"When the sword does not fall, fear sharpens the blade." — said by Huai Shan
Ten days.
That was the promise carried by the merchant spy who passed beneath five checkpoints and changed disguises six times before slipping into the safehouse near the Red Bridge.
Ten days until Han Yu's mercenaries marched on Longchuan.
Huai Shan stood in the center of the candle-lit chamber, staring down at the torn fragment of the letter now spread across the table. The wax seal had borne the crest of the Eastern Host: two crossed spears, a flaming axe between them.
"Well-funded, well-armed, and no loyalty to anything but their pay," Xu Liang said grimly. "They'll paint the streets red if we don't stop them at the gates."
"We won't," Mei Xuan replied.
Xu looked at her, startled. "What?"
"We won't stop them at the gates," she clarified. "Because we won't wait until they reach them."
The room fell silent.
Huai glanced at her, something flickering behind his tired but sharpened eyes. "You're thinking preemptive."
She nodded. "We intercept them in the valley pass. Sabotage their route. Split their formation before they ever see the walls of Longchuan."
"But they outnumber us five to one," Yi Fen said.
"They outnumber us," Mei Xuan corrected, "in soldiers. But they don't outnumber us in eyes, feet, and hands. The people in the villages along the march route—they hate mercenaries. We ignite that fire now."
Huai placed both hands on the table. "Then we send three teams. Mei, you take the pass. Xu Liang—handle the villages. I'll move toward Han Yu's supply lines. Cut his breath before he draws the sword."
They all nodded. No ceremony. No grand speech.
Only the weight of what must be done.
In the inner palace.
Han Yu paced beneath the jade roof of the war hall, eyes blazing. Xun Yi's latest report lay crumpled in his hand.
"Supply carts overturned in Yonghe.""Farmers refusing grain tithes.""Defectors from the eastern garrisons."
Every line dug a deeper trench between his power and the people it sat upon.
He turned to the young officer standing at attention by the door—General Huo, barely thirty, loyal, but not blind.
"You said the Eastern Host will arrive in ten days. Make it eight."
General Huo hesitated. "My lord, if we push the pace through the pass—"
"Make it eight." Han Yu's voice was low, deadly. "I want their boots in this city before Huai Shan finishes his little parade."
"And the nobles?" Xun Yi asked from the shadows.
Han Yu's eyes narrowed. "Call them to court. Make them swear fealty publicly. Those who do not… remove quietly."
He walked to the window, gazing toward the eastern road beyond the mountains.
"If I must burn this city to keep it," he said, "then let the fire start with me."
On the fourth day of the countdown, in the mountain shadows of Shen Valley, the Phoenix moved.
Sabotage teams felled trees and laced the terrain with buried charges. Caravans disguised as traders rerouted weapon shipments. And in the heart of the enemy camp, a stolen flagpole was replaced with a crude symbol carved in char: a phoenix in flight.
They didn't stop the march.
They slowed it. Bled its speed. Made it drag its feet in fear.
And somewhere in the fields beyond Longchuan, a boy climbed a roof with a bucket of paint. He had no sword, no armor, no name known to the court.
But when he was done, and the lanterns were lit, the whole village saw what he'd drawn across the roof tiles:
The phoenix. Watching. Waiting. Rising.