Xingzhao had been born in fire and blood—but it would be rebuilt with hope and steel.
In the days following the Black Hall's attack, the village no longer resembled a place of survival. It was a place of purpose. Under the golden light of dawn, hammers rang, drills hummed, and scaffolding rose like skeletal fingers from the forest floor.
Where smoke once choked the air, now the scent of sawdust and fresh mortar filled it. And at the heart of it all was Song Lian.
She worked tirelessly from morning to midnight, her hands rarely still. Her soul-space hummed quietly as she summoned crates of materials in places unseen—always alone, always discreet. In the hidden corners of the forest, she offloaded bundles of pre-cut steel frames, glass panels, concrete blocks, copper wiring, and composite roofing.
Materials no villager had seen before, and never would—because by the time dawn broke, they were neatly stacked at the edge of the construction zones, ready to be used.
Yun Zhen made sure of it.
No one questioned the sudden abundance. No one dared to ask where the building supplies came from. If anyone grew curious, Yun Zhen's quiet warning glance or calm redirection quelled their thoughts.
To the villagers, it was a miracle. To Song Lian and Yun Zhen, it was a revolution. Within two weeks, the first concrete homes were completed.
Smooth-walled, insulated, with shatterproof windows and tile roofing, each house came equipped with running water, sealed plumbing, and insulated interiors. The winters that once bit into the villagers' bones were now held at bay by electric heaters built into the walls were controlled by simple dials crafted by Song Lian's own design.
Power poles lined the new stone-paved roads, stretching like sentinels between rows of buildings. Street lamps glowed softly at night, solar-powered, their existence written off by the villagers as magic or Song Lian's "alchemy."
Clean water flowed through a modern filtration system hidden underground, while a network of sewers and drains carried waste away from homes to a processing plant tucked beneath a hill.
It wasn't just comfort. It was dignity. Xingzhao was no longer a cluster of shacks in the woods. It was a town.
But Song Lian wasn't building paradise, she was building a bastion. On the outskirts of the new town, a fortified wall rose like a silent guardian. Twelve meters high, reinforced with steel and stone, the wall circled the entirety of Xingzhao.
Watchtowers were placed every twenty meters, each equipped with a concealed weapons locker, high-powered binoculars, and communication terminals rigged through radio receivers.
But what truly set the wall apart were the bazooka emplacements—one every five meters.
Modified to be mountable and easy to fire, these launchers were engineered to be used by small teams. Covered with retractable hoods, they blended with the wall's battlements unless deployed. It was a defense no army in the Yun Empire had ever seen. And Song Lian didn't stop there.
North of the town's center, a massive tract of land had been cleared and flattened into a training camp. Wooden barracks, modern obstacle courses, armories, and command posts were erected with ruthless efficiency.
Yun Zhen took full command of the military operations.
He handpicked veteran fighters among the refugees, placing them through rigorous drills and appointing them as instructors. With Song Lian's quiet support, new weapons were introduced—semi-automatic rifles, shotguns, pistols, and even tactical gear, all masked as "mechanical bows" or "projectile rods" in village documents.
The soldiers didn't ask. They obeyed. Loyalty had taken root in Xingzhao, nurtured by safety and opportunity.
Every morning, the clang of metal and the bark of orders echoed from the training yard. Within weeks, the first proper military unit of Xingzhao had formed—fifty soldiers, uniformed, trained, and well-fed.
A symbol of defiance.
That night, Song Lian sat atop the wall, looking down at the glowing streets of Xingzhao. She sipped tea from a bamboo cup, her hair tied up loosely, a trace of fatigue on her face.
Yun Zhen joined her, wearing a military cloak over a plain tunic. He didn't speak for a while. Just sat beside her and watched the lights below.
"You've done something no dynasty in history has ever achieved," he said at last. "You've built a sanctuary from ruin."
She didn't respond right away.
"I wasn't sure how much I could trust them," she finally said, voice soft. "But knowing you trust me… it gave me the courage to try."
Yun Zhen turned his gaze to her, serious but warm.
"You don't need to hide from me anymore," he said. "This town stands because of you. Let the others think what they want. I'll make sure they never question you."
A gentle breeze swept over them. She smiled faintly, a tired but contented expression.
"Thank you, Yun Zhen."
Far to the south, beneath the city of Yunhua, the shadowed chambers of the Black Hall's southern division flickered with lanternlight.
A cloaked figure stepped through a pool of ink-black mist into a grand chamber where a veiled woman in red silk stood by a wall map of the Yun Empire.
"Xingzhao has changed," the figure reported. "Walls now. Towers. Unknown weapons. The prince trains his soldiers. They're no longer farmers."
The woman tilted her head, amusement in her voice.
"Let him build. Let him dream of safety."
She touched a pin on the map placing it directly over Xingzhao.
"The higher they rise… the more satisfying it is when they fall."