It took us three full days to reach the border.
Three days of horses and tents, mud-slick trails, and campfire rice that somehow always tasted like ash and regret. Three days of travel with the largest convoy I'd ever seen in my life—dozens of carriages, packs of armed escorts, and what felt like every cultivator in Luyang who had a sword, a uniform, or something to prove.
By day two, I'd stopped trying to count them.
Soldiers moved like ants down the mountain road—disciplined, measured, steady. Cultivators were a more scattered breed: some marched in formation, others floated casually above the ground like this was a stroll through a countryside scroll painting. A few kept to themselves, heads down and weapons hidden, while others practically glowed with spiritual energy and dramatic flair.
Some were young. Too young.
Faces barely out of childhood, bodies still growing into the weight of armor.
Some were old, weathered, eyes sharp and hollow. Quiet in a way that said they'd already survived more wars than the rest of us had read about.
It was overwhelming, seeing them all together. Like an entire kingdom had cracked open and spilled onto the road behind us.
By the time we reached the outer edge of the Luyang-Qiuli border, my entire body felt like it had been politely stepped on by a horse. Twice.
We arrived at dusk.
The sky was streaked in violet and rust, the kind of color that made everything feel fragile and heavy at the same time. Yanquan Fort loomed ahead of us—massive, stone-hewn, wedged into the base of the cliffs like it had grown there.
It wasn't beautiful. It was practical. Built to withstand siege, not look good on scrolls.
Jagged walls rose high above the outer tents, and at least four watchtowers were already manned—flags raised, horns slung by the battlements, soldiers pacing in rhythm. Fires burned in iron braziers. The scent of smoke and sweat settled thick in the air.
Inside the gates, there was chaos in formation.
Rows of tents. Mess lines. Training circles carved into the dirt. Medical carts. Weapon racks. It felt like a city carved out of war—thousands of bodies moving with the kind of purpose that said everything here could collapse in an instant if it had to.
I don't know what I expected.
But the sheer scale of it—seeing how many people were already here, how ready they looked—tightened something in my chest.
We were really doing this. This wasn't a strategy meeting in a soundproof room. This was war.
General Luo met us at the inner gate.
Still tall, still terrifying, his armor dusted from the road, face lined with fatigue that hadn't dulled his eyes one bit. He bowed low and firm to Wei Wuxian, then to the rest of us.
"Welcome to Yanquan Fort," he said. "You all arrived just in time."
Lan Xichen stood beside him—elegant in pale robes, hands tucked calmly into his sleeves like he'd never once been startled by a sword in his life. He nodded in greeting, warm but measured.
"We've secured the main roads," General Luo continued, motioning to the map on the table beside him. "Set up camp rotations in twelve-hour shifts. We're still waiting for one more supply unit, but the terrain's holding."
"And the border?" Wei Wuxian asked, stepping forward, voice clipped.
"Getting louder," General Luo said grimly. "Qiuli formations are building across the river. They haven't moved yet. But they've been testing our response speed."
Lan Wangji's brow furrowed slightly. "Probes?"
"Yes. But there's more," Lan Xichen added. "We've noticed smaller movements outside their command patterns. Unmarked robes. No flags. Fast. Too coordinated for bandits. Too strange for scouts."
I could feel everyone shift slightly at that.
"Xiyan?" Lan Wangji asked.
Lan Xichen nodded. "We suspect. No confirmation yet. But the spiritual residue left behind in the south ridge… it wasn't local."
Ming Yu frowned. "And the civilians?"
"Most were evacuated last week," General Luo replied. "Those who remained are being relocated inland."
I didn't speak.
I just looked at the map they'd unrolled between us. Red marks at the border. Black pins along the roads. A circle drawn in dark ink where Shen Kexian had found the skulls.
That mark was still there. And we were now standing right at the edge of it.
***
It began just past dawn.
Not with trumpets or banners, but with shouting.
Then—horns. Bells. Boots. The low thunder of urgency crashing through the courtyard before the sun could finish rising.
I bolted upright, heart racing, robes half-wrung around me as Xiaohua flung open the tent flap. "There's movement at the outer ridge," she said, already helping me dress.
By the time I rushed out, the fort was a hive.
Soldiers shouting orders. Runners sprinting. Spiritual flags raised over the towers. Armor clattered, weapon slammed, and somewhere deep inside the western wall, General Luo's voice carried like a sword cutting through fog.
A breach.
The first real one.
Qiuli soldiers had crossed the river.
It wasn't a formal advance. No full battalion.
But it was enough.
General Luo was already at the front gate, rallying squads with a precision that was terrifying to watch. He mounted without fanfare, gave one sharp nod to Lan Xichen, and led the first strike force through the western pass with a speed that made my stomach twist.
Inside the fort, the rest of us mobilized.
Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, and Lan Xichen ascended the upper wallwalk, robes snapping behind them like banners. From below, I could see their silhouettes against the lightening sky, already watching. Already assessing.
Not long after, I spotted Shen Kexian and Ming Yu standing at the far edge of the courtyard, speaking in low voices. The way they leaned in, the weight of their expressions—it was clear they weren't just discussing strategy.
I ran toward them, boots crunching over gravel. They turned as I approached.
Ming Yu stepped forward first, his voice gentle but firm. "I want you to stay inside the fort, no matter what. Promise me."
I blinked, heart suddenly tight. "I promise. But—where are you two going?"
Shen Kexian answered, his tone flat with focus. "We're taking this opportunity to investigate the outer ridge. If this is Xiyan's doing, we need proof. Without it, this war might drag on longer than any of us can afford."
I swallowed, hard. "Wait… that's dangerous, isn't it?"
My hand moved before I could stop it—clinging to Ming Yu's sleeve like that might somehow keep him grounded.
Of course it was dangerous. I knew that. But I had nothing better to say. No better way to keep them here a little longer.
Ming Yu looked down at me with that soft, steady gaze. "I'll be careful. Don't worry."
"I am worrying. So promise," I insisted, voice quiet but firm. "Promise you'll come back unharmed. Both of you."
Shen Kexian gave a low chuckle. "I promise, my little monkey."
Ming Yu smiled and leaned down to kiss my forehead—gentle, grounding, unmistakably claiming. I could feel it: his warmth, his reassurance, and the subtle mine in the gesture.
Shen Kexian, to his credit, didn't say a word.
But the look he gave Ming Yu could probably slice through metal.
Then, with one last glance back at me, they turned and disappeared into the dust and noise of the waking battlefield.
I felt useless.
Utterly, spectacularly useless.
What was I supposed to do in a war? Bless the soldiers? Whisper good luck wishes over their weapons? Stand dramatically on the wall and summon decorative fog?
Goddess of Water—that's what they called me. But without Shen Kexian there to channel with, without his spiritual link or his power balancing mine… I was more like Goddess of Useless.
I stood in the courtyard, watching as soldiers rushed past me in organized chaos. Orders were shouted. Armor clinked. Blood already stained the edge of one cart wheeling through.
My hands curled at my sides.
I had to do something.
That's when I saw it—on the far end of the yard, a row of rolled-up bed mats, water basins, and crates of medical supplies outside a large cream-colored tent marked with symbols. The healer's station.
Without thinking, I ran toward it.
Two women and an older man were organizing bandages. One turned when I approached, her sleeves rolled up, hands stained with something I didn't want to name.
"The Goddess of Water?" she blinked. "You shouldn't be out here—it's dangerous."
"I know," I said quickly, breath catching. "But please—let me help. I can follow instructions. I'll stay out of the way. Just—don't make me stand around doing nothing."
The three of them exchanged a glance. Then, with a small sigh, the older healer nodded.
"If you can wash, you can stay."
"I can wash."
And just like that, I was handed a bloodied cloth and pointed toward a copper basin.
A minute later, the first wounded soldier arrived on a stretcher—his face gray, his chest soaked in red—and all of my petty self-pity evaporated.
There wasn't time for fear. Or pride.
Only work.
***
I used to think war was a scene.
A flash of steel. A well-timed charge. Someone's dramatic last words whispered over swelling music. Cut to black.
That's what dramas taught us. What they didn't show—what they could never show—is that war isn't a scene. It's an entire, godforsaken season.
There's no crescendo when you're elbow-deep in someone's blood, trying to decide if it's more urgent to stop the bleeding or calm their panic. No fade-to-black when a boy with a sword too big for his frame dies with his eyes open. No dramatic monologue. Just choking. Convulsing. Silence.
I lost track of how many I helped. Lost track of the names, the limbs, the faces blurred by fever and dirt. I only knew when I stopped recognizing myself in the quiet moments between screams.
We treated them in lines. Not beds—lines. Laid out across cold stone or packed earth, if they were lucky. Some clutched wounds, others clutched keepsakes, but they all bled the same. One soldier's intestines spilled like wet rope into my hands, and I still hear his voice at night saying, "Don't let my mother see me like this."
This wasn't like the inner palace infirmary. There, at least, people had roofs and names. There was ceremony in dying. Here, there was only mud, metal, and the smell of rot.
This wasn't a plague village either. That was despair in slow motion. This? This was chaos compressed into every second. Screams stacking over screams. People dying faster than we could even look at them.
And still, we kept going.
By afternoon, the fighting died down. Luyang still stood.
Hundreds had fallen to make that sentence true.
I was bandaging the last soldier—his leg a mess of burns and cuts, eyes glazed but breathing—when the healer beside me touched my arm.
"You need to rest," she said gently.
I blinked. My hands were still trembling. My clothes are stiff with blood. My bones, not my own.
I didn't argue. I didn't say thank you. I just stood up on legs that didn't feel real and walked out of the tent, not even sure if I was still human.
Because war isn't a scene.
It's what happens after the scene fades out.
I didn't remember the walk back to my tent. Just the cold air, the dull throb in my calves, and the sticky feeling of dried blood pulling at my sleeves like ghost hands. The world blurred—too bright, too quiet—like someone had turned the volume down after hours of screaming.
By the time I reached my tent, the heaviness had settled into my spine. I fumbled with the ties of my robes, fingers numb and clumsy. The fabric peeled off in stiff, stained layers—mud, smoke, and blood soaked so deep I didn't know where theirs ended and mine began.
The water in the tub was lukewarm, probably set up hours ago when someone thought I'd rest. I didn't care. I stepped in anyway, knees buckling a little as I sank into it.
And that's when it happened.
The tears rushed out without warning, like they'd been waiting for permission. Hot and violent and endless. My breath hitched. A sob escaped—too loud—and I slapped my hand over my mouth to stop it. To muffle it. Because gods forbid someone heard. Heard me breaking.
But I was. Breaking. Cracking wide open in a tub meant to clean me, not drown me in grief. It was too much. Too many eyes I couldn't close, too many lives I couldn't save, too much blood that wouldn't rinse off.
So I cried.
I cried until my throat burned, until the silence didn't feel so suffocating, until the water turned cold and my sobs softened into small, hiccuping breaths.
Until I could pretend, just for a moment, that I was okay.