The map did not change.
No matter how many times Mo Yun traced it with his finger, the result remained the same—two points marked in red, far apart enough to make simultaneous defense impossible, yet close enough that abandoning either would invite disaster.
One red mark was the Yunxi Villages, a cluster of settlements hugging the forest's edge. Refugees were still arriving from that direction, breathless and terrified, speaking of beasts moving not in waves, but in layers.
The other mark was the Stone Spine Pass—a narrow gorge reinforced with ancient formations. If it fell, the beasts would have a clear route deeper into the borderlands. The next defensive line lay nearly a hundred miles away.
Silence weighed on the command tent.
"The formations at Stone Spine are old," Shen Yue said at last. "But they're irreplaceable. If they collapse, we lose control of the region entirely."
"And if we ignore Yunxi," another leader replied grimly, "we lose people. Hundreds of them."
No one contradicted that.
A junior disciple swallowed nervously. "Can we… split the forces?"
Mo Yun looked up sharply, but it was not anger in his eyes—it was pity.
"We already ran the numbers," he said. "Splitting forces means both points fall. This isn't a matter of courage. It's arithmetic."
The tent fell silent again.
Outside, the distant roar of beasts echoed faintly, like thunder rolling beneath the earth.
This was not a decision meant for cultivators.
It was a decision meant for executioners.
Li Chen stood near the edge of the tent, posture relaxed, expression unreadable.
Inside, his thoughts churned.
This is how it starts, he realized. Not with ambition. Not with glory. But with choosing who gets abandoned.
His instincts screamed at him to stay silent.
He had survived by avoiding attention, by minimizing ripples. He was a guest here—no, worse, a variable. If he interfered, the balance would shift. If he revealed too much, suspicion would bloom.
And yet—
His gaze flickered briefly to the map.
Yunxi.
Stone Spine.
Two red marks.
Two inevitable losses.
The Heavenly Dao is efficient, Li Chen thought bitterly. It never wastes suffering.
The debate resumed, sharper now.
A leader from another sect slammed his fist onto the table. "We are cultivators! If we abandon the villages, what separates us from the beasts?"
"And if we lose the pass," Shen Yue countered, voice tight, "how many more villages will die next month? Next year?"
"You're asking us to gamble lives for strategy!"
"No," she snapped. "I'm asking you to think beyond today!"
Tension crackled like unstable qi.
Someone laughed suddenly—short, strained.
"So this is cooperation between the five great sects," a disciple muttered. "Arguing over whose conscience bleeds less."
No one rebuked him.
Mo Yun closed his eyes briefly, then spoke.
"There is no righteous answer," he said. "Only responsibility."
All eyes turned to him.
"We either save Yunxi and accept that the border will break later," he continued, "or we secure Stone Spine and accept that Yunxi will not survive the night."
The words landed like stones in water—heavy, final.
A few disciples looked away.
Others clenched their fists.
One whispered a prayer that went unanswered.
Li Chen felt something tighten in his chest.
He had seen this before.
Not here—but in memories that weren't his. Memories of a world where decisions were hidden behind paperwork and distance. Where responsibility diluted itself across committees until no one felt guilty enough to stop.
Different world, he thought. Same cruelty.
Mo Yun's gaze swept the tent—and paused on Li Chen.
Not accusing.
Not pleading.
Simply acknowledging that he was there.
Li Chen inclined his head slightly, saying nothing.
You don't want my answer, Li Chen thought. Because if I give it, someone will pay the price.
Outside the tent, messengers arrived one after another.
Beasts sighted near Yunxi's outer farms.
Stone Spine's formations showing signs of resonance interference.
Civilian evacuation slowing due to terrain collapse.
Each report tightened the noose.
Finally, Shen Yue exhaled sharply. "We're running out of time."
Mo Yun nodded. "Prepare both contingents."
A leader stared at him. "Both?"
"Yes," Mo Yun said quietly. "We move as if we still have a choice. Until the last possible moment."
No one objected.
Because everyone understood what that meant.
Delay was mercy.
Delay was cowardice.
Delay was hope pretending to be strategy.
As the meeting broke, Li Chen stepped outside.
The air was cold. The sky dimmer than it should have been at this hour.
From here, he could see the forest stretching endlessly, hiding its teeth behind green silence.
Either way, he realized, the enemy wins something.
That was the most terrifying part.
Not that they would lose—but that the loss was designed.
Somewhere, someone had arranged this.
Not to destroy them.
But to teach them how destruction feels.
Li Chen closed his eyes briefly.
"I really hate standing out," he muttered to himself.
The wind carried his words away.
But the choice remained.
And soon, it would demand blood.