Smoke rose in spirals from the charred crest of the broken hill where General Gao Fang had fallen. The ground remained blackened, pulsing faintly with residual heat, as if the earth itself remembered the violence. Ash drifted with the wind, clinging to armor, skin, and silence. Banners once proud now hung in tatters, the sigils scorched into obscurity. The Gale warriors moved across the battlefield like shadows through a graveyard, lifting the wounded with bark-and-leather stretchers, stripping armor from the dead to reclaim steel, and stacking the bodies of the fallen in careful rows. Pyres burned low, quiet, almost reverent, their flames no longer raging but solemn in their duty.
Within the granite walls of Fortress Ironpine, carved deep into the bones of the northern rise, Altan stood alone at the war table. Light from torches flickered across the bloodstained steel of his plated greaves. His gauntlets creaked as he flexed his fingers, the impact of Gao Fang's last breath still etched into his knuckles. Around him gathered his most trusted—Khulan, Burgedai, and Chaghan. These were not men who flinched before flame or ghosts. They had walked through both.
Burgedai broke the silence first. "You killed a Dragon General. The court won't forget that."
Khulan added quietly, dropping a strip of silk onto the map. The black falcon insignia was clear despite the scorch marks. "Scouts saw new banners east of Red Valley. The silk's fresh. They're sending more troops."
Altan didn't look up. His finger traced the ridgeline on the map, his Steppe Tempest Meridian stirring faintly with each breath. "Wei Shanjun," he said. "The Unbreaking Wall."
Khulan nodded. "Three divisions. Around fifteen thousand soldiers. Siege weapons, and spirit-channelers too."
Chaghan stayed quiet, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, calmer than before. He didn't speak much these days.
Altan had noticed the change early on. After the fight at the Twin Spires, he gave Chaghan a secret cultivation method, one from deep in his Sea of Mind. The Stoneheart Resonance Manual. It was old—older than the elemental arts most used now—and it focused on endurance and stillness instead of flashy power. It suited those without elemental affinity, like Chaghan.
The difference showed in him. His meridians thickened, his qi slowed but deepened. His presence felt heavier, quieter, like a mountain rooted against a storm. His strikes weren't fast, but they landed with solid weight. Fire seemed to lick off him without much effect. When arrows came, he barely moved; the earth responded to him instead, shifting subtly to block or redirect.
Others began talking quietly among the younger fighters, repeating lines from the manual: "The earth trembles. Lightning, storms, and fire left scars. Water carved rivers. But the mountain stays still."
Chaghan had become that mountain.
Altan split his forces with purpose. Khulan led the Howling Talon, mounted riders trained in the Path of Feathered Iron. Their speed and illusions let them strike unseen, leaving behind nothing but chaos. Their arrows burned with frostfire oil—a rare substance that water couldn't put out.
Chaghan's Stoneforge Corps combined their earth techniques with the lessons of Stoneheart Resonance. Their bodies were tougher, their movements deliberate and powerful. They set traps along the ridgelines—false roads with collapse runes and hidden sinkholes that swallowed whole enemy columns.
Altan disappeared with thirty elite warriors, all masters of Echo-Foot Discipline. They moved so quietly they were like ghosts. One wore a mask from the lost Temple of Unheard Songs—a relic said to heighten intuition and hide spiritual presence. Together, they became legends in the shadows.
Wei Shanjun led the imperial forces with steady authority. His Imperial Bastion Sutra turned pain into power and resistance into force. His spear, Verdict of the Dawn, glowed faintly with bloodsteel. His troops moved as one, trained in the Formless Spear Doctrine. But when they reached the highlands, all they found was ash. Gao Fang's body had been burned, his name erased by flame.
Wei set up camp on Highwind Ridge, guarded by glyph pylons and spirit sentries. Still, strange things happened at night. Fires died out. Horses panicked. Men disappeared without a sound. Fear began to spread, silent but deep.
Altan's attacks came like weather—smoke glyphs spiraled up, fire bloomed in unnatural colors, confusing the imperial troops and breaking their formations. Wei's tent burned in green flames before dawn, the fire whispering secrets no one could understand.
After three weeks, a scout came back with a message nailed to a pole. The banner was soaked in blood and stiff with wind. It read: Come find me in the jaws of the earth.
Wei looked at it for a long moment. "He's trying to draw us in."
That night, Altan stood on Widow's Fang, looking down at the imperial camp. Lanterns flickered but no one moved beyond the firelight. Behind him were those who had followed him through everything—former slaves, outcasts, widows, and warriors. None of them looked afraid.
Altan spoke quietly, steady enough that everyone heard. "They come with their banners and pride. But that won't hold. We won't meet them with walls. We'll be the storm they didn't see coming."
He raised his crescent-forged saber. Lightning flashed above, splitting the dark sky.
"Let them remember the ash. Let our blades be what stays with them."
He turned toward the wind and the cliff's edge.
"We're not just waiting for the fight. We are the storm."
Below, a single torch flickered in the camp.
It would not be the only one for long.