To the Village of My Birth,

I do not fear the enemy we are about to face in battle. I do not fear a prolonged war. What unsettles me is the wickedness of our leadership—those who drape themselves in silk while we stand in blood. Trust that I carry you with me, even when the blade is drawn. — Ki’Rha

The letter passed inspection. The patrol had no issue with it; Queen Pan Lian preferred the illusion of liberty to the mess of resistance. Let the villagers believe they had voices, as long as those voices did not roar.

Ki’Rha stepped from her tent. Sunlight hit her bronze-furred face, narrowed feline eyes adjusted quickly. Her ears twitched at the wind, otoostill for this early. She wore no armor, only light leather strips and a long green sash marked with symbols of Purri, the wind goddess of mercy and wrath.

She gathered her forces: four thousand cat-humanoids stood in silence. Fighters. Farmers turned soldiers. Nomads with scars and steady hands. They were headed east, toward whispers of enemy movement. Not a forced march, but one of caution and presence. Ki’Rha wanted to be seen, to let the enemy know she was watching.

A scout was sent ahead. Two hours later, he returned, claws scraped and breathing fast.

“Two thousand,” he said. “Holy Sword Sect. Armed. Chanting. Waiting.”

Ki’Rha knelt. She placed her claws against the soil, eyes closed. The troops quieted behind her. She whispered a prayer to Purri.

“Send wind to humble those who believe their blades are clean. Let their banners twist and their chants falter. Make them remember this earth doesn’t belong to them.”

A soft rustle. The wind circled her fingers. Then, a voice.

Purri stood tall, veiled in faint gold, only visible to Ki’Rha. Her voice was the wind through reeds.

“You ask much, Ki’Rha. I have five divine acts to offer per week until the Holy Priest is judged. I used one yesterday for the farmers in the west. This will be number two.”

Ki’Rha bowed her head. “Then make it count.”

The wind shifted. It hissed low, then built into a dry storm, dust and cutting breezes whipping through the eastern valley. Visibility dropped. The Holy Sword Sect struggled to maintain its formation.

Ki’Rha struck.

Her forces charged with precision, using the storm as cover. The enemy, trained for ceremony more than war, broke under the assault. Their chants turned to screams. Ki’Rha moved through them like a shadow, her dual blades silent but final.

Within an hour, it was done. No survivors.

She ordered her soldiers to remove all items—armor, flags, and tokens of faith. “Strip the truth,” she said. “Make it look like bandits. Let them think this was chaos, not justice.”

That night, Ki’Rha penned a letter to Queen Pan Lian.

Your Majesty,

We encountered Holy Sword Sect forces near the eastern ridge. They’re not marching by chance. A war may begin. Prepare yourself.
— Ki’Rha

The message reached the capital by morning. Queen Pan Lian read it while sipping green tea by a balcony that overlooked nothing but fog. Her fingers tightened slightly.

She summoned Lu Sang, commander of the inner guard. No words needed. She handed him the letter.

He nodded, and later, in private, wrote back:

To Her Majesty Pan Lian,

I fear no mortal.
But I do fear what lies on the other side of war.
— Lu Sang 

Mei Lan paced the cold jade halls of the palace, scrolls in hand, mind sharper than any blade forged by the Holy Sword Sect. She had been staring at the letters for hours, reports of scattered bandit attacks across the eastern ridges. Some made sense. Most didn’t.

The Holy Sword Sect rarely moved without blessing or command. Yet now, their soldiers were dying off-road, without banners, stripped clean. She circled back to the first attack. No spoils taken. No witnesses. Just precision. Almost… tactical.

She ran her hand across her desk, muttering to herself.

"Same patterns. Different names. But it’s the same hand guiding it."

Three hours later, after wandering through marble corridors and empty courtyards where even servants avoided her eyes, Mei Lan stood on the western tower of the palace. From here, the land looked like still water. But she knew what was coming.

Enough thinking. She stepped down from the tower, summoned the court scribes, and in a voice that cracked the silence of her court, declared:

“War is upon us. Let it be official. The Fanism Empire will answer.”

With that, the storm turned formal.

Across the heartlands, word spread fast. All remaining Holy Sword Sect soldiers—196,000 strong—began to converge. Steel gleamed under the sun, prayers were offered, and banners were raised. At the center of it all stood Commander Chao Bai, a tall man carved from stone and silence.

He studied the war map. Patrols covered the lowlands, the roads, and the rivers. But the great forest to the north—the one locals called the Lost Forest—was shaded in black.

“Dense. Wild. No paths.”
“Impossible to pass,” said his aide.
“Which means it’s where we go,” Chao Bai answered.

That night, under a moonless sky, Chao Bai led his forces toward the forest edge. Flight was forbidden. No spells of guidance. Just quiet feet and drawn blades. The forest swallowed sound. Even the wind died once they stepped in.

To move forward, each soldier had to turn their bodies sideways, slipping through the trees like water through cracks. Progress was slow. Roots snagged. Branches clawed. Many lost track of time. A few lost their minds.

By dawn, they began climbing—scaling thick branches to rest and scout from above. Birds screeched but never flew close. Chao Bai didn’t speak unless he had to. His men followed out of faith and fear.

The march resumed at dusk, silent and eerie. They moved until midnight, the forest thinning slightly, moonlight finally breaking through. When they descended the final ridge, the trees behind them hissed like something exhaling.

They had made it through.

In the valley below, torches dotted the outer farms. Walls rose in the distance.

Yi City.

The first gate to the Fanism Empire’s true heart.

And now, there was no turning back.

Midnight passed quietly in Yi City.

Lanterns flickered. Watchtowers stood half-manned. The city, nestled at the edge of the Lost Forest, had grown lazy in its peace. The 12,000 stationed soldiers, though trained, had not tasted real combat in years. Their drills were ceremonial. Their confidence, hollow.

No one expected war to come from the woods.

Then came the sound—low, distant, like the hum of a thousand strings pulled taut. A sound not of nature, but of steel.

The sky cracked.

From the treetops beyond the northern gate, the Holy Sword Sect rose. Hundreds, then thousands of soldiers, each balanced atop a blade, soaring like spectral falcons in the night. No chants. No warnings. Only wind and war.

Commander Chao Bai led the front. His black blade shimmered with scripture. His eyes never left the walls of Yi.

“Take the wall. No survivors on the ramparts.”

The first wave descended hard—blades slicing air, then bone. They landed cleanly on the walls, striking before any horn could be blown. The guards, caught mid-conversation or mid-yawn, barely reached for their spears before falling.

Yi’s alarm rang too late.

Screams replaced the silence. Flames lit the towers as Holy Sword Sect troops overwhelmed the defenders. Some Fanism soldiers tried to regroup at the inner wall, but they were split, cut off by flying swordsmen who rained down steel from above.

The Sect moved in tight units. Every move rehearsed. Every clash was precise. This wasn’t an assault—it was an execution.

A young lieutenant of the Fanism Empire tried rallying a dozen men at the eastern gate. “Hold your ground! Reinforcements will—” His sentence never finished. A sword pierced his chest from fifty feet away. It hovered midair for a second, then shot back into the hands of its owner.

By dawn, the city wall was taken.

Chao Bai stood atop the southern battlements, looking down at the inner city as his soldiers swept through the outer districts. Smoke curled into the morning sky. Bodies littered the streets. Resistance flickered, then faded.

Yi City had fallen in a single night.

No mercy. No retreat.

The Holy Sword Sect raised their banner from the central tower before sunrise—its golden script catching firelight, declaring to all who saw.