On the opposite ridge, far from the heat of Fu Ling's blade, chaos tore through the Qing camp.
The earth trembled under the retreating waves of men. Their once disciplined formation had shattered into confusion. Shouts, orders, and the sound of running feet clashing like thunder against the evening air.
In the center tent, Su Gonggong stood before the campaign table, fingers white on the edge of the map. The candlelight flickered, casting uneven shadows across his sharp, gaunt face.
"What do you mean they're already here?" His voice was ice, measured and low, but it carried the sharp edge of disbelief.
The scout who had brought the report trembled.
"They reached the border by midday— by midday yesterday! We tried to stall, to reorganize.."
"Impossible," Su Gonggong snapped. His eyes narrowed. "Even if they left the capital at dawn, it takes three days. Two and a half if they abandon sleep."
Another voice cut through the air.
