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The eleventh month, Puyang.
Wang Zhaoling’s forces had been besieging the city for over three months now. From the crisp autumn days of plentiful supplies to the first snowfall, which had only grown heavier, the siege now found itself buried under flurries thick as goose feathers.
In the eleventh month, winter had firmly arrived.
Wang Zhaoling tilted his head back to watch the snowflakes falling from the sky, then glanced around at his soldiers. Each one huddled by fire pits, rubbing their hands for warmth. Noticing his gaze, they averted their eyes, their discomfort painfully obvious.
Snow like this was not just bad for morale—it was no weather for waging war, let alone storming a fortified city. Just setting up camp in these conditions was a trial, while those inside the city walls enjoyed shelter from the wind and snow. It was a completely unequal confrontation.
Even the barbarians of the north withdrew their armies when winter came.
But the question then was… Did they even have the option to retreat?
The answer to that was no. It would be a joke across the land if they, having rebelled, were blocked by a mere city, achieved nothing in over three months, and then retreated in disgrace with the coming of snow.
Even the Maitreya Cult’s uprising caused more of a stir. And the Wang Clan—this thousand-year-old aristocratic family—this was all they’ve got?
It was a dilemma with...
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