The forward scouts of the Flying Crane Sect moved through the fog with the silent, hungry smooth speed of hunting leopards.
Twelve figures dressed in skintight suits of midnight-blue shadow-silk drifted across the border ridge, their boots barely disturbing the frost-covered scree. Each scout carried a pair of serrated wind-daggers across their chest. Their eyes scanning the was dark slopes for Azure Cloud sentries. Behind them, advancing up the ravine at an unrushed, arrogant march, came forty heavily armored shock-troopers, with four assault skiffs floating silently on cushions of tightly packed air.
Leading the calm distance was Vanguard Commander Yue. A lean, hawk-faced martial master at the peak of the Foundation Establishment realm, his shoulders draped in the white feathered mantle of the Flying Crane elite.
Yue looked toward the dark, dead dark shape of Boundary Pylon Three and smirked with cold disdain.
“A sect of decadent, corrupt old fools,” Yue murmured to his lieutenant, his voice carried away by the alpine wind. “Ten thousand silver coins to a greedy border captain, and their unbeatable eight-hundred-year barrier falls like a cheap brothel curtain. Signal the skiffs to advance. We burn Watchpost Seven, execute the guard post, and secure the spirit-herb valley before their central court even smells the smoke.”
