Zhiyuan did not dream. It remembered only structure.
Within its cold-blooded heart, the Court of Dazhum gathered in silence. The floor gleamed like polished stone over still water, though none dared step beyond their appointed place. Officials knelt in silver-threaded robes, woven with qi-binding fibers that dulled both aura and voice. Their faces were indistinct. Identity mattered less than function.
At the highest dais stood the Empress Dowager, draped in robes the color of smothered flame. Once Zhong royalty, now veiled in iron purpose. Beside her sat the Emperor of Dazhum, still as a mountain carved from will.
This was not a court. This was an execution chamber waiting for orders.
Marshal Eltan approached, armor silent despite the weight of command across his shoulders. His voice cut through the hush like an unsheathed blade.
"Your Imperial Highness. The expeditionary force is assembled. The march begins at your word."
The Emperor inclined his head.
Eltan did not embellish. He did not need to. The numbers carried their own weight.
"Twenty legions of the Imperial Vanguard. Two legions of High Elf allies, old oathbound warriors drawn by the chance to march through Virak'tai territory. Five legions prepared to strike the coastal cities of the Free League and disrupt their fleets. Four slave legions from the Southern Kingdoms now await activation, led by one Chainmaster Overlord unit. And if the campaign succeeds, five more legions from the loyalist Zhong cities will join us once the Landbridge is breached."
The Empress Dowager spoke without turning. "The Chainmasters agreed?"
"They did," Eltan replied. "They remember who funded the rise of their bloodlines. Their loyalty is purchased. Obedience is ritual. The desert crossing will cost them. But they understand the terms."
"Then so be it," she said. "Their sacrifice will be their punishment for peace."
Elder Seer Tanli stepped forward, voice brittle with ancient weight.
"You have counted flesh and steel, Marshal. But have you counted winds and names?"
Eltan frowned. "Altan is no empire. He is a desert-born general playing at prophecy."
Tanli's voice remained calm. "And yet his name gathers armies. His wind-step warriors strike before breath can draw. His banners do not rally. They convert."
Silence followed.
The Emperor finally stood. His presence was not loud. It was law.
"We will not burn his memory," he said. "We will erase it. His name will not echo. It will vanish."
Beneath the great city, in the shipyards of Yanping, black-hulled warships were anointed with soul-scribed metal and sealed by the chants of cult-binders. Zhong exiles sharpened swords while dreaming of restoration, blind to the dragon seal now etched above their own. They thought they were returning home. They did not see the truth.
They knelt to a new empire now.
From the coastal bastions, five legions sailed east to strike the Free Cities. They would not conquer, only choke. Their fleets would trap the harbor towns, disrupt the grain lines, and delay reinforcements. It would be enough.
Northward, twenty legions moved like a tide of iron and prayer. Through the Blackpine Descent they would march, joined by High Elves eager to spill Virak'tai blood. The mountain clans would resist. But resistance would only delay the storm.
The five loyalist cities of the old Zhong Empire had sent word. They would rise when the Landbridge opened. Their ancient debts were being called.
And in the deep red dust of the southern horizon, four cities of fire lit their temple beacons. Zha'irat, Kurmashi, Velshad, and Badran'Khul. They had received the summons. They would send four slave legions, each one chained to a war-priest. One more would march with them, the Chainmasters Legion, robed in black and smoke. Their forces would cross the desert at Khartol's Dagger and strike the Southern Gale border directly.
Even now, the ritual drums were sounding.
Even now, the banners were rising.
Even now, the ground began to tremble.
—
DARK ELF TERRITORY
The cliff rose above frost-laced winds and frozen soil. Below, the training grounds of the Virak'tai and the Sturmwulf Clans echoed with war-songs and silence. Warriors moved like shadow and steel. Snow cracked beneath their feet. The ground bled old scars.
Altan stood alone at the cliff's edge. Eyes closed. Body still.
His mind reached through the cold. He did not seek power. He listened.
Footsteps approached.
Stormwake, his second, knelt and held out a sealed scroll of bone. The wax bore a sigil long thought buried. Zhong. The exiled seal. The spies sent west had spoken.
He handed it over wordlessly.
Altan opened it and read.
No expression moved across his face. Only stillness. Then a word.
"Send word to Gale Citadel."
Stormwake straightened.
"And to the Warden of the North," Altan added.
The wind shifted.
"Start Phase Three."