The Almighty Dominance novel Chapter 666

The war room in Liang Province’s capital stank of old wine, sweat, and the iron tang of too many armed men in one place.

Torches guttered along the stone walls, throwing long shadows across the scarred oak table where four warlords sat like wolves around a fresh kill.

They had stopped killing each other for one reason only: the enemy had taken Liu Wei. The real emperor. That single blow had landed harder than any army. It had forced the truce no one wanted.

Dong Zhuo had once commanded the largest army in Xia—two hundred thousand soldiers.

His four generals each held fifty thousand men under their banners.

The endless conflicts between them served only to weaken all parties. In the end, they chose to set aside their grudges and form a temporary truce to consolidate their strength—so that they might later divide Xia between themselves.

Li Jue leaned over the map, thick finger dragging across the faded lines. “Zhang Ji takes fifty thousand east. Yan and Qing provinces. You kill Bai Xiaochun and that emperor he’s hiding. Bring back the imperial seal. We end this before those two provinces grow teeth.”

Guo Si poured himself another cup of wine, the dark liquid sloshing over the rim. “Scouts say Bai turned his soldiers into farmers. They dig ditches and build walls instead of training. His real fighting strength is maybe thirty or forty thousand at best.”

Zhang Ji’s eyes stayed flat. “I’ll handle it.”

Inside, the thought burned hotter than the wine.

‘Once I hold the emperor and the seal, I won’t need any of you.’

Fan Chou sat at the far end of the table, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the others the way a man watches a loaded crossbow. “And me?”

“You go after Yuan Shu,” Guo Si said. “Our people say he has no more than forty thousand. Can you finish him with fifty?”

Fan Chou gave a short, ugly laugh. “He’s already a dead man walking.”

Li Jue straightened. The torchlight cut deep lines into his face. “When it’s done, we split Xia four ways. West, east, north, south. No more fighting over scraps.”

No one argued. They had all dreamed the same dream for months. Now the pieces were finally moving.

Three days later the armies left Liang.

Zhang Ji’s columns stretched for miles along the old imperial road—fifty thousand men in ordered ranks, banners snapping in the dry wind, supply wagons groaning under the weight of grain, arrows, and siege equipment. Dust rose in thick clouds behind the marching feet. Scouts rode far ahead, eyes sharp for any sign of Bai Xiaochun’s forces.

They moved like men who had already won.

The same day, Fan Chou’s army headed west, fifty thousand strong, banners flying, the men singing rough songs about the easy loot waiting in Yuan Shu’s lands. They expected a short campaign and rich rewards.

Back in the capital, Li Jue and Guo Si watched the last dust settle from the city walls.

Guo Si spat over the parapet. “Zhang Ji thinks he’s clever. He’ll take Yan and Qing and try to keep the emperor for himself.”

Li Jue’s mouth curved in something that was not quite a smile. “Let him try. When he gets the seal and the boy’s head, we’ll decide what to do with him.”

Far ahead, the war room in Yuan Shao’s northern stronghold felt like a tomb lit by dying candles.

Maps covered every table and spilled onto the floor. Lanterns flickered across the faces of his generals and the black-robed strategists who had not slept in days.

Two hundred thousand soldiers answered his banners—more than any other warlord could claim. Yet the distance to Yan Province was the real enemy.

One or two months of marching through hostile lands. Supply wagons breaking down. Grain spoiling. Men deserting or dying on the road.

Yuan Shao sat at the head of the long table, fingers tapping once against the polished wood.

“Give me a way to win this without bleeding my army dry,” he said.

The senior strategist leaned forward.

“A direct march is possible, my lord, but costly. Your men will arrive exhausted and undersupplied. Bai Xiaochun’s forces will be rested and waiting on ground they know. Even if we take the provinces, the price in blood will be high.”

A younger strategist spoke next, eyes hard. “The reports are consistent. Strange methods. Water falling from clear skies to kill torches. Shadows that pull men away in silence. If even a fraction is true, we should not fight him where he chooses.”

Yuan Shao’s gaze sharpened. “Then find another path.”

The senior strategist traced a line across the map with one finger—not toward Yan, but toward the red-marked territories in the wild lands.

Orthodox and unorthodox sects. Demonic paths. Cultivators who answered to no throne and owed loyalty only to coin and power.

“Send blades instead of armies,” he said. “The best assassins the murim alliance can gather. Offer gold. Offer land. Offer titles if they want them. If Bai Xiaochun and the boy emperor die in their sleep, the provinces fall into chaos on their own. You can declare yourself the only true emperor.”

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