The twilight-shrouded plain beneath the faint light of dawn composed a scene of deceptive beauty and stillness. Atop the watchtower, the sentry pulled a clay bottle from his lips, let out a long, heavy belch, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His eyes, bloodshot from the wine he had consumed, glazed over as he lurched against the stone battlement. The biting north wind struck his face, partially clearing his drunken stupor.
He paused, squinting at the horizon. A plume of dust billowed from the distance. Suddenly, the discordant blare of horn-trumpets and the savage roars of barbarians shattered the silence of the plain.
The bottle slipped from his hand, shattering with a dull thud upon the stones. He scrambled for his spear and struck the bronze bell atop the tower with all his might:
"Barbarians! We are under attack!"
Below, in the garrison, chaos erupted. Soldiers stumbled from their quarters with half-open tunics and bare feet. Before they could form ranks, the shuddering impact of heavy mallets against the gate struck terror into them. A horrific creaking of wood filled the air; the barbarians cast iron hooks into the gaps of the door, tethering them to their saddles with thick ropes. With a collective shout, the horses surged forward, ripping the rusted hinges from the stone walls with an explosive crack.
The gate burst outwards. The barbarian riders poured in like a black tide upon their stout, hardy mounts. It was a scene of sheer carnage. From their saddles, the barbarians split the skulls of the soldiers with heavy broadswords. One soldier, fleeing in terror, was skewered through the throat by a barbarian's spear and pinned to the wooden wall behind him. Within minutes, the snow-covered ground of the garrison was stained entirely crimson.
The barbarian chief cast a glance at the mangled corpse of the border commander, crushed beneath the horses' hooves. He wheeled his horse around, checked the sun's position in the sky, and pointed towards the road.
"I want us at the shores of Lake Xuě (雪) by sunset tomorrow," he commanded. "Move out!"
With a feral cry, the riders spurred their horses into a gallop, streaming towards the road through a sea of corpses.
Miles away, in the City of Zhùróng (祝融) - The State of Yáng (陽),
The day was warm and humid. The man in black—the same who had previously met with Lord Yìfēng (逸風)—traversed the alleys with swift, measured strides. Without a moment's hesitation, he reached a school of martial arts. The rhythmic thuds of training staves and the shouts of students echoed across the open space, yet he spared them not a single glance, heading straight for the inner hall.
Inside, the air was cooler, thick with the scent of bitter incense. Behind a thin silk veil sat the silhouette of a young man. He wore a black Hànfú (漢服) [A traditional Chinese clothing] with a crimson robe draped over his shoulders. His thick, long hair hung loose without a single tie. With strange obsession, he slowly drew a white cloth over the cold, gleaming blade of his Jiàn.
The man in black entered, knelt, and bowed his head in respect:
"My Lord, the mission is complete."
The sound of cloth sliding over metal did not cease. The man continued:
"Liángwáng (良王) has advanced his army to the borders. Lord Yìfēng awaits your command to set the army in motion."
The young man, without lifting his gaze from the hawk-like reflection of his own eyes on the polished steel, spoke in a frigid tone:
"The Jīn (金) army does not move a single inch!"
The man in black raised his head in shock:
"But... without their support, the rebellion will fail!"
The young man placed his Jiàn gently upon the ebony table. He cast aside the blood-stained cloth and, with a fluid motion, flicked open his bone fan. He stared directly into the envoy's trembling eyes. A smile touched his lips, as cold as the blade of his sword:
"That is precisely what I desire. The ministers are but spent pawns in my game; their usefulness has ended."
He rested his elbow on the table and leaned forward:
"The Grand Minister is already floundering in a quagmire of his own making. The more he struggles, the deeper he sinks."
A crooked smile formed:
"Watching what he might do in the fleeting moments before his death... that, I find entertaining."
The man in black, still kneeling, lowered his head once more in silence. Suddenly, the young man snapped his fan shut with a sharp, dry crack. His gaze turned grave and lethally dangerous:
"Today, we move towards Wēichéng (巍城). The capital shall soon witness a fascinating performance. My true game has only just begun. Jiāolóng (蛟龍) is returning..."
He leaned back into his chair, and this time, his loud, triumphant laughter sent a shiver through the man in black.