The night wind in the slums was cold, cutting against the skin like blades of rust. Tin roofs clattered in the distance, dogs barked at unseen shadows, and the alleyways lay heavy with the smell of oil smoke and cheap liquor. Yet in that darkness, a fire was beginning to stir.
"Lan Yuheng," Duan Renfeng's voice broke the silence as he adjusted his crutch and turned toward his son. His eyes, though dimmed by years of hardship, burned with the same stubborn resilience that had carried him through Border City 17. "Wei… go. Find them. All of them. Tell the veterans the son of Luo Tianyi has returned. Tell them to gather at the old factory by the canal."
Duan Wei blinked. He had never seen his father so solemn, so commanding. Even with a crippled leg, Duan Renfeng stood straight, as though the weight of years of humiliation suddenly lifted. For the boy, it was a revelation—his father was not merely a broken man eking out survival in the slums. He was once a captain, a protector, a hero.
"Yes, Father," Duan Wei said, his voice shaking. He darted into the night, his figure swallowed by the maze of alleyways.
The walk to the abandoned factory was long, though the streets seemed to give way before them as if guided by destiny itself. Duan Renfeng limped with quiet determination, every step tapping against the broken pavement. Luo Yuchen—still wearing the borrowed identity of Lan Yuheng—walked by his side. Zhuang Niao and Xing followed, their faces drawn in thought.
The factory loomed ahead like a blackened carcass from another age. Its windows were shattered, its walls graffitied and burned, yet within its vast hollow shell, echoes of forgotten battles seemed to linger. Rusted steel beams arched overhead, like the bones of a fallen beast.
Inside, men and women had already begun to gather.
One by one, scarred faces appeared in the dim light of oil lanterns. Some leaned on canes, some bore missing limbs, and others still carried the hardened eyes of soldiers long unbowed. Their clothes were tattered, patched with the remnants of uniforms from another life. They had been scattered to the winds, surviving as mercenaries, beggars, dock laborers. Yet when the word spread—the son of Luo Tianyi has returned—they came.
By the time the four arrived, nearly a hundred veterans already stood waiting.
And when Luo Yuchen stepped through the rusted doorway, silence fell like a tide.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, somewhere in the crowd, a man's voice cracked:
"...It's him."
Another whispered, trembling, "Luo Tianyi's bloodline… he's alive…"
Then the silence broke. Cheers erupted, raw and desperate. Some wept openly, others raised fists in salute, their voices echoing through the hollow factory.
"General Luo's son lives!"
"Eight years, and he returns to us!"
"Blood of the commander! The people's army is not dead!"
The sound reverberated through the walls until the entire slum seemed to stir.
From within the crowd, four figures stepped forward, cutting through the sea of ragged veterans. Their presence alone silenced the chaos.
The first was a middle aged man but with robust vitality—Commander Hai Ying, his hair gone white, his hands scarred from a lifetime of battle. His gaze carried the steel of an immovable mountain.
Beside him stood a woman of striking severity, her sharp eyes glinting like drawn blades. Bai Ying—her hair tied back in a soldier's knot, her very stance radiating command.
The third was Jian Mei, a slender woman draped in plain cloth, her movements graceful yet concealing the aura of a predator. Her eyes softened when they fell on Yuchen, but the scars on her arms spoke of years of merciless combat.
Finally came Tei Shen, whose beard was now streaked with gray but whose aura remained thunderous, a towering man with a fortress like body. His very steps carried weight, his broad chest rising like a lion unbroken by time.
They stopped before Yuchen, and for a long moment none spoke.
Then Hai Ying, the oldest, dropped to one knee. His voice boomed.
"Luo Yuchen… son of Tianyi, grandson of Jinhai. You live. Then the blood of the people's army lives!"
The other three followed, kneeling in unison, their fists to their hearts.
The crowd roared. Veterans slammed their fists against their chests, their voices carrying as one:
"Scarlet blood! Iron will! We follow the Luo family still!"
Tears blurred Yuchen's vision. For years he had survived alone—an orphan of war, a shadow on the streets, trained under Luo Jinhai and Luo family. And yet here, among these battered men and women, he found not pity, but loyalty. Loyalty forged in fire, carried through eight years of despair.
That night, the factory became a temple of remembrance.
The veterans spoke of the past—of Border City 17, of the day the walls fell and monsters flooded the streets. They spoke of Luo Tianyi, of his final stand that carved a path for civilians to escape. They spoke of comrades lost, of the betrayal that followed when the Federation disbanded the people's army and cast them aside like broken weapons.
And Yuchen listened. He listened as Duan Renfeng recounted the march of survivors, how six hundred men and women staggered into Shanghai only to be rejected, forced into the mud of slums and mercenary work. Now, fewer than two hundred remained.
"Why?" Yuchen's voice cut through the smoke of burning lanterns. "Why are you here, in these ruins, when you should have been honored as heroes?"
It was Bai Ying who answered, her voice sharp with bitterness.
"Because the Federation fears us. We were soldiers of the people, not pawns of their guilds. When Tianyi fell, they disbanded us—stripped our rights, seized our land, erased our name from records. To them, we are inconvenient relics of an army that refused to bow."
Her words lit a fire in the crowd. Murmurs turned to growls. Some slammed their fists against rusted beams, others shouted curses into the night.
Yet it was Jian Mei who calmed them, her voice low and steady.
"We endured. We survived. Because one day, someone would rise. Someone who carried Tianyi's blood. And now… here you stand."
All eyes turned to Yuchen.
He stood before them, the weight of expectation crushing, yet within his chest, a flame burned brighter than fear. He inhaled deeply, feeling the eyes of two hundred veterans pierce into his soul.
"I am Luo Yuchen," he said, his voice carrying into every corner of the factory. "Son of Luo Tianyi. Grandson of Luo Jinhai. For eight years, I wandered as a ghost, then trained under grandfather, forgotten by the world. But I did not die. I endured—because I knew the blood of my father carried a duty. A duty to you, to those who bled in Border City, to those who still believe the people's army was not in vain."
The veterans leaned forward, breathless.
"I will not beg the Federation for scraps. I will not crawl to their guilds for acceptance. Here, in these ruins, we will build anew. Not as mercenaries. Not as beggars. But as an organization that belongs to us. A guild that carries the spirit of the people's army forward."
He raised his fist high.
"I will build Scarletwing! And I ask you—will you rise with me?"
The factory exploded in thunder.
"Scarletwing! Scarletwing! Scarletwing!"
The chants shook the rusted beams, rattled broken glass, and carried out into the streets. For the first time in eight years, the forgotten army had a name to rally behind.
The four commanders came forward once more.
Hai Ying placed a massive hand on Yuchen's shoulder. "From this day, I pledge my sword to Scarletwing."
Bai Ying's eyes softened, though her voice was like steel. "I will carve our name into the Federation's heart."
Jian Mei bowed low, her hands trembling. "For Tianyi's memory, for the blood of our comrades, I will follow you."
Tei Shen's roar drowned the hall. "The Federation thought we were broken. Let them tremble—we rise again!"
Each veteran stepped forward, one by one, placing their hand against their chest, swearing to Scarletwing.
By dawn, two hundred oaths had been spoken.
And Luo Yuchen knew—this was only the beginning.