The wind carried dust and whispers through the desolate streets of Qingyun Village, a place that once thrived with laughter and the scent of fresh rice in the air. Now, only shadows remained shadows of people, of memories, and of Zhao Lin’s past. As he walked down the narrow paths, his boots kicking up clouds of dirt, Zhao could hardly recognize the village where he’d been born and raised. Ten years had passed since he had last seen it, and those years had weighed heavily on both the village and himself.

The last time he had walked these streets, he had been a young man, full of hope and a sense of duty. That was before the massacre, before the flames, before his name became a curse on the tongues of those he once called family. Zhao had left Qingyun in shame, branded a coward and a traitor. The guilt of that night still haunted him, chasing him in his dreams and his waking moments alike.

Now, he has returned. Whether it was to seek redemption or simply to confront the ghosts of his past, Zhao wasn’t sure. He only knew that something had drawn him back, like the pull of a storm on the horizon, inevitable and foreboding.

As Zhao entered the central square of the village, his eyes scanned the remnants of what was once the heart of the community. The market stalls were gone, replaced by the empty shells of burned-out buildings. The people who remained moved like shadows, gaunt and silent, their faces lined with weariness and fear. His heart sank as he realized the full extent of the damage. This was no longer the village of his childhood. This was a place broken by time, war, and betrayal.

He was about to continue walking when he heard a voice behind him.

“You shouldn’t have come back, Zhao Lin.”

Zhao froze. The voice was old but familiar. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as they fell upon a hunched figure standing in the doorway of a dilapidated house. It was Lao Chen, an elder who had been a close friend of his father’s. Once, Lao Chen had been a pillar of strength and wisdom in the village. Now, he looked frail, his face etched with deep lines, his eyes hard with years of grief.

“Lao Chen,” Zhao said, bowing his head in respect. “I had to come back. There are questions I need answers to.”

“There are no answers here,” Lao Chen said bitterly, stepping out of the doorway and walking toward him. “Only death and misery. You’ve brought enough of that already, haven’t you?”

Zhao clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw tight. He had expected hostility, but hearing it from Lao Chen cut deep. “You know I didn’t”

“I know nothing,” Lao Chen interrupted, his voice sharp as a blade. “All I know is that the night your family was killed, you ran. You left us to die. That’s all anyone here remembers.”

Zhao winced at the accusation, but he didn’t try to defend himself. What could he say? The truth was more complicated than anyone here could understand. That night, ten years ago, there was chaos. He had tried to fight, to protect his family, but when the fires started and the attackers swarmed the village, something inside him had broken. He had fled, not out of cowardice, but out of sheer survival instinct. Or at least, that’s what he had told himself all these years.

“I’m not here to argue,” Zhao said quietly. “I’m here to make things right. If there’s anything left to save, I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Lao Chen’s eyes softened for a brief moment, but then the hardness returned. “If you want to make things right, then go see General Huo. He’s the one who controls this village now. Maybe he’ll give you the answers you’re looking for or maybe he’ll put you in the ground like the others who’ve tried to stand against him.”

Zhao’s eyes darkened at the mention of the warlord. General Huo—he had heard the name in whispers during his travels. A ruthless man, skilled in both strategy and martial prowess, Huo had seized control of the region in the power vacuum left after the fall of the previous emperor. He ruled with an iron fist, crushing any resistance with brutal efficiency.

“Where can I find him?” Zhao asked.

Lao Chen pointed toward the mountains in the distance. “He resides in the fortress at White Peak. But be warned, Zhao Lin, you’ll find no allies there. Huo has the entire village under his thumb, and Wei Han, your old friend, is now his right-hand man.”

The mention of Wei Han was like a punch to the gut. Wei Han, the boy he had grown up with, trained with, laughed with. They had been as close as brothers once. But if Wei had truly aligned himself with General Huo, then Zhao’s return would be met with more than just suspicion—it would be seen as a threat.

“I have no choice,” Zhao said, his voice firm. “If Wei Han has aligned himself with Huo, then I need to know why. And I need to stop him before it’s too late.”

Lao Chen shook his head slowly, a sad smile on his lips. “You always were stubborn, Zhao Lin. Just like your father. But stubbornness alone won’t save you. You’ll need more than your fists to survive what’s coming.”

Zhao nodded, understanding the weight of the old man’s words. He had spent the last decade honing his martial skills, mastering techniques from various schools of combat across the land. But brute strength wouldn’t be enough to defeat a man like General Huo, nor would it be enough to redeem his past. He would need cunning, strategy, and most of all, the truth.

“I’ll find the answers,” Zhao said quietly, more to himself than to Lao Chen. “And I’ll find redemption.”

Lao Chen sighed, turning to leave. “If you survive, come back to me. There’s something you need to know, but not yet. Not until you’ve proven yourself.”

Zhao watched as the old man disappeared into the shadows of his broken home. He stood alone in the village square, the wind swirling dust around him like the ghosts of his past. The road ahead was long, and the weight of his past was heavy, but Zhao Lin had made his choice.

He would not run again.