Moments later, Song Zi’ning arrived beside the battleship. He gazed up at the duke’s flagship with a solemn gaze that dispelled his flippant demeanor. Before such a supreme warrior, capable of solo destroying a flagship and slaying or capturing all of its crew, leaving the enemy army utterly annihilated, Song Zi’ning could only look up in deep respect.
He composed his expression, lowered his tone, and stated respectfully, “Lady Yetong, I am Song Zi’ning. An old friend has come visiting.”
“You’re here because Qian Ye told you, right?”
Song Zi’ning admitted openly, “Yes, Qian Ye tells me everything because he knows my heart solely seeks his advantage and that never have I intended harm to him. And it stands both ways between us, as I have always held him in complete trust.”
“In complete trust?”
Zi’ning maintained his composure and said, “However, some things are probably better left untold, even to a close friend. Qian Ye is a fine soul in almost every way, but at times his sentiments blind him from his true care—his own well-being. He counts me a close friend, thus indeed, as a sworn brother I feel obliged. Certain matters in his best interests, I simply do myself, not always requiring his awareness or consent.”
“And what would I think if you dared this before me now, that you would get away without punishment?”
“I speak out of sincere conviction, why should I fear any judgment?” Song countered steadfastly. “Even if you later decide to avenge some betrayal against Qian Ye, I vow you would find no hand raised against you then. Let fate carry you to strike me should you will it.”
“That something benefits Qian Ye does not guarantee that I find benefit, do you not reckon, fooling me with your ploys here?” she said, tone cool.
A shadow of stress clouded zi’ning’s visage while resolve flickered in his eyes and he responded steadfastly, “With the affairs of the world in such a disarray none may be aware of everything ahead. All I vow is that within my conscience, my loyalty to Qian Ye remains untouched, beyond that it is beyond the reach of even my graspings. Now I’m already stood before you, should it please you to harm me further out of assumed grievances—know full-well that no attempt shall ever stir resistance from me.”
Yetong said indifferently, “Do struggle by all accounts—you only need to endure one of my strikes without immediate demise, that moment shall be my promise to cease aggression against you forevermore.”
ZiNing responded lightly bitter yet calm, “But resistance would bear no fruits other than humiliation, so let it be better met with honor than in cowardice at my demise.”
A silence ensued briefly, before Yetong spoke slowly. “So I suppose you speak this much only for the reason: some transgression weighing on my notice—and so now attempt to plead for a safeguard before any ire? To bargain your head from execution?”
“Certainly not,” he countered calmly. “My life already dangles at the edge these years—it bears little fear to me how the thread snaps. But there remains, two urgent tidings—one concerning Qian Ye, another concerning you.”
“Speak then.”
“Two nights hence, he passed through a spatial corridor bound directly for the Maelstrom.”
At once, the temperature surrounding the outside of the ship plummeted drastically, causing even Garin to involuntarily shiver involuntarily. Song Zi’ning on his part bore it unperturbed and a circular pool of warmly shimmering springwater formed instantly around his stance, pushing off the frigid shift as if spring herself cradled his feet beneath snow.
“Has he chosen that corridor of the Neutral Territories’ path?” There came barely a visible shift in her intonation, and certainly none in temperature—yet the abrupt polar shift confirmed an inner tempest roared unheard behind her icy poise.
“That I concede was my counsel,” Song replied without faltering.
The reply drew an ice blade materialized sharply mid-air right before him—aimed piercingly toward his brow in merciless arc.
“Yet I knew the pathway contained grave perils. Therein too lie equally unparalleled treasures,” he shouted loudly, halting blade within contact.
At a hair’s length from his forehead, the ice paused and the sharp contact pierced his skin faintly, a crimson bead swelling into clarity against his countenance—one drop standing out boldly against a backdrop of winter itself seemingly.
Her voice now came frost-like from beyond the hull she dwelled in, sharp at him. “He would yet climb to princeliness, unaided, in slow accumulation of siring through centuries. Why force destiny? Is that his deathly calling, or is there another agenda, Song Zaosheng? Make me wait no longer or know no mercy.”
“I dare your mercy. Then strike at a fool unready, for I’d sooner perish having offered counsel unyielding to fear, as it is the truest way.”
A moment passed. “How else might I make you tremble? The life of Lady Anduo—shall I seek her in duel? Regardless victory or not, I may ensure the Lady survives mere months thereafter.”
Song Zi’ning’s eyes flared with surprise that bordered on alarm. “You wouldn’t dare!”
A chilling tone returned. “What have I held against from striking, hitherto, save only restraint? Have you not forgotten the truth that Song lineage guards pale against nothing where I am concerned? When I am already present unmasked in your halls—no shell of steel might block my will.”
And he could not deny what lay true—the Song Family already balanced on unstable edge. Only the indomitable will of the matron propped her house standing through these tempests. Deprived of it, countless fangs hungered beyond gates, awaiting collapse to feast their vengeance upon the Song.
Despite his growing reputation, Song still lacked the prestige required to win without battle—and in the face of death’s emissary who’d already pierced Song’s heart, standing before him so coldly…
After a brief struggle inside him, Song exhaled in defeat and smiled bitterly, “Fine, You have my resignation.”
Yet silence answered him.
Taking the moment to gather and clarify his voice, Song spoke gently, yet firmly as if in counsel.
“Yetong. Before awakening, perhaps you’ve been something long-forgotten—but since that emergence… Do the stars themselves now lay secrets hidden from your grasp? Or does the heart of another, say Qian Ye, truly move beyond measure in your eyes now?”
“Since waking we are strangers. What he thinks holds for me as much weight as dust in starlight.”
Ignoring that, Song proceeded, “Then tell me: when Qian Ye left everything behind—the Song household, our camaraderie, Empire itself—when he turned back on all he’d lived to become, it was wholly to reach you, to deliver you into safety even at a cost of revealing his secret blood to the world. At that dark hour on that fateful night when he struck upon Mibushui’s stronghold and cleaved the tyrant down… was that action without design but desperation?”
“Was he not a fool for going in alone?” came the cool interruption.
“Far from mere chance… between their two hands was but one difference. One carried a warrior’s might, and the other, the soul of a condemned man. A soul ready to die, and thus unstoppable—Qian Ye walked through death’s gates that night never intending to depart through another than carrying you free.”
Silence followed, even against the howling wind.
“Beyond you and time’s knowing, there is nothing left to debate: He would always rise to such a chance when the call of the Maelstrom rose—and I knew I would never sway that will. In that resolve, could I have done more than help grant the momentum forward, that he might seize even a chance few find?”
“A mad gamble you encourage… do I understand?” came her tone. “Will his insanity now extend its madness to infect your sanity as well?”
Yet from him a laugh echoed. “For the honor between our brotherhood—for mere fleeting spans as lifespans, is it such a tragedy if this madness lasts but a generation’s measure?”
A subtle pause. As though from silence something deeper stirred in the shadows.
“So then, speak what follows in the rest of your news.”
“My second piece—Duke Meridan already awaits just outside the neutral borders in the fringe’s void. He makes his approach in the guise to conquer the Maelstrom Corridor but—considered in light—the goal beneath the guise may well remain you yourself. For he did not forget. Since his first failed purchase via clandestine routes, seeking claim to your being.”
Yetong’s contempt was barely veiled. “Ah—that ancient fool, content with complacency, afraid to tread bold. He has long been a stain upon noble ambition for his jealousy toward rivals, exclusion from unity of talents—for his own skills have only declined in the thousand years I slept. If this vampire hopes that my blood might come so simply, let him be disabused in bitter lessons.”
“The greater trouble remains: he waits still out there,” countered Song carefully, “should he abandon his caution and charge forth regardless of consequences, even now the risk remains that you would fail to hold him back single-handedly. But a weapon of mine awaits this occasion: for an agreement with Shattered Years, an all-out strike shall be mine when the Eternaflame is no more. But my time lies before that descent into the depths of maelstrom—and I must plot a trap to turn this blow for advantage—yet might I then require your strategic cooperation?”
A sliver of surprise entered her tone, yet masked under cold control, she stated, “You speak of striking at that price? Surely that deal exacted no trivial a cost?”
Song chuckled mordantly with his answer. “How would I stand aside, knowing you were in peril… Should fate be unkind, how could I ever look into Qian Ye’s face after knowing I held power to act and yet turned a blind eye? Do our brothers deserve that?”
Her reply held little drama. “A life debts is acknowledged thusly. Once Eternaflame is spent, come seek me. At my signal, he shall march unknowingly into our snare.”
Song nodded once, then stepped silent, while the warship remained aloof to the moment’s tensions. Then a new figure arose at his side—Jali Nan appeared quietly before speaking with reverence: “My Lord tires… Please be so kind, take your departing.”
He returned to flagship where the orders rang: departure set. Not a breath left Song’s throat then; instantly retired himself in private chamber. Facing Yetong briefly as it was—an ordeal as grueling as any field battle to its core.
In far frontlines above the floating warfront, a colossal fortress reared above the heartland. Designed impervious and set at the forefront—where ever the darkest conflict unfolded, there Zhaojundu placed his command directly, where the vanguard trenches of battle stood not a few hundred meters beyond its steel bulwarkan, a stone’s throw even from frontline skirmishes, so much as but the pull of a firing trigger sent shells beyond the edge. Wherever real champions chose—they could blur their silhouettes with sudden movement so quick they’d pierce the command heart itself.
That he set his general quarters amidst such proximity made one intent clear—Zhao issued to all eternal nighttime forces his standing challenge.
Since war in floating lands fell still into bitter stalemates—lines shifting no more than meters over brutal days—both sides fought and re-fought with losses stacking like butcher house toll. The Imperium rotated unit after elite unit under his command; when blood loss thinned any by third, the orders for retreat and reinforcement rang with ruthless frequency; every division rotated out would be at least in twain, if not thrice broken from repeated bloodlettings in the field over these harrowings that knew no rest even by starless moon.
While across the shadowlines the night-factions losses swelled exponentially, with their fallen counted nearly twofold each of Empire’s. Entire barbarian tribes had vanished entirely—every single warrior, lost upon blood-sodden field with little chance at resistance in later assaults.
This rate of attrition drew murmur from warcamps both Imperial and the Eternal Night Alliance. Though they out-numbered the humans, the unity behind shadow was fragile, strained under unbearable losses as heavy tribes like Wolffolk, having already spilled excessive kin blood upon these fields—threatened open disassociation.
Even races far beyond this front’s edge found pain unmeasurably heavy where their sons and brothers, thousands of elite legions lost to butchery’s maw in such disproportionate fashion that all but the most ruthless warlords found cause enough for concern.
Back within the borders, the same unease brewed within the Empire’s courts too—not unlike her enemies’ internal unrest—among the old noble houses and the highest ranked military minds. Their own forces, private armies of blood-bonded vassals, were being cut through merciless campaigns at a pace that caused murmurs questioning if General Zhao Jundu’s brutal strategy of attrition was truly justified given how these sacrifices outweighed defensive war norms.
Yet all such accusations and doubts were fiercely suppressed by Grandmaster Zhao Xuanji whose iron-fisted backing ensured that the brutal policy remained unchanged. His rationale held the weight: the fair and equal implementation of these rotations, ensuring even greatest clans faced greater duties equalling privilege—leaving none to cry foul in protest of unfair loss.
This was the second pillar underpinning Zhao Xuanji’s command—one reason so few generals, even among those with grievous misgivings, dared voice opposition: for the cost in warrior-elite power between each clash between their most gifted and those of Eternal Night remained a matter none ignored… The Empire’s greatest warriors emerged time and again unscathed… and the other side’s champions… never did.
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