Strife En Route, Conflicting Ideologies

The wind whipped grains of sand into his face. Chen Wuya stared at the radiating crack ahead, while strange tremors pulsed through the meridians in his right arm. He did not move, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Bai Zhi slip her flexible sword into her palm.

Just then, a dull thud came from behind them.

The sound of a scabbard striking armor.

Then a coarse voice speaking Central Plains tongue tore through the silence of the march. "You Northern Lands barbarians, are you rushing off to be reborn?"

Chen Wuya closed his eyes for a moment, then whirled around. The dispute had already exploded—a commander clad in armor bearing the inscription "Southern Suppression Camp" was pointing at a troop of foreign soldiers and berating them furiously. The other side uniformly pressed hands to the curved blades at their waists. Their leader's nostrils flared, and a low, growling reply rolled from his throat.

"You crawl along in that turtle formation. By the time we reach the front lines, the enemy's bones will have rotted away!"

"Who are you calling turtles?" The Central Plains commander took a step forward. Behind him, several archers had silently nocked arrows and drawn their strings, their fingers clenched so tightly they had gone white.

Someone among the foreign cavalry sneered. A horse stepped forward, its iron-shod hoof grinding a stone to pieces. The air drew taut like a fully drawn bowstring.

Bai Zhi wanted to step in, but Chen Wuya grabbed her wrist. His voice was very low. "Before the enemy even arrives, let's not fall apart on our own."

She paused, her fingertips still resting against her sword hilt, but her gaze had already turned toward him.

Chen Wuya released her hand and walked toward the middle of the crowd. His