Snow veiled the peaks around Shanjing, softening the jagged skyline like ash over old wounds. Within the imperial court, the atmosphere was sharp with tension. The brazier burned low. Ministers whispered. Strategists poured over maps that now bled red along their borders.
Lord Qiu knelt before the dragon throne—head bowed, eyes steady.
"You summoned me, Your Majesty."
The Emperor studied him, fingers steepled before his mouth. "Two legions lost. Zhao Rui is dead. The Gale Army grows bolder. And we know nothing of their leader."
General Yue Lin added grimly, "We've combed the records. There's no history. No academy. No command lineage. No bannermen. Altan simply… appeared. Less than two years ago. Now he commands thousands."
The Emperor's gaze was obsidian. "Then we must know the man. Not through parchment. But through presence."
Lord Qiu raised his eyes. "You want me to go to him."
"Alone," the Emperor said. "No blades. No banners. He won't trust a show of strength. Read his face. Read his truth. Return with it."
"I understand."
Three days later, the wind howled across the grasslands as Lord Qiu approached the Gale camp. He came unarmed, cloaked in white, a single sigil of truce sewn to his sleeve.
The guards hesitated. Spears lowered. But word was sent. And when Altan emerged from his command tent, the wind paused—as if the steppe itself held its breath.
But Qiu didn't find him at council or map-table. He was led instead to a quiet ridge above the camp, where flame-banners swayed in the dusk wind. There, Altan moved alone.
Half-naked beneath the failing sun, his body was a study of scars and sinew—sweat beading across his shoulders, muscles taut from repetition. Each movement flowed into the next: strikes, pivots, sudden stillness. It was a kata, but not from any school Qiu recognized. Wind trailed from his arms. Heat shimmered with every step.
Lord Qiu narrowed his focus and tried to read the man's qi. But there was nothing. No resonance. No presence. As if he were watching a mortal peasant rehearse old forms. The power was there—obvious, undeniable—but veiled behind perfect suppression.
Altan finished the form in silence, exhaling once. Then he turned.
"You're far from the palace, Lord Qiu."
"I came seeking a man. But I find a wall."
Altan took a water flask, drank, and wiped his brow. "You came to measure me. But I'm not yours to weigh."
"There is no record of you," Qiu said, stepping closer. "You rose from smoke and silence. And now you've forged an army the Empire can't predict."
Altan gestured toward the brazier below, beside a table marked by blades and pebbles. "Then sit. Learn. Not from scrolls. But from the soil."
They spoke for hours, as wind howled and fires cracked. Of battles, terrain, doctrines. Of circular warfare. Of how broken people build sharper blades. Altan spoke not as a general, but as a man who had rebuilt himself from ash and exile.
"You used the terrain of the twin lakes to your advantage," Qiu said, leaning over the map. "You baited their cavalry between two mirrored waters and collapsed the passage once they advanced."
"They thought speed would win them the field," Altan replied, laying down a black stone. "But the soil was soft. Wet from spring. Their hooves churned into mud. I let their front ranks break through, then snapped the pincer shut with archers hidden in the reedbanks."
"And Zhao Rui?" Qiu asked.
Altan's eyes darkened. "He thought momentum would carry him. But his legions were heavy. Discipline rigid. They couldn't respond when we encircled them. Their command chain collapsed after I took out the flanks."
"Your soldiers moved like they'd trained for it all their lives," Qiu said. "But they're recruits, nomads, former laborers."
"They trained for one year," Altan said. "Stab. Hook. Shield. Advance. Retreat. We drilled until muscle replaced fear. They don't fight like nobles. They fight to survive."
Qiu studied him. "You're building something more dangerous than an army. You're building belief."
But when Qiu asked about cultivation, techniques, or inner force, Altan simply looked away.
"I won't share what keeps me alive," he said. "And you wouldn't understand it even if I did."
Qiu could only nod. Even with all his training, all his years of insight, he couldn't pierce the veil that clung to this man. Altan was unreadable—not just in qi, but in will.
"You're not the steppe," Qiu said at last. "You're the wound we left there."
Altan didn't smile. "You only understand now because I made you bleed."
Lord Qiu stood. "Then I must return. They'll want your head. But they should fear your mind more."
Altan said nothing. Only watched him go.
As Qiu rode back through twilight, he knew one truth: the Empire was facing something it had never prepared for. Not a rebellion. Not a warlord.
A reckoning.
Far behind him, Altan returned to the map. The ring must tighten.
"The next trap," he murmured, "must be set in fire."