"The Knights of the Holy Grave aren't just nobles," said Elder Tarik, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. "They worship not only God, but a cruel, merciless order."
He spoke slowly, every word landing like a stone.
"Before receiving a sword, each knight must stand watch over the grave for seven nights—no food, no sleep. They claim their blades don't defend—they purify."
The warriors around the fire listened in silence.
"In their creed, heretics don't negotiate—unless your blood frightens them, or your blade has tasted theirs."
A shadow passed behind the flames. Tu Lu, seated nearby, muttered coldly, "He climbed over corpses to get where he is."
They all knew the name: Raymond de Montfort. Five years ago, he had executed three traitors at the gates of Jerusalem. Now, he was a master knight—and the one they were about to meet.
Li Song sat quietly, watching the fire crackle. He knew this wasn't just a negotiation. It was a warning dressed as diplomacy.
The Belen Well lay between two ridges, sand-wrapped on three sides with only one narrow path open to the east.
A team of five departed before dawn under the Green Banner: Deputy Commander Halim, a translator, a guard named Aisha, another escort, and Li Song. His role was simple: observe, stay quiet, and protect the envoy.
As they reached the well, the enemy stood ready.
Knights in white and red formed a line like blood spilled over snow. At the front was a rider in a white plate, gold thread faint beneath his cloak. His horse snorted mist into the morning air.
"That's Raymond," Halim muttered. "Three months ago, he led a hundred knights through the Tabu pass, burned seven villages, and took no prisoners."
The translator added, "His sword is called Snow Oath. They say you feel it's chill before it even leaves the scabbard."
Li Song raised his eyes. Raymond's face was carved from stone. He hadn't drawn his blade—but already, it felt like he was choking the air itself.
The Green Banner dismounted and approached. The deputy saluted. The translator presented their terms. Raymond didn't speak. He simply gestured—and a white-robed squire set a stone table down between them.
Then the wind changed. From the west came yellow sand—and the faint sound of distant horns.
The negotiation began.
Raymond proposed dividing the well: north to them, south to the Green Banner. Halim refused. "This water has belonged to both sides for generations," he said. "We won't carve it up by the terms of a heretic treaty."
Raymond smiled—barely.
"In that case," he said, "there's no need to continue."
A parchment was brought forward. Halim's eyes widened—it was sheepskin, dyed with the ashes of Green Banner dead.
Halim exploded in fury, drawing his blade. "This is an insult!"
Li Song noticed it first. The enemy cavalry to the right began shifting—too smoothly, too slowly. Feet turned sideways. Hands moved to hilts.
"Retreat," Li Song whispered.
But it was already too late.
Raymond whispered like a prayer, "The gods are with me."Then, everything erupted.
A flash of steel—Halim staggered, a blade driven through his chest.The translator's head snapped sideways, throat open.Aisha roared, shield raised—only to be run through and pinned to the wall.The chain-fighter hurled his hook, caught a soldier's shoulder——but a spear pierced him from behind before he could pull.
In seconds, four were dead.
Only Li Song moved.
An arrow whistled. He dropped, rolled, then bolted behind a camel's corpse.Dog—his blade—came free.Eagle—his bow—snapped upward.One shot. An enemy fell, face split by arrowhead.
He couldn't save them. But he could survive.
Teeth clenched, breath ragged, Li Song fled up the ridge, over the cliff, into the rocks below.
Behind him, blood pooled beneath the well. Raymond stood motionless.
"Leave one alive," he said. "He'll carry our message better than we ever could."
The knights searched the bodies. None survived.
Raymond sheathed Snow Oath, its edge still gleaming with Halim's blood.
"They'll reply," he said, gazing south."And next time, they'll bring everything."
Far from the well, Li Song crawled from beneath a stone outcrop. Lips cracked. Blade in hand.
He ran.
Over three cliffs, no fire, no roads. He drank lava-filtered rain. Ate raw fox. Bled from thorn cuts, nearly shattered a leg. He slept among bones and dreamed of dead friends calling his name.
On the third day, he saw it—the scout tower of the Green Banner, rising in the dust.
A young sentry spotted him, shouted. The camp stirred.
Khalid came out himself. He saw the torn robe, the dried blood, the cracked lips. He said nothing.
Li Song knelt. Voice sharp and broken:
"They ambushed us. I'm the only one left."
The tent fell into silence.
Tu Lu slammed the table. "A trap! Halim wouldn't fall like that!"
Khalid asked, "Do you have proof?"
Li Song opened a blood-stained cloth—inside, the sheepskin treaty, still damp with Aisha's blood.
Khalid's eyes darkened. "This will not go unanswered."
But whispers began.
"He was just a soldier. Why did he survive?""Could he have... betrayed them?"
Li Song drove Dog into the ground. Said nothing.
Tu Lu shouted, "Then go dig that valley yourself if you don't believe it!"
No one spoke.
In the following days, Li Song was barred from carrying a weapon. Not imprisoned—but watched.
Tu Lu brought food, but no comfort.
On the fourth night, under moonlight, Li Song sat outside the tent.
He unrolled a map.
Stone by stone, he redrew the battlefield.
Every rock. Every flank. Every path.
His brush struck like a blade.
Vengeance wasn't words.Vengeance was waiting——for the moment when the blade found bone again.