The valley had quieted by the time the sun dipped beneath the ridge. The light bled across the sky in gold and crimson, painting the aftermath in colors too warm for a field soaked in blood.
Crows circled above the corpses, but no one paid them any mind.
Instead, laughter echoed through the battered outpost.
The survivors—former civilians, untrained nobodies who only just three weeks ago flinched at the sound of steel—now drank together, sang together. They had scars now. Soot. Blood. Shaky legs.
But their backs were straight.
Mark stood apart from them on a ledge, arms folded, watching.
Lan Xia approached quietly, her robe still stained with dried frost and sweat. "They're calling you a messiah, Gege," she said.
Mark didn't respond right away.
"I'm far away from a messiah," he muttered after a pause.
Lan Xia tilted her head. "So, are you going to join them, gege? This is your first victory, after all."
