The once-glorious city of the Jin Clan lay in ruins. The air reeked of ash and blood; charred debris still smoldered under the gray morning light. A place that had stood proud for centuries had been reduced to silence—an echo of its former majesty.
High above the devastation, Third Prince Zhang Wei hovered with an unreadable expression, his royal robes torn and dirtied by battle dust. His eyes, cold and sharp as tempered steel, lingered on the corpses of his protectors—Old Hu and Old Wu—both reduced to lifeless husks amidst the floating ice crystals that still shimmered faintly in the air.
He stared for a long time. No sorrow. No anger. Only calculation.
"So even the Jin Clan couldn't hold…" he muttered, voice low and detached. "Seems the Qin Empire's sleeping dogs have awakened sooner than expected."
His gaze shifted toward the distant horizon—the direction of the Qin Empire's capital, its golden spires invisible beyond the mountains but ever-looming in his mind. A faint smirk touched his lips, the kind that carried the weight of both ambition and danger.
"Very well," he whispered. "Let's see how long your peace lasts."
He turned to his remaining entourage—silent, shaken attendants and guards who dared not meet his eyes. With a flick of his hand, a ripple of golden qi spread out, and their figures blurred into the horizon, vanishing from the battlefield like ghosts carried by the wind.
The storm of vengeance had ended.
But its shadow was only beginning to stretch.
---
Down below, the stronghold was silent except for the soft crackle of flames and the faint hum of magic barriers still active from the battle. Alaric stood amidst the ruins of what was once the Jin's outer courtyard, his aura still fierce but calmer now, like a volcano cooling after eruption.
A sudden distortion in the air caught his attention. The space beside him twisted—and Alex appeared, his robes bloodied and face pale, but his eyes sharp and steady.
"Done?" Alaric asked without turning fully, his tone low.
Alex nodded. "Completely."
There was no need for more words. Both brothers stood there in silence, the weight of what they had accomplished—and destroyed—settling on them.
Then Alex slowly reached into his spatial ring and tossed a jade storage talisman toward Alaric.
"This," he said, "is the Jin Clan's entire treasury. Everything—spirit stones, manuals, artifacts, cores. They hoarded enough wealth to run a small empire. It's ours now."
Alaric caught the talisman, his lips curling into a faint smile. "Good. Their blood will fund our future."
Alex exhaled, glancing back at the blackened remains of the Jin manor. His voice lowered to a whisper, the words carrying a strange unease.
"There's something else… Before Old Hu died, he said something strange."
Alaric turned, his sharp gaze locking on his brother. "What did he say?"
"He told me…" Alex hesitated, frowning. "That the Jin Clan wasn't acting alone. That they were just part of something larger."
Alaric's expression darkened instantly. The faint glow in his eyes flickered like embers.
"Did he say who?"
"No," Alex replied quietly. "Only that something was set in motion long before we ever came into the picture."
For a long while, Alaric said nothing. The only sound was the faint rustle of the wind carrying ashes through the air.
Finally, he looked toward the east—the same direction the Third Prince had vanished. "Then we'll find out who's pulling the strings," he said coldly. "And when we do…" He clenched his fist, qi swirling violently around him. "We'll burn their empire to the ground."
Alex's lips curved into a small, dangerous smile. "Then I'll prepare the pyre."
The two brothers stood side by side, the blood-red dawn breaking behind them. The rising sun painted the battlefield in hues of gold and crimson—a fitting requiem for the Jin Clan, and the birth of something far greater and far more terrifying.