The sound of hooves reached the gates long before the horns were blown. Deep and steady, not the gallop of messengers or the fanfare of nobles—but the thunder of war-trained beasts returning to the city that birthed them.
Sun Longzi rode at the front, alone and silent.
His armor, still streaked with ash from the southern plains, had not been polished for court. His blade had not been sheathed with ceremony. And his expression, chiseled in stone and shadow, gave no deference to the men who lined the palace walls to welcome him home.
Behind him, the Red Demon Army moved like a wound reopened. Thousands of soldiers, formation-perfect despite weeks of battle, marched under crimson banners scorched by fire and torn at the seams. There was no music. No victory songs. Just the sound of boots on earth and breath in lungs that had not yet forgotten the scent of death.
