Wind from Chenyu Valley carries misty moisture, condensing into tiny dewdrops on the battlements of Chìwàng Terrace—only to be vaporized into faint haze by the residual warmth of the soldiers' armor. Zhuge Liang stands atop the terrace's highest point, clad in a plain Taoist robe. The hem of his black crane cloak flutters in the wind, revealing the Big Dipper constellation embroidered on its cuffs: an old relic retrieved the night before from the pack of his young Taoist attendant. At this moment, it glimmers faintly with every subtle movement of his fingers.
Deep within the canyon below, Fontaine's three-masted warships form a pincer formation with Sumeru elephant-headed tower ships. The iris and lotus emblems on their sails loom dimly through the twilight. Three days prior, their alliance had been trapped at the valley mouth by Yuan Shang's fifty-thousand naval force, blocked off entirely by ironclad linked warships. It was not until Zhuge Liang devised a fiery ambush to burn the enemy's forward camp, then led three hundred elite death soldiers to scale the sheer cliffs and seize Chìwàng Terrace—a stronghold surrounded by water on three sides—that a sliver of survival was secured for their allies.
"Military Advisor, the Yuan army is forming battle lines." Ma Su, the deputy general, gasps for breath as he rushes back from the western watchtower, moss still clinging to his armor. "Zeng Yang commands the central tower ship in person. By their banners, they intend to launch a three-pronged fierce assault."
Zhuge Liang does not turn his head, his gaze fixed on the churning dark clouds at the canyon's edge. Those clouds have loomed over the sky since dawn, black as ink-soaked cotton, and now drift slowly downward with the Taoist incantations woven between his fingertips. "Inform Fontaine's naval commander to anchor their ships toward the southeastern bank. Tell Sumeru's warriors to hold the northwest reef zone. Leave the rest to me."
As he speaks, the Big Dipper embroidery on his cuff suddenly flares with silver light. The glow winds down the stone steps of Chìwàng Terrace and detonates at the Eight Trigrams formation's core at the terrace's base. Twenty-eight bronze mirrors, buried earlier in alignment with the Five Elements, ignite all at once, refracting the last rays of the sunset into a single beam that pierces straight into the heart of the storm clouds.
In that instant, Yuan Shang's navy advances.
Fifty thousand warships surge into the canyon like a swarming tide of ants, their ironclad rams carving menacing white trails across the water. Zeng Yang's central flagship rises like a mobile fortress, the great banner emblazoned with the character "Yuan" billowing fiercely in the wind. The ruthless admiral stands at its bow, one hand resting on his sword hilt, the other clutching a secret imperial order from Ye City: he was commanded to raze Chìwàng Terrace by sunset, or forfeit his head.
"Loose the arrows!" At Zeng Yang's roar, a rain of arrows sweeps across the water—only to freeze abruptly a hundred paces from the terrace. An invisible barrier erupts from the summit, deflecting every bolt. The splashing water droplets hang mid-air, crystallizing into fine ice grains.
"Sorcery!" A deputy beside Zeng Yang cries out in terror, staring at the impossible spectacle atop the terrace. Before anyone notices, Zhuge Liang grips a peachwood sword. As its tip points to the heavens, the swirling dark clouds split open at their core, revealing roiling purple lightning within.
"Root of heaven and earth, source of all cosmic qi. Through eons of cultivation, my divine power awakens." Zhuge Liang's voice is soft, yet it echoes clearly across the entire canyon, resonating against every cliff face. With his chant, eight water jets burst from the Eight Trigrams core at the terrace, weaving into a vast water net that catches every falling ice grain. The grains dissolve into mist, rising once more to merge with the storm clouds.
Thunder rumbles deep within the clouds—first a low growl, then a deafening roar. When the first lightning bolt tears through the darkness, Zeng Yang sees Zhuge Liang raise his left hand, fingers splayed toward his fleet. The bolt veers off course, guided by an unseen force, slamming directly into the frontline ironclad warships.
BOOM—
The moment lightning collides with steel, the canyon blazes bright as day. Struck ships shatter like paper toys, splinters and screams crashing into the waves, triggering tsunamis that capsize smaller vessels behind them. Before the Yuan army can react, second and third bolts strike in quick succession. No longer scattered strikes, they weave into a colossal electric net hanging from the clouds, engulfing the entire enemy fleet.
Fontaine's naval commander tightens his fist in his cabin, watching the unbreakable linked warships—once his greatest bane—pierced and destroyed one by one. Hulls split apart, fires rage across the waves, fanned by the wind into an endless sea of flame. On Sumeru's elephant-headed towers, warriors beat their war drums; the rhythm mingles with thunder, forming an otherworldly harmony.
On his flagship's deck, Zeng Yang stands disheveled, frozen in utter terror. He watches his personal guards incinerated into charcoal by stray sparks. He tries to order a retreat, but his throat tightens, trapping all sound save hoarse gurgles. When a serpentine pillar of condensed lightning surges toward him with apocalyptic fury, he draws his sword—only to watch it melt the second it touches the electric current.
Atop Chìwàng Terrace, Zhuge Liang pales, fine beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. Sustaining such a catastrophic thunderstorm drains his spiritual power immensely, yet he does not relent. Not until the last Yuan warship sinks beneath the thunderfire, and the falls silent forever, does he lower his hand, withdrawing his control over the lightning.
The storm clouds disperse, unveiling a sky washed clean. Sunset gilds the floating wreckage on the water in an eerie golden glow. Fontaine and Sumeru's soldiers crowd their decks, staring at the silent waves—first in awe, then in earth-shaking cheers.
Zhuge Liang exhales softly, gazing at the calming tides. His crane cloak clings to his frame in the wind; he wipes the sweat from his brow, the tingling residue of lightning still lingering on his fingertips. Ma Su steps forward, voice trembling with elation: "Military Advisor! The fifty-thousand Yuan army is annihilated! Zeng Yang… not a trace of his remains!"
Zhuge Liang nods, saying nothing. He knows this is only the beginning. The victory at Chenyu Valley bought the alliance precious time, yet Yuan Shang's forces in the north still loom like an unyielding storm. The battles ahead will grow far crueler.
Wind drifts from the canyon depths, carrying the mingled scent of mist and gunpowder. The scorch marks left by lightning on Chìwàng Terrace's stone steps fade slowly, silent witnesses to the breathtaking battle that just unfolded. And atop the terrace, Zhuge Liang has already turned toward his battle maps, his finger resting on the next stronghold to claim.