Chapter 166: The First Counterstroke
The Bells of War
At dawn, the capital awoke not to peace but to bells — not celebratory, not solemn, but sharp and insistent. War bells. From the palace spires, from sect compounds, from the city’s walls, their toll echoed like the heartbeat of a beast stirring from slumber.
The Empress had moved swiftly. Orders were carved into jade plaques and carried by swift riders: the armies of the empire were to march, the sects to lend their disciples, and assassins of the Black Pavilion to take flight.
The throne would not allow Hei Long’s fire to spread unchecked.
The Watchtower
In the abandoned watchtower, shadows clung to broken stone, but inside the chamber, Hei Long and his women prepared.
Qingxue sharpened her blade against whetstone, each strike loud in the silence. Her eyes were fixed on the steel, but her heart pulsed with fire. "They’ll send armies," she said flatly. "Let them. My sword is already thirsty."
Yexin sat cross-legged on her cushions, fan twirling between her fingers. "Armies are easy," she said, smiling thinly. "But assassins? They’ll slip through cracks, whisper poison in your ear. Which of us will they try first, I wonder?"
Yuran’s hands trembled as she mixed herbs into tinctures. "Armies, assassins... it doesn’t matter," she whispered. "They’ll bleed all the same if they reach for him."
Hei Long stood in silence, listening to their words, his cloak brushing the cracked floor. He let the tension rise until it bent toward him like iron to a magnet. Then he spoke.
"Good. Let them come. The throne tests loyalty with armies, unity with blood, survival with knives in the dark. Then we will answer each test the same way — with fire."
The First Attack
As the sun reached its zenith, the first strike came.
The Black Pavilion moved faster than soldiers. Assassins, cloaked in shadow and silence, slipped through the watchtower’s cracks. Blades glimmered with poison, whispers carried curses.
But Hei Long had been waiting.
"Qingxue."
Her blade flashed, carving through shadow before it touched the ground. Two assassins fell, their poison blades shattering against her steel.
"Yexin."
Her illusions bloomed, a storm of phantom bodies filling the chamber. The assassins struck at smoke and laughter, their precision unraveling into panic.
"Yuran."
Her threads snapped tight across the doorway, binding intruders where they stood. Spirit light burned through black cloaks, revealing faces twisted in shock.
Hei Long stepped forward, cloak sweeping across the chamber. He raised his hand, and the air itself bent.
"You thought you hunted sparks," he said, voice like thunder. "But you stepped into fire."
The assassins burned where they stood.
The Aftermath
The chamber fell silent. Qingxue wiped her blade clean, Yexin snapped her fan shut, Yuran steadied her breath. The bodies of the Black Pavilion smoked in the corners of the tower.
Hei Long looked at them — not rivals, not sparks, but fire.
"This was only the first strike," he said. "Armies will march next. And when they do, the empire will learn: inevitability cannot be killed."
His gaze turned toward the horizon, where smoke already rose from distant camps.
"Let the war begin."
The Empire Moves
The capital had not slept since the Empress’s decree. Smoke rose from the barracks, banners were unfurled from palace walls, and the streets rattled beneath the thunder of marching boots. Entire sects answered the call — disciples clad in polished armor, elders bearing relics untouched for generations.
The empire no longer whispered about rebellion. It prepared to crush it.
At the northern plains, a sea of tents stretched across the horizon. Thousands of soldiers readied under the imperial standard, their blades gleaming in the sunlight, their chants shaking the ground. Sect banners joined them, each sworn not to the Empress, but against Hei Long.
And in the distance, the watchtower stood like a defiant ember against the tide.
The Watchtower Before the Storm
Hei Long’s women stood at his side, the air heavy with anticipation.
Qingxue ran her thumb along her blade’s edge, her jaw clenched. "An army, and yet they think they can erase us in one march." She glanced at Hei Long, her pride glowing hotter than fear. "Then let them learn what steel looks like when it answers inevitability."
Yexin twirled her fan lazily, but her smirk was brittle. "Oh, I love a crowd. More eyes, more screams, more chances to make the empire choke on its own fear." Her illusions shimmered in the air, already multiplying.
Yuran knelt before a spread of herbs and incense, her hands steady despite the tremor in her breath. "They will bleed. And we will not. Not while I breathe."
Hei Long listened, cloak brushing stone, cord at his wrist swaying. When he finally spoke, the tower itself seemed to lean closer.
"Good. They come not to fight — but to prove the throne still holds. When we break them, the empire will see the truth: inevitability cannot be caged."
The March Begins
The first drums rolled at sunrise. Lines of spearmen advanced across the plains, their shields gleaming. Behind them came the sect disciples, their spirit auras burning in formation, chants shaking the sky.
The Empress had not sent assassins this time. She had sent the weight of empire.
Qingxue gripped her sword tighter. Yexin’s laughter sharpened. Yuran’s light flickered across her fingers.
Hei Long stepped forward onto the tower’s balcony, his shadow stretching across the army below.
"Come then," he murmured. "And burn."
The first arrows flew.
The war had begun.
The Clash Begins
The drums rolled like thunder across the northern plains. Spears bristled, banners swayed, and the empire advanced in perfect formation. Thousands of boots struck the earth as one. The first volley of arrows darkened the sky, blotting out the sun.
From the watchtower’s balcony, Hei Long raised his hand. The arrows bent midair, curving aside, falling like rain into the river instead of blood.
"Qingxue."
She leapt from the wall, her blade carving a silver arc that split through the front line. Shields shattered. Spears broke. Soldiers stumbled back as though struck by lightning itself. Her voice was cold steel:"I am his sword. You will break against me."
The Flame Unleashed
"Yexin."
Mu Yexin’s fan snapped open. Illusions poured across the battlefield — dozens of Yexins weaving between soldiers, laughter echoing like a storm. Panic rippled through the lines as men cut down shadows, their discipline fracturing with every misstep.
Her smirk widened. "A thousand of me... and only one of you worth seeing."
A column of soldiers collapsed beneath her foxfire mirages, their screams echoing into the plains.
The Breath That Anchors
"Yuran."
At Hei Long’s call, Zhao Yuran pressed her palms together. Threads of spirit light spread across the battlefield like vines, anchoring her sisters, binding enemy feet. Every wound Qingxue took, every falter in Yexin’s breath, she steadied with her glow.
The imperial vanguard’s momentum faltered, their formation broken not by steel, but by a healer’s quiet defiance.
Her whisper carried farther than any shout: "Even if it breaks me, I remain."
Hei Long Steps In
At last, Hei Long moved. He stepped from the balcony, his cloak flaring like wings of shadow. He landed amid the chaos, the cord at his wrist glowing.
Soldiers surged at once, sect disciples unleashed relics that blazed with ancient power. But Hei Long raised his hand, and the battlefield bent.
Swords turned in their masters’ hands. Relics sputtered, their light dying. Even the drums fell silent.
"You march for a throne," Hei Long said, his voice low but carrying. "I march for inevitability. And inevitability cannot be stopped."
The ground split beneath him. Fire roared upward, devouring banners, scattering soldiers, swallowing entire ranks.
The empire’s first army broke.
Aftermath
The northern plains smoldered. Smoke coiled into the sky, black against dawn. Corpses littered the ground, their banners reduced to ash.
Qingxue stood with her blade red, her pride sharpened. Yexin laughed through the exhaustion, her illusions fading one by one. Yuran knelt, hands trembling, her breath uneven but her glow unbroken.
Hei Long stood at the center, cloak trailing in the ruin, his gaze fixed north where more banners would surely rise.
"This was their first stroke," he murmured. "But not their last. The throne will not stop. And neither will we."
The women looked at him — no longer rivals, no longer sparks. Only fire.
And on the horizon, the empire prepared its next march.
Smoke on the Plains
The northern horizon still smoldered from the first battle. Corpses lay broken where Hei Long’s fire had consumed them, banners nothing more than ash carried on the wind. The empire’s first army had been shattered, and the world whispered of inevitability.
But smoke carried farther than fire. News of defeat reached the palace before dawn.
The Empress did not tremble. She did not shout. She simply lifted her brush, signing a decree that rippled through the empire like thunder.
"Summon the Generals of Heaven."
The Court Prepares
Within the palace, sect elders assembled. These were not the champions of jade flutes and spears sent before. These were cultivators who had survived centuries, whose names were carved into annals older than the Empress herself.
Their presence bent the air. One carried a sword said to split rivers. Another walked with flames wreathing his every step. A third spoke only in silence, his aura sharp enough to cut breath itself.
They did not ask why. They only bowed to the throne.
Yan Yiren stood at the Empress’s side, her red robes whispering like blood across marble. She leaned forward, lips curved faintly. "So you empty the vault of heaven itself."
The Empress’s veil shimmered. "He broke an army. He will not break my empire."
The Watchtower
In the broken watchtower, Hei Long stood before his women as scouts returned with word of the decree. The empire had not cowered. It had answered with its sharpest blades.
Qingxue’s hand tightened around her sword, pride burning hotter than fear. "Then I’ll break them one by one, no matter their names."
Yexin snapped her fan shut, her smirk brittle but fierce. "Generals or ghosts, it makes no difference. They’ll still kneel before fire."
Yuran pressed her palms together, whispering steady prayers as light glowed around her hands. "Even if they break me, I’ll bind what remains."
Hei Long listened, cloak brushing the stone. His silence drew their voices toward him like sparks drawn to flame. At last, he spoke.
"Good. Armies were sparks. These are embers of heaven. Then let us burn the heavens, too."
The March of Generals
By nightfall, the Generals of Heaven had left the palace. Their banners did not flutter; their power bent the air too heavily for silk to move. Every sect elder who saw them bowed. Every noble whispered their names with reverence and dread.
And on the northern plains, where smoke still lingered and rivers ran red, Hei Long and his women waited.
The empire’s war had begun.
And the next battle would not be against soldiers. It would be against legends.