The wall had fallen. No cheers followed.
The Stormguard held the breach not with noise or fury, but with presence. Like statues, they moved across the stone tiers. Each step was deliberate. Each formation sealed by unspoken rhythm. Their helms, devoid of sigils or humanity, stared forward. They looked more like constructs than men.
The breachhead had been taken in silence. The first storm columns hit the Zhong flank without warning. By the time defenders raised a cry, the Stormguard were already among them. The kill was efficient. No shouts, no chaos—just metal and movement. The top of the wall was cleared in less than two minutes.
Once secure, the Stormguard turned outward. Shields lowered. Sabers angled down. They stood at the lip of the breach like sentinels cast from iron.
Behind them came the regular Gale legions.
Wave by wave, soldiers crossed the siege ramps—boots thudding in time, eyes scanning the carnage with guarded restraint. They took position behind the Stormguard ranks, forming reinforcement lines on blood-slick stone. Archers, shield bearers, pike squads, and sapper units moved without fanfare, each finding their place. Some looked to the dead. Some stepped over them without thought. All knew this was not the final line.
There would be no rest until the inner gate fell.
Above, the Zhong palace bell tolled again. The tone was deeper this time. A warning.
From the far gate of the imperial compound, the Palace Guard emerged.
These were not conscripts. Not outer province draftees. These bore red-black lamellar, threaded with gold flame. They wielded sword, hook, glaive, and fire-chain. Trained since childhood in the Eightfold Flame Court, their stances were calm and exact. Their eyes held no fear.
They knew what was coming.
Altan stood on the staging platform behind the first breach. His cloak snapped in the smoke-slick wind. He did not shout. He did not raise his arm.
"Let them test each other. Inch by inch. No volleys. No overreach. The Stormguard hold until the shieldline breaks."
At the front, Chaghan led. The First Stormguard. His armor bore no emblem. The pauldrons told the truth—scarred, twice-recast darksteel. His Leaf Saber hung low, sheathed behind his forward shield. One hand lifted.
The signal.
Ten iron-black formations advanced. Two legions per siege ramp, five ramps in total. They moved in unified silence, shield to shield, without a word.
The first clash made no sound.
A Palace Guard with twin hooks ducked low, aiming beneath a Stormguard's shield. The counter came fast. A shield-lock. A twist. Bone snapped at the wrist. The Leaf Saber rose, pierced clavicle and heart. The man collapsed. No scream.
On the west flank, a fire-chain zipped overhead. One Stormguard raised his shield, caught the flaming hook, locked it with his bracer, and yanked. The chain wielder was pulled off balance, then met by three sabers midair. He hit the ground in pieces.
A Palace Guard screamed as a shield crushed his knee. The Stormguard stepped over him and drove a boot into his skull. Another Zhong elite leapt in desperation. He was skewered midflight, impaled through the gut, and cast aside.
Blood soaked the stonework. It filled the carvings, pooled in cracked tiles. Bone shattered like dry timber. Shields caved ribs and helmets. The Stormguard advanced without pause. A disarmed guard dropped his weapon, hands raised.
The saber entered his throat without hesitation.
This was not battle. This was culling.
Stormblood Gate loomed ahead. The doors remained shut, ward symbols glowing faintly. A hundred paces of shattered courtyard stretched before it.
The courtyard burned. Not with fire, but with blood.
Warden-Marshals signaled using the light-ribbed plates on their pauldrons. The Stormguard reformed from wedges to staggered suppression lines. Movement flowed without commands.
A glaiveman charged.
One Stormguard deflected the blade with a Stonewheel Reversal and redirected the strike. Another stepped in, his shield crashing down with the force of Thousand Weight Pressure. The glaiveman's chest caved inward.
A flame-saber scraped against a shield. It hissed. The Stormguard jammed his saber through the attacker's thigh and let the man scream until he bled out on the tile.
Still, no one spoke.
Stormwake, leader of the Qorjin-Ke detachment, stood beneath the siege gantries. Beast handlers waited nearby, their hands slick with blood. Only four siege ramps remained functional. The fifth had collapsed during the last wave. No more bridgeheads would rise. The rest would be taken step by step.
From inside the palace, arcs of glyphfire flared overhead. One blast struck the west flank. A Stormguard dropped, half his helm melted. The formation adjusted. Another stepped forward, shield already raised.
Altan did not flinch. No new orders came. Stormguard did not wait for instruction. They moved with intent.
Another twenty paces gained.
Chaghan advanced. His footsteps echoed like iron. The others followed.
A Palace Guard lunged, blade high. Chaghan raised his shield. The impact bent the attacker's arm backward. The saber struck next, finding lung. The man collapsed.
Two more came at once. Chaghan turned low, caught one with a shoulder, then cut the other's knee. His blade finished in the throat.
They were not fighting men.
They were fighting statues.
Stormguard bled, but none cried out. A leg severed? They fought from the ground. A shoulder shattered? The shield still held. Only when their bodies failed did they fall.
Commander Zhuan Fei watched from the second tier balcony, behind the last line of defense.
The glow of glyphfire stained the stone red, and still the enemy came.
He had commanded thirty-four engagements over twenty-seven years. Eight border wars, three civil mutinies, two northern icefront expeditions. But nothing had prepared him for this.
These were not soldiers. Not even monsters. Monsters, at least, roared. These things advanced without voice, without face. They struck with mechanical precision, absorbed pain without protest, and fell only when something vital was broken beyond repair.
He turned to his adjutants. One stood with both hands white-knuckled on the parapet. The other was whispering prayers in an old dialect, barely audible over the distant clamor.
Zhuan Fei said nothing. What was there to say?
The Palace Guard was holding—for now. They had trained for this, drilled to match impossible odds. But you cannot train against silence. You cannot parry inevitability.
Each breath came slower.
The second tier defenses were already preparing the fallbacks. Ammunition was being rationed. Ward sigils redrawn over the inner gate's frame. The Emperor had not issued a retreat command. But they all knew what this was.
The first layer had cracked.
If the gate fell, they would hold the hall. If the hall fell, they would seal the vaults. If the vaults were breached, they would burn it all.
But first… they would bleed. Every man. Every inch.
Zhuan Fei drew his sidearm saber. It hummed faintly with residual heat. Not ceremonial anymore.
He looked down at the courtyard.
Ten paces left between the enemy and the gate.
Five.
No more time.
"Stand by your blood. Let none pass. Make them forget how to breathe."