Dawn crept across the blood-soaked plains of Bayou. A pale mist hung over the ground, curling around the legs of soldiers too exhausted to notice it. Though the clamor of steel had faded in the night, silence now pressed heavier than any shout.
Ren stood atop a slope with the Gu Ren Tai, the morning breeze tugging at his cloak. Below, the heart of the battlefield spread out in broken lines and scattered banners. The memory of Moubu's charge lingered like smoke — his raw push had cracked through Zhao's front, but it had also snapped the cohesion of the Qin center.
"They're waiting," Ren muttered.
Kai looked over. "For what?"
Ren didn't answer. His gaze was fixed far ahead. The Zhao hadn't counterattacked last night. They had withdrawn with disturbing precision. Not a retreat. A realignment.
In the command tent, General Ouki stood with his usual calm, studying the formation in silence. His great glaive rested nearby, casting a long shadow in the tent's dim light. Beside him, General Tou waited.
"The trap's teeth haven't closed yet," Ouki said. "But they will."
Tou stepped forward. "What do you need of me?"
"You'll lead a strike against their central general. If we can cut the snake's head, the tail may lose its bite."
Tou nodded. "It will be done."
He didn't ask questions. He turned and departed without hesitation.
Ouki remained still for a long time, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the map. There was something behind this formation. An unseen hand, cold and precise. But he had no name for it. Only instinct.
When the Zhao moved, they moved like floodwater breaking a dam. Their lines surged forward from every side, crashing into the weakened Qin center. Moubu's overreach was punished at once. His troops buckled as waves of Zhao infantry and cavalry poured into the gap.
Still, they did not break. Because Ouki entered the field.
The moment his massive steed appeared on the ridge, the Qin soldiers seemed to stand taller. Cheers erupted around him, washing away panic like fire dispelling fog. Ouki raised his glaive high, then charged — a mountain breaking into motion.
Ren's men watched from a distant ridge, too far to intervene.
"There," Kai pointed, "look at the center! That's Ouki!"
Ren's brows furrowed. He saw more than that.
Another figure emerged from the depths of the Zhao ranks — monstrous, silent, carrying a halberd carved like a butcher's blade.
Hou Ken.
And so, amidst the chaos of the collapsing battlefield, two giants met.
Ouki faced Hou Ken without a word. Their first clash sent out a shockwave that knocked men and horses sprawling. Sparks flew from steel as their weapons collided again and again, neither giving ground. Ouki, already wounded from the day before, stood firm. He matched the Bushin blow for blow, his expression calm, his grip steady.
And then, from behind the duel, it came.
A whisper in the wind. A coward's hand drawing a bow.
The arrow flew in silence and found its mark, sinking deep into Ouki's back.
He staggered, knees nearly buckling. Gasps rippled through the watching ranks. Even Hou Ken froze, eyes narrowing. He had not struck that blow.
But Ouki did not fall.
With the arrow lodged in his back, blood streaming from his side, he raised his glaive one last time and struck — a monstrous swing that drove Hou Ken back several paces. The Zhao general did not pursue. For once, Hou Ken stepped away.
Ouki's horse carried him back through the carnage, body slumped but not fallen. Soldiers reached for him as he passed, calling out his name, but none could stop what had begun.
Shin arrived at a run. His legs barely carried him forward, but he reached Ouki just as the general slid from his horse, body failing at last. Shin dropped to his knees beside him.
"General!"
Ouki looked at him, the faintest smile forming beneath the blood on his lips.
"So you came… boy."
Shin gritted his teeth. His hands trembled. There was so much to say, and no time to say it.
Ouki reached to his side, fingers curling around the shaft of his glaive.
"This weapon… has carved through the ages."
He lifted it slowly, painfully, and passed it to Shin. The young soldier took it with both hands. It dragged him down with its weight — in steel, in history, in meaning.
Ouki's voice faded, but his eyes remained fixed on Shin.
"You will carve… your own path. That is what this is for."
Shin lowered his head. His shoulders shook.
Hooves thundered in the distance.
Tou arrived moments later, dismounting before his horse could stop. He dropped beside Ouki, grabbing his comrade's hand.
"I was too late," Tou said, voice low.
Ouki met his eyes. "No… you did what I asked. You did well."
Tou bowed his head. He did not speak again.
Shin, still kneeling, watched as the light in Ouki's eyes dimmed. The hand in Tou's grasp grew still.
On the ridge, Ren bowed deeply, his men following suit. The air was heavy, unbreathable.
A legend had fallen.
And in his place stood only silence and the slow beating of hearts.
Ouki was dead.
But his shadow would stretch long beyond this battlefield.