The battle was over, but the forest still burned. Ash fell like snow over Xingzhao. Smoke drifted across the blackened tree line, leaving the scent of scorched pine and blood in its wake. Charred stakes marked the edge of the village where the empire's army had once stood. Now, there was only silence. And then, the sound of rebuilding.
In the central square, the villagers worked in shifts. Barricades were repaired. Traps were reset. The outer perimeter was cleared, and firebreak trenches were dug deeper.
Jia Mei moved like a wraith through the crowds, organizing food, checking medical supplies, and whispering comfort to those who had lost loved ones.
"We need clean water by sundown," she told the children filling buckets. "And rotate the wounded out of the sun—heatstroke will take more lives than swords."
At the forge, Wu Shun hammered bent weapons back into shape. His knuckles were split, his beard singed, but he smiled faintly as children watched him work with awe.
"Never thought I'd be teaching a kid how to fix a sword," he said to Liang Cheng, who passed him a fresh rod of iron.
Liang grinned. "Never thought I'd see imperial troops run from a handful of farmers."
Atop the ruined watchtower, Yun Zhen watched new groups of refugees arrive by the hour. Word of the empire's defeat had spread like wildfire.
They came from all directions—farmers, merchants, ex-soldiers, women with children strapped to their backs. Many had fled corrupt magistrates or escaped conscription. All had heard of the place where the people had stood against General Qiu Wensheng.
And won. They looked up at Yun Zhen not with fear or suspicion—but with hope. A hope that weighed heavily.
He turned as Song Lian approached, wiping soot from her arms. Her eyes were sharp, but there was fatigue beneath the surface.
"We don't have the resources to feed everyone," she said plainly. "Your name is bringing them here faster than we can prepare."
Yun Zhen sighed. "It's not my name. It's the idea of a better life."
She met his gaze. "That's what makes it dangerous."
A council formed—ad hoc, yet necessary. Song Lian, Yun Zhen, Jia Mei, Wu Shun, and Liang Cheng sat beneath the great pine tree at the heart of Xingzhao, now called the Iron Tree after it withstood the fire.
They laid out plans:
Reorganize housing using tents from Song Lian's storage. Expand farmland using cleared forest ground.
Train newcomers in basic defense. They also introduced laws, simple but firm:
No theft. No violence against fellow citizens. All able-bodied residents must contribute.
Xingzhao was no longer just a village.
It was becoming a city. And Yun Zhen, once an exiled prince was no longer just a fugitive. He was becoming a ruler.
In the Shadows of the Court of Yun Empire.
Far from the forest, in the cold halls of Jingdu, capital of the Yun Empire, the Emperor read the scroll with trembling hands. His expression did not change, but his knuckles turned white.
"General Qiu Wensheng... routed?" he said softly.
Across the room, Prime Minister Han Xun lowered his head.
"It is true, Your Majesty. And worse—this village is rallying thousands. Their banners bear no imperial mark. Only... the name of Yun Zhen."
The Emperor stood slowly. His robe swept across the marble floor like storm clouds.
"Then the fire wasn't enough," he said. "Let them learn what true wrath feels like."
He turned to his right. From the shadows, a man stepped forward, face veiled, robes dark as ink.
Commander Wei Jian, master of the Black Hall, the empire's covert enforcers.
"No armies this time," the Emperor said. "No warnings."
"Burn it to the roots."
Wei Jian bowed once—and vanished. That night, in Xingzhao, Song Lian couldn't sleep. Her instincts stirred uneasily. She stepped outside her cabin, gripping her dagger.
Across the darkened village, torches flickered. Refugees sang quietly by the fire. A child laughed somewhere near the outer wall.
Everything seemed... too still.
She narrowed her eyes toward the edge of the forest. The trees moved. But there was no wind.She dropped to a crouch, heart racing, and reached for her bow.
In the shadows between two trees, she saw it:
A flicker of dark cloth. A figure unmoving—watching. Not imperial. Not soldier.
Something else. Before she could call out, the figure slipped back into the woods without a sound.
Only one thing remained behind.
A black sigil, etched into the bark of a tree.
An assassin's mark.