One month had passed since the siege broke across Gale Citadel like a hammer on stone. The battlefield, once filled with fire and steel, had gone quiet. Too quiet. The Empire had pulled back, bleeding and humiliated. Lord Qiu limped home with barely half his legion. But Altan didn't rest. While the Empire regrouped, he moved underground—literally.
Beneath the cliffs, deeper than any scout had mapped, lay a hidden network of tunnels. They weren't new. Old mining routes, abandoned escape paths, sealed smugglers' shafts—Altan had them widened and reinforced. Burrowing Qi glyphs kept the walls stable. Steppe masons used collapsed mine seals and repurposed stone to shape an underground fortress.
In that darkness, a different kind of army had been forged. Not a standing force. Not conscripts. But fighters chosen for silence and speed—exiled clansmen, rogue disciples, and warriors too dangerous to be part of the main defense. They trained in secrecy. No ranks. No names. Just skill. Chaghan called them the Veiled Vanguard.
They practiced an internal art called Silent Path Doctrine—designed to suppress breath, emotion, and sound. Their footwork, Breathless Step, let them move across gravel without a whisper. With Vein Echo Qi, they could sense enemy movement through the ground. Their weapons were forged in the Silent Forge, imbued with Temper Qi that dulled sound, removed weight, and enhanced sharpness. Their armor was shadowsteel, alloyed with night-jade—light-absorbing, heat-resistant, and impossible to track by torchlight.
On the thirty-first night, when the moon turned red, the citadel opened—not to the front, but below. They moved out from hidden stairwells and sealed doors. No orders were shouted. No horns sounded. Just a quiet, efficient march into darkness.
At their lead, Chaghan checked her path under the cliff arch. Her neck tattoos glowed faintly from the Silent Step Form she had mastered. She turned back briefly. "Once we're inside, don't talk. Don't hesitate."
Above them, Altan sat on Windbreaker, his stallion bred for endurance and trained for war. He wore his old war-priest armor. No insignia, no title. Just a saber humming faintly at his hip, sealed with Wind Fang Qi. He looked down at them and gave a simple nod.
"We go in. We do it fast. No symbols, no prisoners."
Two nights later, they struck Dalu Fortress.
No signal was given. No warning.
Khulan's scout squads reached the top of the outer wall using Snaring Qi ropes—hooked anchors that grabbed stone silently. Inside the fortress, sentries didn't even make a sound before they dropped. The gate opened from the inside.
Burgedai entered first. His axe, powered by Breaker Form, slammed into the nearest guard and split the man's shield in half. His Iron-Root Qi gave him brute force with every swing. No chants. No challenges. Just clean, crushing strikes.
An imperial captain rushed to the center of the courtyard, trying to rally. Altan landed beside him from a rooftop. He didn't say anything. One slash, clean and fast—the captain dropped with his blade half-raised. Wind Fang Qi flared on impact, cleaving armor and slicing through ribs.
Altan looked up. "Clear the whole place. Leave nothing behind."
They did. Door by door, floor by floor. Glyphcutters sealed the fortress with Silence Seals. Healers used soul-cutting venom to finish survivors. No fires were set. No bodies left hanging. By dawn, Dalu Fortress stood exactly as it had the day before. But inside, everyone was dead.
The Empire didn't even know it was gone.
A supply convoy heading toward the front lines was next. Fifty wagons. Two Imperial Priests who practiced Divine Mandate Qi. They were confident. Protected. They were wrong.
At Qingshui Crossing, the riverbed had been set with buried pots full of oil and explosive glyphs. The first wagons hit the trap—flames tore through the ranks. From the reeds, Wraithborn archers rose, their bodies soaked to reduce heat signature. Their shots were fast, accurate, and silent.
The priests tried to form a shield—but Khulan's arrow pierced one of them before the chant finished. The other priest caught fire when a rune arrow struck his robe. Horses screamed. Carts burned. Commanders shouted retreat, but the high ridge was already taken.
Chaghan's second unit fired down from above. The commander took a blade to the chest before he even saw who threw it. By the time the last screams ended, only eight men survived. None made it past the mountains.
In Shanjing, the imperial capital, the silence became a different kind of weapon. The ministers stood in the throne hall as scroll after scroll was read aloud. "No contact." "No survivors." "No evidence."
One of the court officials, pale and shaking, said what everyone thought.
"They had another army. Underground. We never saw them coming."
The Emperor said nothing for a long time. Then, he stood. For the first time in two decades, he left his dais.
"Find him. I don't care how."
Outside, on a ridge above Dalu Fortress, Altan looked down at the still towers. The fortress was gone, but it hadn't fallen. It had been emptied.
Burgedai spat blood from his lip and leaned on his axe. "This'll wake them up. They're going to hit back."
Altan didn't blink. "I know."
Khulan stepped forward, adjusting her belt. "We're committed now. No going back."
Altan nodded, eyes fixed eastward.
"Next time, we go to them. No more hiding."
The steppe wind blew across the ash-covered battlefield.
They had struck first.
Now they waited for the empire's answer.