Smoke curled through the mountain wind like the last breath of a slain beast. Hanjin had fallen days ago, but its ruin still marked the high passes with the scent of scorched wood and broken pride. Now the Empire answered. Four legions surged across the ridgelines, clad in lacquered armor, banners high, the black sun of the Emperor gleaming like a curse against the sky. Their march did not simply carry weight—it pulsed with imperial will, an iron tide grinding stone and soil beneath it. War drums rolled across the valleys, deep and slow, like the heartbeat of judgment.
When they reached Hanjin, expecting screams and resistance, they found only wind and silence. The gates gaped open, teeth of scorched wood and twisted iron. The towers were cracked. The walls bore scorch marks. But there were no bodies. No blood. No sounds of retreat. Just fragments of armor arranged in careful spirals across the courtyard, symbols without meaning. Bait. A message written without words.
General Lang Qi sat high in his saddle at the gate, his cloak snapping behind him. His eyes narrowed beneath a helm crowned with golden laurels, and for a moment, nothing stirred except the smoke in the wind.
"Where is he?" Lang's voice barely rose, but it carried.
His aide hesitated, sweat lining his brow despite the cold. "No trace, my lord. Scouts say he vanished three nights ago. No footprints. No campfires. Just... gone."
Lang was about to speak when hoofbeats echoed from the southern road. A scout galloped toward them, face pale beneath a veil of dust and exhaustion. His mount nearly collapsed as he dismounted.
"Feihu's under attack," the scout choked. "Siege. Smoke in the hills. It's burning."
Lang's voice cracked through the air like a blade. "Feihu? That's a week east. How—?"
"It was never about Hanjin," the scout said. "They were already moving. This... this was just the mask."
To the east, beyond the low-hanging mist, the real battle had already begun.
Altan's Gale Army did not march. They did not assemble in rows or move in columns. They passed like weather over the land—veiled in glyph-wrought fog, gliding through goat paths lost to imperial maps. Their presence was erased by talismans etched with Mirror Veil Script, and their spiritual footprints dissolved by Veilstep Qi, an internal technique that scattered awareness into the wind. Even the Emperor's diviners saw only empty hills and drifting clouds.
Their blades were not drawn with pride. They were unsheathed like truths too long buried.
Citadel Feihu sat nestled between river-carved cliffs, built for trade and shelter, not war. It had no real fortification. Its commanders believed the mountains would guard them. They were wrong.
The first cut was made in silence. Khulan's scouts came with knives shaped like crescent moons and breath held until the kill. Silent Fang Technique was a forbidden school—banned for its ability to sever both flesh and qi in a single stroke. No one screamed. No one warned. Fires died before they could be lit.
Then the storm began.
Chaghan stood high above the valley and unleashed a Skyseal Glyph, drawn in wet ink and elemental ash. Wind howled down the slopes like a wrathful god. Banners tore from their poles. Fog poured through the courtyards like milk spilling from a shattered bowl.
The explosions followed—runes buried weeks ago along the outer walls flared to life in Ember Script, detonating with the force of chained thunder. Oil stores caught fire. Gates snapped inward. Fire rose like an answer to the legions that would come too late.
Commander Tian Mu rallied what little force he had, dragging soldiers into the sanctum to form a desperate phalanx. "Hold the line," he roared. "Don't break. Don't scatter."
But Altan did not believe in sieges. He believed in collapse.
Burgedai's cavalry came first, hooves tearing through flame and rubble. They were wrapped in Stormrider Qi, a movement art that drew speed from the sky and power from breath. Their charge sounded like rolling thunder, the air bending in their wake. Where they struck, armor cracked and bone shattered.
Khulan was already inside. Her assassins had taken the inner tunnels, where they moved like shadows that learned to bleed. Officers died mid-command. Supply rooms were set alight. Spellcasters choked on steel before their chants could summon a shield.
Altan moved through the fog without haste, his breath aligned to the Wind-Borne Path. Fengjin Breath was not brute force. It was observation made physical, adaptability born of discipline. He watched the walls collapse from within, eyes calm, steps precise.
On the citadel's highest tower, Commander Tian Mu waited. Twin Phoenix Halberds rested in his hands, each wrapped in cloth inscribed with fire-binding sutras. His cultivation burned hot—Blazing Virtue Path. It drew power from pain, purity from suffering. His qi radiated across the rooftop like a furnace exposed to air.
"You won't take this place," Tian said.
Altan's saber remained sheathed.
"I already did."
They clashed in the stormlight. Flame against wind. Every blow of Tian's halberds carved through stone, each strike powered by furnace-born will. But Altan moved with no wasted effort, slipping past each arc, redirecting heat with softened stances and angled breath. Fengjin was not about defiance. It was about timing. Pressure. Reflection.
"You fight well," Altan said, circling as sparks spun between them. "But force alone doesn't last. It only burns faster."
Tian roared, his final strike blazing with blood qi and desperation. Both halberds arced outward, spiraling flame trailing their tips.
Altan vanished between steps. One breath. One draw.
The saber flashed once. No sound followed.
Steel whispered through flesh. The halberds clattered to stone. Tian staggered, eyes wide. Altan stepped past him and caught the falling banner before it touched the ground.
"Tell your Emperor," he said, without looking back. "We won't be waiting where he looks."
By nightfall, the red banners of conquest hung from the broken keep. Gale warriors moved through the ashes, freeing prisoners, extinguishing what fires remained. On the wall, Altan stood with wind at his back, his saber clean, his eyes already fixed beyond the valley.
Chaghan joined him, boots blackened from scorched ground.
"They'll hit back hard," he said.
"They think we want to hold," Altan replied.
Chaghan exhaled. "So where?"
"Sanchuan. But not the gates. We bleed their lines, burn their grain, pull them out of position."
Burgedai arrived, dust streaked across his face. "Saw a caravan near Red Hollow. Light escort. Just grain and oxen."
"Good," Altan said. "Break it. Burn most. Leave enough behind to make it look like we're starving. Let a few escape."
Khulan emerged from the tower stairwell, hands still stained.
"Then what?" she asked.
Altan looked to the burning horizon. "Then we vanish again. They'll chase ghosts, spend strength, lose rhythm."
His voice was quiet now, not soft, just certain.
"We don't need to win every battle. Just the one they never see coming."
The fire behind him crackled. Below, the banners of Feihu fluttered in the ash-filled wind.
The war moved forward. And the wind, once more, changed its course.