The forest was silent, but tension pulsed in the air like a drawn string.

Chao Bai sat with his back against a crooked tree, surrounded by the last remnants of his once-mighty force. Just over 90,000 remained. Each one bruised, bloodied, yet still breathing. They passed small jade vials between them, each containing two bitter-red healing pills. No one spoke as they swallowed them, eyes closed, letting the medicine stitch their shattered bodies together.

Above, soldiers climbed and rested in the tree canopy, barely visible even to the moonlight. Below, Chao Bai stared at a cracked map, tracing a line with one shaking finger.

He stopped at a name: Huang City.

A neutral city. Untouched by war. The spiritual trade capital of the world.

His eyes burned.

“There,” he said, rising to his feet. “We’re not done. Not yet.”

He raised his voice.

“An auction is coming in Huang. They say a pill will be offered—one that can push an Emperor of War to the True God of War stage. But for those at our level, it’s dangerous. It can destroy your cultivation vein. End your path forever.”

His soldiers remained silent. Loyal. Determined. Every man and woman among them had already risked worse.

After a moment, they nodded.

They rested once more, suspended in the trees like silent shadows. Then they moved, turning sideways, slipping through the tight forest paths, withdrawing west.

At the forest’s edge, Chao Bai handed a sealed scroll to a courier.

“Take 99,999 of our soldiers. Return home. Guard the border. I will remain to stop Queen Pan Lian from ascending to something… unchallengeable.”

The soldier bowed and vanished into the dark.

---

One day later — Yi City

Pan Lian grabbed Lu Sang by the collar and practically dragged him to the transport array. No words. No debate.

They arrived in Huang City by dusk—alive with merchants, cultivators, and the scent of burning incense. The city was neutral, protected by ancient oaths, its rules upheld by violence, even empires respected.

Pan Lian wasted no time. She handed over 100 million lesser cultivation pills, exchanging them for 100,000 elite pills—pills designed to raise Spiritual Mortals and Experts to the Enlightened Foundation stage in a matter of days.

Lu Sang raised an eyebrow. “These alone won’t make us gods.”

Pan Lian turned to the side as a familiar robed man approached—Cultivation Great Sage Lin Qi.

Lu Sang asked, “What’s the true recipe?”

The sage smiled faintly. “A piece of golden apple, one liter of purified water. Mix it with foundation oil from the tongue of a celestial clam, harvested during its midday chant. Then cook it slowly. Thirty minutes. Don’t rush it.”

Later, they both entered the Auction Hall of Nine Heavens, waiting for the final item.

The room buzzed with tension.

Then, the artifact was unveiled—A single vial of the Cultivation Blood of Ares. Red as a dying sun.

Lu Sang leaned in again. “What does it take to use it?”

The sage replied, “One drop. Combined with 10 liters of foundation oil, it should be cooked for three hours. If done right, it’ll rewrite your path.”

Suddenly, the silence was shattered.

Chao Bai entered the hall.

His eyes locked with Lu Sang’s.

Both lunged—silent, immediate.

The clash over the vial was brutal but brief. Sword aura lit the room. Chi clashed with willpower. In the end, it wasn’t strength that settled it—it was price.

11 million cultivation pills.

Pan Lian paid it. Victory wasn’t always bought with blood.

Both factions left—no bodies. Just tension.

---

Back in Fanism territory, Pan Lian distributed the new pills to Lu Sang’s army. In just one week, every soldier had broken into the Mortal Foundation Stage, their bodies glowing with raw potential. Lu Sang isolated himself, cultivating with Pan Lian’s remaining pills. Each breath he took cracked the air around him.

He would not be denied the True God of War stage.

But while his blade sharpened, his mind stayed sharper.

He sent encrypted letters to allied generals and patrol commanders.

“Maintain all routine patrols. Delay all siege constructions. Do not alter your routes. Make the enemy believe nothing is changing.”

“Let them believe we sleep.”

In two weeks, they would learn the truth.

The Holy Sword Kingdom had escaped once.

They wouldn’t escape again.

In the heart of Fanism territory, deep within the fortified alchemical camp near Yi City, Lu Sang stood at the center of a blazing circle of fire, herbs, and ancient metals. Behind him, dozens of cauldrons bubbled with golden-green essence. The air pulsed with spiritual energy so dense that nearby cultivators had to wear spirit-suppressing talismans just to breathe.

This was no ordinary alchemy.

This was war preparation—weaponized cultivation.

Using the guidance of the Cultivation Great Sage and the sacred ingredients obtained in Huang City, Lu Sang personally refined tens of thousands of pills per day. Golden apple fragments, liters of purified water, foundation oil extracted from celestial clams at midday—each concoction stirred with divine timing, cooked for exactly 30 minutes, then sealed in jade containers etched with Lu Sang’s chi signature.

By the second week, 1.1 million soldiers—spanning the empire’s elite, reserves, border troops, and support divisions—had consumed their share.

All of them ascended to the Mortal Foundation Stage.

Some wept. Others fell silent, awestruck by the sudden clarity of their spirit paths. It would take other nations decades to train such a force.

Fanism did it in two weeks.

And no one outside the capital knew.

---

In the plains beyond Yi City, supply convoys began rolling westward, painted in the dull colors of neutral merchant guilds. Stamped with forged documents and false insignias, they passed through trade routes unnoticed. Their wagons were not filled with spices or silks, but spirit iron, siege parts, and fortified rations.

30,000 soldiers disguised themselves as merchant guards—quiet, alert, deadly. Among them, 3,000 elves, pale-eyed and silent, moved like whispers in the shadow of the wagons. They weren’t here for show. They were marksmen, scouts, and spiritual weavers—the first strike when the order came.

No one questioned their presence. Huang's neutrality ensured traffic moved freely, and the Holy Sword Kingdom's remaining scouts had grown lax since their retreat. They thought Fanism was regrouping.

They were wrong.

Lu Sang stood above the camp, watching it all unfold.

A private message came from Queen Pan Lian:

“Are they ready?”

His reply was short:

“They’re beyond ready. They’re already gods in waiting.”

Now, everything was in place.

Merchants were moving. Guards were hiding. Pills were consumed. The land was silent, but the energy under the surface buzzed like a storm waiting for release.

Behind a black tent marked only with a sigil of flame, Lu Sang met with his captains and elite tacticians.

“We march the moment the moon wanes. The forest will cover our path. The convoys will pass first. Then we move like we never stopped.”

A young commander asked, “And if they notice?”

Lu Sang stared into the flames.

“Then we strike harder.”

Just beyond the hills, the Holy Sword Kingdom remained unaware that the hammer of Fanism was already swinging.

Dawn broke slowly and pale over the outskirts of Huang City. The streets stirred with merchants shouting prices, carts creaking under sacks of rice and dried meat, and civilians bustling about unaware that history was quietly preparing to move.

In a quiet market district near the southern gate, a group of Fanism soldiers in disguise—dressed as humble caravan guards—moved through the stalls with a purpose sharper than their hidden blades.

There were twelve of them, all handpicked by Lu Sang. Trained in espionage and discipline, they wore the expressions of bored mercenaries, but their eyes were locked in constant calculation.

“Five barrels of salted beef,” one of them said in a low voice.
“Twenty sacks of rice,” another added.
“Get dried fruits and fermented roots. Our alchemists can turn those into broth on the march.”

They bartered in local dialects, handed over silver stamped with neutral guild seals, and never broke character. It wasn’t just about food—it was about avoiding suspicion. Their mission was clear: gather the last of the bulk provisions needed to sustain the vanguard invasion force for the final push into the Holy Sword Kingdom.

One of the merchants, a plump man with red ink-stained fingers, narrowed his eyes. “You lot are stocking for a war or a wedding?”

The lead guard laughed, rolling his eyes. “Our clients are paranoid nobles. Want to host a banquet at the border.”

The merchant grunted and waved them off, taking the coin without further questions.

By midday, their carts were loaded:

• Salted meats sealed in spiritwax barrels

• Preserved vegetables infused with low-grade healing energy

• Dried flatbreads and nutrient biscuits were used by the elite guard

• Kits of fire-start herbs and instant-brew tea for battlefield clarity

Before returning to their convoy, the team made one last stop—a quiet dumpling stall in the shadow of a banyan tree. It was tradition.

They sat without speaking for a while, eating in silence. Pork dumplings. Sweet lotus buns. Fried noodles with egg.

This would be their last hot meal before the march.

One of the younger guards finally broke the silence.

“You think we’ll make it through?”

The oldest among them sipped his tea.

“If we don’t, we’ll make sure they do.”

They didn’t toast. Didn’t promise glory. Just ate, paid, and walked.

As the sun dipped toward the west, the soldiers returned to the supply convoy parked outside the southern hills. The carts, filled and covered, were ready. The elves were already in position. A few final enchantments were drawn into the wagon wheels to quiet their movement and hide their spiritual signature.

By nightfall, they would vanish into the valley trails and meet the main army hidden beyond the forest's edge.

The invasion began at moonfall.

And in that market stall, now empty and quiet, twelve pairs of chopsticks lay crossed on the table.

Markers of those who had eaten before the war.