Now that the floating continent was stabilized, Qian Ye decided it was time to depart and return to the Neutral Wastes, leaving Song Zi’ning to oversee the remaining affairs.
At that moment, Song Zi’ning also learned about Marshall Lin’s untimely death. He gazed at Qian Ye, whose expression betrayed neither grief nor disturbance after regaining composure. They only exchanged a sigh while remaining silent even to a word between them.
Words had never before seemed as impotent as that moment; and certain pain, too raw even for the slightest touch.
Dark Embers arrived in a formidable fleet like storms gathering in the horizon. However, as time to retreat came, only a handful remained—most transports stood empty, even lacking a decent crew to sail them.
After deliberating briefly with Qian Ye, Song Zi’ning decided they’d simply sell a good many transport vessels to the Empire. Though battered, the campaign made Empire appreciate transport ships’ worth when dropping large infantry forces from space. Though aged, these warcrafts of the Neutral Wastes performed reliably in both battle-readiness and durability, thus being perfect for conversion in military use.
So many of the mercenaries’ and Zhao dynasty private forces’ corpses were strewn through the battlefield; separating the dead from the darkbloods was struggle enough, let alone identifying those fallen individually. Some, indeed, had disappeared into the Abyss forever.
Following customary practices of military conduct, the survivors gathered the dog tags and identification tablets of every fallen brother, cremated their bodies into ashes, which then they respectfully buried beneath what used to be White City, where the empire now raised a monument standing tall amidst ruined plains.
Shortly after the solemn, if simple, rites of sacrifice, Qian Ye led the remaining aged war-hardened Embers back home.
Serving as the flagship, an armored heavy cruiser sailed in front, escorted by corvettes flanking both wings, while large transports formed the slow-moving heart of their procession. Most were still bleeding battle scars, limping through the vacuum under great strain. Thusly, Qian Ye ordered the Hall of Heroes to make for North Marches beforehand for equipment restorals, for its comparatively peaceful atmosphere—and besides, it would suit Carolyn’s lingering injuries well.
A smooth voyage followed while the entire formation glided silently back toward the Neutral Lands. Though leisurely, in the span of several days it found distance already melting into faintly visible horizons.
Standing beside a porthole inside command central, Qian gazed past endless starscape—Neutral Wastes stretched out at edge of vision’s horizon, already whispering into sight. There, floating in distant void, clusters of shattered land drifted together like broken shards held within some gauze-like swirl of mist, barely showing what centuries’ passage could never fully wash away—the still-faint traces left by the impact of lost world Xulgu’s final flight.
As Neutral lands gradually approached, the captain recalibrated heading: from formation front surged that heavy warhorse of theirs, guiding massive trailing ships through an ever-acute turn toward their destination.
To outsiders’ eyes, only scattered broken islands loomed, cloaked by mists. Yet, as their cruiser passed within this veil, inside the very bowels of war-iron and circuit thrummed an unwholesome sizzle. Countless needle indicators wobbled violently; a few instruments sparked furiously amidst crackling interference fields that coursed through ship corridors like vengeful spirits.
“Damn. Not again!” Cursed the commander, unleashing aura that shimmered protectively across glass monitors and console panels.
To the scrambling tech crews within the bridge he roared, “Why are you just standing there gawking for? Start inspecting those broken modules right away—replace failed pieces, and if there’s no spare at all just try scavenging older spares—the older the better!”
As deck techs scattered to obey his roar with urgency, commander approached Qian Ye. Looking troubled, he murmured, “Respected Lord, we just repaired it upon reaching this battlefield. Now again it acts… but such changes may well cost its combat efficiency.”
With serene composure, Qian Ye simply replied: “The Neutral Lands have always been like this. Do not overly worry; even your most fearsome adversaries here still wield rusting antique weapons. Also—I shall help you berth.”
The commander’s facial expression loosened slightly. “Lord, no blame to cast—just pained seeing her broken like this.”
With said concern hanging heavy on heart, commander walked away from command deck onwards toward the bowels of great metal beast he called home.
Indeed, this mighty cruiser was the Empire’s absolute cutting edge—a precious crown jewel entrusted only to topmost commanding elite. Once already refitted before arrival, dockwrights failed to calculate Neutral Wastes’ hostility properly. Qian’s aura felt it clear: the faint corrosion within the mist held unmistakable overtones—corrupted voidforce mingling amidst destruction essence itself… any normal rune-etched alloys stood defenseless before such creeping decay.
As fleet passed calmly between twin islands emerging from distance, finally a much-larger chunk rose forward: the place was Donghai.
Each mercenary could easily navigate these waters home at this point.
Sailing directly south, distant clouds gave way, and gradually into clearer vision—Southgreen emerged along the skyline.
At Qian’s side, one grizzled mercenary commander allowed excitement across his features again, murmuring, “Finally… returned.”
A tired sigh left Qian Ye’s lips, echoed back gently as response: “Hmm, finally returned home.”
Another officer declared outloudly with fiery passion: “But my Lord—on this new return—we beg you: take us and strike those enemies down properly this time.”
Qian was startled, looking toward his excited subordinates—enthusiasm flared within their eyes like wildfire across grass. Within command deck, these grizzled warriors stood proud and unbroken after all trials past, eyes glinting like battle-proven steel. Their might had grown. Among these few remaining war leaders lay many whose force seemed to hover precariously upon thresholds—approaching even war-lord status themselves.
“I hadn’t… considered saying such things.”
Surveying this crowd, seeing each of them filled the room with expectation and hope—his surviving warriors—those lucky few among so many who stood within White Citadel amidst blood and fire. Many exhibited that inner shift of aura—an omen of impending strength rebirth from life-death threshold.
“I assumed—Dark Embers would’ve lost ten in every ten to slaughter… the surviving ones, grief-stricken. I thought those still alive would desire rest rather than more war.”
Hearing that, the assembled warriors first looked among themselves in hesitant silence then finally nudged forward, one captain in his early thirties.
This one used to be head of an average minor force, later absorbed into Ember alongside his entire corps through Ji Tian Qing’s persuasion backed by threat. Within Embers’ high command, he had held modest rank and little renown—until, against expectations of all, only he among those original commanding group had emerged alive after White Citadel massacre. Since none ranked higher and possessed comparable might, others had naturally rallied around him now in the aftermath.
He saluted Qian respectfully first before continuing: “My Lord Qian… us mercenaries lived by blade-point livelihoods anyway—what honorable death could we expect? It was already fortune ending one’s life amid battle roar, compared to withered aged beggars unable to feed their own. Many times over did warriors of past generations die forgotten and unloved—merging into mud like any common beast.
Qian Ye gave an understanding nod—that indeed, had been fate of countless Neutral Mercenaries for ages. And Song Zi’ning once called such cruel design ‘nature’s Law’… Humans thrived here not only with increased births, but with enhanced might compared to those in warring empires.
Even so… The Wastes barely held sufficient livelihood to feed this rising human tide.
Thus arose perpetual conflict, a blood-tax of survival: to keep population sustainable within resource-stunted reality.
Mercenary battalions, large and small arose solely for warfare. Whether paid to slaughter other humans, or fighting each other among packs—either way war reigned, blood spilled constantly. Otherwise, survival became impossible for all.
And the bottom of that harsh pyramid lay Eternal Night, land so bereft it scarcely fed youth still within prime, let alone aged—resembling scavenging bests far removed from human life in that desolate realm.
The commander paused a moment more, continuing:
“This recent slaughter, at its heart… is only our natural fate to follow—we didn’t expect much change. Yet—what made this time different… Was how dignified these warriors left this world. At least their families no longer need live as paupers dependent upon scraps—begging others for crumbs with bowed heads as they used to. It was you, Lord Qian—also young master Song himself, who brought us this truth. That even mercenaries have the right to fight a war that grants dying honor—an end with nobility, and no regrets to burden loved ones.
Qian’s brow lifted.
Empire did maintain strict regulations concerning fallen soldiers’ funeral rites—which had, after all, been one of Qian’s initial conditions for deployment. Still, he never once suspected how profound an effect this simple acknowledgment had upon these veterans—the honor given—recognition as warriors, not just expendable beasts of war; the mere fact these warriors were now memorialized at all.
Moreover, the military pension itself meant salvation to families across Neutral Wastes—a promise, an income far greater than what smaller band armies could possibly offer. In contrast, many merc corps fell apart precisely due to an inability to uphold compensation. Families, left helpless if a soldier fell in blood—desperately sought mercy in alleyways, turning many young widows either destitute beggars or forced laborers sold at slavers’ markets… or perhaps worse.
The soldier again exchanged glances with other commanders as he added, “To our minds, these past many discussions settled one simple truth: It was your leadership which taught us that even we soldiers… can stand tall. Therefore, none of us seek to wander elsewhere now; only one course forward remains open. Together, We shall carve a new future for ourselves!”
Qian was at a temporary loss. “Yet you would surrender so many riches?”
Older merc commander replied from rear guard, saying:
“Lord Qian, for the upcoming years, our official bounty was split thrice as regulation states. Just keep one share to pay each fallen man his due, give only one to families—rest two, let Embers store them away within shared coffers. Eventually—Dark Ember might yet repay all of us ten-fold once our might grows.”
Qian smiled somewhat wryly.
“Why trust me so readily?”
“During White City siege, I was dying—claws already piercing me. Who but YOURSELF was the hand that freed me? YOUR HAND alone pulled me toward survival.”
Murmurs arose then—several other warlords joined chanted agreement.
“He is Right. I heard same story from three other men.”
“Yourself, always fighting in the thickest front rows—risked lives without hesitation.”
With a motion, lead commander calmed down his excited peers before finishing solemnly.
“My Lord, yes, our reputation remains low. And yet we still recognize greatness in our midst—we still know when and whom we are blessed witnessing as rightful leadership. So—we do not wish to give further excuse; whatever duty lies ahead—you need not beg. We will obey your commands—willingly. Even—Were White Citadel to arise once again—we are ready! One strike at a time.”
Gazing upon these weary and scarred mercs before him, Qian felt an unfamiliar weight stir within.
They lived for gold, nothing but profit before… Empire’s battle bonuses alone represented sums far beyond dreams of those within Neutral Lands. Thus when they so readily gave up most of it—Qian Ye realized, their sacrifice meant commitment—loyalty toward rebirthing Dark Ember as powerful anew.
Oldest merc stepped forth:
“The sum even now, with portions set aside—we still exceed all past companies by generous margin. Your reputation, QianYe, will always guarantee every soldier’s bloodline never go hungry.”
Those words settled final conviction within Qian. By accepting their oath, a responsibility far beyond even current soldiers stood pledged—that for countless fallen brothers left beneath cold stars, their children too must never again cry in hunger. Numbers might surpass a hundred thousand.
Finally, with final gravity, the youth-leader commander voiced the plan:
“All our fallen’s youth—many had already begun adult paths before the slaughter. Here in the Neutral Wastes, once beyond ten summers… one is no infant—they bear blade and fight among men.”
At last, Qian Ye gave a slow nod.
“Very well. From this day forth, we all walk the same path. Together—we hunt new and mighty empires, to claim worlds of our own!”
Then, from the heavy warship’s metallic belly—roared the most triumphant chorus ever heard—a thunderous eruption.
Sealed in the moment: this seed, now forever taking root beneath fertile void-soil.
Across those untroubled stars above barren worlds, the grand formation moved in peace unbroken—the journey without threat: Not even the most fearless deep-space marauders dare approach with a heavily armed Empire-class battlecruiser in command—the very look of her guns would be more than sufficient warning for them to turn about and scurry toward other hunting grounds elsewhere.
An advance scout ship led the rest toward Nan Qing, looping thrice over the city to confirm it bore no sign of unexpected dangers before it sent the final call down signal, at which the entire procession of battered ships descended into docking zones beneath Nanqing’s skyline.
Waiting eagerly below was officially-appointed Nan Qing’s mayor—the venerable Ji Rui—who upon seeing Qian Ye emerge from battle-cruiser’s bowels immediately hurried forward with warm, if exaggerated joy plastered upon cheeks.
With raised voice he cried:
“Victorious return—Great Triumph—this city celebrates with fullest honor your glory!”
Qian simply shook his head:
“There’s nothing worth gloriness… So many perished.”
Ji froze momentarily:
“All? No, impossible… Your expedition started with fifty thousand troops at minimum, did it not?”
“This many—remained,” Qian gestured faintly toward scattered silhouettes filing down ramp behind him.
Scraggly, barely five hundred warriors at last emerged from under great iron beast: mere shadows beneath its immense scale.
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