The Azure Phoenix Blade

The Traitor’s Night I. Betrayal in the Command Tent Inside the central command tent, lantern flames flickered wildly in the gusting wind, while the bronze bells at the corners chimed sporadically, as if they too sensed that tonight was no ordinary night. Outside, a torrential downpour hammered down like ten thousand charging horses, turning the ground into a churning black swamp. Every step the patrolling soldiers took was sucked into the cold, muddy earth. On the sand table, small flags bristled in the northwest corner—red and black markers showing the stalemate between the Baili tribe’s main force and the Yaoguang army. The eastern supply route, however, stood glaringly empty, like a severed artery at the worst possible moment. Darius Xiahou stood before the table in full armor, the old bloodstains on his shoulder blending into dark patches from the damp air. He refused to remove it. His finger pressed hard against the eastern supply line on the map, knuckles pale, yet his face remained forcibly calm. “Any word from King Conrad yet?” he asked quietly. The deputy generals in the tent exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to speak first. Quentin Mo, standing by the entrance, stamped his iron staff into the mud with a heavy thud that made the candle flames jump. “Last night’s message was the same,” he said evenly, as if discussing the weather. “Mountain roads washed out by floods, supply wagons stuck, troops unable to move.” His eyes, however, were ice-cold. “I sent scouts to check. The road was wet, but the grass on the slopes was bone-dry. Either Heaven is personally raining for King Conrad, or this flood exists only on paper.” The tent fell deathly silent. An old general drew a sharp breath and reached for his teacup, only to knock the lid with a clink before quickly pulling his hand back. Darius stared at the supply line for a long moment. “Send more scouts,” he finally said. His voice was soft, but the weight behind it pressed down on every man present. “I’ll go myself if Heng Lu doesn’t return within two hours,” Quentin Mo replied. Before he could finish, hurried footsteps splashed outside. The tent flap burst open as a blood-soaked figure tumbled in—Deputy General Brock Zhao. His left shoulder armor was shattered, a deep blade wound across his chest poured blood that mixed with rainwater and pooled on the ground. He dropped to one knee, nearly collapsing, and braced himself with his sword. “Your Majesty!” he rasped. “The eastern sentry post has fallen!” “They flew the Baili wolf-head banners, but they used our own horse-trapping hooks in the charge. I saw the leader myself—scar on the left thumb web, just like one of the old veterans from King Conrad’s personal guard.” Someone in the tent gasped, “Impossible!” Darius finally looked up. His usually steady eyes now carried a visible c***k. “You saw clearly?” he asked slowly. “If I’m wrong, I’ll accept military punishment,” Brock Zhao gritted out. At that moment, a thunderclap split the sky, shaking the entire camp. Fire suddenly erupted in the southwest corner, its glow bleeding through the tent like a red beast opening its jaws in the stormy night. Shouts and screams exploded, spreading rapidly toward the central command. Quentin Mo stepped protectively in front of Darius, the iron staff angled. “This isn’t opportunistic. They timed it perfectly for the shift change,” he said grimly. The implication was clear—the enemy knew exactly when the center would be weakest, who would be inside, and that the emperor still clung to a sliver of disbelief. Darius was silent for a moment, then reached for his sword. The clear ring as it left the scabbard momentarily cut through the surrounding chaos. Staring at the flickering fires outside, he whispered two words: “Conrad...” There was no rage in his voice—only the quiet realization of a man finally touching the blade buried in his chest and understanding where the true pain lay. The next instant, wind and rain mixed with the stench of blood slammed into the tent as the flap was ripped aside. Darius charged out with sword in hand, Quentin Mo following with his staff, Brock Zhao and the remaining guards roaring behind them.