The same night descended, yet the heavens had changed.
The storming clouds had long scattered, revealing a vast ocean of stars. The full moon hung high—silent, solemn, bathing the land in silver light.
Only the murmur of the river broke the stillness, its gentle ripples slicing through the night wind. From afar, the lonely howls of beasts echoed between mountain ridges, mingling faintly with the rhythmic chirps of crickets.
The village below had fallen into slumber. Every door was shut tight, the scent of extinguished incense still lingering in the air. Along the narrow paths, lanterns swayed softly, their dim golden glow pushing back the night's embrace—like fragile embers guarding the dreams of men.
Inside Mu Feng's quiet house, the air was still, carrying only the faint scent of medicinal herbs.
On the bed, Zixiao lay motionless—whether asleep or unconscious, none could tell. His face, both arms, his abdomen, and legs were all wrapped carefully in white bandages. The soft moonlight drifted in through the open window beside him, bathing his frail figure in a silver glow that seemed both pure and sorrowful.
"Sigh…" Mu Feng exhaled deeply, setting down a wooden bucket filled with cool water on the table next to the bed. He took a folded white cloth, dipped it into the bucket, and wrung it gently, water droplets falling softly like rain against the wood.
Mu Feng slipped his hand beneath Zixiao's waist and gently lifted him into a sitting position. The boy's body was light, fragile—almost weightless in his arms. With calm precision, Mu Feng took the damp cloth and ran it across Zixiao's chest, arms, and back, wiping away the traces of sweat and blood that still lingered. The young man's breathing was shallow, yet steady.
After a while, Mu Feng laid him down again, resting his head on the pillow before returning the cloth to the bucket. He pressed two fingers lightly against Zixiao's wrist, feeling for the pulse.
"Hmm…" he murmured softly.
It was still faint—slower than it should be—but stronger than before. A small comfort, though not enough to ease his heart.
The moonlight spilled gently across Mu Feng's face, revealing the exhaustion and quiet sorrow etched into his features. His eyes, once filled with serene wisdom, now held the weight of deep regret.
Taking the bucket in hand, he left the room silently.
In the small living room, he placed it upon the wooden table at the center. Sitting down beside it, Mu Feng leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands covered his face as his head lowered.
For a long moment, he stayed that way—alone beneath the soft glow of a hanging lantern—while the faint sound of the river outside whispered through the night like a forgotten lullaby.
After a long silence, Mu Feng exhaled deeply and lifted his gaze.
Across the dimly lit room, the small window near the door stood open, letting in the cool breath of night. Through it, the full moon hung high—round, clear, and silent.
He rose slowly, the wooden floor creaking beneath his steps as he walked to the door. With a soft groan, the door opened, and the night air embraced him. Outside, silver light draped the courtyard, bathing the world in a calm, ethereal glow.
Beneath the old blossom tree stood a wooden swing—one he had built for Zixiao. Its ropes swayed gently in the breeze, petals drifting down from the branches above like soft rain.
Mu Feng sat upon it, his robes whispering against the wood. A few pink petals landed on his shoulders and hair, catching the moonlight. The wind brushed past, carrying the faint scent of flowers and river mist.
He closed his eyes briefly, then whispered to himself,
"The Holy Soul Empire… they're not the kind to forgive or forget. Even if I run, even if I hide the boy to the ends of this world—they will find us eventually."
The swing moved gently as he spoke, the chains creaking softly.
A faint smile curved his lips.
"Still… tomorrow is his birthday. The boy deserves at least one peaceful day."
He tilted his head toward the moon, eyes soft.
"After everything he's endured… this will be his first true birthday."
A few petals fell upon his lap as he looked up again, the moon's reflection shimmering faintly in his weary eyes.
After a while, Mu Feng rose from the swing and quietly made his way back inside, closing the door behind him with a soft creak.
He walked to the table and picked up a spatial storage talisman, its surface etched with faint runic patterns that shimmered under the lantern's glow. With a calm yet deliberate motion, he began placing items into it—white jade bottles, glowing medicinal herbs that pulsed gently in the dark, and ancient scrolls and books whose seals flickered with dim blue light as they vanished one by one into the talisman's space.
Each item disappeared with a soft clink, echoing faintly in the still night air.
Though Mu Feng was in the other room, unaware—upon the bed, Zixiao's bandaged fingers twitched ever so slightly, a faint sign of life stirring beneath the silence.
"Kill... kill... kill...!"
The battle cries of countless men thundered across the desolate plain as waves of armored soldiers charged forward, their roars shaking the earth itself. The clatter of metal boots and weapons merged with the furious rhythm of war, while a storm of dry brown dust rose skyward, veiling the battlefield in a choking haze.
They surged across the vast barren field—no trees, no shelter, only the horizon drenched in blood-red light. Behind them, a second formation marched in perfect unison, banners of the Sunrise Empire raised high and fluttering violently in the wind.
The blare of long black war horns reverberated through the air, deep and mournful, as if announcing the descent of death itself. Meanwhile, the war drums pounded relentlessly, their beats so fierce that the drummers' hands were already raw and crimson—yet they did not stop.
The ground trembled beneath the stampede, and the sky itself seemed to shudder in anticipation of the storm that was about to begin.
Another wave of soldiers heaved massive catapults forward, the wooden frames groaning under their own weight—each one towering as large as a house. The ground shook with every push, the iron wheels carving deep trails into the dry earth.
From the hazy horizon, the frontline soldiers of the Sunrise Empire finally caught sight of their foes.
Across the open plain, a wild horde emerged like a living storm—men and women clad in wolf pelts and animal furs, their faces painted with tribal markings of red and black, symbols of war and death.
They carried crude yet vicious weapons—spears tipped with sharpened bone, clubs reinforced with beast fangs, bows strung with sinew—and their voices merged into a single, savage cry.
"Kill… kill… kill!"
The echo of their roars collided with that of the empire's soldiers, and for a moment, the very sky seemed to split between two worlds—civilization and savagery, empire and wilderness—each rushing to erase the other.