Soon, a few days passed like this since the United Army took charge of the situation.
The fires had gone out.
The sky over the Western Continent was dark now, not with smoke but with silence—silence that came after too many screams, crashes, and rushed decisions.
The Western leaders gathered inside the provisional war hall, which had been hastily built from what remained of the provincial council building.
No one sat straight.
No one wore armor.
Their robes were torn. Some still had dried blood on them. Others had wrapped broken limbs or burns with whatever cloth was available.
The flags of their families, those beautiful, golden emblems once raised high over cities, were now tied to their waists, dirtied and frayed.
Elder Jian's chair sat empty.
He had fallen two days ago during a beast raid outside the river barracks.
General Zhou had survived, barely. His right arm hung limp at his side. He didn't even try to hide the tremble in his left hand as he held his teacup.
