The greatest swordsman—a protégé of King Bumi himself—stood in the path, his presence like an unyielding wall between Feng and escape. Behind Feng stretched a long, ragged line of routed soldiers, their faces etched with exhaustion and despair. Captains and colonels, battered and defeated, had whispered their grim reports to him. Their forces were a thousand strong, but each life felt like a stone tied to Feng's shoulders. He carried them all, lives he could not bear to lose.
"Fight me in a duel, boy. If you win, their lives and yours will be spared by my men," the swordsman declared. His voice rang with unshakable confidence, a sharp contrast to the quiet murmurs of Feng's battered troops. The man had brought only a hundred warriors with him, yet Feng knew instinctively that the swordsman alone was a greater threat than an army. His calm assurance was chilling, a weight pressing down on Feng's resolve.
Feng's men stirred uneasily, defiant against the swordsman's taunts. One by one, they stepped forward, offering to take their leader's place. To them, Feng was no longer the boy they had once known but a symbol of hope—a savior who had pulled them through impossible odds.
A colonel, his armor soaked in blood from friend and foe alike, gripped the hilt of his blade and prepared to face the swordsman himself. But Feng stopped him with a single raised hand. His gaze, steady and resolute, silenced the murmurs around him.
"Let us fight then, fiend," Feng said, his voice ringing out across the field. He dismounted his ostrich horse with deliberate calm, shedding his armor piece by piece until he stood unprotected, just as his opponent was.
One of the swordsman's riders spurred his mount, galloping past Feng's men and vanishing over the horizon.
"To warn my grandfather's men of our parlay," the swordsman said dismissively. Then, with a smirk that dripped with disdain, he added, "What is the name of the little boy these useless cowards could only offer?"
His mocking voice cut through the still air, striking at the hearts of Feng's soldiers. Their faces fell, shame washing over them like a tide. But Feng held his ground, his fists tightening at his sides.
"Feng," he answered, his voice firm despite the weight of the insult.
"Feng," the swordsman repeated, savoring the name. "Very well, I suppose you deserve the honor of knowing my name before you die. I am Zhang, the one who will take your head."
"You may try," Feng replied, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "But the spirits know not even who will fall today."
Zhang threw his head back and laughed, a cruel and mocking sound that echoed across the battlefield. The laughter ceased as swiftly as it had begun, replaced by the chilling scrape of metal as Zhang unsheathed his blade. His robust frame and broad shoulders exuded strength, but it was his speed that sent a jolt of alarm through Feng.
"Prepare to die," Zhang said, his voice low and dangerous.
Before Feng could fully register the words, Zhang moved—faster than any man his size had the right to. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, his silhouette blurring against the sunlight.
The strike came down like lightning, aimed to end the duel before it had even begun. But Feng's instincts roared to life. He threw himself to the side, the blade slicing through the air where his head had been a moment before.
Feng scrambled to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps, heart pounding like a war drum. The air around him crackled with tension, heavy with the weight of the thousand lives resting on his shoulders. Every pair of eyes behind him bore into his back, their silent pleas for salvation fueling the fire in his veins. This wasn't just a duel—it was a reckoning.
Blazing flames erupted from Feng's hands, a fierce inferno of desperation and defiance. With a sweeping motion, he hurled the fire toward Zhang, but the swordsman remained unfazed. With a fluid motion of his free hand, Zhang raised a wall of earth, effortlessly shielding himself from the scorching assault.
"Spear!" Feng's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. A soldier obeyed instantly, tossing the weapon into his waiting hands. Without hesitation, Feng launched the spear with pinpoint precision. It struck the earthen wall with a force that shattered it, sending fragments flying in every direction.
Flames ignited on Feng's fists as he surged forward, smashing the broken wall into smaller pieces. For a brief moment, it seemed he had gained the upper hand, but Zhang moved like a shadow—silent and lethal. He lunged, his blade cutting through the chaos with deadly intent.
Feng reacted instinctively, summoning walls of fire around his arms to parry the relentless flurry of strikes. Sparks flew as steel clashed against flame, each blow driving Feng back step by step. His muscles screamed in protest, yet he held firm, refusing to yield.
Finally, Feng managed to break free, creating a gap between them with a desperate burst of flame. He took a moment to catch his breath, his chest heaving as sweat dripped down his face.
"That was impressive, Feng," Zhang said, his voice calm but dripping with condescension. "You've done well to last this long under my sword." The faintest smirk played on his lips, his words cutting deeper than his blade ever could.
Feng's jaw tightened, but he didn't rise to the taunt. Instead, he called out again. "Spear!" Another weapon was thrown to him, and he caught it with steady hands, determination flashing in his eyes.
This time, Feng didn't wait. He launched into an intricate display of spearmanship, each movement precise and deliberate. The weapon became an extension of his body, cutting through the air in arcs of calculated fury.
Zhang chuckled, his laughter reverberating across the battlefield. "Struggle! It makes my victory all the sweeter. And this…" He gestured to the scene before him, his free hand clutching his belly as if overcome with mirth. "This is entertainment for my men."
Feng gritted his teeth, anger surging through him like a fresh blaze. The taunts were a constant needle in his resolve, yet he forced himself to focus.
"Fuck you…" Feng muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Zhang's expression darkened, his laughter fading like a storm passing overhead. His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing within them. Slowly, he shifted into an unfamiliar sword stance, his movements deliberate and calculated.
Feng tightened his grip on the spear, his knuckles whitening as he prepared for the next clash. The space between them seemed to shrink, the tension so thick it was suffocating. Every muscle in Feng's body coiled like a spring, ready to snap.
The two clashed again, their movements a deadly dance of fire and steel. Feng let go of everything—his fear, his hesitation, even the weight of the thousand lives depending on him. He moved like a dragon, his body fluid and weightless, every step imbued with grace and purpose. It felt almost surreal, as if he were flying across the battlefield, matching Zhang's strikes with uncanny precision. Yet, despite his agility and resolve, Feng could see the effortlessness in Zhang's movements. The swordsman was toying with him. There was struggle in Feng's every blow, while Zhang parried and countered with a casual ease that only reinforced his dominance. Still, Feng clung to the sliver of hope that luck—or perhaps the spirits—might tip the scales in his favor.
Feng lunged forward, his spear a blur as he aimed for Zhang's chest. For a fleeting second, he believed the strike would land, but Zhang moved like the wind. With a subtle tilt of his body, he dodged the spear. The effortless evasion sent a chill down Feng's spine. The man's agility wasn't just skill—it was superhuman.
Before Feng could react, Zhang's left hand shot out and grabbed the spear. Feng pulled with all his might, but it was like tugging at a mountain. The weapon refused to budge. Overpowered and desperate, he shifted his grip and drove his elbow down onto the spear, breaking it in two.
Zhang regarded the shattered weapon with an almost amused expression before tossing one half to the ground. "You would've been a menace if given a few more years…" His voice carried a faint note of respect, though it was overshadowed by smug certainty. "Sadly, there's not even an hour left for you."
Feng's blood boiled. "Eat shit, you imbecile!" he spat, the words dripping with defiance.
Zhang's smirk vanished, replaced by a dark, menacing glare. The swordsman stepped forward with deliberate menace, gripping his blade tightly before raising it for a downward slash. The world seemed to slow as Feng tried to evade, but he wasn't fast enough.
Splatter!
Agonizing pain erupted across his face as Zhang's blade grazed his right eye, blood pouring in hot streams down his cheek. His vision blurred, and the strength in his legs faltered. He dropped to his knees, his breathing ragged and uneven.
Zhang loomed over him, his expression a mix of triumph and disdain. "I was hoping you'd surrender, boy," he said, his tone almost grating.
Feng clenched his jaw, forcing his head up to meet Zhang's bloodshot gaze. With every ounce of defiance he could muster, he spat at the man's feet. The spit landed squarely on Zhang's boot, a small but powerful gesture of rebellion.
"You fucking animal," Feng hissed through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse but steady. "I won't give you the honor of my surrender."
Zhang's face twisted into a grimace of disgust. Slowly, he sheathed his sword, the metallic sound echoing ominously. "Very well then," he said, flexing his fingers as the sound of cracking knuckles filled the air. "Everyone shall witness the sight of you strangled to deathby my hands."
For a moment, terror gripped Feng, icy and paralyzing. The image of his life being choked out in front of his soldiers flashed in his mind. But just as quickly, a surge of defiance ignited within him, burning away the fear. This was his chance. Zhang had relinquished his sword, leaving only his fists and his bending to rely on…
Zhang advanced slowly, each step deliberate, savoring the fear that gripped the air. His chuckle rippled through the battlefield, echoing like a sinister melody. It fed his men's confidence and crushed the hope of the soldiers behind Feng. Zhang's gaze lingered on the bloodied boy kneeling before him, and then on the thousand desperate faces behind him. Their eyes had once glimmered with hope, but now they were pools of despair. Fear radiated off them like a palpable force, and Zhang thrived on it.
For him, this moment was perfection—a slow, methodical conquest. The boy who dared to stand against him had been reduced to this pitiful state, and Zhang intended to relish every second. Suddenly, sand flew toward his face. Zhang smirked. Desperation… the boy has finally succumbed to it.
He raised a wall of earth in front of him, a reflex to block the inevitable burst of fire he expected. Zhang could already imagine it—the fool expending his last reserves of strength in a futile attempt to break through. And then Zhang would have him—wrapping his hands around that defiant throat and squeezing the life out of him for all to see.
But no fire came. No crash of flames against his wall.
Instead, silence.
And then—pain.
Lightning sparked in the periphery of Zhang's vision. Before he could process the sudden change, Feng appeared—bloodied but alive, a figure wreathed in the violent crackle of electricity. A searing agony shot through Zhang's legs, and then they were gone. He toppled forward, his body collapsing into the dirt as he realized he was kneeling.
For the first time, fear coursed through him.
Desperately, Zhang reached to bend the earth and regain control, but before he could summon the strength, he felt a sharp tug. His eyes darted down to see Feng clutching his sword. How…?
"NO!" Zhang roared, but his cry was cut short as the blade sang through the air.
Splash!
Both of his hands hit the ground, severed cleanly from his arms. A guttural scream tore from his throat as pain overwhelmed his senses. Tears welled in his eyes as he clutched the stumps where his hands had been. "FU—uUck!" His voice cracked, a raw, agonized sound.
Feng stood over him now, his lone eye a cold abyss. There was no triumph in that gaze, no satisfaction—only a hollow, unyielding fury.
The sword fell to the ground with a dull clang, and Feng began to walk slowly toward his prey. Lightning danced around him, wild and untamed, crackling with each step he took.
"No! Please!" Zhang's voice was ragged, filled with desperation. His pride was gone, replaced by sheer terror. "Spare me! My men will let you through! I swear it! Please!"
But Feng said nothing.
He stopped less than a meter away, his trembling hands aglow with flickering lightning. For a moment, Zhang thought he saw hesitation, but there was none…
Feng didn't feel like a victor. There was no glory, no honor in what he had achieved. He knew he had survived by sheer luck—the hubris of the so-called greatest swordsman had been his undoing. But survival demanded a price, and Feng was willing to pay it.
His men's lives depended on it.
Without a word, Feng reached out and grasped Zhang's head with both hands. The lightning coursing through him surged, channeled into his palms. It flowed into Zhang with violent force, illuminating the battlefield in a brilliant, terrifying flash.
Zhang's screams were inhuman, an agonizing wail that echoed into the night. Feng didn't flinch. The searing pain in his own hands was nothing compared to the duty he bore. His body shook as he poured every ounce of his chi into the act, his vision darkening at the edges.
Only when Zhang's body crumpled, his head charred and lifeless, did Feng release him. Smoke rose from his own hands, the flesh singed and trembling. He collapsed to his knees, the battlefield eerily silent except for the crackling remnants of lightning dissipating in the air.
It was over—
The bustling clamor of activity stirred Feng from his deep slumber. The distant but distinct sound of steamships drifting to sea filled the air, blending with the calls of sailors and the rhythmic clang of machinery. Groggy but instinctively alert, Feng moved his hands to inspect himself. First, his hands—they were intact. A small relief flickered through him. Then, slowly, he raised his trembling fingers to his face.
His touch met coarse bandages wrapped tightly around his right eye. The reality settled in with a quiet acceptance; the loss of vision was no shock. His left eye remained clear, scanning his surroundings. I survived...
The thought came as a whisper in his mind, followed by a deeper hope. They must have survived too.
That hope eased some of the weight pressing down on his chest. Breathing deeply, he reminded himself, There are no enemies here. The tent he lay in was no battlefield—it was safety.
His gaze moved across the room, studying the surroundings. It was an officer's tent, no doubt, but one adorned with subtle touches of grandeur. The polished mahogany desk, neatly arranged charts, and finely embroidered naval banners betrayed a significant rank. The insignia of his father's fleet hung prominently on the wall, stirring both pride and unease within him.
Feng tried to push himself upright. His body screamed in protest, but he longed to feel the fresh air on his skin, to wash away the lingering stench of blood, death, and despair etched into his memory. Yet, his body betrayed him. Every attempt to move sent sharp, thudding pain radiating through him, forcing him back onto the cot. He let out a frustrated exhale, staring at the canvas ceiling above.
Footsteps approached, breaking the quiet hum of the bustling camp outside. The flap of the tent rustled, and familiar voices reached his ears.
"Minister Qin—"
The voice was aged, steady, and unmistakable. Moments later, two figures entered the room, their silhouettes casting long shadows against the dim lantern light.
Feng's heart leapt as his father's familiar face came into view, etched with worry but softened by a restrained smile. Standing beside him was a man Feng did not recognize—a figure of authority and wisdom, dressed in flowing robes that suggested a rank of great importance.
"Feng, you have awoken," his father said, his voice betraying a mixture of relief and restrained emotion. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, one that spoke volumes of the weight he had been carrying.
For a moment, silence filled the space as Feng struggled to find the words. The sight of his father, alive and unharmed, felt like a lifeline amidst the storm of pain and exhaustion he was drowning in. All he could do was nod weakly, the edges of his mouth lifting in the faintest trace of a smile.
His father took a step closer, lowering himself beside the cot. His hand reached out, hesitant at first, before resting gently on Feng's shoulder. "You have done well, Feng," he said quietly, the words laced with pride and sadness.
The other man remained silent, his sharp, penetrating gaze fixed on Feng as though measuring every inch of the boy. It was an unnerving scrutiny, and though Feng felt the weight of expectation radiating from those eyes, he was far too drained to question it. Yet, there was something in the man's expression—a proud smile tugging at his lips. Feng couldn't fathom why.
"You have done well salvaging whatever was left of that…" the man finally spoke, his voice measured yet laced with an undercurrent of ire. The words stung more than they soothed, though Feng wasn't entirely surprised. He recognized this man from his father's accounts: War Minister Qin, a figure known for his unyielding demeanor and lofty expectations.
Feng's mind churned with questions, but his exhaustion kept him silent.
"Failure, Captain," Qin continued, the title cutting through the air like a blade. "You have done a great service to our nation, and I shall see to it that you are rewarded as faithfully as you have served."
The words hung heavy in the air. Faithful service? Feng thought bitterly. All he had wanted was to survive—and to save as many of his men as he could. There was no faith in his actions, only desperation.
"But this campaign is far from over," the Minister pressed on, his voice hardening with resolve. "We shall have our vengeance. And this war effort requires you now more than ever. Your heroic feat will be a great boon to our downtrodden army."
"Sir—" Feng tried to interject, his voice hoarse and strained.
Qin raised a hand, silencing him. The man was relentless in his delivery, treating the conversation as though it were a decree carved into stone.
"I shall bestow upon you the power to lead your own regiment," Qin declared, his tone almost triumphant. "Though the rank befitting of such power shall be set aside for now… due to reasons your father and I are most familiar with."
The statement was shrouded in ambiguity, leaving Feng uncertain whether to feel honored or insulted. He nodded weakly, unsure of what else to do.
A strange mix of emotions swirled within him. Pride—yes, it was there, buried beneath the surface. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing his efforts had been acknowledged, even if begrudgingly. But that pride was overshadowed by a looming sense of dread. The reward he was being offered came shackled with responsibility, with more lives to protect, and more battles to endure.
He clenched his fist under the blanket, his nails digging into his palm as he tried to push back the wave of fear threatening to consume him. His body ached, his spirit was frayed, and yet…
The world demanded more of him…
More than a week had passed, and the once-gloomy encampment now buzzed with renewed vitality. Beyond the distant horizon, dozens of friendly warships emerged, their white sails billowing proudly as they cut through the waves. The sight of reinforcements—more than a thousand soldiers disembarking from the ships—invigorated the waning morale of the army. Cheers erupted across the camp, mingling with the rhythm of marching boots and clanging armor.
Feng stood at a distance, watching the unfolding scene with a reserved expression. To him, the celebration felt premature. Why celebrate now? he thought. Victory was still a distant dream, and the battlefield ahead promised nothing but blood and toil. Celebrations should wait for the end of this campaign—if there even was an end.
Moments earlier, he had left a high-level briefing conducted by Minister Qin. Feng's presence in such a meeting was an anomaly, his rank far too junior to warrant an invitation. Yet, his "special circumstances," as the Minister liked to call them, and Qin's growing fondness for him, had secured him a seat at the table.
The discussion replayed in his mind like an unwelcome echo. The plan was bold: to encircle Omashu by seizing the surrounding lands, cutting off their supplies, and isolating their allies. Feasible, yes, but it meant prolonging the campaign—a prospect Feng dreaded. His thoughts were heavy with the weight of what lay ahead as he approached the edge of his regiment's camp.
Suddenly, his brooding was interrupted by the cheerful shouts of his men. Laughter and raucous voices carried across the air, a stark contrast to the somber tone in his heart.
These weren't just any soldiers. These were men who had fought alongside him in the siege of Omashu. Veterans forged in the crucible of battle, they were among the half of the thousand who had survived and returned with him. Now, they stood as the backbone of his newly-formed regiment. Their loyalty wasn't just duty—it was fervent, born of shared bloodshed and survival.
The moment his arrival was noticed, the commotion ceased, and his soldiers scrambled to form orderly lines.
"Parade rest!" bellowed one of his lieutenants, and the men swiftly obeyed, their boots thudding into the dirt in unison.
Feng walked slowly along the front line, his gaze scanning each face. These men, scarred and battered, had entrusted him with their lives. The weight of their trust was a heavier burden than the sword at his side.
He stopped at the center of the formation, turning to the lieutenant who had called the command. "What caused the commotion earlier, Lieutenant?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with curiosity.
"The additional hundred men for our regiment have arrived, Captain," the lieutenant reported, his voice steady but tinged with something unspoken. He hesitated, as though debating whether to continue, but eventually pressed on. "Among them is the late Colonel Huang's son."
Feng's eyes widened, the news catching him off guard. Memories of Colonel Huang flooded his mind—the man who had been both a mentor and a friend during the grueling campaigns. Huang had often bragged about his son with unabashed pride, describing him as a brilliant aspiring scholar destined for great things. That the boy had chosen to take up arms instead was a revelation—and one that carried a heavy weight.
Vengeance, Feng thought grimly. It seemed likely. The boy's father had perished in the blood-soaked chaos of Omashu's siege.
"Show me the boy," Feng ordered, his tone sharp with urgency.
The lieutenant nodded and led him toward the rear of the regiment's line. They weaved through rows of weathered veterans and fresh recruits until they stopped in front of a young boy.
Feng blinked in surprise. The child before him looked no older than twelve, his slight frame dwarfed by the oversized armor he wore. His face, though youthful, carried a determined expression that seemed almost unnatural for someone his age. There was no mistaking the resemblance—he bore the same sharp features and intense eyes that had defined his father.
For a moment, Feng felt an ache in his chest. He could see fragments of Colonel Huang in the boy's stance, the way he squared his shoulders despite his obvious inexperience. The boy stood still, meeting Feng's gaze with a mixture of defiance and respect.
"What is your name?" Feng asked, crouching slightly to meet him at eye level.
"Huang Wei," the boy answered, his voice steady but soft. "I am here to serve, Captain, as my father did."
Feng studied him closely, searching for any sign of hesitation. Instead, he found only raw determination, underpinned by something far deeper—grief.
"Your father spoke of you often," Feng said gently, his voice softening. "He was proud of you, Wei. He believed you would achieve great things."
Wei's jaw tightened, and he straightened his posture further, clutching the hilt of the small blade at his side. "I will honor him," he said firmly, though his voice wavered slightly at the end. "And I will avenge him."
Feng sighed, rising to his full height. The boy's resolve was admirable, but it was a heavy burden for someone so young. "Vengeance is a sharp blade, Wei," he said. "But it cuts both ways. Are you ready for what lies ahead?"
"I am," Wei replied without hesitation, his gaze unwavering.
Feng nodded slowly, though his heart ached for the boy. He turned to the lieutenant. "See to it that Wei is properly equipped and trained," he said. "Place him under close supervision. I want him alive by the end of this campaign."
"Yes, Captain," the lieutenant replied, saluting sharply.
As Feng turned to leave, he cast one last glance at Wei. The boy's determination reminded him of himself before his first battle—full of fire and conviction, but blind to the cost of war. Feng only hoped that Wei would live long enough to understand what it truly meant to fight.
Walking back to his tent, he couldn't shake the image of the boy from his mind. A child, the same as him, thrust into a world of blood and steel, chasing a shadow of justice. War spares no one, he thought bitterly, his steps heavy with the weight of what was to come.