They moved through the half-cracked pavement and dust-choked alleyways in silence, each footstep punctuated by the crunch of broken glass and debris. The city around them was a ghost shell—burned-out windows, bent lamp posts, remnants of old lives scattered in twisted metal and soot. And still, not a word passed between Jian and Xing Yu.
Jian deliberately kept his gaze ahead, jaw set, sword clenched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles blanched. He didn't want to speak to Xing. He didn't want to look at him. It was still echoing in his head—"This isn't a game, Jian." Like he was just some clueless, fragile outsider. Like he didn't belong on the battlefield.
Yes, he was new. Yes, he had just begun to understand the true face of war. But being dismissed that easily, being told he was only useful for watching from behind a bush, made something raw churn in his gut. Jian wasn't trying to play hero. But he had to fight. It was the only thing keeping him sane.
