The morning sun was a pale wound in the sky, hidden behind the thick breath of the highlands. Fog rolled like smoke from a fallen god's lungs, veiling the Broken Tooth Hills in a hush that suffocated thought. The mist reeked of iron, wet soil, and something older—qi unsettled and coiling through the air like serpents beneath the earth. It clung to blade and boot, softening the edges of the world, but not the men within it.
To the Empire's legions, the fog was a curse in motion. They'd heard the whispers on the march: stories of cursed grounds, of ancient ancestors whose bones twisted in the soil when wronged. They'd laughed at first, scoffing around the fire. But now, they walked like men who had heard something breathing just behind their ears.
"Hold formation!" General Wei Shanjun's voice cut the silence like steel dragging across stone. "Shields high! Stay tight!"
Even as he barked, his breath plumed too fast. The mist wasn't natural. It shifted like a living thing, recoiling at sound, curling tighter around those who hesitated.
Then the arrows came.
They hissed from above—qi-tipped, razor-feathered, and whistling with silken Wind Energy. They slipped through helms, necklines, armpits—seeking the gaps where even faith couldn't hide. They didn't aim for flesh. They aimed for movement. For fear. For hesitation.
A captain to the left of Wei took a shaft through the eye, pitched sideways, and vomited blood before hitting the ground. Soldiers panicked. They raised shields too late, moved too far, stumbled into place like children caught in their father's armor. And still the arrows fell—guiding chaos like wind shapes flame.
Then the fire glyphs triggered.
Explosions burst through the mist. Smoke and illusion spilled like a second fog, but this one screamed. It birthed ghost warriors that cut down shadows before vanishing into smoke. Men struck at phantoms, only to have real blades meet their throats from behind.
From the western slope, the thunder of hooves rose like a drumbeat from hell.
Altan led the charge, his horse a black blur of fury. Behind him, a thousand riders crashed down from the hills—disciples of the Gale Path, wielding sabers, spears, and crescent axes humming with Storm Pulse Qi. They moved in harmony, not as individuals but as wind given form. Their eyes were cold, distant, not with malice—but with clarity. Purpose had replaced mercy.
"Split wings!" Altan shouted, not with volume, but with intent. The wind carried the command as if it had always belonged to it.
The riders divided. The left flank veered into the supply lines—men hauling grain and bolts of silk didn't even have time to scream. Wagons burst open, scattering supplies and entrails alike. The right flank hit the Empire's forward infantry with such speed that men simply disappeared into the mist—limbs flying, bodies crushed beneath hooves, skulls split like melons.
A young conscript named Hao staggered in the third rank, blade rattling in his grip. He wasn't ready. None of them were. His childhood had been spent reciting Imperial oaths, not preparing to fight men who could vanish into fog and reappear behind you with a blade that sang. Around him, men screamed as steel met bone. Blood sprayed in arcs. A soldier beside him gurgled as a saber opened his belly, intestines uncoiling like wet rope. Another screamed for his mother as his leg was hacked off at the thigh.
Hao moved on instinct, not skill. He swung wildly and felt his blade catch flesh—someone screamed, he didn't know who—and then something slammed into him from the side. He hit the ground. Mud filled his mouth. Someone tripped over his body. Then the cavalry passed through like a storm—and the line behind him simply wasn't there anymore.
A rider's blade caught an officer in the throat. Blood geysered in time with the gallop. Another leapt from his mount and drove his spear into a shield wall, his qi erupting outward like thunder. Shields shattered. Bones cracked. The scent of urine and feces filled the mist as men broke, not from wounds—but from the realization they were prey.
Wei Shanjun rode toward the center, eyes burning beneath his helm shaped like a dragon's snarl. Around him, his elite guards pushed through the collapsing front, their bodies surging with Iron Lung Thunder Path—a brutal cultivation that turned each breath into explosive motion. Their roars split the air. Their weapons fell like falling stars—crushing skulls, splintering ribs, shoving back the mist with sheer force of will.
"Altan!" Wei shouted, blood spraying from his lips as his voice tore through the chaos. "Face me! Do not hide behind your wind-wraiths!"
And then Altan stepped from the fog.
His saber was already bloodied, his cloak torn, his breath slow but even. Mist moved with him, not around him, as if obeying something unseen. The warriors closest to him stepped back, not from fear—but reverence.
He didn't speak at first. Just watched Wei with the eyes of a man who had seen too many endings.
Then, softly, "Then fight me."
Wei charged.
The clash rang out like heaven cracking. Spear met saber in a burst of qi that sent wind and blood fanning across the valley floor. Wei attacked with raw brutality—each strike backed by breath, fury, and training. His form—Heaven's Dragon Spiral—was relentless, overwhelming. He struck to crush. To end.
But Altan was not there to be ended.
He bent. Flowed. Parried. He read Wei's rhythm like an old song and unlearned it as they danced. His saber, Wujin Yihe Dao, pulsed with Echo Qi—resonating with Wei's breath, his doubt, his pain. Altan became silence between notes, stillness between storms.
Wei's spear swept wide. Altan ducked, twisted, and stepped inside the guard. The saber rose. Light bent.
Wei froze.
Steel pierced armor and spine. He choked, tried to swing—then fell.
Altan stood over him, saber lowered, gaze unreadable.
"To the Empire," he said, "this is your wall."
One clean stroke. Head severed. Blood steamed in the mist.
The screams changed after that.
The Empire's ranks dissolved. Leaderless, stunned, they staggered. Some tried to rally—but the traps laid by Chaghan's engineers opened beneath their feet. Runes flared. Pits collapsed. Glyphs exploded into hallucinogenic fire.
Others fled, clawing past each other. A soldier's foot caught on a corpse—he went down screaming, only for a phantom blade to flash and silence him. Another dropped his weapon, fell to his knees, and cried for a mother who hadn't lived in years. One tried to hide beneath a dead horse. Another stabbed himself before the enemy could reach him.
Gale warriors moved through the mist like wraiths, silent and unmerciful. They killed with precision, but not joy. Their blades did not boast. Their eyes held no glee. But they did not hesitate.
By dusk, the ground was a swamp of blood, broken armor, and burning supply carts. Bodies hung in trees, impaled on shattered standards. Banners soaked in gore fluttered like dying wings.
Atop a ridge, Altan stood still. His saber gleamed. The mist pulled away from him like cloth from flame.
Behind him, the riders gathered, tired, soaked in blood, but whole.
"One division," Chaghan whispered beside him. "Against three. We broke them."
Altan shook his head. "We survived. There's more."
A distant flare lit the sky.
Another army.
Another storm.
Altan turned his gaze toward the fading sun, saber humming low with breath and memory.
The blood hadn't dried yet.
The war had only begun.