Moonlight bathed the snow-covered peaks in a ghostly silver, casting long shadows over the ridgelines. In the distance, perched atop a commanding bluff at the Eastern Expeditionary Army's front line, stood a tent in the Luo Di style—its angular canopy crowned with a fluttering black eagle crest, the banner snapping sharply in the freezing wind.
Inside, the command tent glowed with torchlight. Around a large walnut-wood strategy table sat several generals, their faces grim and weathered. The table was cluttered with parchment maps, wax-sealed scrolls, and signal markers. At the head sat Raymond de Montfort—barely thirty, clad in blackened iron armor and a crimson cloak darkened by old blood. He turned a silver officer's insignia between his fingers, the flicker of flame reflecting in his sharp eyes.
To his right sat General Ilamit of the Liewu Army, his weathered face marked by a scar slicing diagonally across his cheek. His voice was gravelly: "One strike carved through three trench points. The fourth blow shattered a fully armored rider's chest. That's not the soft flourish of the old Southern legions."
Raymond's fingers stilled. "It's a new type of eastern assault formation. Their control of terrain is ruthless, and their weapons—and sorcery—are unfamiliar to us."
A Paluta officer stepped forward, unfurling a topographical map. He pointed to the southwest edge. "Scouts reported flashes near the Jade Stone Gorge last night. If they're circling behind us, our supply arteries are exposed."
Young, eager Gald thumped his armored chest. "My unit captured two scouts from the Gray South White Snow Army. Their gear was organized, efficient—they're vanguard recon. Their approach path targets our northern logistics."
Ilamit's brow furrowed. "If they trap us in the highlands, our flanks are exposed. We can't afford a siege—not with our current supply state."
Raymond studied the map's northwest quarter. "No rash action. Flexibility must be our strength. First, we abandon the two auxiliary outposts—draw them in. Then strike with a triple pincer assault."
He paused, his voice low. "The enemy thrives in shadows. If we sever their lines, they crumble in the dark."
——
Fifty miles away, the border army's command tent flickered with candlelight. Four men sat around a rough-hewn wooden table, their faces lit by the glow.
At the head sat the seasoned General Kellid, his steel armor tarnished with years of war, a wolf-tooth scepter leaning against his chair. "Raymond's still young, but he holds his ranks tight. If not for our forced marches, he would've pinned us in the gorge weeks ago."
His adjutant, Wan Ma Meng, laid out a border operations map. "From the western line: Raymond's shifted forces to reinforce both wings. Northern supply lines have been rerouted—eastward, toward the Yuling Gorge."
Charlesde, the commander of engineering, brushed aside a corner of the map to reveal marks of subterranean rock channels. "The valley there is narrow, perfect for crossbow ambushes. It'll take a day to tunnel, but we can trap them before they reach open terrain."
Beside him, the elderly priest Berlin sorted encoded dispatches. "I've sent three urgent letters to the Southern Alliance. If we fail, we'll need a retreat corridor."
Kellid nodded slowly. "The Easterners fight hard—but every general bleeds. If we rattle their morale with decoys, then strike the head..."
He stood, looming over the map. "Lure them deep. Cut their water. Shatter their camp. We don't chase victory—we carve it."
He turned to Wan Ma Meng. "Send agents to Cold Sand Ridge. I want Raymond's every movement before he makes them."
Outside, the wind howled. Between stone and snow, two armies plotted in silence. The storm had not yet broken, but its first echo had begun to rise.