In the magistrate’s office of Blackrock Vale (黑石谷 - Hēi Shí Gǔ), the messenger from the Divine Land of Justice (正义神州 - Zhèngyì Shénzhōu) stood upright, his courage fortified by his new king. He bowed respectfully to the district's magistrate, Tiě Tú (铁屠 - "Iron Butcher").

  Tiě Tú was a massive, broad-shouldered man whose body seemed forged from the very metal he controlled. His face was perpetually smudged with soot, his hands a mosaic of old burns and scar tissue. A brutally pragmatic ruler, he viewed his people as tools for extracting ore, ruling through fear and physical dominance. His laughter grated like stone on metal.

  The messenger, Lǐ Wéi (李维), read the scroll. "Our First King, The Crimson General Jian Zhi, may heaven uphold his achievements, proposes a trade pact. Our kingdom grows rice, wheat, vegetables, and fruits in massive quantities, more than enough for our needs. We propose you trade iron ore for our food. This would benefit us both. If you do not agree, our majesty will not hesitate to go to war."

  The message was less a proposal than a dominant ultimatum, a final mercy from a devil. Tiě Tú ground his teeth, his fists clenching.

  "'The Divine Land of Justice'?" he sneered. "I've never heard of such a kingdom. Are you delusional? Whether it exists or not, tell your king to surrender himself to me. I might give him a job as a cleaner or something [hahaha]. I will not be shaken by a mushroom that sprouted in yesterday's rain. Go back and tell your so-called king we accept his war!"

  Tiě Tú's intention was crystal clear. In the hall, one man wondered about this new kingdom and its king. The trade was a good deal, but the blackmailing warning? Who could this king be? The question sprouted in the mind of the Scribe of Blackrock Vale, Huī Yǐng (灰影 - "Gray Shadow"), age 52.

  Huī Yǐng was a man who mastered the art of being overlooked, moving through the soot-choked valleys like a wisp of smoke. For years, he had documented Tiě Tú's brutalities, secretly aiding the families of victims. He believed true strength lay not in brute force, but in the unbreakable spirit of the people. This King Jian Zhi was an unknown variable in his secret plotting.

  He secretly met Lǐ Wěi before the messenger's departure. "Young man, I do not know your king. But is he trustworthy?"

  Lǐ Wěi replied with all the pride his heart could muster, "He is the savior who freed us from evil. Your General Tiě Shān, the magistrate's own brother, has not returned, correct?"

  Scribe Huī Yǐng squinted, his curiosity mixed with confusion, and nodded.

  "He was killed and fed to the demonic wolves of Devil's Mountain—now known as our King's Hounds. He was slain by our army captain, The Conductor of the Battlefield, Captain Zhào, with his mighty blade, The Soul Scratcher, forged by our beloved king. Calling him 'trustworthy' would be an understatement. He is the one you need, Mr. Huī Yǐng."

  The scribe wondered how the messenger knew his name without an introduction.

  Lǐ Wěi continued, "Scribe Wén succeeded in the battle against the corruption of Liánhuā District. Our new king burned the old reign and now enforces his absolute, disciplined rule. Please, ensure the women, children, and those who cannot fight are away from the war."

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  Scribe Huī Yǐng agreed and sent him off, beginning his own preparations.

  Meanwhile, in the magistrate’s office of Silent Creek (静溪镇 - Jìng Xī Zhèn), the scroll from the Divine Land of Justice was thrown aside by the enraged magistrate, Bái Mò (白默 - "White Silence").

  Bái Mò was Tiě Tú's opposite: a lean, pale man who moved with ghostly quietness. Coated in limestone dust, he appeared as a powder-white ghost. Cunning and cruel, he whispered orders, enjoying the psychological control his silent realm afforded him. He saw Tiě Tú's brutality as vulgar and inefficient.

  He said to the messenger, Zhāng Yǒng (张勇), "We have the second-largest troops in this Province of Cursed Earth (厄土省 - è Tǔ Shěng). Go back to your puny kingdom and tell your magistrate he has two choices: come here to wash my feet and drink the water as an apology, or die by the hands of my troops."

  Zhāng Yǒng left with a bitter taste in his mouth, offering a faint smirk at the arrogant magistrate before he departed.

  The district's scribe, Bái Lù (白露 - "White Dew"), age 38, met him secretly. A seemingly delicate woman, her quiet exterior hid a will of steel. She had long used her position to subtly undermine Bái Mò's rule. She asked Zhāng Yǒng about his king.

  After hearing the full story, Scribe Bái Lù decided to commit. "Tell your king to attack in a few days. We have 500 troops, but 300 are secretly part of the district's revolutionary party. We held back because Bái Mò has connections to the provincial capital, and we feared for the citizens. But now, with your king, I believe we will achieve liberation."

  As Zhāng Yǒng disappeared into the white dust, Bái Lù allowed herself a moment alone in the silent corridor. The oppressive quiet was no longer a cage, but a prelude. She closed her eyes, and the ghost of a memory surfaced—the desperate grasp of her son’s small hand being pried from her own, his cries swallowed by the relentless crunch of quarry carts. Bái Mò had stood there, pale and silent as a statue, offering not a word of mercy, only a cold nod to the slavers. For seventeen years, that memory had festered in her heart, a cold stone of hatred. Now, a fierce, burning certainty replaced the cold. Finally, she thought, the word was a vow in her mind. The wait is over. The white dust will not just silence us; it will bury you. It is time to avenge my son.

  In the palace of the Divine Land of Justice, Jian Zhi sat crowned upon his throne—the very one crafted from the bones of Devil's Mountain's apex predators.

  The messengers returned and delivered the replies. "Your Majesty, they looked down on us and rejected the deal."

  Jian Zhi replied with a calm, collected tone, "I know. I never intended for them to accept. I planned to crush those evils the moment I learned of their districts' suffering. You both did well. Go and rest."

  Jian Zhi looked at Scribe Wén and signaled to prepare the strategy room. As Scribe Wén hurried to make the arrangements, Jian Zhi’s calm voice stopped him. “One more thing, Mr. Wén. Ensure the granaries are opened an hour earlier tomorrow. I want every soldier to have a full stomach and a double portion of meat before they march. A mind sharpened by strategy is useless in a body weakened by hunger.”

  This small, pragmatic command, issued on the eve of war, echoed his deeper understanding of victory—it was won not just with plans, but with the well-being of the people who executed them.

  As the room was readied, Jian Zhi's mind raced, running calculations to find the perfect calculus for a clean victory.

  Inside, maps of both districts were spread across the table. Captain Zhào, Mei Lin, Lian, and Scribe Wén gathered as Jian Zhi began his explanation.

  "Look here," he said, pointing to a strategic location on the map. "This is where we will deploy the army and The Divine Rain (神雨 - Shén Yǔ). The Divine Rain will be positioned centrally, with the Revengers behind it. The Revengers' arrow volley will commence as soon as Mei Lin signals the enemy's arrival." He moved figures across the map to illustrate the precise execution.

  "Once the arrow rain ends, the Divine Rain will shower its judgment. The enemy will break and run. That is when the rest of our army encircles them completely. We will offer them a chance to surrender. If they refuse... show no mercy."