The battlefield moaned beneath her steps.
Mud churned with blood. Ash painted the wind. And the flames—bright blue, unnatural, hungrier than fire had any right to be—bowed away from her like subjects before a queen.
Zhao Xinying walked through the carnage without slowing.
There was no rage in her face.
Only purpose.
The mist moved ahead of her now, sweeping wide across the scorched ground. It no longer danced. It hunted. Each thread of smoke curled with intention, weaving between broken bodies and shattered spears, choosing targets like a conductor leading an orchestra of agony.
And what a symphony it was.
A scream cut across the field as a Chixia officer tried to rally the flank.
However, he never managed to finish the order. His mouth opened, but his skin blackened too fast for sound to pass through it. The mist had crawled into his throat.
Xinying didn't look back. She already knew he was dead.
