Dawn broke like a blade across the Sanchuan Plains—cold, bright, and merciless. The silver grass rippled under the breathless wind, each dew-laden stalk reflecting the sun like unsheathed daggers. Silence ruled the ridgelines. But within that silence, the Gale Army waited—hidden, tense, unyielding. These were not parade soldiers. They bore no lacquered armor or polished sigils. They wore scavenged steel, blood-cured leathers, and wolf-tooth charms. This was an army of ghosts and survivors—of men and women forged in fire, not ceremony.
Altan stood at the center of it all, cloak draped over his shoulders like a mantle of dusk. His eyes, calm as still water, tracked the distant dust rising from the southern lowlands. A storm was coming, and it marched on two legs and twenty thousand blades.
Beside him, three stood ready: Khulan, lean and sharp-eyed; Burgedai, broad-shouldered and grinning like a bear about to feast; and Chaghan, silent as stone, armored in scars and resolve.
"Four legions," Khulan muttered, glassing the horizon through a jade-lensed scope. "Twenty thousand strong. Heavy infantry in the van, cavalry on the wings, siege carts in the rear. Standard imperial formation."
"They think we're boxed in," Chaghan said, arms crossed. "They see a noose. But the rope is ours."
Altan nodded once. His voice was low, steady as a war drum before the beat. "Khulan—lead the vanguard scouts. Let them pass unmolested. When their center is fully committed, strike the rear and harass their supply line. Cut deep. Leave nothing standing."
Khulan gave a crisp bow and vanished into the rising mist, her footfalls lost in dew and grass.
Altan turned to Burgedai and Chaghan, his tone shifting from calm to iron. "The wings hold the veterans. Our best blades. When the signal rises, they sweep inward. Hard and fast. No quarter. We trap them in the ring."
Burgedai bared his teeth. "Finally. A real fight."
"Remember," Altan said, eyes narrowing. "Once they're in the center, they'll try to surge forward. Let them. Let them break themselves on our line."
Chaghan gave a single nod. "And if they don't break?"
Altan raised two fingers to the sky. "They bleed until they do."
He paused for a breath, then added, "The basin narrows just enough that their numbers will count against them. Once the vanguard commits, they will clog their own retreat. We lure the tide in—and then seal the floodgates."
The Zhong legions reached the basin floor by midmorning. They poured in like floodwater—discipline, muscle, steel. Twenty thousand soldiers crested the rim and descended into the bowl, eager to crush the resistance in one sweeping blow.
Trumpets sounded.
The Zhong general, Zhao Rui, pointed his sword at the center of the enemy formation. "Break them! Kill their heart!"
The Gale veterans along the flanks gripped their weapons in silence, eyes locked on the new recruits in the center. "You've trained for this," one whispered to the young beside him. "Shield, hook, overhand. Don't falter. Don't stop."
The recruits tightened their grips, eyes wide with fear and determination.
Then the clash began.
A tide of Zhong infantry slammed into the center of the Gale Army. The air exploded with steel, screams, and the thunder of a thousand blades meeting shields. Recruits reeled, fell, screamed—but they did not scatter. For every step they lost, they gave another wound. Spears lashed out. Shields buckled. Blood sprayed in arcs across the trampled grass.
Chaghan roared like a storm. His glaive became a whirlwind, powered by Earthroot Strength. Each strike shattered bone and sent bodies flying. "Hold!" he bellowed. "Anchor and hold!"
In the chaos, a recruit—no older than seventeen—grunted as his shield absorbed a blow. He stepped forward, stabbed low, hooked the enemy's leg, then bashed with his shield. Just like they drilled. He stumbled, blood running down his arm, but kept fighting.
Beside him, another recruit screamed, overwhelmed. A Zhong axe came down—only to be parried by a grizzled veteran who slammed his pommel into the attacker's jaw. "Close ranks!" he barked. "Don't let them inside!"
The field churned with bodies. Blades hacked. Spears punctured. Men screamed with lungs full of dirt. Blood soaked the earth, slickening boots, filling nostrils. A cycle of death repeated across the line: shield, hook, overhand—again and again, until muscle turned to agony.
A recruit shoved his broken spear into an enemy's throat, only to be cut down a breath later by a halberd. His dying eyes met the sky.
Then came the shift.
A crimson flare burst into the sky from Altan's perch. That was the signal.
From both flanks, the Gale veterans surged forward. Swords and axes glittered, enhanced with Wind Qi and Bone-Piercing Intent. Archers released in coordinated volleys, arrows glowing faintly with qi, raining into the exposed Zhong ranks.
The wings folded in like a closing trap.
Khulan stood with her archers, her hands already drawing another arrow wreathed in sigils. Her breath steadied. She loosed one—straight at the enemy monk leading a sorcerous detachment.
The arrow struck. The monk's shield flared, then collapsed as the sigil-burn exploded with piercing wind force. He staggered back, blood flowing from his eyes.
Zhao Rui's command lines frayed as he realized the trap. "Rear guard! Form up! Regroup!"
Too late.
From the northern ridge, Altan and his cavalry thundered into the Zhong rear. Wind-wrapped hooves slammed down. Blades spun like flame. His twin sabers, glowing with Tempest Edge Flow, cut through officer and horse alike.
Steel met qi. Fire met flesh. The basin became a pit of screams.
Altan's voice rang like judgment. "Break them."
And the circle closed.
General Zhao tried to regain control. "Regroup! To me! Hold the line!"
But the line was gone.
And then Altan descended.
He moved like wind given form—fast, unpredictable, precise. Tempest Edge Flow spun around his dual blades, weaving Wind Qi and Flame Qi into a searing vortex. Each slash erupted with kinetic force. Armor crumpled. Flesh ignited. Altan became more than a warrior—he became a reckoning.
Zhao charged, aiming to break him. But Altan's eyes locked on his, calm and pitiless. He spun once, caught Zhao's blade with Mirror Palm Redirection, and stepped inside his guard. A flash of fire. A spray of blood. Zhao's horse fell first.
"Fall back!" someone cried. "Retreat!"
But there was no retreat.
The Gale Army had encircled the legions fully. No escape. No mercy.
Within the hour, it became slaughter.
By dusk, the plains were still.
Zhao Rui knelt in blood-soaked grass, coughing crimson into his shattered helm. He looked up as Altan approached, blades dripping, eyes like winter's end.
"You're not… a man," Zhao rasped. "You're something… cursed."
Altan said nothing at first. Then he knelt, so their eyes met. "No. I'm what your empire made."
And he drove his blade through Zhao's throat.
When the sun set, the wind carried only the scent of ash and iron. The battlefield was a ring of death—bodies stacked like broken pillars, flames flickering across tattered banners.
No songs. No cheers. Only the breathless quiet of those who survived.
Chaghan and Burgedai oversaw the wounded, burning the dead. Khulan returned from the ridge, mud-caked and grim.
"No one escaped," he said. "The Empire won't know for three days."
Altan sheathed his blades and looked east. "Then we march at first light."
Behind him, the wind began to howl.
Far to the North, in Shanjing
In the dragon-throned hall of Shanjing, silence reigned like a blade to the throat.
Minister Xue trembled on his knees. "Sire… we have confirmation. Four legions lost. Zhao Rui is dead. The plains are gone."
The Emperor did not move. He stared into the brazier, watching sandalwood smoke spiral.
General Yue Lin stepped forward. "He's not a rebel. He's a tactician. He fights in circles. Each battle is a ring. He's drawing closer with every victory."
The Emperor's voice was cold iron. "Then we are the center."
Xue swallowed. "Shall we recall the Jade Legion—?"
"No," the Emperor said. "We do not show fear. Summon the Twelve Strategists. Seal the border gates."
He turned, voice low, deadly. "Bring me everything on Altan. Where he was born. Who trained him. What we took from him."
A shadow behind the throne stirred.
The Emperor's voice fell to a whisper. "We don't chase him. We crush him."
Night fell. Ash drifted like snow.
Altan stood alone on a hill, the plains below littered with the dead. His army rested, wounded tended, fires low and quiet.
He closed his eyes, drawing in breath. The Still Flame Core within him pulsed, warm and centered. Around it, Wind and Fire cycled in balance—a storm without fury, a flame without chaos.
One ring complete, he thought. The next will bleed deeper.
He opened his eyes, gazing toward the capital.
"The circle is closing."