A cold breeze cut through the military camp like a blade, weaving between the tightly packed tents that flapped under the pressure of the wind. The ground beneath was frozen and unwelcoming, a hardened stretch of dirt broken only by patches of brittle grass and shards of ice. Winter had not yet fully arrived, but it had announced itself with teeth.

Despite the harsh conditions, dozens of young men trained under the grey sky. Their breath came out in thick clouds as they marched in unison, lifted weights carved from stone, or practiced with bamboo swords under the barked orders of the officers. Muscles burned, lungs ached, and knuckles cracked, but no one dared to complain. The empire needed new soldiers. The emperor's demands were absolute. There was no room for softness.

Commander Qian Zhuo walked silently among them, his long black cloak brushing against the frozen ground. He didn't flinch against the wind. His back remained perfectly straight, his steps precise, each one heavy with discipline and purpose. His hands were clasped behind him, and his eyes, dark, sharp, and unreadable, moved across the recruits like blades searching for weakness.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence alone was enough to silence even the boldest whisper. The soldiers straightened their spines, tightened their grips, and doubled their efforts when they noticed him watching.