In the cold heart of the Imperial Capital, under layers of marble and gold, secrets festered.
The Empire, though victorious over the last Zerg invasion, remained uneasy.
The sudden death of Marshal Sheng Long had left a gaping hole — one no politician or general could fill.
Officially, he was honored as a fallen hero.
Unofficially?
The court buzzed with quiet calculation.
"Without Sheng Long," some whispered, "who will the Emperor favor next?"
"Without Sheng Long," others hissed in darker corners, "how long can we hold the Zerg back?"
The outer world saw ceremonies and statues.
The inner world sharpened knives.
Inside an abandoned warehouse on the industrial ring of the Capital, Yan Shuo paced before a select group of soldiers.
Not just any soldiers.
The best of the best.
The remnants of Sheng Long's personal forces — the Black Fang Battalion.
There were maybe fifty here tonight, but their loyalty outweighed entire fleets.
They had gathered without hesitation, despite Yan Shuo's cryptic, urgent call.
All of them wore civilian clothes. No insignias. No ranks.
Just silent, burning eyes.
Yan Shuo faced them with a grim expression.
He didn't waste time.
"Our Marshal is alive."
A collective intake of breath rippled through the room.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then fists slammed over hearts — the old signal of unwavering loyalty.
No cheers. No shouts.
Only cold, focused purpose.
Yan Shuo continued.
"But he's injured. Hunted. And the threat didn't end with the Zerg."
He tapped a small holo-display, projecting maps of the Empire's inner sectors.
Certain areas pulsed red.
"The royal family is compromised. We don't know who yet. Maybe more than one."
Murmurs, low and furious.
General Qin, an older woman with streaks of silver in her short hair, stepped forward.
Her voice was like steel dragged over stone.
"Marshal Sheng ordered silence?"
"Yes," Yan Shuo said. "We move only through the Shadows. No contact with the War Department. No public actions."
The soldiers nodded grimly.
They understood.
Loyalty demanded patience now — patience sharper than any sword.
Yan Shuo allowed a small, dangerous smile.
"But we aren't staying idle," he said. "We're building again. Quietly. Faster than before."
Meanwhile, rumors had begun to seep into the cracks of the Empire.
It started small.
A captured Zerg hive suddenly destroyed by an unknown force.
A hidden black dragon sighted flying low over the mountain colonies.
A nameless SS-ranked beast-handler reported missing, last seen in the Outer Sectors.
In the underground cantinas where mercenaries drank and whispered, the story changed every hour:
"The Marshal's spirit haunts the battlefields!"
"No, no, it's a rogue dragon, vengeance incarnate!"
"Maybe... he never died at all?"
Among the powerful nobles at court, whispers grew sharper, more dangerous.
Those who had quietly benefitted from Sheng Long's "death" grew tense.
If he returned —
If he remembered —
Certain deals, certain betrayals, would come to light.
They would not wait passively.
Already, clandestine forces began to move.
In the dark of a coded private room, deep beneath the Imperial Palace, a shadowy figure leaned over a communicator.
His face was hidden by a heavy mask.
His voice, when he spoke, was amused and chilling.
"Find him," the figure said.
"Whether beast or man, find him."
A ripple of acknowledgment answered from the other end.
"And when we do?" the voice on the other line asked cautiously.
The masked man chuckled.
"Break him. Before he remembers who his true enemies are."
The line went dead.
Above, the twin moons of the Empire hung heavy and red in the night sky, casting their bloody light over a world trembling at the edge of revelation.
The dragon had stirred.
And nothing would ever be the same again.