Eve of the Decisive Battle, Spirits High

The wind still blew, and the "Break" character on that black banner churned in the night like an order carved into the air. The drums had long fallen silent, yet the camp's pulse only quickened. Chen Wuya neither returned to his tent nor summoned anyone for a council. He simply turned and walked deeper into the barracks.

Bai Zhi followed close behind, her steps light and steady.

As they passed the first row of tents, firelight already revealed countless shifting figures. This was neither drill nor roll call. Some sat kneeling on the ground, wiping their blades over and over with coarse cloth until the cold gleam reflected their faces; some repeatedly took apart their bowstrings and wound them anew, their knuckles whitening with effort; several young soldiers formed a circle, quietly reciting the Staggered Formation mnemonic while their feet tapped softly to its rhythm, as though afraid of waking the night—and even more afraid of missing a step.

"Look over there," Bai Zhi suddenly said, her voice low.

By the campfire, a one-armed old veteran gripped a short dagger in his right hand, turning his wrist with crisp, practiced movements. Three or four recruits crouched before him, staring without blinking at the distance between that severed arm and the dagger.

"Don't put your faith in complete forms," the veteran said quietly. "Commander Chen's palm strike was forged by smashing two impassable roads together. What you're practicing now is the path that crash carved out."

A young soldier with a face full of soot grinned. "My pa said I couldn't even sit a horse steady, but this morning the commander let me into the Vanguard-Breaking Battalion."

The laughter was soft, yet it carried beyond the fire. No one jeered, and no one joined in, but every hand gripped its weapon