It was not enough. He knew it was not enough.

Jiang Ziya stood at the edge of the camp, his bamboo staff sunk a hand’s depth into the soaked earth. Behind him, the allied forces of the Zhou breathed in ragged formation—farmers turned soldiers, shamans turned generals, boys with too-big spears and old men who had already buried their sons. Before him, a league away, the walls of Chaoge rose black against a bruised sky. And beyond those walls, King Zhou’s sorcerers had already begun to sing.

From the walls of Chaoge, a pillar of black fire erupted—not hot, but wrong , a cold flame that ate light. Inside it, shapes moved. Not human. Never had been. The generals of King Zhou’s army had made bargains decades ago, trading bloodlines for power. Now their descendants came to collect: scaled things with too many joints, faces that smiled on both sides, swords forged from the bones of stillborn gods.

“Master.” A young disciple tugged at his sleeve, rain streaming down a face too young for war. “The river. It’s… leaving.”

He turned to his army—this ragtag, desperate, mortal army—and raised his staff. The clear note spread across the ranks, sharpening spear points, steadying hearts, reminding bones that they were real in a world that was learning to forget.

Jiang Ziya looked up at the boiling sky and saw the last of the immortal cranes scatter east, fleeing toward Kunlun. The gods had closed their doors. No reinforcements would come from above.