Dusk shrouded the Yellow River in a vast, misty gloom. In an age of ceaseless war, this was the hour when fortified cities sealed their gates. Yet Anyi, Wei's capital on the river's northern bank, defied custom—its southern gate creaked open, lowering its drawbridge with a thunderous groan. Out rode an unmarked contingent of armored knights and a bronze chariot. Through twilight hills and moonlit plains, they crossed the Yellow River at Mengjin Ford, charging southward under starry skies toward the sprawling metropolis of Daliang.
Daliang throbbed with feverish revelry.
Though secondary to Anyi as Wei's capital, Daliang eclipsed its northern rival in grandeur. Nestled between the Yellow River and Lake Fengze, this fertile crossroads had blossomed into the Central Plains' premier hub for trade and scholarship. A century prior, when the Jin dynasty fractured into Han, Zhao, and Wei, Daliang had been a backwater hamlet in Wei's barren southern frontier. Anyi, situated where the Yellow River met the Fen, became the natural capital with its rich farmlands and sturdy walls. But Lord Wen's agrarian reforms transformed the south. Daliang's fertile plains soon teemed with crops, attracting merchants and scholars alike. By now, its rebuilt walls encircled bustling markets and private academies, earning renown as the "Wei Market"—the world's largest bazaar and a beacon of civilization.
Yet Daliang's wealth bred insecurity. Anyi's residents, though less affluent, wore their status as capital-dwellers like armor. They pontificated on statecraft and whispered of royal scandals—how the king gifted General Pang Juan a six-courtyard mansion, or how the chancellor took a new concubine. Daliang's merchants, despite their opulent lifestyles, shriveled under Anyi's condescension. "Mere rich men," sniffed the northerners.
Then came the royal decree.
Ten days prior, a herald announced Daliang as the logistical base for the Six-State Alliance summit at Lake Fengze. The city was to erect military camps, stockpile fine wines and courtesans, and host visiting monarchs. But what ignited the wildfire of excitement was a rumor from Anyi's jealous merchants: the king planned to move the capital south.
Within days, Daliang erupted. Night markets blazed till dawn. Red banners emblazoned with "Joy" and "80% Off!" fluttered above shops. Forty burly men paraded a towering effigy of the harvest god through streets thronged with dancers—children twirling ribbons, elders clapping to drums. Foreign traders gaped as prices plummeted. A silk merchant from Qi even laid out free sweets, yet locals politely bypassed his stall to patronize hometown vendors. "How cultured Daliang is!" the outsiders murmured, slashing their own prices by 90% in awed homage.
By midnight, merchants abandoned counting houses to join the frenzy. Lanterns swayed high, casting golden light on silk banners that rippled with verses: "Daliang's glory eclipses the moon!" The harvest god's wooden eyes gazed benignly as the city, drunk on ambition and wine, danced toward its destiny.
Amid Liang's jubilant revelry, one place remained eerily silent: the military camp of Supreme Commander Pang Juan.
Pang Juan and his cavalry arrived outside Daliang during the fourth watch. The city's frenzied celebrations baffled him. The Six-State Alliance was a clandestine affair—how had Liang turned it into a spectacle? Disgusted by the city's frivolity, he refused the governor's request to enter through the main gates for public adulation. Instead, he ordered his men to open a covert passage, slipping into a prearranged command post.
His first act was to dispatch spies to gauge how much of the alliance's secrecy had leaked. Reports confirmed the festivities celebrated Liang's impending status as the new capital, with no mention of the alliance. Relieved yet puzzled, Pang Juan wondered: Who proposed relocating the capital? When did the king approve it? Why wasn't I consulted? He shelved his doubts, trusting that such a monumental decision would inevitably involve him. For now, the alliance took precedence.
By dawn, Pang Juan stood polished before a bronze mirror. His linen undergarments clung comfortably as he drank a bowl of meat broth. Attendants then layered him in armor forged from rare iron—lightweight yet impenetrable, its plates chiming like bells. A bronze helmet crowned him, its spear-tipped crest glinting, flanked by elegantly curved ear-guards. A crimson silk cloak, fastened by pearls gifted by King Hui of Wei, draped his shoulders. Though disdainful of opulence, Pang Juan wore it as duty; rejecting the king's favor at such a pivotal moment would court disaster.
"Ten guards. Take backstreets to the south gate. The main cavalry proceeds at noon to Fengze," he ordered, mounting his chariot.
Initially resolved to avoid Liang's chaos, Pang Juan relented, opting to glimpse the city's euphoria. Yet even the narrowest alleys brimmed with torchlight and drumming crowds. As his chariot neared, cries erupted: "The Supreme Commander! Make way for our shield and sword!"
Elders waved red flags, parting the throng. "Long live the king! Long live the commander!" roared the masses.
Though moved by their reverence, Pang Juan's smile stiffened. Liang's citizens—shrewd and restrained—had never openly credited him for championing their rise as the new capital. Their chants of "Liang leads Wei's glory!" masked deeper ambitions. Such calculated fervor unsettled him. He acknowledged the crowd with solemn nods, his chariot rolling through the southern gate.
At Fengze by mid-morning, Pang Juan inspected the alliance grounds. Though minor flaws marred the preparations—a tilted banner here, a loose tent rope there—the site stood ready. The governor of Liang, eager to please, offered ten beauties and fine wine as tribute. Pang Juan rebuked him: "Return these to the people. This is no time for indulgence."
That night, under a moonlit sky, he summoned scribes and aides, instructing them to infiltrate the retinues of the five visiting monarchs as "alliance stewards." "Report every whisper to me alone," he warned. "Betray this order, and you die."
Alone afterward, Pang Juan gazed at the star-flecked lake. Three years since leaving the mountains, his victories—though notable—had not yet etched his name into legend. The Six-State Alliance will change that, he mused. Success here would crown him as Wei's architect of hegemony, surpassing even Wu Qi. He envisioned a legacy blending military genius and political mastery—a true philosopher-general.
This alliance was his first stride toward that destiny. Let his old teacher doubt him; history would remember Pang Juan as the strategist who reshaped the Warring States.