Night had fallen over the fortress, yet Jeng Minh remained awake. Candlelight flickered against the walls, throwing long shadows across maps and battle plans. Even the wind seemed cautious, whispering through the corridors as if afraid to carry secrets.
He sat cross-legged in his private chamber, eyes closed, but not in rest. He was waiting.
The Silver Divide's threat had shifted. They no longer attacked with open force; now, they invaded minds. Heiman's warnings echoed relentlessly in Jeng Minh's thoughts: "The dream begins."
And now, it was his turn.
It started subtly.
A flicker at the corner of his vision.
A whisper too soft to identify.
A fleeting shadow across the floor that vanished when he turned.
Then the dream began—yet it was no ordinary dream.
He found himself in a dense forest, mist curling between twisted trees. The air smelled of ash and metal. Footsteps echoed in the distance, though the ground beneath him bore no prints.
"Commander…" a voice whispered, familiar yet wrong. It was Heiman, yet cold, mechanical.
Jeng Minh's senses sharpened. He had trained for battlefields, for tactics and maneuvers—but this was a battlefield of the mind. Every step, every sound, was a potential trap.
The forest shifted, warping with every thought he tried to anchor to reality.
Jeng Minh forced himself to focus:
This is not reality.
They cannot touch me if I control the rules.
A figure emerged from the mist. Clad in dark robes, faceless beneath a hood, it moved with deliberate grace. Each step caused the fog to swirl unnaturally, revealing symbols carved into the trees—sigils of the Silver Divide, marking territory within the dream.
"Commander Zhou Chen," it intoned. "You cannot hide here. You cannot command here. Your army is weak. Your mind… is exposed."
Jeng Minh did not flinch. He studied the figure. The voice was layered, woven with illusions designed to manipulate fear, doubt, even loyalty.
They want me to hesitate. They want me to doubt my men. They want chaos from within.
He tightened his fist.
"I do not fear shadows," he said. "I command them."
The fog pulsed in response, as if acknowledging the defiance.
Suddenly, the ground beneath him opened into a chasm, black as obsidian. On the edge, Heiman appeared again—this time, in agony, writhing silently.
"Captain!" Jeng Minh called, but the image shattered before his eyes, replaced by a flood of visions: troops turning against each other, fortresses burning, betrayals whispered in halls.
The Silver Divide was testing him. They probed his reactions, searching for weakness. Every fear, every instinct, every loyalty he held dear became a lever to manipulate him.
Jeng Minh focused on a single truth: these were illusions, not reality. The moment he allowed panic, the dream would bind him.
He breathed. Slow. Steady. Sharp.
Control the mind, control the battlefield.
The mist began to coalesce into a vast chamber, impossibly high, lined with mirrors. In each reflection, Jeng Minh saw different outcomes: victories, defeats, betrayals, triumphs, and ruin. The illusions were designed to overwhelm him with endless possibilities.
Then he smiled.
"Predicted outcomes are only traps if you believe in them," he whispered.
He walked forward, breaking the first mirror with a single strike. The reflection fractured, showing nothing but emptiness behind it. One by one, he shattered the mirrors, refusing to let their fear and doubt take root.
A calm resolve filled him. The Silver Divide may manipulate perception, but they could not force action without a willing mind.
A final whisper echoed in the chamber: "The threads are many… and the dream has only begun."
Jeng Minh opened his eyes to the flickering candlelight. His heart raced, but he was unbroken.
Heiman sat nearby, finally resting. Bai Ye stood at attention, concern etched in his features.
"They will try again," Jeng Minh said softly, almost to himself. "And the next time, I will lead them into the trap they cannot see."
Gao Ren frowned. "Commander… what do we do next?"
Jeng Minh's gaze hardened. His eyes gleamed with the calm ferocity of a strategist unshaken by even the subtlest of threats.
"We prepare," he said. "We train. And we strike… not in force, but in mind. Let them come. Let them believe they control the battlefield. Then we bend the battlefield to our will."
Outside, the wind picked up, carrying the distant sound of a lone horn from the northern ridge—a reminder that reality still moved, even as dreams and shadows converged.
And somewhere, far in the west, the Silver Divide stirred, unaware that the commander they sought to break had already begun his counterplay.