The fortress tower overlooked the western horizon, where jagged mountain silhouettes pierced the dawn sky. Jeng Minh stood there, arms crossed behind his back, eyes narrowed as the first scouts of the Elite Guard returned from their covert missions. Their reports—sealed, coded, and carried with absolute secrecy—were placed before him one by one.
Bai Ye arrived moments later, face stiff with anticipation.
"Commander," he said quietly, "three separate squads have returned. And… all three report something."
Jeng Minh did not respond. He simply reached for the first scroll.
Lin Yue's team had shadowed a suspected informant deep in the western frontier. Their report began with meticulous detail:
"A caravan destroyed. No footprints. No tracks.
But the ash patterns suggest movement—controlled, organized."
Jeng Minh murmured, "So they intentionally removed evidence."
Lin Yue had added a personal note in the margin:
Commander, the scene was too clean.
Almost… rehearsed.
Whoever they are, they have training far beyond common brigands.
That was the first thread.
The second scroll came from Gao Ren's squad. They infiltrated a recently abandoned fortress—deserted in a single night.
Inside the command hall, Gao Ren found a symbol burned faintly into the wooden table:
A circle split by three diagonal strokes.
Old. Elegant. Deliberate.
Bai Ye inhaled sharply. "This… looks familiar."
Jeng Minh tapped the symbol. "Because it should."
Ancient records of forgotten sects whispered of such markings—groups that once advised emperors in secret, manipulating dynasties from behind curtains of silence. Sects that vanished so completely that some historians doubted they ever existed.
"This," Jeng Minh said, "is not a common enemy. It's a legacy."
The second thread tightened.
The third report came from Yuan Shan's squad—physically the strongest group, assigned to the most dangerous path.
Under the guise of mercenaries, they reached a remote village where rumors spoke of "ghost men" passing through at dusk.
The villagers' stories were fragmented, frightened, but aligned:
Faces covered.
Movements unnaturally synchronized.
They spoke little, but carried the air of scholars… not soldiers.
One villager, trembling, offered a final detail:
"Their leader wore a sash of silver threads.
We have not seen such craftsmanship in generations."
Jeng Minh leaned back.
Silver-thread sashes.
An ancient symbol.
A command style based on intelligence and silent obedience.
The third thread looped into the pattern.
Bai Ye exhaled slowly. "So it's true. A hidden sect still survives."
Jeng Minh spoke quietly, but the steel behind his words was unmistakable.
"They did not survive. They adapted."
He stood from the table, moving to the large map pinned to the wall. With a piece of charcoal, he marked each location where the Elite Guard had found evidence. One by one, the marks formed a subtle curve—an arc stretching across the western frontier.
Bai Ye blinked. "They're not striking randomly…
They're isolating something."
"No," Jeng Minh corrected. "They're preparing something."
He turned to face the open balcony where the cold wind blew from the west.
"For now," he said, "we pull just one thread. Slowly. Gently. If we tug too hard, they'll vanish again—and we'll never find them."
Bai Ye nodded grimly. "Which thread?"
Jeng Minh tapped the report from Lin Yue—the ash, the erased tracks, the perfect precision.
"Their silence," he answered. "Because even shadows leave echoes. And the Elite Guard will find them."
He raised his gaze to the horizon, eyes dark with resolve.
"In the north, we mastered the battlefield.
In the west… we will master the unseen."
The sun broke over the mountains, gold spilling across stone and steel. Behind him, the Elite Guard awaited his command—forty shadows trained to hunt shadows.
And Jeng Minh, strategist reborn in a warlord's body, knew with certainty:
This was no longer about winning land.
It was about unraveling a secret woven through centuries.
The first thread had been pulled.
And the tapestry was beginning to move.