"How do I check it out?" Lin Feng asked, palms pressed together as he half-listened to the sword's rasping voice.
"It is inside your dantian," the ancient voice replied. "You will feel it when you are ready."
He was about to probe inward when the elders' bell cut across the yard — the summons. An attendant ran through the courtyard with a white flag: all disciples to the main courtyard, now.
"What's going on?" Fatty muttered as they jogged. Around them other students were already moving with purpose—helmets strapped, swords sheathed, eyes alert.
By the time Lin Feng and Fatty reached the main square nearly every disciple had assembled. Ranks of novices and veterans stood shoulder to shoulder; flags snapped in a cold wind. The sect master stood on the raised dais, First Elder at his right, and a ring of elders behind them. The atmosphere tasted like iron and rain.
"Silence!" the sect master called. "We have received reports: incursions along our southern border. The Devil Sect has begun probing the seal. Today we prepare to defend."
A low murmur ran through the crowd. Lin Feng's blood quickened. War was not an abstract thing anymore — it was a marching drum at the foot of the mountain.
"We are dispatching ten battalions," the sect master continued. "Each battalion: one thousand disciples, one hundred Heaven-Realm experts, five hundred Xiantian experts, four hundred Mortal-Realm soldiers, and five legend-grade masters attached as guardians and commanders. Commanders will be: Ouyang Yi, Xuanyuan, Xiotian, — and Lin Feng."
The name struck silence into the square. Heads turned. A dozen voices rose at once.
"Lin Feng? Lead a battalion?"
"He's only a Heaven-Realm expert!"
"But his battle prowess rivals a legend expert," came another voice; many had heard his recent deeds.
One core disciple stepped forward, chin high. "Sect Master, I object. Lin Feng has the rank of Heaven-Realm only. He is untested as a battalion commander."
The sect master's eyes narrowed. "You question my judgment?"
Before the violator's pride could be repaired Lin Feng had already vanished. The next sound was a sharp thud, then another: three consecutive palm strikes — each a surgical blow that rode the opponent's incoming momentum and poured it back into the earth. The core disciple hit the ground, winded and shamed; his protest evaporated.
"Enough," the sect master said, voice cold but not unkind. "Any more objections?"
Silence bowed the square.
"Assignments will be posted in two hours," the sect master declared. "Prepare accordingly."
As the crowd dispersed, Lin Feng's hearing caught a whisper from behind the dais — something the First elder did not mean to be public. "Make sure he's sent to the most dangerous sector. If the boy survives, he'll be a jewel; if he dies, a liability removed." It ended in a smothered chuckle. Lin Feng's jaw clenched; the smile he had worn almost vanished. He knew politics as well as any elder: the sect's protections had limits, and enemies used those seams like knives.
---
Two hours later, at the mobilization tent, the posted allocations were a tarp of inked names and seals. Lin Feng's battalion would head to Sun Village — a Black danger zone. Black meant tactical nightmare: narrow approaches, ambush-friendly ruins, and rumored concentrations of devil-sect forces. He scanned his roster: one thousand men, five legend-grade advisers attached as senior lieutenants, a hundred Heaven-Realm specialists for heavy support, and the usual mix of Xiantian and Mortal troops. Logistics: three days of field supplies, two signal flares per squad, standard formation banners and ten mobile array stones for warding.
"Sun Village," Fatty read aloud. "Time limit: one month. Token rules: each mortal head — 200 points. Xiantian head — 400 points. Legend-grade—special grade valuation. Exchange the points for pills, cores, and training slots."
Lin Feng studied the men assembled beneath him. The hundred Heaven-Realm experts were elite in title, uneven in discipline; a third of the Xiantian troops were veterans of border patrols, the rest raw recruits. The real work of command would be to weld this ragged mix into a functioning blade. He ran the problem through his head as a craftsman considers metal: where the joints were weak, where heat must be applied, what strikes to teach so even novices could execute them.
"Captain Lin Feng," one of the legend-grade lieutenants reported, "we've mapped the approaches. The western ridge is the most likely ambush corridor. The villagers have been told to hunker down in the temple complex."
"Ok"
He outlined precise internal energy control to his lieutenants — how to time the merge of battle intent (to sharpen output) with sword intent (to increase penetration) and when to bleed into self-recovery channels to resist the enemy's poison techniques. "Conserve for the counter-stroke," he said, "don't waste a full release on a false charge. Teach the men the short-step inside-line entry; it ruins sabers when they rely on wide arcs."
Fatty, watching him, looked both alarmed and proud. "Boss, that's a lot. Do they have time to drill?"
"Forty-eight hours," Lin Feng said. "Enough to teach the basics that save lives. After that, we adapt on the field."
---
By dusk, the battalion gathered at the portal. The portal shimmered with runes and the scent of cold earth. Tokens were checked. Wives kissed husbands. Cadres tightened gauntlets.
"Everyone ready?" Lin Feng called, voice low and sure across the ranks.
"Ready!" came the reply, a thousand voices folding into a heartbeat.
He flipped the token between his fingers — a small ring of forged jade that kept tally and opened the logistics store. He tightened his grip on the sword intent inside his chest like a simmering flame.
"Move out," he ordered.
A dozen cries, then the portal's light flared.