Chapter 9: Ashes of Victory
The river ran black in the morning light, its waters heavy with the blood of the fallen. Smoke still curled from broken torches left abandoned by the retreating Wei Clan. Crows circled above, their cries sharp and hungry, waiting for the living to leave so they could feast.
Khan stood silent at the edge of the battlefield. His sword hung limp at his side, its steel dulled and stained, his armor scored with dents. Around him his warriors busied themselves, dragging the dead from the water, tending the wounded, salvaging weapons from corpses. Their movements were heavy, weighed down by exhaustion.
Victory had been theirs, but the price lay in the mud at their feet.
Han Long limped toward him, his right arm bound tight with bloodied cloth. Despite his injuries, he moved with the same stubborn pride, chin lifted, eyes still alight from the fight. He dropped a bundle of broken spears before Khan.
"Seventeen men gone," he said grimly. "Twenty-five wounded, half too badly to hold a blade for months. But… they fought well." His voice cracked at the last words, though he quickly hardened it again. "Every one of them gave more than they had."
Khan's jaw tightened. Seventeen lives. Seventeen names he would have to remember, faces that would never see another dawn. For every enemy driven back, Qing had paid a price in blood.
"They will not be forgotten," Khan said quietly. His voice was firm, carrying to those nearby who paused in their work to listen. "Their sacrifice is the foundation of what we are building. Without them, this land would already be ashes."
The men nodded. Some muttered prayers. Others bowed their heads, gripping their weapons tighter.
In the distance, Zhang Wei directed a small group of archers to gather the fallen arrows and strip armor from enemy dead. His ink-stained hands shook faintly as he moved, though he kept his voice calm. "Clean what can be mended. The rest, burn it. We won't let disease take more of us."
When Khan approached, Zhang Wei offered him a parchment hastily marked with notes. "I counted near sixty Wei Clan dead left behind, perhaps more. They carried extra supplies—salted meat, waterskins, even coin. They expected an easy slaughter, not resistance." He adjusted his spectacles with bloodstained fingers, trying to mask the weariness in his face. "This… this will buy us time."
Khan glanced over the supplies piled high in the mud. Armor pieces, bundles of arrows, sacks of grain salvaged from the enemy dead. A bitter irony that the spoils of war came from lives taken.
"We'll make use of every scrap," Khan said. "Our people will eat because of this. And they will know it was bought with sacrifice."
Zhang Wei's lips tightened in agreement. "But the Wei will return, stronger than before. Today's retreat was not their end. We bloodied their wolf, but it still breathes."
Khan nodded slowly. The thought had already taken root in his mind, gnawing at him like a cold worm. The Wei Clan's scarred leader had not fallen. He would return, hungrier, vengeful. This battle was but the opening strike of a war.
On the far bank, near the cluster of tents hastily erected for the wounded, Mei Lan moved like a phantom of mercy. Her once-white robes were stained deep crimson, her hair matted from hours spent kneeling in the mud. She whispered words of comfort as she pressed herbs to wounds, her hands working without pause.
Khan watched her for a moment. She had not faltered during the chaos, even as blades clashed around her. Now she bore the weight of the aftermath, carrying men back from the brink.
When he finally approached, she did not look up, focused on stitching a gash across a young warrior's chest. Only when the wound was bound and the soldier carried away did she wipe her brow and turn to Khan.
"You should rest," she said softly. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were heavy with unspoken grief. "Your body bleeds, though you ignore it."
Khan glanced at the shallow cut along his ribs, already crusted with blood. It stung, but compared to the weight on his shoulders, it was nothing.
"I will rest when our dead are honored," he replied.
Mei Lan studied him for a moment, then dipped her head. "Then let us honor them together."
That evening, as the sun sank low, a pyre was built by the riverbank. Shields were laid across it, broken spears forming the frame, the fallen wrapped in cloaks or armor as best as could be managed. Seventeen warriors, side by side, their faces lit by the flickering light of the torches.
The survivors gathered, silent, every face drawn and hollow. Children had been brought from the nearby village, clutching their mothers' skirts, their wide eyes reflecting the flames.
Khan stepped forward, his voice steady though his chest ached.
"Brothers. Sons. Fathers. Their blood binds us now, their sacrifice a seed that will grow into the strength of Qing. They did not die for nothing. Every breath we take from this day forward must honor them."
He raised his sword, pointing it to the heavens. The fire caught its edge, gleaming red-gold.
"They gave their lives so we could stand. And we will stand. Not as prey. Not as slaves. But as Qing!"
The warriors roared in answer, their voices ragged, their grief turned to fire.
The pyre was lit, flames rising into the darkening sky, carrying the smoke of sacrifice upward. The crackle of fire mingled with the whispers of mourning.
Mei Lan sang a soft hymn, her voice trembling yet unyielding. Even the children grew still, their small hands clenched as though holding onto the memory of the fallen.
Later, as the fire burned low, Khan sat apart on a stone by the river. The moon's reflection rippled across the black water. Han Long approached, settling heavily beside him, his arm still bound.
"We stood today," Han Long said quietly. "But I won't lie. If they come with twice the numbers, or thrice, we will break. Our men are brave, but courage alone doesn't sharpen swords or mend shields."
Khan said nothing at first, eyes fixed on the river. His thoughts churned, heavier than the current.
Finally, he spoke. "Then we find what courage alone cannot give. We will forge steel, gather allies, awaken the power that slumbers in Qing." His hand closed over the dragon-marked token at his side. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. "The primordial world chose us. It will not abandon us."
Han Long grunted, half a laugh, half a sigh. "If the heavens truly stand with us, may they hurry. I would rather face beasts than another day like today."
Khan's lips curved faintly, though his eyes remained hard. "Today we survived. Tomorrow, we prepare. When they return, we will not just hold the river. We will take the fight to them."
The words hung heavy in the night air, a promise and a vow.
Above, the stars wheeled in silent witness. The pyre burned low, its embers drifting skyward like souls carried to the heavens.
And in the shadows beyond the treeline, unseen eyes watched, carrying news back to the enemy camp. The Wei Clan's hunger had not ended. It had only been sharpened.