The day started like most others in Mount Hua: quiet skies, clean wind, and the faint scent of tea and sword oil. Deceptive peace, which in our world, was merely the breath between battles.
Then came the thunder—not from the sky, but from the ground.
Metal boots. Synchronized. Unhurried. Like they owned the mountain.
I stepped outside just in time to see them arrive: twelve imperial knights in burnished white armor, crested with golden filigree that shimmered under the late-morning sun. Their helmets gleamed like mirrors, and their weapons—unpowered, for now—rested at their sides like sleeping beasts.
At their head marched a man I recognized immediately, because you don't forget the kind of face that comes with a body count.
