Peace shattered not with a roar, but with the frantic, desperate pounding on the city gates in the dead of night.
It was a sound so alien to Anping that at first, people mistook it for a drunken reveler or a sudden thunderstorm.
But the pounding was followed by a scream, thin and sharp in the cold air, and then the panicked tolling of the bell in the watchtower.
It was not the steady, rhythmic chime that called monks to prayer or marked the changing of the guard.
This was a frantic, discordant clang, a sound of pure terror and that ripped Bai Shu from his sleep.
He and Lian joined the stream of confused citizens pouring into the streets, clutching robes and peering into the darkness.
At the city's main square, a man lay gasping on the cobblestones, his clothes torn, one arm hanging at an unnatural angle.
He was a scout from an outlying watchpost, and his words tumbled out between ragged breaths, each one a hammer blow to the city's heart.
"The pass… they came through the Ghostwood Pass… we thought it was impassable…" he choked, blood flecking his lips.
"Not an army… a flood. Banners of black and iron. They are… already at the river crossing."
A collective gasp went through the crowd and a single, unified sound of disbelief turning to dread.
The Ghostwood Pass was a treacherous, winding path through the mountains, considered a natural defense.
That General Jin Tian's army had breached it meant they were not just skilled; they were relentless, qnd the river crossing was less than a day's march away.
The distant rumble of war was no longer distant.
It was at their door.
Panic erupted in the city. The quiet, scholarly rhythm of Anping broke apart into a rhythm of fear.
Merchants who had been debating yesterday were now frantically boarding up their shops.
Neighbors who had shared tea now eyed each other's stored grain with suspicion.
The blacksmith's forge whom once crafting sturdy ploughshares and delicate gates is now glowed day and night, the clang of the hammer ringing with a new, martial urgency as it beat old, rusted farm tools into crude spearheads.
The air, once filled with the scent of ink and plum blossoms, grew thick with the smell of sweat and fear.
Bai Shu felt the panic like a physical force, a pressure in his chest.
He saw the terror in Lian's eyes and pulled her close, trying to shield her from the chaos.
His mind, trained in logic and order, struggled to process the sudden collapse of his world.
'This wasn't supposed to happen. Anping was safe. Reason was supposed to prevail'.
"We must remain calm," he said to a group of neighbors huddled nearby, his voice straining to be heard over the rising clamor.
"Panic is the enemy's greatest ally. Governor Bao will have a plan and the Southern Army will be alerted."
But his words were hollow, lost in the wind.
The rumors about Jin Tian's Iron Banners and once distant tales are now getting terrifyingly near.
They were said to march in absolute silence, their armor black as a starless night. They were said to leave nothing behind but ash and bone.
They were said to be led by a man who had burned a thousand books to forge a single sword.
The stories, perhaps exaggerated by fear, painted a portrait of an unstoppable, inhuman force.
Bai Shu tried to cling to his beliefs. He spent the day trying to be a voice of reason, moving through the panicked crowds, urging order, reminding people of the strength of their community.
But fear was a more powerful orator.
He saw a man beat his neighbor for a sack of rice.
He saw a family trampled as they tried to force their way onto an overloaded cart.
The civilized people of Anping is cracking, revealing the raw, desperate survival instinct beneath.
That evening, as a blood-red sun sank behind the mountains, a new sight appeared on the northern horizon.
It was not the dust cloud of a marching army, but a column of thick, black smoke. It rose from the direction of the farming villages near the river crossing where the villages that supplied Anping with its food.
The villages where people he knew lived.
The smoke was a message, a declaration written against the sky.
We are here. Everything you have is now ours to burn.
Standing on the city wall, Bai Shu watched the smoke billow, a dark stain on the twilight canvas.
The distant, abstract concept of war had just become a funeral for people he knew. The philosophical problem had become a visceral threat.
He felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach, a feeling he had never known before. It was not just fear. It was the chilling premonition that the world he had built his life upon and the world of reason and peace was already dead.
He was simply standing in its ghost.