"Before dawn breaks, there is always the darkest hour. That is when true resolve is tested." – Saying among the mountain tribes
The snowstorm did not cease. It howled like a beast, roaring through the broken rooftops of Moquan, snapping at the faces of soldiers huddled beneath threadbare cloaks. But inside the keep, amidst the biting cold and dim torchlight, a different fire burned—one born of defiance, not flame.
Huai Shan stood over a rough-drawn map laid out across a table. His gloves were off, fingers red and raw, tracing the paths of the valleys, the weak points in their defenses, and where the Imperials might strike next.
"They'll come from the south this time," he said grimly, pointing to a narrow mountain pass. "They think we won't expect it in this weather. But they'll be wrong."
"How many do we have who can still fight?" he asked, not lifting his eyes.
Xu Liang exhaled and scanned his list. "Maybe three hundred at best. A hundred more are recovering, but they won't hold long if we push them too soon."
"And the weapons?" Yi Fen added from his seat nearby.
Huai gave a half smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We still have pitch. We'll set the pass ablaze if they try to march through."
"And after that?" Xu Liang asked.
Huai didn't answer immediately. He looked out the window, where the wind swept the snow into endless spirals. "Then we bleed them. Inch by inch."
At the edge of the valley, where the snow thinned just enough to see the dark outlines of trees, General Han Yu's second-in-command surveyed the path with narrowed eyes. Imperial troops, clad in thick cloaks and bearing the mark of the Northern Division, were steadily moving forward.
"They hit the first convoy, you said?" the man asked, turning to a rider next to him.
"Yes, General. Lost four wagons, fifteen men. They knew where to strike."
He let out a cold breath. "The rebels are more organized than we thought. But it changes nothing. We crush Moquan before the month ends."
The signal was given.
With the next morning's wind came war.
By the time the first Imperial drums began to beat in the valley, a warning echoed across Moquan's broken stone walls. The watchmen lit the fire pots, their signals dancing orange against the gray sky. Men and women ran to their posts. Archers lined the walls. Oil was heated. Traps hidden in the snow were readied.
Huai climbed to the main lookout post and looked down the mountainside. The enemy had arrived.
From behind snow-covered rocks and frost-laced trees, thousands of Imperial soldiers emerged like a tide of black ink spilling across parchment. They marched slowly, methodically, as if time itself bowed to their will.
And then, the horns blew.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
The mountain shook with the sound. War had begun.
"Ready the archers!" Huai shouted. His voice was hoarse but clear. "They want a war? Let them see what we've become!"
Arrows loosed. Fire lit the sky. The pass roared as the first line of rebels ignited the pitch, turning snow into fire and screams.
Yi Fen led the charge at the northern flank, blades in both hands, cutting through the first wave like a man possessed. Xu Liang stood at the inner wall, commanding the reserves, shouting orders with precision and rage.
The rebels fought like wolves.
And for a moment—just a moment—the Imperials slowed.
But Han Yu had not brought just soldiers.
From behind the vanguard came siege weapons: towering, monstrous things pulled by horses and protected by iron shields. Ballistas that could tear through stone, and massive battering rams lined with steel.
"Damn it," Huai cursed, watching them roll forward. "He wants the wall down before nightfall."
As dusk fell, the battle raged on.
Moquan bled, but it did not fall. Bodies piled at the southern gate. Fires burned through the night. Screams echoed across the valley, human and inhuman alike.
And as the final horn of the day sounded, signaling the Imperials' temporary retreat, Huai stood among the wounded. His armor was cracked. Blood—his and others'—streaked across his chest. But he still stood.
Yi Fen limped toward him, holding his side. "We held… but just barely. They'll come again at dawn."
"I know," Huai said quietly. "But so will we."
For in Moquan, even as snow fell and blood froze on the ground, no man bowed.
Tomorrow, the sun would rise over a battlefield soaked in sacrifice—but not defeat.
Not yet.