Dawn crept across the camp, veiling tents in muted gold as mist clung to the ground. Inside, He Yan quietly helped Mei gather her few belongings—a cloak, a flask, simple garments. Mei's movements were weak but determined, a fragile calm settling over her.
"Are you ready, Xinyi?" He Yan's voice trembled with emotion. She nodded, unsure, but managed, "Yes… Father." The word brought tears to his eyes.
Outside, Zian watched from the shadow of a pine, his face unreadable but his gaze fixed on Mei. Every step she took weighed heavy in his chest; he yearned to comfort her but remained silent, the memory of her tears twisting inside him. If a gentle lie gave her peace, he would bear the cost.
At the camp gate, a carriage awaited. He Yan steadied Mei, helping her inside as she glanced back—almost searching, though she did not see Zian. The driver cracked the reins; the carriage rolled away.
Zian stood motionless, his eyes following the carriage until it vanished. Only then did his fist tighten, pain and resolve burning within. Quietly, he vowed, "No matter where fate leads, Mei… you are not lost to me."
The camp returned to life, but Zian remained standing, knowing this was only the beginning of a bond tested by destiny.
The sun had climbed halfway up the sky when Wan Heng and Yan Zhu finally found the general. He was not in his tent, nor was he at the strategy table. He was on the training grounds, alone. In the center of the dust-caked field, he was a solitary, formidable figure, a blade flashing in his hand as he went through a series of movements. It was not a training exercise. It was a dance of silent fury. Each strike of his sword was delivered with a cold precision that suggested he was not fighting a phantom opponent, but a ghost from his past.
"General," Wan Heng said, his voice hesitant.
Zian's blade sliced through the air and came to a sudden, jarring halt inches from the strategist's throat. His eyes, now sharp and cold as glaciers, were fixed on Wan Heng.
"Speak," Zian commanded, his voice a low growl.
Yan Zhu stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, as if prepared for a storm. "The King's messenger arrived. He wishes to know why the Western City has not yet been retaken."
Zian's expression did not change, but a flicker of something ancient and dangerous crossed his eyes. "What did you tell him?"
"We told him... that you were preparing a counter-assault," Wan Heng said, his eyes on the sword that still pointed his way.
Zian gave a humorless laugh, a sound like grinding stone. He sheathed his sword with a snap. "Good. Tell the messenger that his patience will be rewarded. A counter-assault is exactly what they will get."
He turned on his heel, his cloak whipping around him. Wan Heng and Yan Zhu fell into step behind him, a sense of dread settling in their chests. The general they knew—the cold, heartless killer—had returned. But there was something different now. A new edge. A new purpose.
"The men of Mount Xia have left their forces scattered across the Western border," Zian said, his voice now crisp and commanding. "Their arrogance blinds them. They believe they have already won. We will remind them of their folly."
He strode into his tent, a large map of the Western City spread out on the table. His hand came down on the map with a sharp thud.
"Wan Heng," he said, his eyes scanning the map. "I want a full report on the enemy's troop placements. I want to know their strengths and weaknesses. I want to know everything. Leave no stone unturned."
"Yes, General."
"Yan Zhu," Zian continued, his gaze now on her, "I want you to lead a reconnaissance mission into the Western City. I want you to infiltrate their ranks. I want you to find their commander and report back to me."
"Yes, General," he replied, his face a blank mask of determination.
Wan Heng's jaw was tight as he left the tent. Yan Zhu followed him, the cold silence between them speaking volumes. The general was focused again. He was in command. But at what cost? He hadn't asked about Mei. He hadn't spoken about the woman who had captivated his attention for days.
Yan Zhu looked at Wan Heng, his eyes filled with unspoken questions. "What do we do?" he whispered.
"We do what we always do," Wan Heng replied, his voice low. "We obey his orders. And we pray to the gods that he knows what he is doing."
He watched as Zian's tent flap closed behind them. The general was a mystery. But one thing was certain. The war had just begun. And the man who led it was no longer the one they once knew. He was a man with a new purpose—a silent, unspoken vow. He was no longer just a general fighting for his King. He was a man who would tear down a mountain if it meant protecting the one thing he couldn't afford to lose.