The embers of the Sanyou campaign had cooled, but war had not ended.
With the dust still settling, the Qin army began to reassign its battered yet rising stars. Among them was Ren. Now a full 1,000-man commander, his Gu Ren Tai had earned its place through blood — carved into the battlefield during the long fight against Renpa's Four Heavenly Kings. The promotion came in the aftermath, when losses demanded replacements, and skill could no longer be overlooked.
Their next destination: the eastern border.
It was supposed to be quiet.
But the border was never truly calm — not with Wei lurking beyond the ridgelines.
Weeks passed in tension.
Then, one morning, scouts returned breathless: a 2,000-man Wei unit had crossed into Qin territory.
Ren was silent for a moment as the report was read aloud.
Kai, standing beside him, glanced sideways. "Twice our number."
Ren's eyes narrowed.
"Then we strike where the lines are weakest."
The terrain offered few advantages — open ground with only sparse tree lines and low, sloping ridges. No grand trap. No cliffs or fire.
But Ren didn't look for tricks.
He walked the field at dusk, silent. Watching the wind. Studying the soil. Listening.
Then, just before night fell, he called a meeting.
"We hold the line at the lower basin," Ren said, pointing to a depression in the landscape. "Their center will push fastest. That's where we'll shatter them."
Kai frowned. "It's flat ground. No cover. You want to dig in?"
"No," Ren replied. "We let them come."
He tapped the map again — a narrow bend behind the basin, where the slope rose into two gentle ridges.
"When they press, we break. Then we fold."
He looked at his men.
"And that's where we light the fire."
The next day, as predicted, the Wei formation pressed hard through the basin. Ren allowed the center to bend — just enough to lure them in. His men gritted their teeth and held.
Then came the moment — when the enemy pushed too deep.
Ren raised his sword, eyes burning.
"Now!"
From both flanks, Gu Ren Tai soldiers surged forward — not reckless, but perfectly timed. Their momentum cut clean into the overextended enemy center.
Like a flame catching dry grass, the pressure spread.
The Wei formation cracked.
What began as resistance turned into collapse. Ren, at the front, led the charge — each step guided by instinct honed in real battle. He fought not with brute force, but with presence, each movement a signal to his men.
This was Ren's fire — not lit by flame, but by instinct.
And it burned bright enough to turn the tide.
When the battle ended, the field was strewn with broken banners.
The Gu Ren Tai stood, breathing hard, surrounded by twice their number — now scattered, defeated.
Weeks later, stationed again along the ridgeline border, Ren stood overlooking the eastern horizon.
Kai joined him in silence.
"Word's spreading," he said. "One thousand against two."
Ren didn't answer.
Kai leaned on the wooden post. "They say you found your moment. Just like Shin. Lit the fire."
A pause.
Ren finally spoke, quiet as the wind. "Not fire."
"…Then what?"
Ren's gaze didn't waver.
"Weight."