The war hall was still cloaked in darkness when Lang Yao returned the next morning. The cold had settled in overnight, seeping into the stone walls and dulling the air with a biting stillness. Even the flames in the torches along the walls seemed reluctant to burn, casting long, flickering shadows that moved like ghosts across the wooden floor.
Outside, the sky remained overcast, heavy with storm clouds that refused to break. Soldiers moved through the mist, their figures drifting between storage sheds and the hunting zones like shadows. Some gathered rotten meat, others sharpened weapons or checked scavenged supplies—all in preparation for the plan Lord Xun had approved the night before.
But Lang Yao had returned with something else.
A darker thought. A crueler method.
One he had not spoken aloud during last night's strategy meeting—not because he doubted it, but because it needed the right moment. And now… that moment had come.
