The Gale Army halted just short of the capital. Six legions made camp at an abandoned noble estate, its carved halls now emptied of verse and wine, repurposed into barracks and field hospitals. The grasslands that stretched beyond shimmered with tension, a stillness before the storm. The cypress groves whispered with old breath as if sensing what approached. Altan sat alone in the overgrown garden beneath a willow tree, his legs folded, spine straight, and breath steady. He was not resting. He was listening.
Within the quiet of the garden, qi flowed through him like a silent river. Each inhale drew the energy of the land inward. Each exhale spread it through his limbs, sharpening his senses to the finest thread. His inner sea was still, but not empty. He felt the air grow taut as if the earth itself had clenched its fists. His left eye twitched once, the signal. The owls of the Qorjin-Ke had spoken.
Twenty assassins moved through the woods like oil through cloth, their breath masked, their steps light enough not to disturb the dew. They bore no scent. They made no sound. But they could not hide from spirit wind. The dreamwalkers saw their presence ripple across the stillness like blades through water. Chaghan had already moved.
The Stormguard scattered like shadow cast through broken glass, vanishing between branches and bark. They did not breathe qi. They did not summon elemental flame or wind. But they moved with precision honed in silence, molded in a place where cultivation failed. Helms blank and dark as sealed iron, armor matte and without sigil, they struck not like warriors but verdicts delivered by unseen hands.
A Stormguard squad advanced in formation, sabers drawn—not sweeping, but angled low, designed to tear tendon and split muscle in one precise exchange. Their gladius-like blades carved the air without aura. One caught an assassin mid-flip, striking low at the heel. The tendon severed. The body collapsed. Another turned his shield edge into a binding hook, twisting a blade-arm out of joint before crushing the man's ribs with a short reverse-kick. No words. No gestures. Only synchronized, lethal momentum.
They fought not by reading energy, but by sensing weight, rhythm, and intent. The assassins cast spirit veils and breath illusions—but these failed before opponents who did not see qi. One assassin leapt to a tree for height advantage. The moment his foot touched bark, a Stormguard was there, vaulting silently, driving a knee into his spine and shoving him face-first into the trunk. A twist. A snap. Silence returned.
Elsewhere, beastborne riders circled the outskirts, the scent of prey in their lungs. Silent Path cultivators moved through the undergrowth like coiled roots, striking from blind spots with short knives, backswept blades, and spirit-break pressure. Veterans from the Ironwind Sect intercepted the rear stragglers, their own internal styles disrupting the flow of shadowstep footwork.
Only one assassin made it past the outer kill net.
He slipped through the garden wall, a breath on stone, a ghost of purpose. His blade glimmered like moonlight over water—curved and silvered, forged to pierce inner defenses. He dropped from above, silent, fast. But Altan did not move like a man surprised. He turned, caught the wrist mid-arc, and drove his palm into the forearm just above the joint. Bone cracked. The blade dropped. The assassin gasped.
Altan stood, unhurried. Around him, the Stormguard returned, helms unreadable, each carrying a severed head by the hair. They dropped them one by one into a circle around the final killer. The last assassin trembled.
Altan's voice was level. "You were sent to kill me. You failed."
The man swallowed.
"Take those heads," Altan said. "Bring them to your guild. You have one day. Two nobles. Five generals. Their blood will buy your lives. Bring the heads tomorrow."
The assassin stammered. "One day? Even for us—"
Chaghan stepped beside him, calm and cold. "Then die now."
The man hesitated only a breath. Then he bowed, low and shaking. He gathered the heads and fled.
Dusk fell again. The clouds above hung low, and wind carried the stench of distant blood. From the tree line came a figure in black—silken robes damp with rain and old gore. He walked slowly, without escort. He knelt at Altan's feet. A sack rested beside him.
The Guildmaster opened it. Seven heads tumbled to the ground. The noblewoman Zhao. Lord Fen. Five generals. Each marked with clean death.
"We did as asked," he said. "They were in their beds. Their baths. Their meditation chambers. We were fast. We had to be."
He looked up, voice stripped of pride. "You gave us a way out. That's rare. We remember that."
Altan said nothing. Only nodded.
"If we break it," the assassin said quietly, "we won't deserve another chance."
He turned and left.
The heads were mounted that evening along the capital road—not as warning, but as declaration. The wind carried the silence like judgment.
In the Palace of the Zhong, chaos bloomed behind carved screens. Seven empty seats gaped like pulled teeth in the imperial court. Blood stained the mosaic tiles. Lord Ren whispered prayers. The Empress Dowager stood before a moonlit window, hands clenched around a lacquered scroll.
"He's carving through us," she said.
"We should've struck first," muttered the younger prince. "We thought he'd wait—"
"He doesn't wait," she snapped. "He judges. And we've been found lacking."
She turned sharply. "Seal the gates. Call the Black Guard. Let no one leave until dawn. Not ministers. Not servants. No one."
A tremble passed through the gathered officials. Someone asked about the nobles.
"Let them run," she said. "Let them learn fear."
Outside, on the road to the capital, the heads faced the palace. They said nothing. But the wind did not mourn.
It watched.
In the days that followed, the rest of the storm arrived.
Three days after the assassins fell, Gale reinforcements reached the outer estates in full force.
A fresh legion of Stormguard marched from the hidden stronghold—each soldier handpicked, trained in silence, and proven by trial. They moved with the same void-like presence, masks gleaming dull in the morning mist.
Behind them came three hardened legions of the main Gale Army, veterans from campaigns in the east. Then came the cavalry: swift, armored, their mounts trained for terrain and terror. Support units followed in waves—engineers, healers, supply caravans, and field forges.
But most striking were the four new legions of volunteers—cityfolk who once bore arms in Zhong's own militias, now donning the colors of the Gale. Their training was only two months long, but in their eyes burned the fire of reclaimed purpose. Many had fought against tyrants before. Now they fought for a future.
Chaghan stood before Altan as the last banner arrived.
He bowed. "All legions accounted for. All supply lines secure."
Altan rose from his seat beneath the willow tree. The wind curled around him like a blade finding its edge.
"It is time," he said.