The air in the chamber was thick—cloistered, close, cloying. The ancient wood panelling seemed to absorb sound, holding its breath for judgment.
Headmaster Falani sat behind his monolithic desk, a sculpture of restraint. His fingers steepled before his mouth, the tips pressing into the cleft of his nose, brows drawn like twin sabres. His eyes, sharp as obsidian, bore through the silence. He glared not at the wounded, but at the calm.
Across from him stood Aleeman Hakiman, arms at his sides, his face a mask of control—a tempest sheathed in steel. Behind him, shadows flickered like wraiths in the candlelight.
To the side, John Wei-Tang, swaddled in bandages, cradled the remnants of his right hand, his features pale and twisted—equal parts pain and pride.
Falani's voice, when it emerged, was a low grind of gravel and intellect.
"Aleeman," he said, slowly, deliberately, "for what cause did you discharge Serpent Fang at John's hand?"
Aleeman didn't blink. "Because he laid those same hands on my sister—Hua-Jing."
A beat of silence. Then:
"Lies!" John spat, his face contorted, his voice a snarl. "He's making it up to cover his madness! He stormed in like a berserker! He pointed that cursed rifle at me—I hadn't touched her! He's violated academy law, used live weaponry against a student—he is the danger!"
At that, Vice Principal Aiguo Wei-Tang stepped forward like a man about to pronounce an execution.
"This is intolerable!" he barked. "This feral child has disfigured my son! He has shattered discipline, defiled protocol! I demand—immediate expulsion!"
Falani didn't move. He simply exhaled, a sound like the slow hiss of a kettle just before boil. He turned his eyes again to Aleeman, who remained still—stone-carved.
Then, Headmaster Falani spoke, his voice level as a balance scale.
"There are two claims. One of violence unprovoked. One of vengeance justified. If what Aleeman states is true—that John Wei-Tang assaulted Hua-Jing and her companion Finn Ming Ju-Go—then this was an act of defence, albeit disproportionate. He shall be suspended, not expelled.
But if John's claim stands, and Aleeman acted on false pretext—he shall be suspended for violating martial code."
Gasps. Mutters. A murmuration of the assembled faculty.
Aleeman said nothing. John's lips tightened like a rope pulled taut.
Then—Alenka Anastasios von Eridani stepped forward, silent until now, her voice the calm beneath the tempest.
"Headmaster," she said with careful grace, "the storage chamber has a surveillance crystal—enchanted and active. If John Wei-Tang and Celeste Marlowe committed the assault, the arcane feed will reveal it."
At that, John stiffened, a twitch at the corner of his eye betraying him. He opened his mouth, then thought better. His jaw clenched like a vice.
Aleeman's lips curled—not in victory, but in certainty.
Vice Principal Aiguo exploded.
"Do you mean to tell me you'd stoop to accuse my son of barbarism? That this boy—this... outsider—speaks truer than my blood?! Headmaster—!"
Falani raised one hand—just a single, silent gesture.
The room obeyed.
"Enough, Aiguo," he said. "This academy is not your court, nor mine—it is ruled by law, not lineage. We seek truth, not tantrums. Let the crystal decide."
And with that, he stood.
The tension in the chamber rippled outward, like thunder before rain.
"We go to the SurveillanceSecurity room," Falani declared.
Behind him, the room moved.
Two sides. One truth.
And the halls of Miracheneous waited to hear it.
The room gleamed with sterile elegance—glass panels aglow with faint blue runes, hovering digital maps flickering softly on the far wall, and chrome furniture humming with ambient energy. A modern sanctuary, marred by the present distress.
On the edge of the sleek bed sat Hua-Jing, her shoulders tight, knees drawn in. She gnawed anxiously at her nails, the tremble in her fingers betraying a storm beneath the skin. Her eyes flickered to the floor, as if it might open and swallow the shame.
Mika Yamana sat beside her, arms gently wrapped around her shoulders. "It's over now," she murmured. "You're safe, Hua-Jing. You're with us."
Mei-Xi-Li, however, couldn't be still. She paced across the neon-lit floor like a caged tigress, fury flashing in her eyes with every stride.
"I still can't believe it," she muttered. "Aleeman's supposed to be our commander, not a berserker with a rifle. He nearly murdered John—what in the stars was he thinking?"
"At least," Mika offered with quiet steel, "he put John in his place."
Elizabeth Feng crossed her legs and added with a satisfied glint, "He realised too late that he chose the wrong girl to terrorise."
Hua-Jing finally looked up, her voice brittle as ice touched by flame.
"I didn't want him to fight for me like that," she said. "I wanted to stand for myself… but when I saw him—my brother—like that… I didn't know whether to cry or scream."
A knock startled the room.
Mei-Xi-Li turned, huffing. "Coming!"
She opened the door, only for her brows to lift in surprise.
Shi Zhao Mei stood poised in the doorway, clad in black and amaranth, the light casting an argent sheen on her raven hair. Her expression was unreadable—an elegant mystery folded behind dangerous eyes.
"What is it, Shi Zhao?" Mei-Xi-Li asked warily.
"I brought someone," she replied coolly, before stepping aside.
From behind her emerged Celeste Marlowe.
The air thickened.
Hua-Jing stiffened. Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. Mika stood.
Celeste, usually a pillar of arrogance and calculated cruelty, now approached like a penitent. Her gait was slow, cautious, as if the floor itself had turned to thorns.
Then—she dropped to her knees before Hua-Jing.
Her hands trembled. Her breath hitched. Tears spilled without grace.
"I… I'm sorry," she whispered. "I… I followed John. I thought it was a joke… until it wasn't. I didn't stop it. I should have. I should have."
She bowed her head low, voice shaking. "Please… forgive me. For what I did. For what I didn't stop. For Finn. For you."
The silence that followed was not still—it pulsed.
Hua-Jing stared at her, blinking, as if unsure she was seeing what she thought she was. Then, quietly, her voice came like a thaw.
"I forgive you, Celeste."
Mika looked stunned. Elizabeth clenched her jaw but said nothing. Mei-Xi-Li turned slowly toward Shi Zhao Mei.
"You did something," she accused. "Didn't you?"
Shi Zhao Mei offered a smirk. Not a grin, not a smirk of mischief—no, it was the smirk of a blade still warm from the forge.
It curled like a shadow smiling.
A vixen's smirk.
A villainess' lullaby.
"I didn't," she purred. "I merely had a conversation."
—
Flashback at the cafeteria incident the air was heavy with aftermath. While Aleeman and John were marched toward the Headmaster's Hall, Shi Zhao Mei moved like a wraith through the halls—until she caught sight of Celeste Marlowe and her entourage slipping away.
She cornered them.
"Celeste."
The noble girl turned, mask still on—until she met those eyes. Crimson. Cold. Coiled with wrath. The others froze.
"I don't know what you've heard—" Celeste began.
"You assaulted Hua-Jing." Shi Zhao Mei's voice was low, deliberate, sharpened like a poisoned dagger. "You let it happen."
"I didn't—!"
"You did." Her hand flashed forward, seizing Celeste by the hair and dragging her head back, her eyes inches from hers. "Lie to me again, and I will feed your name to every cursed spirit I've ever met."
Celeste gasped, fear creeping up her spine like ice.
"You will apologise," Shi Zhao Mei whispered, lips close. "Or I will haunt you. You will find me in your mirror. In your dreams. In the reflection of your father's sword. You will never breathe peace again."
Celeste stared at her, heart hammering in her chest.
And she nodded.
—
Back to the present as Celeste rose to her feet, wiping her tears with trembling hands, she turned to leave. But her eyes flicked—just once—back to Shi Zhao Mei.
Rage flickered.
A seed of resentment buried deep. She knew.
She had knelt, not by choice, but by fear.
And fear—always festers.
Shi Zhao Mei gave her no second glance.
To the others, she merely nodded and said coolly:
"Sometimes it takes a monster to make another kneel."
And the door shut behind her.
At the Surveillance Security Room,which is close to Dean Office The room hummed with quiet authority—a sanctum of crystal feeds and arcane sigils humming through enchanted circuitry. The walls shimmered with soft blue light, refracted through layered panels, each scrying node flickering with memories recorded in silence.
Dean Magnus Feingold, a gaunt man with fingers like piano keys and spectacles perched at the end of his aquiline nose, sat hunched at the console. His hands moved deftly, weaving through crystalline interfaces, rewinding reality with a flick of the wrist, a tap of the rune.
"Time stamp set…" he murmured, eyes narrowing. "Storage corridor, Section B-Seven. Event logged at 16:04. Let's unspool the truth, shall we?"
Behind him stood a tribunal of fate.
Headmaster Falani, unmoving as granite;
Aleeman Hakiman, composed as a storm before the break;
Alenka Anastasios von Eridani, arms crossed, eyes cold and clinical;
John Wei-Tang, flanked by his father Vice Principal Aiguo Wei-Tang, sweat pooling beneath his collar.
John's face had stiffened. The bravado was gone. The room had become a crucible, and the truth—its flame.
With a final stroke, Dean Feingold pressed the rune.
The footage bloomed into clarity.
The room held its breath.
There they were—John, Robert, George, Celeste, and her retinue—dragging Hua-Jing and Finn into the storage room. Screaming. Struggling. Pleading.
Celeste laughing. Robert pushing. George jeering.
Finn shouting until he was struck—twice—before collapsing.
Hua-Jing—pinned, slapped, threatened.
Silence in the security room was not absence of sound—it was presence of shame.
Then—
"John!" Aiguo exploded, face darkening to a hue fit for thunder. "Explain yourself! You said this was fabrication! You told me—"
"I—I didn't mean—" John stammered, words spilling like a broken wine goblet. "It was supposed to be a prank—Celeste said—Robert pushed first—"
"Silence." Falani's voice came sharp and sovereign, cutting through John's excuses like a guillotine through silk.
He turned toward the boy, gaze glacial.
"John Wei-Tang," he said with deliberate weight, "you have breached not only the Code of Honour but the sanctity of this institution. You will be suspended for six months from all academic and martial programmes. You are forbidden to leave academy grounds. You will complete your days in supervised penance and public service. This is mercy. And it is the last you will taste."
Dean Feingold nodded grimly. Alenka's lips pressed together in a thin line.
Aleeman, meanwhile, said nothing. His eyes did not flinch. His face remained marble—stoic, unreadable, resolute.
John dared glance at him—once—and what he saw was not rage.
It was judgment.
Aiguo grabbed his son by the ear, furious and humiliated, dragging him with rough precision toward the Headmaster's chamber.
"Move," he snapped.
The doors opened. The corridor beyond was lined with students.
Gasps followed. Whispers curled like smoke.
"There goes Wei-Tang's golden son…"
"Dragged like a dog."
"I heard he cried."
"Celeste too… all of them."
Celeste Marlowe, Genevieve Whitmore, Cassandra Vaudette, and Isolde Renfield stood stiff and pale, flanked now by their equally dismayed and crimson-cheeked parents:
—Lord Basil Marlowe and Lady Anthea Marlowe, both renowned for their icy prestige and private wealth;
—Ambassador Roland Whitmore, grim-faced, and Lady Elira Whitmore, aghast;
—Count Leontius Vaudette, silent with veiled disdain, and Madam Rosette Vaudette, sobbing quietly;
—Chancellor Cedric Renfield, livid and embarrassed, and his wife Sarai Renfield, biting her painted lips in shame.
They bowed—not low, but sincerely.
"Commander Hakiman," Lord Marlowe said, clearing his throat, "we extend our apologies. Our daughters… acted without honour. We accept full responsibility and offer compensation—whatever it may be—to your family."
Aleeman inclined his head, his voice quiet but iron-clad.
"I do not accept coin for my sister's dignity. Nor for Finn's courage. I seek nothing from you—except that it never happen again."
He glanced toward Hua-Jing, who stood beside Wang Ji-Pang, her eyes glistening.
Beside her, Mei-Xi-Li, Mika, and Elizabeth stood in solidarity.
Finn still lay unconscious in the academy clinic, bruised but alive.
The nobles, stung and silent, bowed once more.
Meanwhile, in the hall outside the Dean's office, Robert Jison and George Ringtone were pulled forward—flushed, fidgeting, furious.
Falani turned, voice devoid of mercy.
"Robert Jison. George Ringtone. You are hereby expelled from Miracheneous Academy, effective immediately. Your conduct is irredeemable. Your presence—unwelcome."
Gasps rippled.
Robert turned pale. George cursed beneath his breath.
"You can't—"
"I just did," Falani replied, coolly. "Collect your belongings. You have an hour. After that, you'll be escorted out."
And with that, justice had not only spoken—it had thundered.
The wind filtered through the latticework of carved stone, brushing soft fingers across the velvet drapes that framed the upper hall. From her vantage, cloaked in shadow and silk, Shi Zhao Mei stood—silent, poised, precise.
She watched it all unfold like a stage play written by retribution itself.
Below her, the scene danced in hushed chaos: John Wei-Tang dragged by his ear like a misbehaving cur, his face a canvas of disbelief and wounded pride. Robert Jison and George Ringtone, blubbering with indignation, being escorted out with their heads lowered and backs arched like whipped hounds. The noble daughters, their families in tow, their cheeks crimson with disgrace, walking like statues cracked by shame.
Shi Zhao Mei leaned slightly forward, arms crossed. Her hair flowed like a silken banner in the breeze, her crimson eyes reflecting the downfall she had foreseen, perhaps even orchestrated.
And then—
A smile.
But not one of mirth, nor kindness, nor glee.
No—this was a smirk of deliberate indulgence, a villainess' victory curled upon her lips like a blade hiding in a rose.
It was the smirk of someone who had warned the world once, and now watched it bleed from not listening.
Justice, after all, had teeth. And she had taught it how to bite.
"So much for golden heirs," she murmured to herself, her voice soft as midnight oil, "all it took was a bit of truth—and a little push."
She tilted her head, amused, eyes flickering to Aleeman in the crowd. Calm. Collected. Crowned not in vengeance, but in vindication.
Below, whispers rose like incense among the students:
Did you see Shi Zhao Mei standing there earlier?" "She is something much more dangerous" "I wouldn't cross her—not even in jest."
And still she stood. Unmoving. Unshaken.
Like a black lotus blooming over scorched earth.
Shi Zhao Mei turned away—her cloak sweeping behind her like a curtain falling after the final act of a tragic play.
The throne chamber of Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann sat upon a throne not of marble, but of magnetised iron and humming arcane conduits. His crown, embedded with singularity glass, glinted as he reclined with the confidence of a war god.
To the side, standing at ceremonial distance, his son—Lenotes Jo-Ann—clad in a fitted battle-coat of cobalt synth-leather, brow furrowed beneath his fringe of silver-blonde hair.
Tekfur's voice rolled out like thunder in velvet:
"So… the dragons crumble."
His fingers tapped the armrest, a rhythm of contemplative cruelty.
"Betrayal," he said, with cold relish, "always blooms on the borderlands. The Eastern Dragon Clans—Shi-Wudu, Wei-Young, Li-Shu, Tai-Wan—they fracture. They tremble. They bleed."
He leaned forward, voice dipped in iron:
"And when scales turn upon scales, my son, no blade is needed to pierce them."
Lenotes' voice was calm, a blade sheathed but ready.
"Do we strike them now, Father? While the wound is still fresh?"
Kekaumenos did not respond immediately. Instead, the doors behind them slid open with a hiss of shifting energy.
Alphagut entered, cloak trailing like a shadow unbound, boots clinking softly on the vibro stone tiles. In his gloved hand, he held a scroll—unassuming, sealed in red wax and etched with foreign calligraphy that glowed faintly like a dying star.
He bowed once, then presented it.
"My Tekfur," he said, his voice gravel-laced and dry, "the wolves of the Dragon Clans have howled. And their fangs are pointed inward."
Kekaumenos took the scroll and broke the seal. His eyes scanned the contents—layer by layer, line by damning line.
Every line was a blade.
Every name—a target.
Every secret—a weapon.
Lenotes took a step closer. "What does it say?"
Alphagut turned to him, jaw tight.
"It is a map of the dragons' entrails. Internal conflicts. Disloyalties. Guard shifts. Breeding lines. Weak heirs. Scheming lords. Every blind spot lit."
Kekaumenos gave a quiet, measured chuckle. Then a smirk—a slow, deliberate arch of the mouth like a serpent waking from slumber.
"They've given us the bones beneath the scales," he said, voice molten with triumph. "And now we shall snap them."
He reclined, tapping the scroll against his leg.
"What of our agents, Alphagut? Our wolves hidden amongst their dens?"
Alphagut inclined his head.
"Their message was clear: We'll do what needs to be done. For the Tekfur. For the price. Even if it means burying our own kin."
At that, Kekaumenos laughed—a deep, rich bellow, echoing off the steel vaults.
"Perfect! Let the dragons slay dragons. Let them rip each other into ribbons of pride and ancient honour. And as they bleed into extinction, we sweep in—not as conquerors, but as liberators."
He rose now, towering, magnificent and terrifying.
"And with them gone… the Abjannas fall next."
He turned, eyes glowing with cold resolve.
"Aleeman Hakiman. The boy-commander who barks like a wolf but bleeds like a man. And the dragon-turned-maiden… Wei Yang Hong. The girl of curses and contradictions."
He spat the next words like prophecy:
"Let them watch their worlds rot—him in duty, her in disgrace. I shall burn their names from the annals of resistance. And when the last howl is heard, it will not come from their throats… but from the ashes."
He descended the dais slowly, each step a declaration.
"Prepare the fleets. Calibrate the engines. Feed the war-chambers."
"Tomorrow the age of the dragon ends in fire. And I shall be its flame."
Night had fallen like a velvet curtain over the Miracheneous skyline, stitched with auroral hues and scattered with a thousand glittering stars. In the hush beyond the academy's towering silhouette, the land rolled into a gentle glade—a hidden cathedral of grass, bathed in moonlight.
There, among the softly swaying blades, Aleeman Hakiman sat cross-legged upon the earth, his eyes lifted heavenward. Around him, silver-light flowers bloomed, shy blossoms that shimmered like tears fallen from the stars themselves. He cradled something in his palm—fragile, delicate, glinting faintly under the starlight.
Then—a voice, smooth as smoke, sliced through the stillness.
"What are you doing here, Commander Wolf, lurking in the moonlight like some forlorn bard?"
Aleeman turned, lips curling into a faint smile.
Approaching through the glade was Shi Zhao Mei, her silhouette framed by the celestial shimmer. Her modern gown hugged her frame with practiced elegance—metallic threads catching starlight like embers in twilight. Her expression bore the wicked playfulness of a serpent in a garden, the smirk of a villainess who never apologised for her charm.
She tilted her head.
"So? Tell me, Wolf. Why summon me at such an unearthly hour?"
Aleeman chuckled, his voice mellow.
"To behold beauty," he said, gesturing upward. "Not mine. His. The Almighty's. Look what He's done—look what He's made. And we still quarrel like rats beneath it."
For a long moment, she said nothing. Only her eyes moved—drifting to the expanse above, then down to the field of silver blooms that surrounded them.
She knelt beside one. Her fingers—unpainted, unarmoured—touched the petal gently.
"This one," she said, "is called Bái Yè Xīng. The White Night Star. It only blooms in silence. It thrives on starlight and wilts at dawn. Poets in the Tai-Wan courts used to say it was the flower of quiet longing."
Aleeman blinked. "You studied botany?"
She shook her head, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.
"No. But I studied silence. And stars."
He stared at her for a moment, in awe not of her beauty—but her clarity.
"In your clan," he began, "you believe in Tao-Kai Yǔ, don't you?"
She looked at him again, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
"Yes," she replied, voice softer now. "We believe the stars are the broken paths of the gods. The Star God, Tiān Huī (天辉), and the Moon Goddess, Yuè Lóu (月露), were forbidden lovers. Every night, they reach for each other but cannot touch. The constellations are their written letters, drifting across the sky like love unspoken."
Aleeman listened intently, eyes never leaving her.
"Each clan reads them differently," she continued. "Some see war. Some see harvest. But I… I only see two souls still trying."
He smiled. A slow, growing smile—sad, but radiant.
Then, gently, he spoke her name.
"Shi Zhao…"
She turned her face to him—calm, unreadable.
But he pressed on.
"I have many problems. Each with its own war. Most, I can solve with steel and strategy. But there's one I can't face. One that sets my heart alight—and makes my soul tremble."
Her brow furrowed slightly.
"It's you," he said, voice hushed. "You're the answer to a question I never had the courage to ask."
A flush bloomed across her cheeks, soft pink petals appearing against her porcelain skin.
He continued, his words falling like petals in the wind.
"Your eyes—those dazzling eyes—they swept my footing, they broke my blade, they sent me walking into a war I'd never known: love. And when I met you, I wasn't a boy or a commander. I was a man undone."
She looked away, biting her lip. Her voice, when it came, trembled.
"Aleeman, I don't know… I'm a prince. I was a prince. The Ji-Gong's shame. What will they say? What will your people say?"
He shook his head.
"I don't care what you are, Zhao Mei. I only care who you've become. And the one who lived in cruelty—he's gone. You're not him anymore."
She turned sharply.
"That past is tied to me, Aleeman—don't you see?"
"And yet we walk forward," he answered, rising to his feet. "And we do not walk backward unless we intend to fall."
"Aleeman, stop—" she said, standing, stepping away.
"I shall not," he said firmly. "And I cannot let you die beneath your father's hand, simply because you became something he fears."
She stared at him. Silent.
He exhaled, then pulled from his coat a glass rose—delicate, luminous, forged of star-sand and crystallised light.
"I made this… for you," he said, averting his gaze, then looking back again.
He stepped closer.
"Will you be the sultan of my heart? The companion at the end of the road?"
Shi Zhao Mei looked down at the rose, then back at him. Her lips parted—but the words came slowly, like breath from a drowning soul.
"I can't be the sultan of your heart. Nor your companion."
Her voice cracked—resolute in tone, but shaking in heart.
Aleeman nodded slowly, eyes softening.
"You're saying what your mind says. But what does your heart say?"
She looked away again.
"My mind and heart speak as one. I'm sorry."
She turned, heading back toward the Academy. Her shoulders taut, her pace uneven.
"Wait."
She paused.
He held out the rose.
"Keep it. If ever you feel alone—if I'm not near—hold it. And know that I am always with you."
She took it—hesitantly, with trembling hands. Her voice was barely a whisper:
"Thank you."
She turned again, offering him a brief gǒngshǒu—the respectful clasp of hands.
And then she walked on.
Aleeman stood alone in the glade, stars twinkling above him like blessings from forgotten gods.
He looked skyward once more.
And he smiled.
Not in victory.
But in love unspoken—yet unbroken.
* Tao-Kai Yǔ means Speech of the Way Opened. Tao-Kai Yǔ is the religion that is practise in Halmosian at the Eastern Region of the Dragon Clans. They believe the Almighty is seen as the Source Qi—formless, eternal, and beyond categorization, further believe other Gods and Goddess in the heavens. As their worship focuses on alignment with nature, internal harmony, and cultivation of the soul (Xiūliàn).
Dawn crept over Miracheneous Academy like a silent sovereign with morning calling prayer—its golden fingers unfurling across stone and spire, gilding the high windows with soft fire. The gentle murmur of waking birds mingled with the far-off rustle of academy banners, and the air tasted faintly of petrichor and ashwood tea.
Within his chambers, Aleeman Hakiman stirred.
The room, modest yet orderly, bore the ascetic signature of a soldier-scholar. Sabres were mounted in perfect symmetry. Books were stacked with military precision. On a nearby chair, his cloak hung like a dormant sentinel.
He drew the sleeves of his coat around him, the fabric whispering over skin still sore from sleepless contemplation. As he turned toward the basin to pour water for his morning ablution—
Knock. Knock.
Not on the door.
The balcony.
He blinked, then frowned. "Who might be at such an hour?" he muttered aloud, brows knitting.
Crossing the room, he unlatched the arched glass-paneled door. The wind greeted him with sudden force—a bracing gust that tousled his hair and tugged at the hem of his tunic like an impatient messenger.
On the balustrade, perched with elegant serenity, stood a pigeon—its plumage ashen with hints of bronze, eyes like pinpricks of obsidian.
And at its leg: a scroll.
Aleeman stepped forward, voice low. "A courier bird. No crest. No sigil. Someone's watching the rules burn."
He crouched, gently untying the parchment. The pigeon gave a brief coo, then fluttered upward, vanishing into the pastel sky like a ghost shedding duty.
Aleeman rose.
The scroll was thin, its parchment worn. The ink glistened with a faint luminescence, a mark of ciphered communication. It unfurled with ease, but what it carried was weight enough to fell mountains.
In coded script, it read:
"The Phoenix Wears Iron. The Cub Rides South. The March Begins.
East Wanes. North Watches. Wolves Were Promised."
—Ciphers of the Silent Flame
He read it once. Twice.
Then slowly, his jaw tensed, his knuckles paled, his grip tightened.
"Tekfur Kekaumenos… marching."
His voice was barely a whisper—but in its silence, thunder brewed.
He turned toward the rising sun, the letter still clutched in his hand like a drawn blade.
"They mean to strike the Dragon Clans. They mean to fracture the East before it finds its spine again."
His eyes narrowed.
"The Phoenix Wears Iron" — Kekaumenos himself.
"The Cub Rides South" — Lenotes, the viper spawn.
"The March Begins" — the assault is no longer theory, it's movement.
He glanced down at the last line.
"Wolves Were Promised."
Aleeman's breath hitched. His brow furrowed deeper.
"Traitors within the Dragon Clans," he murmured, "selling kin for coin. Wolves without loyalty. Wolves without honour."
He crushed the scroll in his palm, veins taut, muscles like coiled rope.
"So the curtain rises."
As the morning broke fully over the academy grounds, casting light across learning and legacy, Aleeman stood still—shoulders square, gaze grim, heart alight with quiet wrath.
The message had come.
The war was stirring.
Aleeman contacted his comrades informing them to get ready by using earbuds telling them they were gonna hunt in the South. Further he also inform that it will be the silent war of minds and swords
The sterile hush of the clinic was broken only by the soft hum of enchanted lanterns and the rhythmic pulse of the healing wards. The morning light filtered through crystal-paned windows, spilling across silken sheets and sterile steel like melted amber.
Upon one of the recovery beds, Finn Ming Ju-Go stirred.
His eyelids fluttered—a moth waking from frost. A faint groan escaped his lips as he blinked at the ceiling, his thoughts still sluggish, scattered like ash after fire. Then, with cautious movement, he turned his head—and saw her.
Hua-Jing.
Curled beside his bed, her head resting against her arms, hair draped like dark silk across her shoulder. Her breathing was soft, steady. She had clearly been there all night—an anchor in his storm.
As he shifted, she stirred.
Her lashes fluttered, her eyes opened—and upon seeing him conscious, her breath caught. She straightened at once, her gaze wide, rimmed with worry.
"Finn!" she gasped, voice trembling with a mixture of relief and concern. "Are you alright?!"
She leaned closer, one hand instinctively rising to press against his right cheek—warm, gentle, trembling just so. The contact was soft as moonlight.
He gave a faint, weary nod.
"What… what happened? How did I get here?" His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, as though spoken through a veil of dreams.
She smiled, though her eyes shimmered faintly.
"Shh… don't worry about that now," she murmured, brushing a strand of hair from his brow. "Just rest. I'll explain everything once you've slept more. You need to heal."
She paused, then added, with a voice like quiet spring rain:
"Thank you, Finn… for everything. For what you did."
And then she smiled.
Not the polite smile of a noble.
Not the rehearsed smile of formality.
But a genuine smile—tender, unguarded, unpolished.
It was a lantern in fog. A hearth in winter.
"Please recover… properly, this time."
Finn blinked once, twice.
And then he smiled too.
It was a soft smile—sleep-heavy, but real. A smile that reached the corners of his tired eyes, a smile that said more than his words ever could.
"Only if you stay," he murmured.
She blushed faintly but said nothing—only nodded, eyes never leaving his.
And there, in the hush of a sunlit room, with no grand declarations nor fluttering fanfare, something small but certain began to bloom—like a silver-petaled flower that opened only in silence.
At Southern Reach–Sablepine Forest groaned beneath the weight of iron and ambition. The canopy, thick with blackened needles and woven like a widow's veil, muffled the thunder of hooves. The wind was still. The birds had fled. Even the air itself, dense with anticipation, seemed to hold its breath.
Through this grove of shadows, Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann rode in regal malice—his obsidian cuirass gleaming with carved glyphs, his eyes sharp as flint. To his left, his heir and fury-bound son, Lenotes Jo-Ann, clad in lacquered red steel, led the vanguard. To his right, his war-worn hound Alphagut, grim and wordless, rode like a wraith beside the command column.
Behind them, a legion: knights in glinting helms, their war banners trailing like streaks of blood. Their weapons shimmered—blades imbued with sorcery and science alike, built not to wound but to annihilate.
Kekaumenos's voice broke the silence, low and deliberate.
"The Eastern Dragon Clans will burn by the hour's end. And then, perhaps, that desert cur Aleeman shall see what it means to defy legacy."
Lenotes chuckled darkly.
"If he lives long enough to witness it."
But fate had already drawn its sabre.
A gust. A rustle. A figure.
From the mist ahead, Aleeman Hakiman emerged—unbending, unblinking, unyielding.
Clad in blackened mail and leather, his sabre Wolf Claw drawn and gleaming, his silver shield strapped across his forearm like a vow made manifest. The morning sun lit the top of his head like a crown.
Behind him stepped three shadows—Tariq al-Khattab, Mehmet Arslan, and Rüstem Bey—battle-worn, fire-eyed, hands on hilts. They formed a crescent, warriors of the Abjannas, outnumbered but undaunted.
Lenotes hissed, his grin curling like a blade.
"Father... you call the devil, the devil appears."
Kekaumenos narrowed his gaze. "Aleeman. The mongrel messiah. Come to whimper for peace, or fall in pieces?"
Aleeman smirked, voice calm and sharp.
"Neither. I came to send you back the way you crawled from. I am the storm your arrogance refused to predict."
Before another word could be traded, a second figure arrived—draped in white and crimson robes, his long spear gleaming like the morning star.
Samiyoshi Hakiman. The elder brother. The Sun of the West.
Lenotes growled, eyes flashing.
"You violate ancient order. You bring divine blood to soil ruled by the blade!"
Samiyoshi's voice rang like bells at war.
"And you, Lenotes, desecrate the sacred law of the Divine Warriors. You move to murder the Clans under false flags. You spit upon pact and prophecy."
Kekaumenos growled. "Enough."
His arm rose.
"Knights—CRUSH THEM!"
The charge came—iron-shod hooves, roaring battle-cries, the ground itself trembling.
Aleeman roared back—a cry that cracked through the forest like thunder tearing mountains. His sabre rose. The fight began.
Swords clanged. Shields buckled. Flesh met steel, and the air sang with carnage.
Alphagut clashed against Rüstem Bey, blades flashing like forked lightning. Alphagut snarled, smashing a headbutt—but Rüstem didn't stagger. Instead, he countered with a brutal headbutt of his own, cracking Alphagut's nose wide. Blood splattered his chestplate.
Aleeman swept through the enemy like a gale through wheat. One knight fell—then two, then three. Wolf Claw found necks, throats, chests—cutting clean, cutting deep.
Mehmet Arslan and Tariq al-Khattab flanked either side—swords arcing, movements fluid, lethal.
Kekaumenos himself drew his war-blade Irongrief, cutting down two Abjannas footmen in a brutal sweep. His eyes were wild. His grip—furious.
And above the melee—a sun rose.
Lenotes unleashed his power, eyes igniting with blood-red fury.
"Crimson Paladin Form: Flame of Judgment!"
Fire burst from his pauldrons. His blade glowed like molten ruin. The ground beneath him scorched.
Samiyoshi responded in kind.
"Sun Art: Flaming Dazzling Sun!"
Light poured from his body, blinding, incandescent. His spear burst into flame.
They collided—fire and sunlight, judgment and mercy, vengeance and law.
The explosion was cataclysmic.
Shockwaves tore through the trees. Knights were flung like rag dolls. The earth cracked. The sky turned gold and crimson. Swords shattered. Flags burned. Screams mingled with silence.
Weapons meant to destroy the Dragon Clans were reduced to rubble, blasted in the conflagration of their duel.
Kekaumenos stumbled, cloak burning at the edge. He cursed, face ash-streaked.
"You fool, Lenotes! You unleashed it too soon!"
As the smoke cleared, Alphagut grabbed his lord's arm—dragging him from collapse. All around, Kumaruchaisan knights were dead, dying, or fleeing.
Lenotes, bruised and fuming, spat blood.
"You'll regret this, Samiyoshi! You and your runt brother—cowards dressed as heroes!"
Samiyoshi, panting, stepped forward.
"You mistake restraint for weakness. Return to your throne, false prince."
Kekaumenos bellowed: "RETREAT! BACK TO THE KUMARUCHAISAN!"
The army limped away—defeated, deflated, dishonoured.
When the dust cleared, Samiyoshi turned to Aleeman.
"Little brother… who are the ones who'd betray the Dragon Clans?"
Aleeman looked eastward, wind ruffling his cloak.
"They are the wolves hiding among sheep. In the East. I don't yet know their names…"
He turned, his gaze burning.
"…but I will."
The comrades—bruised but breathing—nodded in solemn unity.
And beneath the smoke-smeared sun, they rode back—together—not to rest, but to prepare.
For war had merely opened its eyes.