The patrol came in fast—dust on their boots, blood on their sleeves. Their horses collapsed outside the capital gates, barely alive. The leader, Captain Hen Wu, handed off the scroll to the nearest royal courier—no time for ceremony.

To Her Majesty Queen Pan Lian,

A force of approximately 197,000 Holy Sword Sect soldiers is headed toward Yimi. Estimated arrival: 7 days.

— Captain Hen Wu, 3rd Patrol Company, Eastern Watch

Queen Pan Lian read it once. Then again. Her tea turned cold.

She summoned Lu Sang that same night.

"Go to Yimi," she said. "Hold the line. We lose that town, we lose the east."

Lu Sang didn’t bow. He just nodded, took his command, and left with 18,000 of the Empire’s elite. The march was quiet. No songs. No speeches. Just preparation for the slaughter ahead.

Once in Yimi, Lu Sang didn’t waste a second. Every soldier under his command was put to work. Wood split. Iron forged. They built dozens of ballistae—massive siege engines designed to tear the sky apart. Local enchanters etched runes across the arms, whispering spells of piercing, breaking, and binding.

The week passed like a breath.

Then the enemy came.

The horizon darkened with steel and robes. Holy Sword Sect soldiers glided in tight formations, blades underfoot, riding on wind and discipline. Lu Sang stood at the top of Yimi’s north wall, arms behind his back.

“Loose one.”

The first bolt fired.

It struck a distant figure mid-flight—a cultivator. She dropped like a dead star, her blade spinning off into the trees below.

“She’s down!” a soldier called.

Another bolt fired. It speared through a second cultivator as he dove to retrieve her body.

Then came the echo:
“Holy Shield—form it!” Chao Bai roared from the rear.

Four soldiers snapped into position, forming a rotating shield square mid-air—steel barriers reinforced by chi and formation scripts. But the Fanism bolts were relentless. Every 30 seconds, a soldier in the shield square was taken down, collapsing the rotation. It took three minutes before the formation held.

The fiftieth bolt shattered on impact.

Then came another voice:

"Zhang Wei! Stop shooting!"
It was Cao Suyin, one of  Lu Sang’s lead tacticians. "Wait for the anti-formation master to finish the enchantments!"

Time passed. Another week of siege and exchange. The Anti-Formation Master’s enchantments struck deep into the Holy Sword ranks, shattering formations, disrupting flight, and throwing cultivators from the sky like rag dolls. Chao Bai lost 10% of his force before they even reached the walls.

Then came the real battle.

Wave after wave hit Yimi’s stone walls. Each time, Lu Sang answered—blades from the ramparts, fire from the towers, and bolts raining death. For two straight days and nights, he fought like a man possessed. He stopped speaking. His eyes burned gold by the second sunrise.

A priest whispered, “He’s near the God of War stage…”

And then, he broke through.

Lu Sang reached the God of War stage under fire and smoke. Each sword cultivator who came near died before touching the stone walls. Arrows deflected mid-air. Bolts moved faster. His strikes cracked chi shields like glass.

By the end of the second night, only half of Chao Bai’s forces remained.

The retreat was silent.

No horns. No cries. Just the slow, bitter withdrawal of the proud.

Back in Yimi, the walls were cracked, the people bloodied, but the town stood.

Later, in a war council deep within the Empire’s capital, Cao Suyin stood before Lu Sang and a map littered with scorched zones.

She pointed. “We should reclaim Yi City. Use it as leverage.”

Lu Sang, arms crossed, didn’t look at the map. “Did the enemy leave the nation?”

Cao Suyin sighed, then answered.

“Only 3,000 remain.”

Lu Sang’s eyes narrowed.

“Then let’s finish this.”

The wind screamed over the hills as Lu Sang rode the sky.

Balanced atop his flying sword, armor glinting under the mid-morning sun, he cut across the clouds like a thunderbolt. Below, the ruins of Yi City loomed—a once-great border fortress, now burned and stripped by the Holy Sword Sect’s earlier assault.

He didn’t bring an army.

Didn’t need one.

Yi City would be reclaimed—not by force of numbers, but by the will of a man who had reached the God of War stage.

Lu Sang descended fast. His boots slammed into the cracked stone of the city gate, the iron doors still blackened from the previous siege. Dozens of enemy remnants had lingered behind, scavenging supplies and guarding what they thought was theirs.

Lu Sang moved through them like fire through dry leaves.

His sword never once left his back. His fists, his steps, his gaze—each was enough.

He struck a captain with the flat of his palm; the man’s ribs caved in as if struck by a mountain.

A formation of eight charged him. He walked between them. None survived the fourth step.

Thirty minutes after he landed, Yi City was his again. No banners. No trumpets. Just blood evaporating on a hot stone.

Lu Sang stood atop the central tower. The wind shifted. His eyes narrowed.

In the distance, from the edge of the eastern ridge, he saw movement—sword trails flickering just above the trees. He mounted his flying blade once more and soared high, the world shrinking beneath him.

From above, the truth unfolded.

Chao Bai’s remaining forces—battered and bloodied—were threading their way through the same Lost Forest that had once hidden their approach. This time, they fled. Wounded soldiers propped each other up, formations broken, no discipline—only desperation. Their direction was clear.

They were heading back to their homeland.

Lu Sang turned without a word and flew back to Yi. Once grounded, he sat in the shattered war room. A single candle lit the space. He pulled parchment from a nearby crate and began to write.

To Her Majesty Queen Pan Lian,

Yi City has been retaken. Enemy remnants eliminated. No casualties.

I witnessed Chao Bai’s forces retreating through the Lost Forest. They are weakened—morale shattered, movement slow. Estimated count: under 100,000.

Recommendation: intercept before they cross the border. Strike with speed. No time for council. No time for debate.

This is our moment to end them.

— Lu Sang

He rolled the parchment, sealed it in wax, and handed it to the fastest falcon messenger available.

As the bird took flight, Lu Sang looked out over the broken city.

"One more step," he muttered. "And we end this war."

The throne room was cold that morning.

Queen Pan Lian sat draped in a robe of silver and green, but there was no elegance in her posture—only tension. Maps were unrolled before her like open wounds, pins driven through border towns and marked trade lines. Advisors murmured behind her, arguing over supply lines, but she raised a hand.

Silence fell.

She stood slowly.

“We have two weeks,” she said, voice cutting through the chamber like a drawn blade. “That is all.”

The court was stunned. General Yun stepped forward.

“Your Majesty, a campaign that size—logistics alone will take—”

“I’m aware,” Pan Lian cut in. “Food, medicine, weapons, repairs, enchantments. I know every piece that needs to move. That’s why it will move. Not in three months. Not in one. Two weeks.”

“But the horses—”

“We’ll take horses from the noble stables. The nobles can walk.”

“But the trade routes are strained—”

“Then requisition caravans from the merchant guilds. Pay them double. Or don’t pay them at all. They’ll do it either way.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then, the queen turned to her war secretary.

“Send word to Lu Sang. Tell him the final invasion begins in fourteen days. I want him leading the vanguard.”

The secretary nodded and left in a rush.

She turned to the rest of the court.

“This war will not end in a fortress. It will not end on our soil. We chase the Holy Sword Sect to the last stone of their empire. To their temples, to their keeps, to their kings. If we don’t, they will return. Again and again. So we strike now—while they limp back home.”

“Every guild, every forge, every able body—press them into service. I want siege towers built in days, not weeks. I want healing tents stocked and fire mages briefed. I want flying sword regiments fully formed, and I want no excuses.”

The queen’s voice turned quiet, but sharp.

“If we wait, we bleed later. If we move now, we end it.”

Pan Lian descended the dais and exited through the eastern wing, robes trailing behind her like a storm.

Behind her, the wheels of war began to turn. Reluctant scribes dashed off orders. Generals began shouting. Quartermasters cursed under their breath.

The clock had started.

Two weeks. Then fire.