The Yanshui Pass,
The morning sun burned behind a veil of ash-gray mist over the Yanshui Pass, casting ghostly light upon broken trade caravans sprawled across the ravaged earth. A trail of shattered wagons, overturned carts, and blood-stained crates wound through the old road—Peng clan insignias emblazoned on many. Their convoy, once the spine of four provinces' supply networks, now lay in ruin.
Miners in the south went unpaid. Rice stores in Liyun province rotted as the roads froze with inaction. Word of "Alliance sabotage" trickled through every village. Rumors took root, exaggerated and shaped by whispers fanned through merchants' tongues, rogue scribes, and carefully planted "eyewitness accounts."
In the northern district of Luoyan, hunger riots broke out. Desperate villagers looted an outpost garrisoned by the Peng clan's reserve troops. When reinforcements arrived, the clash left over seventy dead, many of them innocents. And all this unrest traced back to the same phantom thread—the perception that the Heavenly Spear Alliance had orchestrated an economic strike.
But behind that perception, in the shadows of Tianzhen's State of Records Council Hall, Ji Yeyan watched the spiderweb take shape with chilling calm.
At Peng Clan Estate,
Peng Zhenyu, patriarch of the Golden Rock Clan, slammed his fist on the longstone council table, cracking the lacquered wood. "We bled for this empire's bones. And now, Mengtian's mongrels poison the marrow?"
His eldest son, Peng Hongxuan, stood silent beside him, his lips pressed into a flat line. Across the room, maps of collapsed routes flickered. Refugee lines. Burned convoys.
Peng Hanrui, his daughter, leaned forward. "We don't have conclusive evidence. Only hearsay. The Alliance hasn't issued a statement."
"Because they're guilty!" snapped Clan Elder Peng Zhaoyang. "This wasn't an accident. Coincidence doesn't rip apart five provinces in five days."
Peng Zhenyu turned to him. "Then we strike. Not words. Blood. Every Hall of Valor outpost near our roads—purge them."
Hanrui's eyes widened. "Father—if we do that, we turn whispers into fact. We'll hand Mengtian moral legitimacy."
He glared. "Let them think what they want. Fear is louder than truth."
And so, the order was given.
At Baishan Rise,
Baishan Rise, a remote outpost on the southeast border near the collapsed copper route, was the first to burn. Just before midnight, Peng shocktroopers emerged from the mountain mists—silent, armored in blackstone.
Inside the outpost, Commander Ru Qing of the Hall of Valor—a mid-rank officer under Rao Lin—reacted too late. The attack was surgical. Six warriors from the Peng elite dispatched guards silently before unleashing a concentrated assault. Ru Qing fell in the courtyard defending an injured scribe.
By dawn, the Peng banners flew over a charred fortress. Casualties: 19 dead, 11 wounded. Three of them Peng warriors.
In Tianzhen, news arrived via spectral messenger beads before the bodies cooled.
At Tianzhen City - State of Records Council Hall,
The State of Records Council Hall was a furnace.
Rao Lin's fist shook against the stone table. "They murdered one of my officers! This is no longer espionage. This is war."
Inara of Ironblood growled, "Let me take my Hall north. Ten days, and the Peng clan will kneel."
Baojin of Aegis raised a calm hand. "And then what? Retribution for retribution? We fall into their trap."
Lan Qiu, still freshly returned from her diplomatic mission, added, "We sent signals to the capital. The emperor has not responded. If we escalate now, the Compact wins."
Silence fell. All eyes turned to the only one who had not spoken—Su Mengtian.
He stood at the far end of the chamber, eyes on a rotating projection of supply lines and broken merchant routes. Lightning flickered outside.
"We will not strike," Mengtian said.
Rao Lin's voice rose. "With respect—"
Mengtian cut him off. "Not yet."
He turned slowly. "The Compact believes they hold the tempo. That fear will override fact. But we still hold the truth."
He looked at Ji Yeyan. "Activate the Watchers within Peng territory. I want names of every whisper-pusher. Every fake ledger, every flame spreader. Silence the architects, not the buildings."
He faced the rest of the Hall. "And begin humanitarian relief. We aid the provinces they starved. Let the people know who serves and who steals."
Rao Lin's fists clenched, but he bowed. Inara muttered under her breath. But Baojin nodded, Yue Mei remained thoughtful, and Xuan Le was already adjusting his scrolls.
Outside, the thunder rolled.
The Chamber of Quiet Leaves,
Far from the council's clamor, Bai Yueying stood alone in the Chamber of Quiet Leaves, a shaded inner garden of Tianzhen's southern archives. A scroll floated before her—details of the Baishan incident.
"They killed Qing."
She remembered him—a soft-spoken strategist who once taught her to brew mulberry tea during winter training. A life ended not by battle, but by vengeance.
Behind her, footsteps approached. Her brother, Bai Feng, clad in formal white robes, halted beside her.
"You read the casualty list?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Peng blames us. They're demanding reparations."
"And we'll give none," she said sharply.
He studied her. "You've changed, Yueying."
"I've seen more."
There was a pause.
"You believe in Mengtian's path?" he asked.
She nodded. "Because he still sees the people, not just power. He carries a burden they never could."
"And what if the burden becomes a sword?" Bai Feng asked. "Would you still follow?"
Yueying met his gaze. "Then I will be the one to stop him."
Elsewhere - Tang Family Estate - Shi Jainhong's Study,
At midnight, in the opulent study of the Crystal Clan's patriarch, a silent shape passed through shadowed walls. Ward spells flickered. Barriers failed. And by the time Shi Jainhong returned from his moonlit meditation, he found the blood.
A single line of crimson, etched across the stone desk:
"You planned war. We plan fate."
There were no signs of struggle. No body. Only blood, still warm.
And a black feather placed beside the message.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then summoned the elders.
The assassination message sent ripples through the Compact. The Feng and Shi clans, both implicated in the economic subversion, now grew paranoid. Shi Jainhong's blood-written note was interpreted not just as a threat—but a declaration.
The Compact gathered in secret. Feng Yitian accused the Hall of Shadows. Long Aotian warned against underestimating the Alliance's intelligence network. Jin Zeyan advocated pulling back before public sentiment tipped.
But Tang Wushen, with ice in his voice, said:
"They've drawn blood. Now we bleed them."
At Tianzhen City,
In the moonlit balcony of the Tianzhen command estate, Su Mengtian stood alone. Below, relief caravans rolled into villages struck by the Peng crisis. In the shadows behind him, Ji Yeyan emerged.
"They're unraveling," he said quietly. "Too many clans. Too many egos."
Mengtian spoke without turning. "Their fear will undo them faster than our blades."
"And the assassin?"
"No order was given."
"Then who?"
Mengtian finally turned, his eyes storm-lit. "Fate, perhaps. Or justice."
He walked away.
Below, thunder cracked.
The mirror was cracked. And in its reflection, blood would pool.