Reborn in the Abyss: The Warrior's Vengeance

Three days passed in a blur of preparation. The city of Baishan had transformed into a fortress, its once-battered walls now reinforced with stone and steel, its gates fortified with timber felled from nearby forests. The scent of sweat, blood, and oil permeated the air as men and women toiled day and night, preparing for war.

Murong Chen stood atop the northern wall at dawn, the horizon painted in a hue of crimson and gold. It was an ominous color—the color of blood and fire. In the distance, the earth trembled beneath the march of imperial forces. Rows upon rows of gleaming armor caught the rising sun, a river of steel flowing toward Baishan.

"They're here," Lu Fan said grimly beside him.

Chen's eyes narrowed. "And so it begins."

Far below, the gates opened, and messengers sped to outlying villages, ushering in the last stragglers fleeing the approaching army. There would be no more delays. Zhao Wei had come to crush Baishan and make an example of Murong Chen, the traitor who had dared rise from the dead.

A horn's blare split the silence. From the imperial camp, a single rider approached under a white banner. He halted just beyond bow range, unfurling a scroll.

"In the name of His Majesty, Emperor Zhao Ren of the Tianxian Empire, this rebellion is declared treason!" His voice echoed across the plains, amplified by Qi. "Surrender the criminal Murong Chen, and Baishan shall be spared. Resist, and suffer the fate of all traitors—death without mercy!"

Silence followed. The city held its breath.

Then Murong Chen stepped forward, ascending the battlements, his cloak billowing in the morning breeze. With deliberate calm, he unsheathed his sword and pointed it skyward. The steel caught the sun's light, glinting like fire.

He spoke, his voice carrying across the city and fields like thunder. "Tell Zhao Wei this: Baishan bows to no tyrant. If he wants my head, he'll have to take it himself."

The rider hesitated. Then, with a sneer, he turned and galloped back toward the imperial camp.

As the sun rose higher, war drums thundered from the enemy lines. Murong Chen descended from the wall, his commanders waiting in the courtyard.

"They'll test our defenses," Yao Ming said, tightening his gauntlets. "Siege towers and rams. They'll want to break us quickly."

Chen nodded. "Then we bleed them at the gates. We hold them here, where their numbers mean less."

The next hours passed in tense anticipation. Soldiers took their positions—archers lining the walls, spearmen reinforcing the gates, cavalry stationed behind for counterattack. Black powder barrels were set along the paths leading to the gate, hidden beneath brush and earth.

Chen moved among his people, offering words of encouragement, his presence a steadying force. Many of these men had once been farmers, craftsmen, or slaves. Now they stood armed, determined to defend their home.

As noon approached, the earth trembled again—not from marching feet, but from siege engines. Massive wooden towers rolled forward, bristling with soldiers. Battering rams followed, iron-headed beasts designed to shatter even the strongest gates.

Then came Zhao Wei's voice, carried by Qi and laced with contempt. "Murong Chen! You should have stayed dead! Today, I'll finish what I started!"

Chen stepped onto the wall again, his eyes meeting the distant figure of Zhao Wei on horseback, clad in gold-plated armor, surrounded by banners of imperial crimson.

"I'm still waiting," Chen called back. "Come and try!"

With a wave of his hand, Zhao Wei unleashed hell.

Siege engines roared, and flaming arrows darkened the sky. The first clash began.

Archers on Baishan's walls retaliated, raining arrows upon the enemy. The scent of burning pitch filled the air as oil-drenched projectiles set siege towers alight. Explosions rang out as hidden powder barrels ignited, engulfing advancing troops in flame and smoke.

Murong Chen fought alongside his men, his blade dancing through the chaos like a silver tempest. Every strike was precise, every movement a testament to his training and resolve. Blood splashed across his armor, but he pressed forward, rallying the defenders.

Lu Fan held the western wall, Yao Ming led the cavalry in harrying strikes, and Chen—he was everywhere, a phantom among the flames.

Amid the chaos, a horn signaled a retreat. The first wave was repelled.

The city roared in victory, but Chen knew better. This was only the beginning.

That night, as the wounded were tended and the dead honored, Chen stood in the war room again. Zhao Wei had lost men—but he had more. Time was on his side. For Baishan, every loss was irreplaceable.

"We must strike first," Chen said at last. "Before he regroups."

Silence. Then Lu Fan stepped forward. "A raid?"

Chen nodded. "Tonight. We hit their supply lines. We make them bleed."

Under cover of darkness, Chen led a handpicked group beyond the walls, moving through forest paths known only to locals. They struck like ghosts, setting fire to supply wagons, poisoning wells, and slaughtering isolated patrols.

By dawn, the imperial camp was in disarray. Supplies burned, morale shaken.

Zhao Wei's fury was legendary. He ordered a full assault.

The second battle began.

This time, it was worse. The sky was black with smoke, the ground slick with blood. Siege towers reached the walls, and fighting spilled into the streets. Chen and his warriors fought like demons, refusing to yield.

Amidst the chaos, Chen came face to face with Zhao Wei atop the wall. Their blades clashed, sparks flying. Zhao Wei's strikes were powerful, fueled by hatred and Qi. But Chen was calm, focused, each movement deliberate.

"You can't win," Zhao Wei snarled. "The empire is eternal!"

Chen parried, countered, drove his blade into Zhao Wei's shoulder. "Empires fall. But vengeance... vengeance endures."

Zhao Wei fell, retreating with his elite guard.

Baishan held.

As the sun set on a blood-soaked battlefield, Chen stood atop the wall, his sword raised.

The people cheered.

But in Chen's heart, there was no joy. Only resolve.

Zhao Wei would return. So would others.

The war was far from over.

But Baishan stood.

And Murong Chen's vengeance had only begun.