Wei had become a vast bird of prey. From the vault of heaven he struck—not descended, but fell—like lightning given talons and fury.
A single sweep of his wings turned the air to razors. Invisible edges ripped outward.
The lead rider in black never screamed. His horse reared, eyes blazing white; then both horse and man cartwheeled backward in a single shattered arc. Dust and ash rose around them like grave smoke.
The slaughter ignited.
Wei climbed, banked, and plunged again. Each wingbeat cracked the night. Each stroke flung another rider from the saddle. Horses shrieked. Men hit scorched earth and stayed down.
When his talons closed, bone snapped like dry kindling under a heel.
Power roared through him—not mere strength, but molten heat, a wildfire surging brighter with every kill.
One bandit rose too slowly. Wei's claws clamped his skull and hoisted. For a frozen heartbeat the man's face dangled moon-pale in the dark, eyes enormous with disbelief. Then the head tore free. Blood sprayed in a wide black fan before the body folded into the cinders.
Another wheeled to flee. Wei's wings lashed. The wind they carved sheared through mail and meat alike. Man and mount split mid-gallop; the halves dropped separately, steaming.
A third had his bow half-drawn. The string stayed silent. Wei arrived in a blur—talons punched chest to spine in one clean pass. The arrow clattered from dead fingers.
Across the blackened plain the black-clad riders lay scattered like snapped marionettes, limbs bent wrong against the ash.
The charge broke.
Survivors yanked reins, glancing back, formation dissolving into raw panic. For the first time they ran.
Wei rose, circled once, then settled on the crown of a lightning-blasted tree above the killing field. Talons sank deep into charcoaled bark. Wings folded with slow, deliberate menace. His chest heaved. Blood slid from feather edges, dripping dark coins onto the ground below.
He watched the remnants scatter beneath him.
"Is this all you can do?"
The words rolled from him as a low, rumbling growl — not shouted, not strained, but heavy with contempt.
At that moment, he truly looked like death itself.
Then it happened.
At the front of the mounted formation, the black armored figure who had not moved even once finally lifted its head.
The faceplate was smooth and dark, without features. A silent slab of iron.
It did not draw a blade.
It simply lifted one hand.
And the corpses on the ground moved.
Wei's pupils shrank.
The bodies that had been torn apart, cut open, trampled flat, all began to twitch. Bones snapped and cracked as if pulled by invisible strings.
Blood and flesh dragged backward across the soil.
There was no struggle.
No scream.
As though the bodies had never belonged to themselves.
The bandits who were still standing stiffened.
They did not flee.
Instead, they turned and began walking toward the black armored warrior.
One step.
Then another.
Like pilgrims approaching a shrine.
Wei beat his wings, preparing to strike again, but something felt wrong.
The wind no longer affected them.
It was as if they had already stepped beyond the realm of the living.
The first bandit pressed against the black armor.
There was no collision.
He merged into it.
Like mud dissolving into iron.
Chest. Arms. Ribs. All sank inward.
The second followed.
The third.
Even the mangled corpses dragged themselves forward, broken limbs scraping across the ground, and fused into the armor.
Flesh flowed across the black surface like something alive.
The once human sized figure began to grow taller.
Shoulders widened.
The chest swelled outward.
Countless arms and bones shifted beneath the armor, rising and reforming as if something inside were rearranging itself.
A final crack echoed as the last corpse embedded itself.
The black armor went still.
Then it opened its eyes.
Two narrow slits split across the smooth mask.
Crimson light burned within.
The towering black warrior now stood nearly ten meters tall.
The horses at its feet looked like small animals.
Behind it, a massive black bow slowly formed, rising as though grown from its own shadow.
The faint sound of a bowstring tightening cut through the night with chilling clarity.
Wei hovered in the air.
For the first time, the heat within him did not thrill him.
It turned cold.
The black warrior lifted the bow.
An arrow gathered.
The string was drawn to its limit.
Wei had no time to react.
The arrow tore through the air.
He twisted violently, wings flipping sideways.
The arrow grazed the tip of his wing, slicing away a spray of feathers.
They drifted downward in the night.
Below, no one cried out.
No soldiers looked up.
Only the leader's cold gaze remained fixed on him.
The posture of the archer.
The angle of the elbow.
The way the thumb hooked the string.
A chill stabbed into Wei's chest.
Impossible.
A second arrow was already nocked.
He dove downward.
It is me.
But what burst from his throat was only a sharp, piercing bird cry.
The sound echoed across the dead village.
The black armored figure did not waver.
It looked at him the way one would look at prey meant to be shot from the sky.
The third arrow flew.
Wei spun to avoid it. The shaft grazed his shoulder blade. Pain exploded along the bones of his wing.
He landed on a broken wall, wings half spread.
The black horse stepped forward slowly.
The figure raised a hand and removed the mask.
Firelight illuminated the face beneath.
Lin.
His father.
Wei opened his beak, desperate to shout that name.
Only another shrill cry came out.
The bowstring tightened once more.
Ah.
Wei shouted and snapped his eyes open.
Blinding light poured down from above. He squinted at once.
It was day.
Everything around him was silent.
He touched his face.
Still human.
He looked down at his body in panic.
No wings.
No beak.
Only cold wind slipping through his clothes.
He exhaled shakily.
It had not been a transformation.
Only a dream born of unconsciousness.
Then he realized his body was tightly bound by thick vines.
They wrapped around his chest and waist.
A wide patch of dried blood stained his shirt.
The fletching of a short arrow was broken, hanging limp against his chest.
He had no strength to move.
He swayed in midair.
He tried shifting his body, tried to look around.
The vines swayed slightly.
They scraped against his arms, burning against torn skin.
Time passed. He could not tell how long.
The valley grew dim again.
Was it dawn. Or dusk.
The air smelled of rotting leaves and damp earth.
He slipped into unconsciousness once more.
Until suddenly he felt something cold and sharp press against his lower back.
The touch was hard as metal, chilling even through his clothes, biting toward his spine.
He hung half suspended, his awareness shredded and drifting like torn cloth in the wind.
What was it.
A snake.
The horn of a mountain antelope.
Or a hallucination at the edge of death.
He did not care enough to decide.
Is this one still alive.
The voice was calm, as though discussing something just picked up from the ground.
Another voice answered, lower and colder.
Why is there no reaction at all.
Looks like nothing but a corpse to me.