The dawn crept upward with a reluctant glow, as though the sky itself hesitated to cast light upon the carnage to come.
A shroud of mist clung to Fenglu Valley, its tendrils weaving through the fields where dew-kissed grass shimmered like scattered diamonds. The air hung heavy—a pungent cocktail of aged leather, sour sweat, and the metallic tang of freshly honed blades. In the distance, beneath the jagged silhouette of hills and skeletal trees, two armies sprawled like opposing tides. The silence was a lie: it throbbed with the rustle of chainmail, the creak of strained bowstrings, and the muted clatter of a thousand restless hands gripping weapons. It was not peace, but the gritted-teeth calm of a coiled serpent, pregnant with the weight of futures yet unwritten.
Yuan Guo's army stood as a paradox. At first glance, it resembled a riot of desperation—peasants clad in patched gambesons, their spears little more than scythe blades lashed to poles, bare feet sinking into the mud. Yet behind this facade of disarray, Luo Wen's sharp gaze detected order. Formed companies lurked like shadowed beasts: shield-bearers with oak-hewn bucklers, their short swords glinting dully; archers in the rear, their arrows nocked with the mechanical precision of clockwork; and flanking them all, the black banners of Yuan Guo's elite, their wearers motionless as statues. These were men carved by northern winters and bloodied campaigns, their faces as unreadable as stone, their eyes reflecting no fear—only the cold arithmetic of survival.
Beside them, An Lu moved with the lethargic grace of a prowling wolf, his helmet casting a slit-eyed shadow over features as impassive as a death mask. His scrutiny swept across the ranks, dissecting every formation like a surgeon's blade. When he spoke to Yuan Guo, his voice carried the rasp of a whetstone on steel:
"The trap is set. Let Luo Wen charge into our teeth or rot in our grip."
Yuan Guo's reply was a low rumble, his arms folded like fortress gates:
"He will charge. His cavalry hungers for open ground—this valley is their last gasp of room before the mountains choke them."
An Lu's gaze narrowed.
"And if he flees?"
"Then we hunt. Today decides empires. No tomorrows linger for cowards."
Across the valley, Luo Wen's crimson standard snapped in the wind, a slash of blood against the ashen sky. His forces stood in stark contrast: a monolith of discipline, every soldier armored in lacquered scale, their ranks tight as a clenched fist. Officers prowled the lines, their voices sharp as lashings, while to the right, the cavalry crouched—a chained storm of muscle and steel.
Their horses stamped, hooves churning earth into froth, their riders' light armor gleaming like serpent scales. This was Luo Wen's blade in the dark: a cavalry famed for carving chaos into order, for turning battlefields into tempests of hoof and fury.
Upon a nearby hill, Luo Wen stood as still as a sentinel, his hands clasped behind his back. Zhao Qing, at his side, tightened his gloves with a snarl of impatience, his eyes locked on the enemy's ragged front.
"Militia," he spat. "Carrion for crows. They'll break before our first arrow falls."
Luo Wen's silence lingered, his gaze dissecting the enemy lines.
"Look deeper," he murmured. "Yuan Guo masks a viper in a beggar's cloak. His true strength festers behind those peasants. He wants us reckless—to waste our cavalry on fodder."
Zhao scoffed, his laughter brittle as old bone:
"Let him scheme. When we charge, his lines will scatter like leaves. You've seen our steel bite deeper than their prayers."
Luo Wen's voice dropped to a hush that carried the weight of tombs:
"This battle is not won by speed, but by who blinks first. Crush Yuan Guo today, and the throne is ours. Stumble, and history will forget we ever drew breath."
Zhao's smile faltered.
"And if… we lose?"
Luo Wen turned, his eyes glinting like dagger points:
"Legends aren't carved by doubt."
The drums began—a deep, primal heartbeat that shuddered through the earth. Soldiers inhaled as one, their chests rising in time with the rhythm, their knuckles whitening on spears.
On Yuan Guo's side, banners jerked upward, signaling the advance. The militia lurched forward, a tidal wave of trembling flesh and rusted iron. Some clutched crude talismans; others whispered names that would soon be etched on graves. A boy no older than sixteen crossed himself twice, his lips moving in silent plea, while an old man beside him stared skyward, his eyes two pools of resigned fury.
In their midst, Yuan Guo's officers bellowed, voices raw as open wounds, herding the mob into a semblance of order. Their task was not glory, but to bleed the enemy's strength—to turn flesh into time, fear into fuel.
From Luo Wen's ranks came an answering roar. His infantry marched, shields interlocking like dragonscale, spears leveled in a wall of death. They moved with the synchronized menace of a machine, their chants rising—a dirge for the doomed.
Above, the sun tore through the clouds, its light harsh and mocking, gilding the valley in a hue like tarnished gold.
Then—a horn's cry, raw and keening, split the air. Once. Twice. Echoes rippling like stones in a pond.
War erupted.
Yuan Guo watched his militia surge—a cacophony of screams and stumbling limbs, more flood than phalanx. They crashed forward, driven not by courage but the primal terror of the trapped.
"Let their blood buy us eternity," he whispered, his jaw clenched to stone.
Luo Wen raised a hand, his signal to Zhao Qing as deliberate as a headsman's axe.
"Hold. Let their wall crack… then unleash hell."
Zhao nodded, his teeth bared in a feral grin.
The valley erupted—a symphony of clashing steel, war cries strangled to gargles, and the wet thud of blades meeting flesh. Dust billowed, swallowing men whole, as the empire's fate teetered on the edge of a thousand swords.