The snow had not melted, but the blood beneath it had turned black.
Lin Yao and the forty survivors moved through the valley like wraiths, their shadows long against the pale morning. For three days they followed the frozen river north, through ravines stripped of sound, until the mountains began to flatten into the broken plains of the forward line. There was no movement there, no banners in the wind, no sentries on the ridges. Only the faint trace of old smoke, thin and gray, drifting east.
When the first watchtower came into view, it was half collapsed — its beams gnawed by frost and time. The flag of Zhen still hung there, torn and colorless. Yao halted his men. The wind whispered through the pines. Not even crows stirred.
"Scouts ahead," he said.
Two soldiers went forward, trudging through knee-high snow. Their armor clinked faintly, then vanished into the haze. Minutes passed. A gull cried somewhere, thin as a child's wail. Then silence again.
When they returned, their faces were gray.
"Commander," one said hoarsely, "the outpost… it's gone. Everyone's dead."
The words felt weightless, almost irrelevant. Yao stared past them toward the ridge. "Show me."
They climbed in silence. At the crest, the wind carried the smell — a stench that no snow could hide. It hit like a wave: rot, decay, human oil gone sour. Below, the forward camp sprawled in ruin — hundreds of tents half-buried, supply carts overturned, fire pits filled with frozen bodies.
The battalion that had held this line — the ones Yao had marched three hundred miles to reach — had already perished.
They entered the camp slowly. The snow crunched over corpses stiff in their armor. Some had died in rows, backs against the barricades, eyes still open. Others lay inside the tents, curled around empty bowls. The fires had long gone out, but charred pots still hung over them — the ashes of meals that never existed.
A dead horse stood frozen mid-collapsed, ribs jutting like spears. Its rider lay nearby, face gone, helmet still on.
Xu Heng would have taken stock, written down numbers, recorded losses. But Xu Heng was gone, and Yao no longer cared to count.
"Gather the bodies," he said quietly. "Stack them near the command tent."
The men obeyed, their movements mechanical. They no longer spoke; they only worked. The sound of effort — boots dragging, metal scraping ice — replaced all thought.
Yao walked alone through the wreckage. He passed a tent whose flap had frozen shut. When he tore it open, the smell struck him again — a dense, suffocating wave of rot and damp wool. Inside were six soldiers, all seated upright, leaning against one another. Their cups were still in hand. The frost had grown over their beards, sealing their expressions in a kind of fragile peace.
He knelt, studying their faces. The youngest could not have been older than eighteen. Beside him, a letter lay unfolded, words half-faded by melted snow. Yao picked it up.
"To my mother — the cold is not so bad when you stop feeling it. I hope you've eaten today. I dream of boiled millet…"
The ink ended there. The paper had frozen to the boy's hand.
Yao stood again, slowly, carefully setting the letter back where it was. The tent flap fell behind him with a whisper.
Outside, the men had finished piling the dead. The mound rose like a small hill in the center of the camp — bodies stacked in silent unity, faces hidden beneath layers of cloth and snow.
"Commander," a soldier said, voice shaking. "Should we bury them?"
Yao looked around. The earth was iron. The ground would not yield to shovel or blade.
"No," he said. "We'll give them to the fire."
The man hesitated, then nodded.
As dusk fell, they built pyres from broken wagons and shattered spears. The wood was wet, reluctant to burn. Smoke rose in thick, choking coils. Flames caught slowly, licking at the rags and limbs, until the first shapes began to crumble.
The wind shifted, carrying the smell toward the ridge.
Some of the men turned away. Others watched with blank faces. No one prayed.
Yao stood before the blaze until his eyes stung. The firelight painted his armor gold, his face hollow.
He thought of the march — the screams, the snow, the bodies left behind in the valley. All of it had led here. All the pain, the choices, the deaths. For this. For nothing.
He felt something unravel inside him. Not grief — that had died long ago — but a quiet, exhausted understanding.
Xu Heng had once said that duty would give their suffering meaning. He had been wrong. Meaning was a luxury for those who survived.
One of the soldiers approached, voice trembling. "Commander… what do we do now? The supplies—"
Yao looked at the rows of untouched crates stacked at the edge of camp — grain, medicine, bandages. The last remnants of purpose.
"Gather them," he said. "All of them."
The men obeyed without question, dragging boxes into the center of the outpost, beside the pyres. Their faces glowed red in the firelight, ghostly and hollow.
When everything was assembled, Yao took a torch from the flames and turned toward them.
"No one will eat this," he said. "No one will use it. It belongs to the dead now."
Someone whispered, "Commander, the army—"
"There is no army." His voice was calm. "Only us."
He threw the torch.
It landed among the crates with a hiss, then roared to life. Oil-soaked cloth ignited, spreading fast. The fire grew monstrous, devouring everything — sacks, wood, rope, hope. The air thickened with smoke and ash, the heat driving them back.
Men watched in silence. Some wept without tears. Others simply stared, the reflection of fire dancing in their hollow eyes.
Yao remained still, the wind tearing at his cloak, the warmth painting his face in gold and blood.
He thought of the maps he had studied, the orders he had followed, the banners he had saluted. All of it reduced now to ash and smoke. Every decision, every sacrifice, every man — spent for a line of ink that no longer existed.
His throat tightened. He couldn't remember when he had last spoken without command in his tone. Couldn't remember his father's face. Couldn't recall what he had sworn when he first donned armor.
The flames roared higher.
Someone behind him whispered a prayer. Someone else vomited.
The wind changed again, carrying sparks into the night sky. They rose like souls breaking free.
Yao felt the corners of his mouth twitch. It was small at first, involuntary — a muscle spasm. Then it grew.
A sound escaped him, rough and low. A laugh. It startled the men nearby.
He laughed again, louder, head tilted back toward the sky. The sound was dry, cracked, almost weightless — the laughter of a man who had found the edge and stepped beyond it.
For the first time in months, the cold did not reach him. The fire's reflection danced in his eyes, and in that light, he saw clearly what war had made of him.
War had never needed heroes.
It only needed witnesses — those who would endure long enough to remember the cost.
When the laughter faded, the night was quiet again. The fire devoured the rest of the camp, spreading to the last tents. The snow hissed as it melted, exposing frozen earth blackened by ash.
The men stood waiting for orders that would never come.
Yao lowered his head. His voice, when it came, was almost gentle. "Rest. There's nothing left to guard."
They dispersed slowly, finding corners of the ruined camp to lie down in. Some whispered to the dead as if to brothers. Others stared into the embers until their eyes closed.
Yao remained by the flames. His hands were numb, his breath shallow. Above him, the stars shone cold and distant — the same stars that had watched every army die before his.
He thought of how the world would go on without them. The kingdoms would redraw their borders, the generals would write reports, the dead would remain unnamed.
He wondered if anyone would ever know what it had cost to bring those empty crates here.
The fire burned lower. The pyres collapsed in on themselves with soft sighs. Sparks drifted upward, vanishing into the night.
Yao turned his gaze east, toward the unseen capital. He imagined the halls of command — the polished floors, the endless debates, the maps with neat red lines. He imagined his name written there, marked as "unconfirmed," beside the word lost.
He almost smiled again.
When dawn finally came, the smoke hung low over the ruins, thick as fog. The snow was gone where the fire had touched, revealing black earth littered with bones.
The wind carried the faintest echo of laughter — or perhaps only the creak of dying wood.
Lin Yao stood alone amid the ashes, his armor gray with soot. The rising sun painted the sky crimson.
Behind him, forty men slept among the wreckage. Before him, the world stretched empty, white, endless.
He breathed once, steady, and began to walk.
The snow crunched beneath his boots — the only sound left in a land that had forgotten how to live.
Above him, smoke rose slow and thin into the pale morning, a monument to nothing at all.