The battlefield stretched like a smoking wound across the Dakan Plains. After days of fighting, the dead lay thick in the dirt, and the living barely had the strength to drag their weapons.
Ren stood among a battered squad of foot soldiers—no unit insignia, no officer, just survivors clinging to instinct.
Kai crouched beside him, eyes scanning the smoldering haze. "We've lost the center push. Left line's scattered."
"We're exposed," Ren murmured, tightening the grip on his sword.
One of the older soldiers grumbled, "No orders, no backup. We're just meat now."
Then came the whisper.
"He's here…"
From the shifting mist of smoke and dust, scouts had seen him: a Wei 500-man commander—known for cleaving infantry lines like they were kindling. His name wasn't spoken loudly, but the fear on the men's faces said enough.
"Should've pulled back with the others…"
"Wait," Kai said suddenly, his eyes narrowing. "He's isolated. He got too far ahead."
The officer had surged in pursuit of a retreating group and overextended. Only a handful of his elite guards remained, unaware they were walking into the center of a still-breathing group of scattered Qin survivors.
Ren stepped forward. "We take him now."
The soldiers hesitated.
"That's suicide," one said.
Ren looked over the terrain quickly—broken carts, upturned shields, collapsed trenches. Natural cover.
"We don't fight fair," he said quietly. "We ambush him."
His calm voice and steady eyes cut through the fear. Something in him drew them forward without question.
Kai grinned. "You heard the man. Let's go."
They moved like ghosts, ducking low, circling wide. Ren led them through cover until they were in place. His instructions were quick, precise.
"Crush the guards first. When he steps forward—leave him to me."
The trap was sprung in an instant. A volley of thrown spears and rocks fell from the rubble above as the Wei commander's guards passed through. Three went down immediately. The rest barely had time to raise weapons before Kai and the others surged out, roaring.
Chaos exploded.
Steel clashed. Dust kicked up. Ren stood still in the center, waiting.
Then the Wei commander burst through the smoke—massive, armored, face already red with fury. His glaive swung wide, cleaving one Qin soldier in half.
"Who DARES—?!"
Ren stepped forward. "I do."
The commander's eyes locked on him, fury replaced briefly by curiosity.
"You're no officer."
Ren didn't answer. He raised his sword.
The clash was brutal. The Wei commander was strength and rage—his swings cracked the ground, dented shields, shattered stone.
Ren was flow. He ducked under each arc, sidestepped with inches to spare. He struck at openings—ankle, ribs, neck—but the man's armor deflected each blow.
One hit landed—a backhand from the commander's gauntlet. Ren staggered, blood in his mouth. But his eyes were steady.
"You're fast," the commander snarled. "But you can't cut me."
Ren didn't respond. He changed grip.
The next charge came wild. The commander swung for Ren's head—but Ren didn't retreat. He stepped into the blow, sliding low, his sword flashing upward.
There was a moment of stillness.
Then the commander froze—blood spilling from his throat. Ren's blade had slipped through the narrow gap between helmet and chest plate.
The giant dropped to his knees, choking, before collapsing fully.
The fighting around them stopped.
Kai and the others looked at Ren in stunned silence. None of them cheered. Not yet.
Kai finally stepped forward. "...You actually did it."
Ren wiped his blade clean, still breathing hard. "Get moving. His death won't go unnoticed."
But the men didn't move right away. They looked at Ren differently now—not as another soldier, but as something more.
A quiet leader.
A blade they could follow.
Kai stepped beside him, tapping his spear against the ground.
"What now, Captain?"
Ren looked toward the smoke, where another wave of Wei troops loomed distant.
"We survive."