Yan did not collapse.
It panicked.
In the court of Yan, the Merchant-King no longer spoke with calculation.
He shouted.
"Conscription!" he roared.
"Every able body—take them!"
The ministers froze.
One stepped forward, voice careful.
"Your Majesty… if we force this, the economy will collapse further. The merchants—"
"Silence."
The word cut through the hall.
Another minister tried.
"We still have mercenaries. We can stabilize first, negotiate—"
The blade came faster than the argument.
Blood stained the polished floor.
The remaining ministers lowered their heads.
Not in loyalty.
In survival.
"Conscription," the Yan King repeated.
"No matter what it costs."
And so—
Farmers were taken.
Workers were taken.
Merchants—
Taken.
Yan did not prepare for war.
It devoured itself to sustain it.
But even that was not enough.
Zhao still loomed.
Untouched.
Unbroken.
Watching.
And Wu An—
Was rising.
So Yan made its most bitter choice.
Envoys were sent west.
To the remnants of Western Zhou.
Not as equals.
Not even as allies.
As supplicants.
"We recognize your Mandate," the envoy said, kneeling low.
"The rightful Heaven lies with Zhou."
Even saying it—
Was humiliation.
Yan, the land of gold and trade—
Now bowing on paper.
But they had no choice.
Western Zhou accepted.
Of course they did.
Because legitimacy—
Cost nothing to claim.
And everything to enforce.
Now, Yan paid in gold.
Paid in supplies.
Paid in pride.
All to survive a war—
They no longer controlled.
Back in the north—
The war ended quietly.
Not with a final clash.
Not with a last stand.
But with silence.
Wu An entered the Wei capital—
Daliang
The gates were open.
No defenders.
No resistance.
Just emptiness.
The city had not burned like Beiliang.
It had been abandoned.
Drained.
Stripped of purpose.
Because its king—
Had never returned.
The body was found days later.
Not in a palace.
Not on a battlefield.
But within the ashes of Beiliang.
Among the dead.
Unrecognizable at first.
Then confirmed.
The King of Wei—
Had died not by sword.
But by hunger.
Trapped.
Like the rest.
The report was brought to Wu An in silence.
He read it.
Then folded it.
No reaction.
No triumph.
Just stillness.
Liao Yun watched him carefully.
"You got what you wanted."
Wu An did not answer immediately.
Instead—
He looked out over Daliang.
A capital.
Now empty.
Another piece of the realm—
Gone.
For a moment—
Nothing moved.
Then—
Wu An spoke.
"Not what I wanted."
A pause.
"What was necessary."
But even as he said it—
Something in his gaze lingered.
Not regret.
Not doubt.
Something else.
Beiliang had been a gamble.
A cruel one.
A complete one.
And it had worked.
Wei—
Broken.
Zhao—
Trapped.
Yan—
Submitting.
Western Zhou—
Pretending.
Everything—
Falling into place.
Wu An turned away.
But for a brief moment—
He remembered.
The flames.
The silence.
The cries that stopped.
And the ending that followed.
Satisfied.
Not with victory.
But with the certainty—
That it had been enough.
"The realm is almost ours," Liao Yun said.
Wu An looked toward the horizon.
Not smiling.
Not celebrating.
Only watching.
"Almost," he said.