Beacon at Chìwàng Terrace
Night draped the wilderness of Jiangzuo like liquid ink. Standing before his military tent, Zhuge Liang gently waved his feather fan, his gaze piercing the deep twilight toward a faint crimson glow flickering in the southwest.
Rapid footsteps echoed outside, followed instantly by Zhang Fei's thunderous roar: "Military Advisor! Urgent news from the front—the allied forces of Fontaine and Sumeru… have been defeated!"
Huang Zhong hobbled in swiftly, leaning on his iron-core bow, his white beard trembling with rage. "Seventy thousand marines! General Montaigne of Fontaine is famed for his unmatched bravery… how could this happen?"
Zhuge Liang turned slowly, his feather fan pausing at his chest as his brows knotted into a deep furrow. On the desk lay bamboo slips bearing the allied forces' victory report from the previous day, brimming with triumph and momentum. Now those words seemed stained with blood. "This defeat is suspicious," he said gravely. "Scouts say the army fell not to battlefield tactics, but to sorcery."
"Sorcery?" Zhang Fei's eyes blazed. He slammed his eight-foot serpent spear against the ground with a resounding crash. "What dark magic could rout seventy thousand sailors? Those two villains Guo Tu and Han Xing! This is their doing!"
Huang Zhong's heart sank as old rumors resurfaced—tales of Guo Tu and Han Xing raising foul beasts and practicing forbidden arts. "Word spreads Guo Tu wields illusions to stir mortal demons in men's hearts. Han Xing masters poisonous gu worms, spreading plague on the wind. If they joined forces… it is possible."
"What of General Montaigne?" Zhuge Liang pressed, a trace of quiet urgency in his voice. Montaigne was the soul of Fontaine's navy, their staunchest ally. His fate would decide the entire war.
Zhang Fei swallowed hard, his tone heavy. "Scouts say… to shield his men, General Montaigne charged forward with his personal guard. A cloud of black mist swallowed him whole. When it cleared, he was gone—only shattered armor remained."
Silence gripped the tent. Huang Zhong's fingers whitened around his bow; Zhang Fei's ragged breaths thundered, coiling with fury. Zhuge Liang closed his eyes. When he opened them again, resolve hardened his gaze. "So long as Guo Tu and Han Xing's sorcery lives, the alliance will know no peace. They are at Chìwàng Terrace—its high ground is perfect for dark rituals."
"Then why wait?" Zhang Fei surged to his feet, spear pointed toward the exit. "I'll lead my guards to raze that terrace! Tear out their heads to honor General Montaigne and our fallen brothers!"
"Calm yourself, Yìdé," Zhuge Liang gestured. "The terrace is easy to defend, hard to attack. Their spells will shield them—recklessness will cost us. General Huang, your archery is divine; hold their position from the heights. Yìdé, you shall lead the vanguard to break their formation. I will take elite soldiers to strike their ritual core directly." He tapped the map at Chìwàng Terrace with his fan. "Tonight, at the third watch, we advance in three prongs. We end this—permanently."
As the third watch bell tolled, three units moved like shadows, silent as leopards closing in. The towering terrace was shrouded in eerie purple mist, filled with wailing, ghostly cries that chilled the blood.
Zhang Fei charged first, his spear whirring like a storm through the fog. Twisted phantoms surged forward—ghouls, beasts—illusions woven by Guo Tu. "Petty tricks cannot stop me!" he bellowed, sweeping his spear to shatter the specters, yet more poured endlessly from the mist.
Meanwhile, Huang Zhong climbed a nearby hill. Drawing his bow to its limit, his arrows were dipped in Zhuge Liang's blessed anti-evil charm water. He aimed at a flickering light within the mist—the illusion's energy core—and loosed. A sharp hiss rang out; the light shattered, and the purple fog thinned. "Yìdé! A gap on the left!" he shouted.
Zhang Fei wheeled, driving his spear through the opening, charging straight for the terrace summit.
From the rear mountain path, Zhuge Liang's elite soldiers scaled the cliffs. Han Xing's gu worms infested the trails—poison smoke, strangling vines, waiting to strike. Prepared, Zhuge Liang ordered torches of mugwort herb; the creatures fled the flame. He chanted incantations, weaving an invisible barrier to repel the creeping plague mist.
At the summit, Guo Tu stood wild-haired, sword in hand, chanting before a ritual altar. Han Xing poured thick black liquid from an earthen jar—the source of the purple mist. Hearing the battle below, Guo Tu faltered, then snarled: "Cowards! Our Nether Soul-devouring Formation will kill every last intruder!"
Before the words faded, a shadow burst through the mist—Zhang Fei. "Villains! Die!" His spear struck for Guo Tu, wind screaming off the blade. Guo Tu hurled ghostly talismans to block him, then turned to flee.
"Not an inch!" Huang Zhong's arrow streaked down, striking Guo Tu square in the back. The illusions crumbled; all phantoms vanished.
Enraged, Han Xing hurled his jar at Zhang Fei. Black bile splattered the ground, erupting into swarms of venomous insects. Zhang Fei retreated—only for Zhuge Liang to arrive. With a wave of his fan, mugwort ash billowed forth, incinerating the bugs on contact. "Han Xing, your end has come," Zhuge Liang declared.
Cornered, Han Xing drew a dagger to kill himself. Too slow. Zhang Fei's spear pierced his wrist. "Death is too kind!" He dragged the sorcerer to the ground.
Bleeding and broken, Guo Tu snarled with hatred: "Zhuge Liang! You ruined my spells, destroyed my grand plan… I will haunt you forever!"
Zhuge Liang stepped forward, his fan moving gently, pity laced with unyielding justice. "Your sorcery poisoned the world. Your crimes deserve no mercy. Today we execute you—to avenge General Montaigne, and seventy thousand allied souls."
Huang Zhong nocked an arrow to Guo Tu's throat. Zhang Fei planted a boot on Han Xing's back, raising his spear high.
"Strike," Zhuge Liang commanded.
Two blows fell. The villains' heads rolled. The purple mist over Chìwàng Terrace dissipated, revealing a clear night sky as dawn's pale light touched the horizon.
Zhang Fei lifted the severed heads toward the southwest. "General Montaigne! Brothers! We have slain your murderers—rest easy!"
Huang Zhong stared at the quiet wilderness below, sighing with sorrow. "Seventy thousand brave souls… they will never return."
Zhuge Liang stood at the terrace edge, watching the sunrise, his fan brushing his robes. "Their deaths are not in vain. With sorcery banished, peace may yet come. We will guard this hard-won calm—and make their sacrifice mean lasting salvation."
Morning wind swept across Chìwàng Terrace, carrying the faint scent of blood… and new beginnings. The three heroes stood tall atop the summit, silhouetted in sunlight. The beacon fires of Chìwàng were extinguished—but their war was far from over.