"A tyrant fears not the blade, but the silence before it strikes." — said by Moquan
The storm rolled in at dawn, thick with mountain mist and the stench of wet earth. Rain lashed the valley roads where the Eastern Host trudged forward, armor dull with travel, banners soaked and sagging.
Among the cliffs above them, Mei Xuan lay on her stomach in the mud, peering through a cracked spyglass.
"Third detachment split from the column. Looks like they're trying to flank east," she muttered.
Liang Yu, lying beside her, adjusted the lenses on his collapsible scope. "They're tired. Spreading thin to cover too much ground. If we blow the pass here—" he tapped a charcoal-sketched map, "—we'll trap the lead unit and force the rest to backtrack."
Mei Xuan nodded. "Then we light the fire."
A flare hissed into the sky.
Moments later, the mountain thundered.
Stone and earth roared down the narrow canyon, smashing carts and snapping timber. The lead mercenary line broke like a wave against rock.
From the cliffs, arrows and firebombs rained.
And then, the Phoenix flew.
Masked fighters surged from the trees, striking quick and vanishing faster. Snares pulled riders from horses. Axles shattered under hidden spikes.
By the time the storm cleared, a quarter of the Eastern Host lay buried beneath Shen Valley soil.
In the capital, smoke twisted into the gray sky once more—but this time from the noble district.
Han Yu's orders had come swiftly: loyalty or exile. Some lords bent the knee with trembling oaths. Others refused, disappearing in the night.
But Lord Qian of the Western Gate had stood in the court that morning and spat.
"You rule with gold and iron," he said. "But Longchuan was not built by tyrants. It was built by fire—by those who rose, not those who clung."
They found his estate burning before sunset.
Han Yu watched from his tower, robes pristine, hands clasped behind his back.
"He chose ash," he said simply.
Beside him, Xun Yi read the latest report from the front.
"They ambushed the vanguard. Thirty-seven carts lost. The pass is blocked. Four officers dead. One... hanged, by the neck, with a phoenix carved into his chest."
Han Yu did not speak.
Then, slowly, he turned from the window.
"Send word to the Black Knives," he said.
Xun Yi blinked. "They haven't been used in ten years."
"Then sharpen them."
That night, in the hidden heart of the city, Huai Shan stood in the old temple ruin where the rebellion had first been born.
All around him, firelight danced across the faces of his people. Farmers. Blacksmiths. Couriers. Fighters.
He stood not as a prisoner now, but as something else.
Mei Xuan stepped beside him and whispered, "The people are ready. And the city listens again."
Huai nodded.
"Then we speak."
He raised his voice, not loud, but clear:
"I was once a soldier. Then I became a prisoner. Now I am something more. Not because I chose it—but because you chose to believe."
He paused, looking over them.
"Han Yu thinks we are embers. But even embers remember how to burn."
A cheer rose—not loud, but deep.
"We do not fight because we desire war. We fight because peace cannot grow beneath a boot."
The cheer rose louder.
"And if fire must cleanse this city, then let it be a fire that builds."
He lifted the old Phoenix banner from the altar—the same one once carried by Moquan himself.
"For the fallen. For the forgotten. For Longchuan."
And the cry that followed shook the dust from the rafters:
"For the Phoenix!"