The City of the Rams was one of the most important cities in the Celestial Phoenix Empire. It stood at the confluence of the Flowing Jade River and the Yellow Dragon River, making it a major hub for trade and a vibrant gathering place for people from every corner of the world. The city teemed with countless shops, refineries, smithies, alchemists' workshops, trader houses, and brokerages—along with just as many sailors, merchants, and travelers, all seeking their fortune.
Over the years, the city had grown vast, spilling from one riverbank to the other. Majestic bridges arched across the waters, so wide and sturdy they hosted stalls, street performers, singers, and wandering vendors. It could take a month to walk from one end of the city to the other. Along the way, one might see scarves from beyond the Stormwall, pottery from the Divine Dragon Empire, scrolls from the Southern Plateau, perfumes and spices from the central regions—alongside rice from Redflower City and silk from Golden Silk City. It was a vibrant melange of the known world's finest wares.
In short, you could find anything in the City of the Rams—if you were willing to pay the price.
It earned its name because no single City Lord governed it. Instead, the imperial court ruled directly, appointing a temporary magistrate known as the "Ram" for a term of fifteen years. Each transition was met with bated breath, as a new Ram could shift tax policies, making some goods cheaper while raising the cost of others. Despite the court's attempts to maintain order, corruption had taken deep root. In this city, success came not just through coin, but through greased palms and whispered favors.
When Zheng crested the horizon and soared toward the city, he saw that even in wartime, its bustling streets remained lively and crowded. As was often said within the Empire: The City of the Rams never sleeps.
Fortunately, Zheng had no need to descend into the chaos below. The skies were alive with traffic—people flying on magical tools: boats, swords, gourds, and stranger contraptions still. A crooked old woman rode a colossal mortar and pestle, while a solemn man stood rigidly atop a hovering paper crane.
But they all gave way as Zheng's aura—a Golden Core cultivator's presence—crashed over them like a wave. One by one, they bowed in midair, murmuring respectful greetings of "Lord" and "Lord Viscount."
He didn't need to ask for directions—his destination was obvious.
At the very heart of the city stood a grand pavilion, towering a hundred floors high. Cultivators floated in the air around it, keeping a respectful distance. Each one wore the livery of the current Ram, their posture disciplined, their expressions guarded. From within the pavilion, Zheng could sense the unmistakable presence of multiple Golden Core cultivators—and beyond that, even stronger auras, vast and deep.
As Zheng approached, one of the guards broke formation and flew forward to meet him, bowing low in the air.
"My Lord, I bid you welcome on behalf of my master and His Grace, Feng Roushan. Please proceed inside. The meeting will begin shortly."
So, the meeting was to be presided over by none other than the Emperor's brother. Prince Feng Roushan—one of only two Nascent Soul cultivators in the imperial family—stood second only to the Emperor himself in power and authority.
If he had come to take charge, then perhaps things would proceed smoothly after all.
Zheng flew straight to the top floor of the pavilion. Instead of solid walls, heavy curtains hung from the ceiling, separating the chamber from the open air. Each was laced with woven qi and embedded with the strength of a defensive formation. The barrier shimmered as he approached, sensing his cultivation and yielding to his presence. As soon as he passed through, it sealed shut behind him, firm and impenetrable once more.
The top floor was a vast, open room, ringed by pillars spaced evenly around the edges. At the far end stood a simple raised dais, the center of attention. Three figures occupied it, and Zheng immediately recognized one.
To the left stood Duke Long, relaxed and imposing, his towering frame unmistakable. He spotted Zheng at the same moment and offered a wide grin. Zheng felt a quiet wave of relief—Duke Long had made it back from the Northern Plains. He must have managed to slip free of the Khan's pursuit.
At the center stood a richly dressed man, his appearance otherwise unremarkable save for the crown of flaming red hair that lent him an unmistakable presence. His purple robes billowed around him, embroidered with golden dragons chasing each other in an endless spiral. From his ornate cap hung a veil of small, intricately painted pebbles, and upon his feet were impossibly tall, thin stilts that acted as sandals. It could only be the prince—Feng Roushan himself.
To the right stood a man clad entirely in white, sharp-eyed and observant. He had noted the moment Duke Long acknowledged Zheng. This, Zheng assumed, was the current Ram—the temporary steward of the city, appointed by the imperial court.
The rest of the hall was filled with orderly rows of chairs, arranged in three distinct sections, each one a reflection of the Empire's rigid hierarchy.
Closest to the dais sat the Marquises, cultivators at the late stage of the Golden Core realm. Behind them were the Earls, solidly at the middle stage. And finally, at the rear, sat the Viscounts—early stage Golden Core cultivators like Zheng.
Without a word, Zheng made his way to an empty seat in the last row and sat down. There was no clearer display of how power and nobility were intertwined in the Empire—rank followed cultivation, and together they dictated one's place in all things.
Several seats remained empty, and the meeting had yet to formally begin. So, Zheng stayed silent, observing the room. Few turned to examine him—most offered only a cursory glance before dismissing him entirely. One man, however, lingered a moment longer.
Middle-aged, with a neatly kept beard and a calm demeanor, he smiled faintly at Zheng. Zheng recognized him as the Lord of Misty Sky City—a man who had once had many dealings with Zheng's now-dead and entirely unlamented uncle, Liu Zhisheng.
Zheng returned the smile politely, though inwardly he made a note to keep his distance. That man's daughter, if memory served, was fated to become one of Ye Chen's future harem members. Zheng had no desire to get tangled in that particular karmic web.
As time passed, more of the Empire's great and noble trickled in—cultivators of vast power and high rank, each marked by rich robes and potent auras. The seats filled. The atmosphere thickened, a formless pressure settling over the room. Murmurs dwindled to hushed whispers, then silence.
Finally, Prince Feng Roushan stepped forward.
The sharp clack of his tall sandals against the polished floor echoed through the vast hall, silencing the last rustles of conversation. He paused before the dais, and then spoke, his voice calm but carrying with unmistakable authority.
"It gives me great pleasure to see you all gathered here today, despite the grim tidings that have summoned us. You are the heart and soul of this Empire—each and every one of you. Not the imperial court, nor even the capital, but you. So believes the Emperor, and so I speak in his stead."
He paused, his gaze sweeping slowly across the room. It was a measuring look—sharp, perceptive, and unhurried—taking the measure of every lord and lady present.
Then the prince smiled—a small, composed gesture—and continued.
"And now, as a great threat gathers on the horizon, endangering our beloved Empire, we have come together to combine our strengths, our wisdom, and our skills to turn it back. Duke Long," he said, turning slightly to gesture at the towering man beside him, "has returned from the deep North with grave news. A new Khan has risen. Chagatai has a successor—an even more dangerous beast."
He let the silence draw for a heartbeat.
"Ogedei Khan."
A wave of murmurs swept through the room. Lords glanced at one another, faces tightening, minds racing. Though rumors of a new Khan had already spread through the Empire, this was the first time his name had been spoken publicly.
Zheng remained calm, hands resting lightly on his knees. His expression stayed neutral, eyes fixed forward. This, he knew, was only the beginning.
"However," the Prince continued, his voice steady and commanding, "we have him at a disadvantage."
He spoke with the confidence of one well-versed in court and command, his words calculated and deliberate. He had the attention of the entire hall, drawing in the lords and ladies with each carefully weighted phrase.
"This king of beasts sought to remain hidden, to grow his strength in the shadows before striking—but he has failed. Now we know of him, and he knows that we know. He is cornered. Either he must strike, or prepare to defend—because we will not allow him the time to grow stronger."
He let that sink in before delivering the final line with deliberate force.
"And we all know the nature of beasts. He will come. He will hurl his armies against the Great Northern Wall. And there, we shall stand. And there, we shall break him."
A smattering of cheers broke out—scattered but spirited. Many nodded, visibly heartened by the Prince's bold stance.
Zheng took note. The ones who responded most were the younger lords—those newly raised to their titles, still eager, still flushed with the heat of purpose. Like him. But the older lords, the seasoned veterans of court and war, remained silent. They listened carefully, their expressions unreadable, weighing each word and watching each reaction.
They had seen enough to know speeches were easy. War was not.
One such seasoned lord stood now and spoke, his tone plain and deliberate.
"What of the other borders, Prince Feng? We must not forget that the Divine Dragon Empire lies just across the eastern sea, watching and waiting for a chance to strike. This could very well be such an opportunity."
Before the prince could reply, another figure rose sharply—an older lady with a regal bearing, her back straight despite her years, grey hair tied into a precise bun.
"Empress Shin Hua is not her parents," she said, her voice ringing clear across the hall. "She has spoken of peace, and every one of her actions has supported that claim. How long will we continue to let the ghost of a war long past drain us dry—throwing increasingly extravagant sums at the defense of our eastern coastline?"
A clamor broke out in response—voices rising, lords and ladies speaking over one another, some agreeing, others shouting their dissent. What had been solemn and orderly now threatened to unravel into disorder.
Zheng watched quietly, unsure of all the deeper political currents at play, but not blind to their shape. The first speaker, he realized, was the Lord of Turtle Beach City—whose lands stood directly opposite the Divine Dragon Empire, forming the Empire's eastern bulwark. His concern was not mere rhetoric; it was self-preservation.
The woman, a Countess—equal in rank to an Earl—ruled Snake Wind City, near the Stormwall on the far side of the Empire. To her, the Divine Dragon Empire was distant, even abstract. It was the looming chaos from the west and north that likely troubled her more.
In that moment, Zheng understood something with crystalline clarity: this meeting was not merely about strategy. It was about priorities—who would be protected, and at what cost.
"Friends," Prince Feng's voice cut through the rising noise like a blade through silk, restoring order with its calm authority. "The Emperor will not strip one border to reinforce another. We are not so weak that we cannot safeguard our cities and our people from multiple threats at once. But let us be clear—the focus, for now, must remain on the North, and on the Yuan."
He turned to the older man who had first spoken. "Lord Tong," he said with a respectful nod, "you have my word that our stance of strength toward our eastern neighbors will not waver."
Then he shifted his gaze to the Countess. "And Lady Chai," he said more gently, "the Emperor shares your grief at the cost we bear to keep our so-called friends from becoming enemies. But the new Empress has not yet fully settled into her rule. Her marriage, when it comes, may very well reshape the choices she is free to make—and the allegiances she may be forced to reconsider."
A thoughtful silence settled over the chamber. No one cheered this time. The younger lords leaned forward, sensing the shift beneath the words. The elder ones watched Prince Feng with careful, calculating eyes.
"Now," the Prince said, his tone hardening, "let us turn to the threat that has gathered us here."
He stepped back slightly, speaking with the full weight of command.
"Every Lord here has sent a force to the Wall, raising its garrison to the highest it has been in a century. That alone is commendable. But it is not enough. More is needed. The flow of supplies, of food, weapons, talismans, and healing—must remain uninterrupted. And more importantly, we must take responsibility personally. If none among us stands to meet Ogedei Khan's wrath, then even the Wall will fall—like leaves before a hurricane."
He let the silence stretch, then continued.
"Each of you will be assigned a section of the Wall. That stretch will fall under your command. You will be responsible for it in war, and in peace. And to ensure flexibility, Duke Long will lead an independent force—one that can respond to emergencies as they arise. If any part of the Wall buckles, he will be the hammer that drives the enemy back and seals the breach."
A murmur ran through the room—not dissent, but understanding. The gravity of the task was clear to all.
There was more. Numbers were named. Specific Lords and Ladies were called upon to send additional goods, many on credit, with promises of imperial reimbursement. Others were assigned sections of the Wall, their responsibilities laid out in no uncertain terms.
Zheng listened carefully.
Most of those named hailed from the central regions of the Empire, well-protected and resource-rich. Their cities could spare men and materials. Yet as the assignments went on, one name remained conspicuously unspoken.
His.
Zheng's expression didn't shift. He had already guessed what was coming. Duke Long was leading an independent force—and most likely, he would be assigned to it. Sure enough, once the final names had been read, a booming voice echoed through the hall.
"Qing, get up here! And of course, Lady Qiao and Lord Zheng too!" Duke Long's voice was exuberant, utterly unbothered by the formal setting. "Take a good look, everyone. We'll be the independent force, so you can all rest easy!"
Zheng suppressed a flicker of embarrassment as Duke Long waved them forward with unrestrained enthusiasm, drawing curious glances from every corner of the room. The man radiated the energy of an overexcited child—cheerfully unaware, or simply indifferent, to decorum. Prince Feng, for his part, merely smiled—clearly well accustomed to such displays.
"All right!" Duke Long clapped his hands with a broad grin. "Now that we're all here, let's get moving. I'll brief you on the way."
Zheng could feel the eyes of the entire hall following their group as they made their way out. Duke Long marched ahead, unconcerned by the attention. Zheng, on the other hand, wanted to ask—shouldn't they stay for the rest of the proceedings? Was it truly acceptable to walk out in front of a prince? And why the sudden rush, when they hadn't even received a specific assignment yet?
But he said nothing. This had likely all been prearranged, and his concerns, while reasonable, were probably unnecessary.
Marchess Qiao wasn't nearly as restrained. "You could at least tell us how you managed to escape from the Khan. I was halfway through composing your eulogy."
The Duke snorted, clearly unimpressed. Still, he replied, rolling his eyes. "Your concern for my well-being warms my heart."
Then, more seriously, he added, "It wasn't as difficult as you're imagining. He made a mistake. If the Khan had chased me alone, I'd have been caught for sure. But he brought the entire horde with him, and that gave me just enough room to slip away. Foolish move—on his own, he would've overwhelmed me. I can't tell if it was pure luck, or if this new Khan is just a brute without sense."
Lord Qing let out a pained sigh. "They are never unthinking brutes, Lord. That's precisely what makes them dangerous."
Duke Long shrugged, clearly uninterested in debating the point. "What about the rest of you? I know what happened with Qing, but how did you two get away? Last I saw, half the horde was chasing you, Lady Qiao."
She gave a grim smile, the memory still sharp. "I ran without stopping," she said bluntly. "And got lucky—not a single one of the Yuan chasing me was fast enough to catch up. I've never pushed the Wing God Flying Crane that hard in my life. I was afraid I might be the only one who could escape, so I didn't dare stop to rest."
Zheng didn't bother hiding his own experience. "I managed to lose most of the ones chasing me with the Mirror, but one of them could somehow see through it. It was faster than me, so we ended up fighting. I managed to injure it badly enough to escape, and the rest of the time I focused on hiding until I reached the Wall."
Duke Long gave a low whistle. "Sounds like you and Qing had the roughest time. He ran into a tribe answering the Khan's call—had to fight through half a dozen before he could break away."
Zheng's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. He turned to Lord Qing with open admiration. A single one had been nearly too much for him—Qing had faced six?
The man in question rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "You're making it sound more impressive than it was. They weren't much—the strongest of them was only at Foundation Establishment. It would've been embarrassing if I couldn't escape a group like that."
Duke Long snorted, clearly amused. "Even a lion can be brought down by enough ants. Escaping them was no small feat. No need for false modesty."
Zheng considered mentioning that the Yuan who had chased him had been late Core Formation, but held his tongue. It would only come off as bragging.
Marchess Qiao folded her arms and looked at the group with narrowed eyes. "So we all barely escaped with our lives. Wonderful. And now we're heading straight back into the fire, are we?"
Duke Long flashed her a sideways grin. "Not straight back. We're taking the long way around the fire this time. With luck, we'll only get singed."
Zheng frowned slightly. "You said you'd brief us as we walked. I assume this detour has a purpose?"
The Duke's grin faded, his tone shifting to something more clipped. "It does. What the Prince didn't say back there is that we've received reports—Yuan have already broken through the Wall. We're heading out to find how they did it… and then we're going to root them out."
Zheng felt the blood drain from his face. He wasn't the only one—Marchess Qiao gasped, and even Lord Qing's expression darkened.
"How is that possible?" Lady Qiao asked, disbelief coloring her voice. "Any breach in the Wall would've been detected immediately. Even if the Khan attacked in person, he couldn't have created a crack in that short a time."
"That's what we're going to find out," Duke Long said grimly. "And it's why I asked for the four of you. We need speed, the ability to scout and investigate, concealment when necessary, and enough strength to crush anything in our path. Think we can manage it?"
It was clearly a rhetorical question, but Zheng understood the meaning behind it. Lady Qiao for her speed. Lord Qing for his eyes. Zheng himself for the Mirror and its powers of concealment. And Duke Long—the hammer to bring it all down.
...........................
Zheng had anticipated the investigation would be a tense, nail-biting ordeal—pursuing elusive traces of Yuan forces who had somehow breached the Great Wall without raising an alarm. In reality, it became a stretch of dull, frustrating monotony. They scoured the land for clues, only to leave empty-handed and disheartened time after time. The Yuan were undeniably on this side of the Wall, yet their presence left no trail, no activity the group could detect or track.
At the edge of the Feathered Snake Woods, Zheng and Lord Qing searched for two full days before finally giving up. On the Duke's orders, they flew without rest to investigate a report of suspicious hoofprints on the road to the Southern Plateau. But by the time they confirmed it was only a herd of spiritual bison and not a Yuan scouting party, word arrived from the Wall: the Yuan had launched an attack on the western front. It had been repelled without much difficulty, but the news still left them exchanging grim, uneasy looks.
The rest of the party wasn't faring much better. Duke Long had divided them into two-man teams to cover more ground, but progress remained slow. One lead took them to investigate rumors of a monster preying on waves of reinforcements heading to bolster the Wall's defenses. It turned out to be a gang of bandits who had tamed a demonic beast into a living weapon. They dealt with them swiftly, but before they could regroup, another Yuan assault came—this time at the eastern section of the Wall. That, too, was repelled, but there was no sense of victory.
"The Khan wasn't with either of the two thrusts," Duke Long said grimly.
"He's planning something," Marchess Qiao replied, her tone equally heavy. "But I have no idea what."
They were all uneasy. The soldiers on the Wall might cheer at having held the line twice, but those who understood the bigger picture knew the truth: it wasn't supposed to be this easy. The Khan was scheming—and whatever he was planning hadn't even begun.
But they weren't given time to unravel the mystery.
A messenger scroll bearing the Prince's seal arrived, its contents reporting a Yuan sighting near Cloud Hammer City. Duke Long's ensuing curse was a low, resonant growl, echoed by the sour expressions that settled on the others' faces. Zheng merely tightened his lips. Cloud Hammer City lay deep within the Empire's central territories, far removed from the northern border. If the report held true, it signified a Yuan force had bypassed the Wall, evaded the northern defenses, slipped past them—and now stood within the Empire's very heartland.
Their departure was immediate. Marchess Qiao piloted the Wind God Flying Crane with unmatched speed, its wings slicing through the clouds as the landscape blurred below. Within the cabin, tension hung thick and heavy. Each of them, at some point during the swift journey, voiced theories regarding the Yuan's potential objectives—but the truth remained that they possessed alarmingly little information. Ogedei Khan was proving to be unlike any of his predecessors. Whatever he was orchestrating, it promised widespread catastrophe should they fail to uncover it in time.
Zheng was uncertain what he had expected to find—but the sight of smoke coiling on the horizon sent a sickening lurch through his stomach. He was not alone in his reaction. Cloud Hammer City was burning.
As they descended into the ravaged landscape, they found the city gates splintered and forced open. Houses were reduced to shattered kindling, streets were cracked and pockmarked by violence, and the pervasive smell of smoke mingled with the stench of destruction. Worst of all was the blood; the streets were slick with broad, arterial streaks, and the walls bore the blackened remnants of dried splotches, scorched by the relentless fire. Though a city of considerable size, here it appeared that scale offered no protection. It had been brutally sacked, reduced to a silent husk of its former self.
They discovered the bodies in the city's central plaza. A grotesque mountain of corpses had been piled as high as the pavilion roofs, men and women, young and old, all tossed together without dignity or respect. At the very apex of this horrific mound, an infant—no older than a year, Zheng estimated—had been impaled, held aloft by a spear. It was a sight of such gruesome barbarity that Zheng didn't even register the white-knuckled grip of his fists. His aura flared outward, a sudden burst of raw power that buffeted the surrounding flames, causing the weakened structures to groan and collapse.
"Easy," Duke Long said, his voice cutting through the charged air. Lord Qing and Marchess Qiao wore expressions as murderous as Zheng felt, yet the Duke remained a point of calm amidst the storm. "Easy," he repeated. "Anger is a potent force. It can fuel action. But only when you command it, not when it masters you." He raised a hand, and a massive surge of qi erupted, erasing the horrifying mountain of bodies from existence. "We will find the bastards responsible for this, and they will pay."
The silence that followed the Duke's words was heavy, broken only by the crackling embers of the still-burning city. The air itself seemed to hum with the residual energy of his power. No one spoke, the horror of what they had witnessed clinging to them like the acrid smoke.
Then, Viscount Qing broke the stillness, his voice low and dangerous. "There is a trail, leading west. It's quite faint, barely enough to follow." He pointed towards one of the less devastated avenues, his eyes shining golden with power. "They moved fast."
Lady Qiao nodded grimly. "A small, swift raiding party, then. Not the main force."
Duke Long's eyes, however, held a distant, troubled look. "But why this? Why strike so deep, so brutally, with so few?" He gestured to the devastation around them, the senseless slaughter. "This wasn't about taking territory or supplies. This was… a message."
Zheng felt a cold dread grip him. A message. Intended for whom? For the Empire? Or was there some obscure purpose behind it that benefitted the Immortal of Slaughter? Ogedei Khan needed a massacre, but one of this scale would only be like a drop before an ocean, utterly insufficient to wake the Immortal. However, the sheer cruelty of the act sent a shiver down his spine, a primal fury simmering beneath the surface.
"We need to follow them," Zheng said, his voice tight with urgency. "See where they were going, what their purpose is."
Duke Long nodded slowly. "Agreed. You and Qing take the lead. Track these… butchers, and then report back so that we can crush them utterly. Lady Qiao, remain with me. Let us seek any survivors, any witnesses who might have seen something before… this." His gaze swept across the ravaged plaza.
Zheng exchanged a swift, understanding look with Viscount Qing. Without another word, they moved with sudden speed, shooting into the sky and tearing through the hazy curtain of smoke, hot on the Yuan's trail.