Deep in the night.

To prevent a mass desertion from his remaining forces, Yao Zhiyuan personally led patrol rounds.

But when he ordered his personal bodyguard company to fall in, he discovered that even among his own guards, several had vanished.

He had been ready to explode with fury — then he looked at the faces of the guards still present, at the complicated depth in those eyes, and held it in.

By military law, deserters could not be pardoned. But in a situation like this, in a world this strange and disorienting, Yao Zhiyuan could not bring himself to take out his rage on those who had stayed.

Punishing those who remained because of those who had left — that was simply not right.

“Come with me on rounds,” he said.

Yao Zhiyuan exhaled slowly, turned, and walked forward.

He had spent his whole life at war. An unblemished record. He was a figure of reverence to many in the Shu Province army.

He was unlike most generals. He had come from nothing — poor and hard-pressed, risen step by step on his own merit.

And every one of his soldiers was a man like him.

In the Shu Province army, when those soldiers looked at him — thought of him — they felt that joining the military had a future. That men like them could rise.

Yao Zhiyuan knew: his men held him in deep respect, and deep loyalty.

Yet soldiers who had never flinched from war were flinching now — from the power of gods and spirits.

Perhaps this was something neither Yao Zhiyuan’s men, before this battle, nor even Li Chi, had fully foreseen.

Long ago, when the Great Chu’s founding Emperor was fighting for the realm against his one great rival, the two forces had been almost evenly matched — one holding the Jiangnan in the south, one commanding the north.

But the rival’s veteran soldiers were almost all Jiangnan men.

On the night of the decisive battle — with the Chu Emperor already holding the advantage and the last remnants of his enemy surrounded — someone began singing the folk songs of Jiangnan, over and over, throughout the night. And those songs, those melodies from home — no one could have predicted it — they eroded the last will of those valiant soldiers.

That night, that one great rival watched helplessly as his men slipped away into the darkness, and could do nothing.

Recalling this now, Yao Zhiyuan felt a crushing weight in his chest.

He had understood for a long time that victory and defeat on the battlefield were not decided only by direct combat.

But he had not been ready for it to happen to him.

When he patrolled the front of the mountain, the men on the back were scattering. When he reached the back, the front was dissolving. The disintegration was spreading faster than he could move.

By the time dawn came — Yao Zhiyuan, who had not slept, stood on the highest point of Xiushan and looked down. His face was haggard.

He had not slept that night. He had killed several men. Killing had not stopped anything.

“Commander…”

A colonel came to stand beside him, his voice heavy. “We just finished the count. More than… more than half the men have gone down the mountain.”

He quickly added: “But — not many of them went to surrender to the enemy.”

Yao Zhiyuan smiled bitterly.

What difference did it make?

The remaining force was four or five thousand at most. In truth, even more had fled — closer to two-thirds of the whole garrison.

At that moment, the sound of Ning army horns drifted up from below. Yao Zhiyuan raised his spyglass. He could see the Ning army columns pressing toward the mountain from all sides. Then the columns parted, and a cavalry unit rode through the gap. By its great banner, Yao Zhiyuan knew it was the Ning King Li Chi himself who had come to the foot of the mountain.

A moment later, he saw that figure in the black Daoist robes walking up the mountain again.

In that instant, Yao Zhiyuan’s fury — long held in — finally broke.

He drew his sword and strode out to meet the man, pace quickening with every step, killing intent rising.

At roughly thirty paces from the Shu Province first defensive line, the black-robed Daoist stopped once more.

Yao Zhiyuan gripped his sword, vaulted straight out of the trench, and came on faster — and faster.

“General Yao — do you truly believe that your soldiers were afraid of divine power? That they were afraid of Heaven’s punishment? That they were afraid of wild beasts and poisonous creatures?!”

Three questions, fired in rapid succession. Yao Zhiyuan’s charge halted.

The black-robed Daoist looked at Yao Zhiyuan. Behind that iron mask, his eyes seemed to see straight through to the core of the man.

“If you truly believe that your soldiers fled because of those things — then you do not deserve to be their general.”

“Your tricks fool no one!” Yao Zhiyuan roared. “You can’t frighten me, and you can’t frighten the men who chose to stay!”

The black-robed figure seemed to let out a quiet sigh.

“You still don’t understand.”

He looked at Yao Zhiyuan. “Your soldiers were not afraid of tricks and theater. They were afraid of *war.*”

Yao Zhiyuan’s expression changed violently.

“You are a general. Perhaps you *want* war — to prove yourself. But do your soldiers feel the same way? Do they want to spend their lives proving how strong you are?”

“Defending the homeland is a soldier’s sacred duty!” Yao Zhiyuan shot back instinctively.

The black-robed figure slowly reached up and pulled back the hood attached to his robe — then removed the iron mask from his face.

In that moment, Yao Zhiyuan saw the face beneath.

“I am Li Chi.”

Those four words hit Yao Zhiyuan like a blow. He took an involuntary step backward.

Li Chi said, “What I want to do — what I have always wanted to do — is end the wars in the Central Plains. To give the common people a life of peace and safety. You speak of a soldier’s sacred duty to defend the homeland. I understand that duty better than you.”

“When the Heiwu riders came south, it was I who led the defense at the northern frontier. The homeland you say you are defending — I defended it for you, once.”

Li Chi looked into Yao Zhiyuan’s eyes. “Answer me honestly: can Pei Qi bring an end to war in the Central Plains? Can Pei Qi make the Central Plains stand tall against the world?”

“If you believe Pei Qi can do these things — and what you are defending is Pei Qi’s vision for the realm — then prepare for the final battle.”

“But if you believe Pei Qi cannot do these things — then think carefully about what this battle you are fighting is really stopping.”

Li Chi said, “I’ll give you half a day more to think. If the battle flag is taken down from your summit before noon, I will order the siege opened and let your men leave. If the flag is still flying after noon — then this time tomorrow, I will have a hillside of graves built for you and your brothers on this mountain.”

He turned and walked back down.

Yao Zhiyuan stood there for a long time, utterly still. In truth, his mind was full of nothing — no clear thoughts at all.

Yet that blankness itself was his wavering.

He drifted back to his men in a kind of mechanical daze, the same words cycling through him again and again: *this time tomorrow, Xiushan will be full of graves.*

For the first time in his life, Yao Zhiyuan felt an impulse — to ask his soldiers, the men themselves, whether they wanted to fight this battle.

But he knew: as a commanding general, to feel that impulse was already a kind of betrayal.

“Commander?”

One of his men called softly.

Yao Zhiyuan came back to himself, swept his gaze around the gathered soldiers. They were all looking at him.

“If you had a choice,” he said at last. “If you had a choice — would you stay and fight this battle with me? Or would you leave?”

He had said it. He had finally said it aloud.

The answer: silence.

No one spoke.

And that silence was the answer.

If the great majority had wanted to stay and fight to the death, they would have shouted it back at him. Because they didn’t want to — but couldn’t say so — they chose silence.

Yao Zhiyuan exhaled, long and heavy. He sat down where he stood on the high ground, having done nothing — and yet he was exhausted.

As if merely listening to the Ning King Li Chi had drained every last thing from him.

“Go,” Yao Zhiyuan said at last — loudly, so all could hear.

“Anyone who does not wish to stay — you may leave now. When you go down the mountain, the Ning army will not stop you. The Ning King will let you go.”

After those words, there was a long and terrible silence. The kind of silence that felt dangerous.

Then, after a time no one could measure, a young soldier set his sword on the ground, knelt before Yao Zhiyuan, and pressed his forehead to the earth — once, twice, three times.

“Commander. I’m sorry.”

He rose, turned, and walked down the mountain without looking back.

When one person moves, others follow. One by one they laid down their weapons and, following the first soldier’s example, knelt to bow to Yao Zhiyuan — then turned and walked away without looking back.

In that moment, Yao Zhiyuan believed what Li Chi had said. His soldiers had not been afraid of smoke and mirrors. They had not been afraid of any Heavenly Way.

They were tired of war.

The Great Chu had been in chaos for over a decade. They were tired. They were afraid.

The soldiers went down the mountain quickly. The time they had spent in hesitation was far longer than the time it took them to actually leave. Once the decision was made, the body moved fast.

How much time passed — Yao Zhiyuan did not know. Perhaps it was nearly noon, nearly the deadline the Ning King had set.

He exhaled slowly. Only now he noticed: the people remaining beside him were all members of his personal guard.

Some had chosen to leave. Some had chosen loyalty.

But adding them all together — there were only a few hundred left. What hope did a few hundred men have of stopping hundreds of thousands of Ning soldiers?

*This mountain.* When Yao Zhiyuan had first climbed to its summit, he had made a vow in his heart: he would make the Ning army pay a devastating price here.

The price they had paid: not a single one of his ten thousand men had died in battle. They had simply… let go.

“Are you not afraid of death?” Yao Zhiyuan asked.

The guards looked at him. In each pair of eyes was the unwavering certainty of men who had chosen to keep faith with something.

“Wherever the Commander is, we are.”

“On the first day we entered the personal guard, we all swore an oath. To live and die with the Commander.”

Hearing these words, Yao Zhiyuan found he could not help but smile.

“Thank you.”

He steadied himself, then said: “You are the people I care most about. I could let all the others leave. How could I bear to let you die alongside me?”

He turned and looked back at the battle flag still flying from the summit — the old banner of the Chu dynasty’s imperial forces.

“Chu is already gone…”

Yao Zhiyuan climbed to the high ground. He took the battle flag down with his own hands, folded it carefully, and set it to one side.

He stepped back two paces, and rendered a military salute to this flag — one of the last Chu army banners still flying anywhere in the realm.

“Go down the mountain,” he said. “Each of you, go home. When you get there, don’t soldier anymore. Be the kind of man who can hold your family together. Be a good son. Be a good father.”

Yao Zhiyuan clasped his hands together in a soldier’s farewell. His guards returned the military salute.

“From today on — we are no longer soldiers.”

He removed his iron helmet. And remembered, suddenly, how long it had been since he had gone home.

He didn’t know if his family was still well. He didn’t know if, when he returned, he would still recognize them.

He remembered that when he was still just a soldier, he used to write letters home often. After he became a general, he had thought of home only occasionally.

He let out one long, slow breath.

And took the first step down the mountain.