MTLNOVEL Chapter 202: No Survivors
It took us three days to reach the depot. We had to cross through my mountains before we were officially in Yelan territory. But I had to admit, it was nice to be back home, even if we were in a rush.
The supply depot itself was tucked into the basin of a frozen riverbed, half-hidden behind crates of grain and tar-covered tents. It was quiet. There were no flags, no fires. Just the stink of damp hay, stale rice, and old boots.
It was a perfect target.
I crouched behind a fractured ledge overlooking the valley and scanned the perimeter. Yaozu was beside me, breath slow, eyes calculating. Shadow lay flat behind us, invisible in the dark.
"Eighteen guards visible," I murmured.
"Double that inside," Yaozu replied. "They'll be shifting soon."
I nodded once.
That was when they were weakest.
Shadow crept to the edge and sniffed once. His head turned sharply toward the left-most cart, where three men sat eating from chipped bowls. He could smell the illness. The fear. The rot beneath the grain sacks.
They weren't expecting us.
They thought hiding behind Yelan's border made them untouchable.
Baiguang hadn't officially declared war—not yet—but they'd been feeding troops into these outer regions for months. Not under their own banner. Not officially. They used Yelan's back roads, paid off local officials, moved grain under false merchant seals. It let them build stockpiles right beneath our noses.
It was clever.
But to reach them, they still had to pass through the western mountains.
My mountains.
And clever never wins when I'm watching.
I stood, adjusting the scarf around my throat, and pulled my black gloves tight at the wrist.
"No sound," I whispered.
Yaozu melted into the dark like he'd never been there.
Shadow slipped down the hill behind him.
I moved last.
The slope was slick, dusted with a thin sheen of frost, but my boots held. Every step deliberate. Every breath measured. There were no trees in the basin—no cover but night—but I didn't need cover.
I was the thing they should have been hiding from.
The first guard fell before he finished swallowing his mouthful of porridge. His spoon clattered to the ground beside his body, blood steaming faintly in the dirt.
The second died with a hand still resting on his hip.
The third tried to call out.
I broke his throat with one hand.
Yaozu slit the tent's entrance and slipped inside without a sound. Two more bodies hit the ground seconds later. A third tried to scramble out through the back canvas. He didn't make it.
I moved to the next tent.
My fingers brushed the surface of the tarp.
The black mist spilled out.
Not too much. Just a whisper. Just enough to roll in under the tent flaps like smoke from a dying fire.
They started coughing.
Then screaming.
Then they stopped altogether.
I waited four breaths.
Then I stepped through.
The last one inside was still alive—barely—curled in the corner, clutching at his own tongue like he could push the poison out if he just tore it free.
I crouched beside him.
"This is a message," I said softly.
He choked.
"Not for Baiguang," I continued. "Not for the Emperor. For anyone watching who still thinks I ask permission to win."
His eyes rolled back as the mist took hold.
I stood again.
Outside, Shadow was already tearing through the grain stores. He wasn't eating—just ripping, shredding, flinging rice and oats into the wind.
A cart exploded behind us—Yaozu's work.
The flames caught the hay fast. The wind helped.
Within minutes, half the depot was ablaze.
Not a single horn had sounded.
No alarms.
No horses fleeing. No guards calling for reinforcements.
We didn't give them the chance.
I moved from tent to tent with surgical rhythm—mist when I could, blade when I had to. Yaozu handled the back flank, cutting off escape routes, planting the final fire traps. Shadow swept the perimeter twice, checking for stragglers.
When I reached the central cart—the one marked with Baiguang's seal—I tore the tarp free with one hand and found crates stacked high with salt, oil, and preserved meats. Too much to carry. Too much to let them keep.
It made me wish, not for the first time, that I has my own space powers to be able to horde all the supplies that I wanted. Letting out a disappointed sigh, I broke every seal myself.
By the time the flames reached it, the whole depot smelled of char and vinegar and death.
I didn't flinch.
I didn't speak.
There was nothing to say.
------
It was nearly dawn when we pulled back.
Yaozu regrouped with me beneath the northern ridge, his hair damp with frost, the corner of his sleeve torn where someone had tried to grab him.
"Clean," he said.
"No survivors?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"None that'll talk."
I adjusted my gloves again. They were damp now. One fingertip soaked in blood. The leather would stain. I didn't care.
Shadow returned last, tail low, teeth bared. He dropped something at my feet—a shredded flag. Baiguang's colors.
I bent, picked it up, and handed it to Yaozu.
"Leave it on the road behind us," I said. "Let the patrols find it."
"They'll know we were here."
"They're supposed to."
"Even if Yelan accuses us of violating their territory?"
I mounted slowly, saddle stiff from cold. The horse snorted beneath me but didn't shift. Shadow waited beside us, watching the smoke rise from the basin below.
"If Yelan wanted to stay neutral," I said, "they shouldn't have housed Baiguang's grain."
"They'll deny it."
"Then we'll burn the next one too."
No horns.
No counterattack.
Just black curls of ash reaching toward the brightening sky.
I didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
The message was already written—in fire, in blood, in the twisted, empty supply lines that wouldn't reach Baiguang's hungry front lines.
I turned the horse toward the east trail and started riding. Yaozu fell in just behind me. Shadow took the front.
We still had one more stop before returning.
Another outpost. Another depot.
Another place where I wouldn't leave anyone breathing.