"Hey! Let me go—!"
A teenage girl in wolf-tribe clothing clawed at the mud, her nails dragging furrows through the wet ground as two Sunrise Empire soldiers yanked her forward. Her legs kicked, her teeth gritted, but their grips were iron.
Ahead of them stood a massive iron-bar cage—nearly the size of a middle-class family house. Its bars were thick, cold, and soaked with blood. Dozens of wolfmen were crammed inside.
Children clung helplessly to the metal, tiny fingers wrapped around the cold bars, eyes wide with innocent confusion.
Elders lay slumped in corners, unconscious from pain and exhaustion.
Mothers hid their young beneath their arms as if their bodies could shield them from despair itself.
This was the prison of the weak—of those too young, too old, or too injured to fight.
It had only one guard.
Because to them… these people posed no threat.
Clang…
The guard unlatched the massive gate, the creak echoing like a death bell.
The two soldiers hurled the girl inside.
She fell hard, rolling through mud and dust. But before her body even fully hit the ground—
FWOOSH!
A thick mist erupted around her.
Bones twisted.
Muscles expanded.
Fur burst forth.
In the space of a heartbeat, the teenage girl transformed—
A young wolf, still small but filled with fiery defiance.
GRAAAWR!
She barked, teeth bared, and sprinted straight for the gate.
But—
SLAM!!!
The guard swung the heavy door shut, and the metal bars smashed directly into her face.
Her body flew back, collapsing in a heap as her vision went dark.
The last thing she saw was the soldiers laughing…
while her fellow tribesmen watched helplessly from behind the bars.
Meanwhile, the surrounding grounds were drowned in chilling chaos and slaughter.
Cries of agony cut through the air.
Wolfmen—bloodied, beaten, and bound—were whipped until strips of flesh tore from their backs, blood splattering across the mud.
Others were hung from wooden poles while their families watched helplessly, forced to witness their slow suffering.
Some were dragged forward and beheaded on the spot—
bodies collapsing headless into the dirt,
heads rolling across the mud,
until the entire ground became a river of red, thick with blood and rainwater.
The stench of iron and death clung to the wind.
This was the torture camp—
the place where the Sunrise Empire punished the Blue Lightning Sky Wolf Clan after crushing them in war.
While endless carnage unfolded outside,
the white military tents nearby stood in stark contrast—
untouched, calm, and glowing beneath their lamps.
Inside them, Sunrise Empire soldiers celebrated.
They drank.
They feasted.
They laughed.
They watched seductive dancers sway to the music,
as if the screams outside were nothing more than background noise.
As if lives weren't being destroyed a few steps away.
There was another tent—larger than all the rest—standing at the very center of the camp. It was enormous, the size of a middle-class house, its white surface dyed faintly crimson by the glow of torches reflecting off the blood-soaked mud nearby.
At the top of the tent, the Sunrise Empire's flag fluttered gently in the cold wind—
a golden sun spreading its rays over a field of crimson.
Two guards stood before the entrance, stone-still, long spears held firmly in their hands. Their armor shone faintly under torchlight, giving the tent a royal and untouchable aura.
From a distance, the thunder of hooves echoed.
A lone rider approached on a brown horse, pushing the beast to full speed.
He dismounted the moment he reached the entrance, boots slamming into the mud.
He wore flowing red robes embroidered with bright golden sun patterns, each stitch marking him as an official of status. In his hand—held tightly—was a gold-coated scroll.
A royal message.
Without wasting a second, the messenger rushed toward the tent's flap—
but the two guards instantly crossed their spears with a metallic CLANG, blocking him.
"No unauthorized personnel allowed," one guard barked coldly.
The messenger lifted the golden scroll, his breath heavy from the ride.
"I bring a message from His Majesty, the Sunrise Royal Emperor—for the Third Supreme General, Qin Xiaotian."
The soldiers stiffened.
Golden scrolls were reserved only for imperial commands.
Silently, they stepped aside, clearing the path.
The messenger dipped his head in acknowledgment and pushed through the entrance flap, sprinting inside the grand tent with urgency burning in his steps.
Inside the tent was a different world entirely.
From the outside, it looked like a simple military structure.
But inside—
it was a chamber of luxury and arrogance.
Golden torches burned along the walls, their flames steady and bright, illuminating sharp decorations, polished metal ornaments, and hanging banners stitched with the Sunrise Empire's emblem.
The carpet covering the entire floor was pure crimson, woven with intricate golden sun patterns, giving the place a royal sacredness completely at odds with the screams outside.
At the center sat General Qin Xiaotian.
He reclined lazily on a short traditional bench, barely lifted above the carpeted floor, sitting cross-legged like a king pretending to be a commoner. His posture was rowdy, his expression relaxed—
an indulgent smile tugged at his lips.
Before him, on a short yet a bit long table, lay a pile of scrolls and documents—
all completely ignored.
Beside them rested his drinking gourd, made of polished dark wood, carved with sun rays. He casually lifted it, taking another long swig as if nothing in the world could disturb his mood.
Around him, elegant dancers moved with practiced grace.
They wore clothes made of thin, translucent veils, their silhouettes faintly visible beneath. Every movement of their hips sent the bells on their ankles jingling. Their soft footsteps and flowing motions resembled angels descending to entertain a tyrant.
Flutes played.
Drums throbbed gently.
The smell of incense lingered in the warm air.
Qin Xiaotian leaned back, swirling the alcohol in his gourd, admiring the dancers with half-lidded eyes—
completely unfazed by the torture and bloodshed happening only meters outside.
Suddenly—
a voice tore through the music.
"Report!"
The dancers froze mid-step.
The musicians flinched.
Qin Xiaotian's brows twitched in irritation.
A messenger burst into the tent, dropped to one knee, and raised the golden scroll high above his head.
Qin Xiaotian slammed his gourd on the table.
"Who dares interrupt my enjoyment?!" he barked, his killing intent flaring for an instant.
But the messenger didn't tremble—he boldly shouted:
"A royal message from His Majesty the Emperor!
To General Qin Xiaotian!"
The moment the word Emperor echoed through the tent, Qin Xiaotian's anger evaporated.
His body straightened, then instantly bent forward in a half-bow—as if the Emperor himself were standing before him.
Eyes shining with anticipation, he hurried toward the messenger and carefully accepted the scroll with both hands, treating it like a divine treasure.
The messenger lowered his head, backed out of the tent, and disappeared.
His job was done.
As soon as he left—
the music resumed.
Soft drums rolled.
Flutes whispered.
The dancers' veils swayed once more, painting seductive arcs through the air.
Qin Xiaotian returned to his seat, excitement burning in his chest.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Could it be a reward?
An imperial commendation?
Or finally… the rank I've been waiting for?
His hands trembled slightly as he unfurled the golden scroll.
Qin Xiaotian read the scroll slowly—each line sinking deeper, heavier, colder.
At first, his smile stiffened.
Then it faded.
Then disbelief washed across his face.
By the time he reached the final sentence, his hands were trembling. His vision blurred. His eyes reddened, filling with hot, boiling rage. The wooden scroll tube creaked under his grip.
He set the scroll down gently on the table… but the moment it touched the surface—
CRACK!
A thunderous sound erupted as the entire table split cleanly down the middle, as if crushed by an invisible mountain.
A violent gale burst outward from Qin Xiaotian's body—
torches blew out,
carpets rolled back,
the elegant dancers were thrown to the ground with startled cries,
banners snapped like whips,
and even the armored guards outside staggered, bracing themselves against the sudden storm.
Inside the tent, fear spread faster than the wind.
Qin Xiaotian stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, his aura burning like an erupting volcano.
On his face—no drunken smugness remained.
No joy.
No triumph.
Only pure, murderous fury.
Only one voice echoed relentlessly in his skull, repeating like a curse:
"You will have the very same pain I gained…"
Ming Niang's voice.
It stabbed into his mind again and again until every breath he took felt like flames were rising inside him.
It was evening.
The sky burned with a blend of yellow and crimson, streaked with drifting shadows from distant storm clouds. Above it all, the two moons hung side by side—silent, regal, like a pair of celestial emperors overseeing their vast dominion. The world felt still, as if painted by a divine hand.
Along a lonely mountain path, a figure climbed what seemed like an endless stairway. Each step was carved from old stone, edges worn smooth by time. On both sides of the stairs, the forest whispered—branches swaying, leaves rustling, animals moving unseen through the brush. Nature watched quietly as the lone climber ascended.
The figure was barefoot, his soles cracked and reddened. Sweat dripped down his legs, leaving damp footprints behind him. His breathing was shallow, unsteady. He stumbled more than once, knees buckling… but each time, he forced himself up, regaining balance with the stubborn determination of someone who had already suffered far too much.
His eyes were distant.
Lost.
Haunted.
He looked up—and froze.
White round paper sheets fluttered down from the heavens, carried gently by the wind. Some drifted sideways across the path, some spiraled through the trees, while others rolled down the stairway like fragile autumn leaves.
They were not ordinary papers.
They were spirit money—paper offerings burned for the dead.
A chill ran through his spine.
The higher he climbed, the more spirit money drifted around him—thickening like snowfall. It clung to the steps, filled the air, and gathered on the branches.
The forest no longer sounded alive.
Only silent.
Only watching.
The figure swallowed, wiped his sweat, and continued climbing.
The world had grown dark.
The once-crimson sky was now swallowed whole by rolling black clouds. A cold wind howled through the land, surging every few minutes like the breath of a mourning giant. The air smelled of rain—heavy, tense, almost suffocating. Even the forest creatures had gone silent.
Far above the endless stairway, deep within the mountain temple, a large ceremonial hall stood enshrouded in gloom.
Inside, the vast chamber was lined with crimson carpet that stretched from end to end, softening each footstep. Massive pillars rose to the ceiling—thick, ancient columns that seemed to hold the entire roof on their backs. The place radiated an oppressive sense of royalty mixed with grief.
About fifty figures, all clad in pure white robes, stood perfectly still along both sides of the hall. They formed two straight lines, leaving the center empty—like a road carved through silence. Each person held a single white candle, the tiny flames flickering and shaking with every breeze that leaked into the hall.
They were grieving.
And they were all staring toward the far end of the chamber.
There, elevated on a dark green jade platform, lay a single lifeless body. The slab was polished smooth, glowing faintly, with thin golden patterns carved across its sides—divine markings meant only for those of great honor.
Beside the jade platform stood a ceremonial table.
On it rested:
Crimson war robes
A general's helmet, topped with a long red whisk
Polished armor plates
A dragon-headed sword with its blade covered
Several strange ritual objects
And at the very front, arranged in a neat row, were five red candles.
All were already burning, each at a different height—streams of hot wax spilling down their sides. These represented the five supreme generals who had already arrived and paid their respects.
All except one.
General Qin Xiaotian.
The final candle remained unlit.
On the jade platform, the corpse wore immaculate white robes lined with golden sun-patterns—the ceremonial dress of the Sunrise Empire's elite. His face, though drained of life, still held its divine handsomeness. His body looked calm. Untouched. Serene.
The wound that had once marred his forehead had been cleaned with painstaking care, leaving no trace that it ever existed.
This was the fallen warrior.
General Qin Mu.
Hero of a hundred battles.
The empire's rising star.
Now lying cold in the hall of mourning.
A tall figure stepped forward to the podium, adjusting his white robes adorned with subtle brown sun patterns at the chest. His presence commanded silence as all eyes in the hall turned to him.
"Everyone!" His voice rang clear and steady, cutting through the hushed murmurs.
All the mourners locked their gaze on him, waiting.
With a solemn grace, he began:
"I'm certain that everyone here knows why we have gathered today. This funeral is for none other than the Seventh and Final Supreme General — Qin Mu."
A unified, respectful bow rippled through the crowd toward the still body on the jade platform.
"He was a man of unwavering righteousness, unmatched bravery, and a fearless heart," the eulogist continued, his voice thick with emotion. "General Qin Mu gave everything—his strength, his spirit, and ultimately his life—for the Sunrise Empire."
His tone softened to a mournful whisper, "Yesterday, on a mission alongside our allies from the Holy Soul Empire, our forces were ambushed. Despite overwhelming odds, General Qin Mu refused to retreat without a fight. It was in this final stand that our brave warrior sacrificed his soul to protect our nation... our world."
He bowed deeply, head lowered in reverence. "For our fallen hero, we offer a full-hearted bow."
Again, the mourners bent low in unison, their grief palpable.
"The time has come for the burial ritual. Let us all pay our final respects."
Another deep bow filled the hall, heavy with sorrow and honor.
Then, with steady commands echoing through the chamber, the eulogist called out:
"Lift the coffin!"
Suddenly, a low rumble shook the hall. The massive doors burst open with a sharp slam, letting in a chilling gust of wind that carried swirling spirit money fluttering inside like restless souls.
A lone figure stepped through the entrance. His hair hung wild and unkempt, strands falling across a face twisted by torment. Barefoot, he left a trail of damp footprints on the crimson carpet with every unsteady step. He stumbled once, then without hesitation sprang back up, moving forward with a haunted, aimless gait—eyes vacant, mind fractured by the relentless whispers echoing in his head.
"You will have the same pain…" The voice was unmistakable—Ming Niang's voice, haunting him like a curse. It tore at Qin Xiaotian's sanity, driving him further into madness.
The room hushed as whispers spread among the mourners. All eyes fixed on this broken man who was once a feared general.
Without a word, Qin Xiaotian fell to his knees before the memorial table with a heavy thud, his gaze locked blankly on the lifeless body before him. Tears welled in his eyes, betraying the rage and despair churning inside.
The eulogist stepped forward quietly, holding a single red candle out to him. "General…"
Qin Xiaotian accepted the candle. Slowly, he raised his index finger, and with a sharp hiss, a small flame ignited at its tip. He carefully brought the flame to the wick, lighting the candle with a steady hand.
Tilting the candle, molten wax dripped softly onto the polished table. He placed the newly lit candle at the center, completing the circle of flickering flames.
Now, all the candles—those of the other Supreme Generals—stood in a proud row, burning side by side. Only Qin Mu's candle remained newly kindled, casting a solemn glow in the vast hall.
The eulogist leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper, "General… will you be among those carrying the coffin?"
Qin Xiaotian's eyes, glazed and distant moments ago, suddenly sharpened with a cold edge. His voice dropped to a deadly murmur, "Yes… but tell me—who did this?"
The eulogist silently drew a golden scroll from his sleeve, offering it reverently. "A disciple monk from the Holy Soul Empire delivered this to the Emperor. Then His Majesty entrusted it to me, commanding that it be given to you, General."
Qin Xiaotian's fingers trembled as he unfolded the scroll. His eyes scanned the script, each word fueling the fury within. His teeth clenched so tightly a vein bulged on his forehead, eyes burning like molten lava. The desire to scorch the world with his wrath nearly consumed him.
Then, through clenched teeth, a whisper escaped like a curse, sharp and full of venom.
"Mu… Feng…"