. Distant thunder rumbled across the mountains.
Because the war was not over.
It was only watching.
And waiting.