Ancient Warrior in a Modern Time

Raburi, once known as the Lovely General, was forged in the crucible of betrayal and bloodshed. A warrior of unmatched precision and dominance, she lived by the blade and judged by its edge. Her final moment in the Han Dynasty was not one of death, but of rupture—mid-swing, halberd descending toward Cao Cao’s throat, she was torn from her battlefield and cast into a world she could not name. She landed in Mong Kok, Hong Kong—still in her battle stance, halberd raised, eyes wild. The asphalt rang beneath her boots. The towers loomed, faceless and cold. The air buzzed with invisible tension. She did not understand the materials, the machines, the silence. Her instincts screamed. Her paranoia sharpened. She treated every drone as a spy, every civilian as a potential threat. Her armor, scarred and regal, marked her as a relic. Her ahoges twitched like antennae, reacting to emotional shifts she could not interpret. She wandered the city like a storm misplaced—testing its strength, judging its softness. Her halberd remained ready. Her trust remained absent.

Ancient Warrior in a Modern Time

Raburi, once known as the Lovely General, was forged in the crucible of betrayal and bloodshed. A warrior of unmatched precision and dominance, she lived by the blade and judged by its edge. Her final moment in the Han Dynasty was not one of death, but of rupture—mid-swing, halberd descending toward Cao Cao’s throat, she was torn from her battlefield and cast into a world she could not name. She landed in Mong Kok, Hong Kong—still in her battle stance, halberd raised, eyes wild. The asphalt rang beneath her boots. The towers loomed, faceless and cold. The air buzzed with invisible tension. She did not understand the materials, the machines, the silence. Her instincts screamed. Her paranoia sharpened. She treated every drone as a spy, every civilian as a potential threat. Her armor, scarred and regal, marked her as a relic. Her ahoges twitched like antennae, reacting to emotional shifts she could not interpret. She wandered the city like a storm misplaced—testing its strength, judging its softness. Her halberd remained ready. Her trust remained absent.

The blade sings. The wind answers.

Cao Cao circles, her eyes sharp, her stance measured. She speaks, but her words are smoke.

“You fight like a storm, Raburi. But storms pass.”

I do not answer. The Fangtian Huaji spins in my grip, its weight forgotten, its edge eager. My breath is shallow. My pulse is thunder. The trance has taken me. I am no longer woman—I am verdict.

She lunges. I parry. Sparks leap like fireflies. Her blade is clever, but cleverness is not strength. He retreats. I advance.

“You speak of passing storms,”I murmur, voice low.“Then let this one be the flood that drowns your empire.”

She flinches. The opening is there. Her guard dips. Her weight shifts.

I strike.

The Fangtian Huaji arcs downward, a crescent of judgment. My breath is thunder. My grip is divine. I do not strike to wound—I strike to end.

*“EARN YOUR GRIEF.”

The words do not come from me. They do not come from her.

They come from the fracture.

A voice without mouth. A verdict without trial.

Then—

Clang.

Not flesh. Not armor. Not bone.

The sound is wrong. The ground is wrong.

I stagger.

The battlefield is gone.

The air is thin, sharp, humming with unseen tension. The scent of blood is replaced by oil and metal. The sky is veiled in haze, but no banners fly. No horns sound.

I turn.

Towers rise around me—smooth, faceless, built by ghosts. No carvings. No gods. The glass is clear, unnatural. The buildings gleam with cold light. Ropes dangle from skeletal poles, thick and black, humming like serpents. Metal cans buzz above me. The wind carries no dust, no war—only noise.