Wu An chooses the ground himself.
A narrow valley west of the canal road, with low ridges on both sides and a dry streambed cutting through the center like a scar. Perfect ground for an ambush. Perfect ground to do to General Pei what had been done at the frontier months ago.
The plan is simple.
Too simple.
Liang will appear to retreat from the canal road, leaving a weak rearguard. Zhou scouts will see the movement and report that Wu An is pulling back due to supply shortages. Pei, pressured by the court and the Emperor's threats, will push forward aggressively to finish the retreating Liang army. When Zhou enters the valley, Black Tiger battalions hidden in the ridges will collapse on both sides while Liang artillery seals the exit.
It is the kind of trap that had worked before.
It is the kind of trap Wu An built his reputation on.
It is the kind of trap General Pei has been expecting for months.
The Zhou army enters the valley at dawn.
From the ridges, Liang signalers watch the columns move exactly as predicted — infantry first, then supply wagons, then artillery, then reserve cavalry.
Liao Yun allows himself a breath.
"He took it," he says quietly.
Wu An watches through a scope.
"Yes," he says.
But something feels wrong.
The formation is too neat.
Too spaced.
Too careful.
Pei is walking into the trap like a man who already knows where it is.
Wu An lowers the scope slowly.
"Wait," he says.
But the signal has already been sent.
The Black Tigers rise from the ridges.
Cannons fire.
The valley explodes into smoke and thunder.
For a moment, it looks like victory.
Then Zhou's rear line does something unexpected.
Instead of panicking—
It turns.
Entire units pivot outward, not inward.
Shield formations lock facing the ridges.
Artillery crews already have elevation marked.
Within minutes, Zhou cannons begin firing up into the Liang ambush positions with terrifying accuracy.
"They knew," Liao Yun whispers.
Yes.
They knew.
But the trap is worse than that.
From behind the ridges — from ground Liang had believed empty — another Zhou force appears.
Fresh troops.
Hidden overnight beyond the hills.
They slam into the Black Tiger flank while Zhou forces inside the valley push outward instead of trying to escape.
The trap is not being sprung on Zhou.
It is being sprung on Liang.
General Pei had walked into the valley on purpose.
Because he had built a second trap around the first one.
By noon, the ridges are hell.
Black Tiger battalions fight like demons, but they are now the ones caught between two fires — Zhou forces in the valley and Zhou reinforcements on the outer ridge line.
Liang artillery cannot fire without hitting its own men.
Signals break down.
Smoke covers everything.
Units begin fighting without orders, just to survive.
Wu An tries to reorganize the line, but messengers are shot or lost in the smoke before they can return.
By afternoon, the order is given that he has not given in a long time.
"Retreat."
Not tactical withdrawal.
Retreat.
The word spreads slowly, then all at once.
Liang forces begin pulling back from the ridges, dragging wounded, abandoning broken guns, leaving the dead where they fall.
Zhou does not pursue recklessly.
Pei does not want a rout.
He wants Liang to bleed and leave.
So he lets them go.
That night, the Liang camp is silent.
Not the calm silence of discipline.
The hollow silence of men who know they lost.
The numbers arrive after midnight.
Five thousand dead.
More wounded who cannot march.
Lost artillery.
Lost powder.
Lost horses.
One battle.
One mistake.
And Wu An's army of one hundred thousand is now ninety-five thousand.
Liao Yun places the casualty report on the table and says nothing.
Shen Yue stands at the edge of the tent, arms folded, face pale but controlled.
Wu An reads the report twice.
Then folds it carefully.
"They were waiting for it," he says.
"Yes," Liao Yun replies.
"He knew I would try to trap him."
"Yes."
"And he trapped the trap."
No one speaks after that.
Because there is nothing to say.
Wu An has just lost his first real defeat of the war.
Not a setback.
Not a costly victory.
A defeat.
And General Pei had done it cleanly.
The defeat does not end on the battlefield.
It follows them back to camp.
Food is cut again.
Wounded fill the tents.
Then sickness begins.
Dysentery first.
Then fever.
Malnutrition makes everything worse.
Within a week, more men are dying in camp than on the battlefield.
And soldiers begin to whisper.
At first quietly.
Then not so quietly.
"We are too far from home."
"We cannot eat victory."
"Zhou has endless men."
"We should go back while we still can."
One night, a group of soldiers refuses to move to the front line rotation.
Black Tiger officers arrest them before it spreads, but the word has already moved through the camp.
Mutiny.
Not open yet.
But close enough that everyone can feel it.
Liao Yun comes to Wu An's tent at dawn.
"If this continues," he says bluntly, "we will lose the army without fighting another battle."
Wu An nods.
"Yes."
"The men are hungry. They are tired. Now they have seen that Zhou can beat us."
"Yes."
"If they stop believing we can win, this army collapses."
Wu An says nothing for a long time.
Then he asks one question.
"How many days of grain?"
Liao Yun answers quietly.
"Thirty. Maybe less."
Wu An closes his eyes briefly.
Thirty days.
Thirty days to defeat an empire.
Or die in it.
Shen Yue finds him later that night standing alone outside the camp, looking north.
"You lost," she says.
"Yes."
"You're starving."
"Yes."
"Your army may mutiny."
"Yes."
"You're trapped deep inside the largest empire in the world with ninety-five thousand hungry men and enemies in every direction."
"Yes."
She studies him carefully.
"You don't look afraid."
Wu An's answer comes slowly.
"I am terrified."
She waits.
"But this is the kind of fear that makes men either surrender…"
He looks toward the Zhou interior.
"…or do something so dangerous that no one else would even consider it."
Shen Yue exhales slowly.
"What are you thinking?"
Wu An does not answer immediately.
When he does, his voice is very quiet.
"We stop fighting Pei's army."
"We stop taking cities."
"We stop advancing slowly."
Shen Yue feels a chill run down her spine.
"Then what do we do?"
Wu An's eyes are dark, exhausted, and burning at the same time.
"We march past his army," he says.
"We march so deep into Zhou that if we fail, none of us come home."
He turns to look at the camp — at the hungry soldiers, the wounded, the dying fires.
"If we stay here, we starve."
"If we retreat, we lose everything."
"If we keep fighting Pei, we bleed to death."
He looks north again.
"So we do the only thing he doesn't want us to do."
"What is that?"
Wu An's voice is almost a whisper.
"We go for the capital."
Shen Yue does not speak for a long time.
Because that is not a strategy.
That is madness.
And madness is sometimes the only move left when all the sane moves lead to death.
Far to the north, in the Zhou capital, the Emperor sleeps peacefully for the first time in months.
Because he has just received news of Wu An's defeat.
He believes the war has turned.
He believes General Pei is slowly strangling the Liang army.
He believes time is on his side.
He does not yet know—
That Wu An has decided to gamble everything on one final throw of the dice.