Dawn broke with grim clarity. On the highest tier of Zhong, soldiers peered across the horizon. At first, the forms that emerged from the east looked like hills or twisted trees. Then they moved. Six towering siege engines rolled forward, wrapped in storm-dyed cloth, mounted on steel-reinforced wheels. The ground trembled beneath them. Massive ox-beasts pulled them, snorting steam with every breath, their hides marked with old battle scars.
No illusions. No spells. The Gale Army wasn't hiding its intent—they were daring Zhong to look and feel helpless.
General Lian stood on the eastern tower, fists clenched. The officers around him exchanged glances. Sweat trickled down their faces despite the chill.
"They're baiting us," one said. "Trying to make us flinch."
"No," Lian muttered. "They're just getting started."
Far off on the ridge, Altan stood motionless. He didn't watch the walls. He watched the distance between. With a slight movement, he lifted one hand.
"Let them wait," he said to no one. "Let them crack under their own silence."
The siege towers halted just beyond arrow range. Workers poured out from their flanks, reinforcing the path, filling the dry moat with packed earth and stone. There was no hesitation. The defenders on the wall watched in disbelief.
"Catapults—fire!" came the shout.
Zhong's weapons roared. Flaming bolts soared through the sky. But the siege towers didn't burn. Alchemically treated cloth shimmered, shedding flame and heat like rain. Arrows snapped uselessly against the hulls.
Then Zhong's machines broke. A mangonel split with a crack. Ballistae jammed. Engineers shouted, but nothing worked. A captain opened a shattered beam—and pulled back in horror. Termites. Pale, writhing things. The wood had been hollowed out from within. No surface signs. No warning.
"The Whispershells," someone whispered. "They sent them. Weeks ago."
Every support beam, every bolt, might already be rotting.
Lian's voice cracked. "We've been eaten from the inside."
Then came the movement.
Altan lowered his hand.
The towers rolled forward, slow but unstoppable. No horn blew. No signal flared. Only the grind of wheels and the building pressure in the air.
Zhong's archers fired again. The towers kept coming.
Deployment Orders:
East Gate: One full Stormguard Legion led by Chaghan, followed by three Regular Legions.
North Gate: Half a Stormguard Legion, two Volunteer Legions, one Regular Legion.
South Gate: Half a Stormguard Legion, two Volunteer Legions, one Regular Legion.
The first tower struck the wall. A bridge extended with a heavy clank. Then the Stormguard stepped out.
They wore matte-black armor. No colors, no sigils. Just the dull sheen of discipline and death. Their helms were forged from darksteel and aurichalcum, faces hidden behind slits. No speech. No wasted motion. Just silence and purpose. Chaghan led them. Taller than most, shield in one hand, Leaf Saber in the other. His voice cut through the wind, hard and clear.
"Take the wall. Break their rhythm. No mercy."
The Stormguard hit like a hammer.
A defender lunged with a spear. Chaghan caught it against his shield, stepped in, and sliced low—his saber cleaving through thigh and groin. The man dropped screaming. Chaghan moved on.
His soldiers followed. One blocked a halberd and drove a short thrust into the neck. Another used shield edge to snap a jaw sideways before slamming a saber down into the chest. Blood sprayed. Bones cracked. Screams followed.
The Stormguard moved in disciplined rows, shields tight, advance relentless. They fought with the precision of the Silent Core Path. No elemental qi. Only raw strength, flawless footwork, and timing honed through pain.
Chaghan fought like a man carved from war. He used the Mirror Edge technique to redirect a spear, then struck twice: first into the ribs, then the throat. A Zhong captain charged him—Chaghan dropped to one knee, pivoted beneath the slash, and slammed his shield into the man's ankle. Bone shattered. As the captain fell, Chaghan drove his saber into the collar gap and pulled free.
"Keep moving," he snapped. "No pause. No mercy."
Behind them, the Regulars advanced. Rank after rank of infantry stormed the bridges, filling the paths the Stormguard carved open.
To the north and south, the same battle played out. Stormguard squads broke the line. Volunteers charged in behind them, screaming battle cries. They lacked precision, but their fury made up for it. Bodies collided, blades rang, and the air filled with death.
Zhong's troops pushed back. They fought hard. But they weren't ready. Not for this.
One officer raised a flag to rally. Chaghan surged forward, shield-first, and slammed into the man like a battering ram. The officer's ribcage crumpled under the impact. Before he could scream, Chaghan's saber punched into his chest, twisted once, and tore free. The banner fell with him.
Zhong's wall wasn't collapsing—it was being dismantled, person by person.
Chaghan's technique was different than the others. At the heart of his style lay a personalized variant of the Silent Core Path—something whispered of in drills but only passed to those who survived the Breaking Trials. He called it Iron Reversal. Where others absorbed and returned force, Chaghan used kinetic buildup to destabilize his opponents mid-motion, snapping limbs while they still moved. He didn't wait for strikes—he met them head-on, broke them mid-arc, and punished openings before they formed.
He turned a Zhong spear thrust into an opening by twisting his torso and bringing his shield down, not as block, but as impact—a slam that crushed fingers and shattered the haft. The follow-up cut came not with flourish, but finality.
The wall was turning red.
Gale banners went up, not at the gates, but from inside. From the walls.
Altan, watching from his ridge, didn't speak. He didn't have to.
Another gate opened.
Zhong, the City of Iron Flowers, was being uprooted. Brick by brick. Blade by blade.
By dusk, the outer wall had collapsed. Thousands were dead. Six legions had been annihilated or taken captive. The Gale Army breached the lower wall defenses and reached the edge of the inner moat—a narrow river cutting off the inner city, where the nobles, elite guards, and imperial family remained.
Altan gave the order that night.
"Let the citizens go," he said. "Two days. They walk free."
A silence followed. Then signal flares marked the ceasefire line. For the first time in generations, the gates of Zhong were opened.
Not for trade. Not for tribute. But for retreat.
And the moat ran red in the fading light.