The valley still smoked. The scent of burnt lacquer, blood, and scorched earth clung to the Twin Serpent Lakes like a second mist. Bodies, both armored and bare, were carried to pyres at the cliff's edge. Wind tugged at banners and cloaks, but no songs rose from the Gale Army. Victory was not a feast. It was a wound that hadn't stopped bleeding.
Chaghan stood where the last charge had broken the empire's line, armor dented and layered with soot. His breath came steady, his steps slow. Each movement weighed more now, not just from fatigue, but from the Stoneheart Resonance. The hardened qi within his body pulsed like sediment under pressure. He could feel his bones hum with residual force. He had not shattered in the storm. He had anchored it. Around him, infantry—many too young to hide their shock—quietly gathered gear, bound wounds, and built fires for the dead. The veterans moved slower than usual, not out of pain, but reverence. They had seen a formation hold against the empire's spearhead and survive. And they had followed Chaghan.
They worked through the battlefield in silence, picking through the wreckage of fallen soldiers. Rusted helms, dented cuirasses, broken glaives—some were beyond use, but others could be salvaged. The looters weren't greedy. They were methodical. Every usable weapon was set aside, cleaned, catalogued. Swords were checked for true edge, spears for straight shafts. Chaghan oversaw the work personally. "If it doesn't kill, we don't carry it," he told a recruit trying to salvage a warped blade. "We're not desperate. We're rebuilding."
Old shields were stripped of imperial sigils and repainted with coal tar and ochre. Arrows were unstrung from enemy quivers and bound for reuse. Leather wrappings were cut from fallen gauntlets to patch torn boots. One boy found a helmet that still fit and wore it without a word. Another knelt beside a corpse, whispering a quick prayer before taking the man's dagger. No one mocked him for it. Damaged gear and shattered weapons were sorted and handed off to the blacksmith corps. Those materials would be reforged into new arms and armor. Nothing was wasted. Everything could serve again.
Behind the western ridge, Altan stood with Khulan and Burgedai beside a new map spread over a flattened shield. The ink was still wet, drawn with trembling precision by a scribe whose hands hadn't stopped shaking since the battle. Altan didn't look at the man. He studied the contours of the southern approach. Burned grass, shattered stone, a collapsed path near the lakeshore where Khulan's sigils had ruptured the air itself. He traced it in silence.
Burgedai scratched at a bandage on his arm. "What do you think they'll do now? They can't just pretend this didn't happen."
Altan didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was cold, measured. "They'll escalate. Send what they kept locked in the western palaces."
Khulan crouched, wiping mud from her boots. "The Lotus Guard. Maybe the War Sages."
Altan nodded. "And the Fang Division. If the Emperor signs the seal, they'll move without restraint."
Burgedai looked up from the map. "Then we strike first?"
Altan's gaze didn't move. "No. We vanish again. They won't find us where they expect. But we're not running. We'll draw them to the Sanchuan Plains."
Khulan looked up sharply. "Open ground? That's risky."
Altan's voice remained calm. "They'll think it favors them. That's the point. We make it the final stage. A turning point. No more ambushes, no more retreats. We decide it there."
He turned to Burgedai. "I want you to find five thousand more. Train them. Hard. No excuses. Give them a blade and make them understand what it's for."
Burgedai frowned. "Takes time to harden green recruits."
"Then we start now," Altan said. "We'll need every steppe-born body that can hold a spear. The empire won't stop after this. They'll throw everything into the next battle. We match it."
In the distance, scouts returned through the mountain passes. Dust and silence clung to their robes. One of them dropped to a knee, offering a shattered spear. "Proof. The eastern banners burned with the general. The auxiliaries scattered. We held the valley."
Altan only nodded. That was not news. That was confirmation. His fingers rested briefly on the rim of the shield before he stood. "Tell the southern villages to disappear. Break camp at dusk. We leave no sign."
Chaghan approached then, his armor scraping slightly as he moved. The dust hadn't left his face. He gave no salute. Only a glance.
Altan met it. "How many?"
"Six hundred," Chaghan said. "And another two hundred that won't march."
Burgedai exhaled through his teeth. "Nine hundred dead. One out of every ten."
Khulan stared into the fire. "Could've been all of us."
Altan didn't look away from Chaghan. "They'll remember the wall that held. You kept the pass closed. They'll sing about that one day."
Chaghan's voice was flat. "I didn't do it for songs."
Altan nodded. "Neither did I."
Far to the east, beneath lacquered beams and perfumed shadows, the Emperor stood before a panel of flame-carved jade. His ministers waited in silence. The scrolls on the floor detailed the slaughter in the valley. General Rong Hai's banner, broken and bloodstained, lay at the Emperor's feet. No voice dared rise.
Finally, the Emperor turned to his court sorcerer. "How many seals remain unbroken?"
The sorcerer bowed, lips trembling. "Three. The Lotus Guard awaits release. The Fang Division has already begun moving."
"And the War Sages?"
"They... have requested total jurisdiction."
The Emperor stepped forward. His shadow stretched over the map of the western provinces. "Grant it. Let them use whatever rites they need. This Altan commands ghosts. Let's see how he fares against nightmares."
Back in the mountains, the Gale Army broke camp as the sun dipped behind the cliffs. Fires were doused. Footsteps muffled. Not a trace would be left. Chaghan walked the lines one last time, stopping by a wounded recruit whose blade still hadn't left its scabbard.
The boy looked up. "I didn't even fight. I froze."
Chaghan didn't speak right away. Then: "Next time, you won't. If there is a next time."
"Was I useless?"
"No. You're still breathing. That's the start."
The boy nodded, eyes stinging. Chaghan moved on.
From a high ridge, Altan watched the valley one last time. Beneath him, ash clung to reeds where lotus flowers used to bloom. He felt no triumph, only the stillness after the storm. His qi was quiet now, sunken deep, resting in the bones.
"We broke their rhythm," he said quietly, to no one in particular. "Now we learn what they send to break ours."
Behind him, the wind shifted. The Gale Army vanished into the highlands, carried by breath and shadow. The next battle would not be on their terms. But the flame was lit, and it would burn until someone buried it in blood or surrender.
The lakes whispered beneath the stars. Embers still drifted on the water.