The Norfall Barrens.
Once the heart of ancient migration routes, now the crucible of Huanglong's struggle against the Tacet Discord.
A narrow, jagged vein carved through the land—descending from the Desorock Highlands into a forgotten valley—now marks the front line of an endless war.
The sky is bruised with clouds, the ground thrums with the metallic hum of the Groundwave Barrier, and the air shivers with echoes too faint for ordinary ears.
Floating ruins drift overhead, relics suspended in silent mourning. Among them, the colossal silhouette of the Crownless statue looms—half-idol, half-warning—its hollow gaze fixed eternally on the battlefield below.
General Jiyan's forces have held the line here longer than anyone believed possible. They call it Vanguard Base—but for many, it feels like the last refuge. With every step forward, the soil trembles beneath the weight of old battles.
The Battle Beneath the Crescent still scars this land. The air itself seems to whisper with the cries of those who never returned.
Most of the TDs had been lured away by the General's daring maneuvers, but no one breathes easy. Danger lurks in every unseen crevices, unvegetated canopies, and corners.
***
The early morning sun reigns heavy over Vanguard Base, the faint glow of campfires casting flickering shadows on weary faces.
"They don't sleep, these bastards." one soldier murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. "You turn your back—and they're already chewing through someone else's lungs."
Another spat on the dirt. "We have have held longer than anyone thought possible, but this place... it's a trap. The TDs keep pushing, relentless as ever."
A third, staring toward the dark silhouette of the Barrens, whispered, "We need a miracle—or someone who can perform one."
At that moment, the camp's tense quiet was broken by the sharp sound of approaching footsteps.
A tall figure stepped into the firelight, his presence commanding instant attention. Long teal hair tied back, yellow eyes piercing the gloom.
It was General Jiyan himself, his modified black hanfu shifting with his powerful frame—one side cut away to reveal the tattooed upper section of his spine. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of command rested heavily on his broad shoulders.
The air in the tent thickened with urgency as soldiers straightened their backs. Voices overlapped in a chorus of murmured greetings and brief salutes.
General Jiyan raised a hand, silencing the room.
"There's been word," he said. "Reinforcements are on the way."
The tent fell quiet.
Meanwhile, just outside the camp's perimeter—beneath the dull light of the hovering ruins and ever-shifting clouds—a lone figure approached.
His silhouette was lean, his stride steady. No insignia, no armor. Just travel-worn clothing and a curious calm that didn't belong on a battlefield.
"Halt!" the perimeter guard barked, stepping forward and raising his Tacetite halberd. "Who are you?!"
The guards turned toward the source—a man with dark hair and pale yellow eyes, held back by one of them. The stranger offered a simple nod and said, "Greetings." Then, calmly, "May I meet with the General?"
"Identify yourself," barked the soldier, weapon raised with wary precision.
Lian didn't flinch. His voice was steady, patience as he explained. "I'm from the Ghost Hounds."
The words made the soldier's grip falter—surprise flickering in his eyes. The Ghost Hounds were no ordinary name. It was the world-renowned mercenary group.
"I was hired by the Counselor of Jinzhou," Lian continued, "to assist with defending the frontlines."
At the mention of Jinzhou and 'hired,' the soldier gave a curt nod and stepped aside, muttering some incoherent words under his breath as Lian passed.
Inside the tent, the low murmur of strategy faded to silence as Lian entered. General Jiyan and his key officers stood around a tactical map. They turned as one to see the newcomer.
Lian walked in with deliberate calm—measured steps, hands empty, no weapon at his side. His clothes were plain, unarmored, worn by travel.
Yet nothing in his bearing suggested uncertainty. His gaze was steady, posture relaxed, as if no battlefield could shake him.
He spoke, his voice echoing through the tent: "Greetings to the Midnight Rangers—and General Jiyan. I am Da Lian, Maverick of the Ghost Hounds."
A hush followed, like the pause before thunder. Recognition rippled through the room. Some younger officers tensed. Some exchanged glances with their comrades.
General Jiyan stepped forward, his expression unreadable.
"I am General Jiyan," he said at last, tone measured. "We—Midnight Rangers—welcome you to the frontlines Maverick. You've arrived when every blade—or will—counts."
He gestured to a man in a black face-mask, carrying a rifle.
"This is Konglin—first in charge of the ranged unit." The masked man gave a curt nod and salute.
"And this," Jiyan motioned to a broad-shouldered soldier with brown hair parted in the middle and a serious expression, "is Yuehui. He commands the infantry corps."
Yuehui grunted in acknowledgment, saluting.
Jiyan's eyes then went back to Lian. "We've heard of you," he said evenly. "But in the Barrens, we prefer proof over titles."
"I expected no less," Lian replied, already moving to the table.
He unrolled the map, smoothing the creases. With a bold stroke of red ink, he drew a single, clean line just north of Vanguard Base. "I'll ensure no TD crosses this line."
Several soldiers murmured—half impressed, half skeptical. A few smirked.
Jiyan didn't.
Nor did Yuehui, who had been watching Lian closely. "No offense, Maverick," he said, "but a red line won't stop what's coming. You'll need more than ink and bravado out here."
"Besides," Yuehui added, eyeing Lian's unarmed form, "what weapon are you even going to use?"
Lian didn't answer at first.
With a flick of his hand, a bow appeared beside him—quietly, without any grand spectacle. No surge of power, no blaze of light. Just a long, dark curve, as if the weapon had always been there, waiting.
It was startlingly plain.
A longbow, carved from a single piece of dark wood, its curve refined and purposeful. The grain ran uninterrupted, shaped with a master's restraint.
Its profile resembled an ancient war bow—slightly recurved, tall, elegant. No bright metal, no mechanical joints. Just one long branch of craftsmanship.
The grip was wrapped in worn, dark leather—no fresh stitching, no insignia. The string, a simple hemp cord, taut and utilitarian.
The bow looked almost unremarkable, like something from an old hunting lodge or dusty armory.
Anyone might dismiss it as ordinary, if not for the faint markings along its limbs—runes or inscriptions, perhaps—but they bore no glow, no hum, nothing to draw attention.
If anything, they looked like faded etchings easily overlooked.
A few soldiers from the ranged division leaned forward, squinting. Their rifles gleamed, scopes catching the sunlight.
They were marksmen—armed with precision snipers and high-caliber weapons. And here stood a man with a bow. A stick with a string attached to its sides.
"Is… is this a joke?" Konglin remarked coldly, disbelief lacing his tone. "You're flaunting that thing in front of my snipers?"
Lian merely smiled and stepped out of the command tent, heading for the edge of the base.
Jiyan's voice followed, firm. "What are you doing?"
"Waiting," Lian replied, voice steady, undaunted by the mocking jeers. "Though... it seems I won't have to wait long."
A shout rang from the perimeter: "TDs Incoming!"
Soldiers sprang into action—arming themselves, loading magazines, issuing orders. The alarms hadn't finished sounding when Lian's voice cut through the tension.
"No need to worry."
His left hand extended, and the bow appeared—a deep, resonant note vibrating from its restless string, echoing through the air.
The markings along its limbs flickered—subtle, subdued—until Lian drew the string, awakening them.
A low hum began, like ancient wood groaning before collapse, the sound crawling into bone and breath.
Between his fingers, a golden arrow of pure Spectro Resonance began to take shape—weightless, humming with restrained power. It pulsed softly, as though alive, yet still under his command.
"You shall not pass!" Lian declared—his voice low, but absolute. The words struck the air like a bell, anchoring the space around him.
In response, the ambient Resonance stirred—letting out a sonorous cry, as if echoing his will. His Resonance surged—brighter, fiercer—coalescing into form. The arrow was no longer just light; it had intent.
It glowed like molten gold, concentrated and menacing, a promise of dissolution in its most elegant shape. And then—
THWANG.
The release shattered the silence. The air split like thunder. The ground convulsed beneath the shockwave, tremors rippling outward.
A violent dust cloud erupted as the arrow tore free—far too fast for the eye to follow. The arrow's wake flattened grass and shook tents loose from their stakes.
Digital equipment flickered and died, screens cracking under the surge. Banners were ripped from their poles and hurled skyward, the very air warped and trembling in the arrow's passing.
The encroaching TDs, hundreds in numbers, never saw it coming. The arrows, didn't simply strike them—it erased them.
One moment they charged forward; the next, they simply ceased to exist, their forms dissolving into nothingness as if wiped clean by an unseen hand.
But Lian wasn't finished. He drew another.
THWANG.
Another arrow, another wave of destruction. The hum became a rhythm—a relentless, warlike cadence.
THWANG—THWANG—THWANG
Each release was like a drumbeat. Not of celebration.
Of war.
Of thunder.
Of ruin.
By the seventh shot, even the snipers had lowered their rifles. Konglin's face was pale behind his mask as he watched in awe and horror.
—THWANG.
The thirteenth arrow struck—the twang being last note of a silent requiem.
The Tacet Discords vanished—no flame, no scream. No ash. No ruin. Only absence where once they charged.
"Done," Lian gestured toward the field beyond which was untouched—no blast marks, no corpses of the TDs. Just a space where monsters had once been.
No one spoke. A hush descended—this one heavier, not with awe, but unease. As if they'd seen a god they weren't ready to worship.
The battlefield had already delivered its verdict. The TDs never passed the red line Lian had drawn on the map.
To be continued...