Chapter Forty-Eight: Blood Upon the Thousand Steps
Crane waited alone.
He was perched atop the tiled roof of one of the old merchant houses lining the main corridor of the village—the same winding street he had walked a thousand times before. The tiles beneath him were cracked, speckled with ashfall from the distant campfires the Mongols had lit the night before.
His heartbeat accelerated in his chest.
The first wave would be coming soon. He had seen them gathering in the predawn hours, scouts and vanguard forces moving in loose ranks through the lower fields. Surely, the Mongols thought this to be an easy task—to walk into the valley, burn what little remained, and be on their way by nightfall.
But they didn't know what waited for them.
Crane closed his eyes; he had not slept. None of them had. But his mind was sharper than it had been in weeks—carved down to a single, fine edge by the inescapable reality of what was coming.
Below him, hidden in the shadows behind barricades and walls, the villagers of the Valley of Peace lay in wait clutching makeshift weapons, bows, and crossbows. They were not soldiers. Most had never fought before. The youngest of them were barely more than children. The oldest could barely draw back their bows. But they had all shown tremendous bravery in choosing to defend the valley. He had offered them the chance to leave—begged them, even.
And yet here they were. They had stayed.
Crane was more afraid for them than he was for himself. This was his duty, after all.
The tense minutes continued to pass.
Then, far down the road, he heard it: the distant, rhythmic hum of soldiers moving over the damp earth. The Mongols were coming. Just as he had expected, the vanguard had arrived. There were no more than fifty of them, but they seemed well-armed and dangerous.
They advanced at great speed at first, slowing as they approached the first houses of the village. Crane picked out the wolf captain at their head, armored in iron and brandishing a long curved blade. The canine warrior carried himself with a lazy sort of confidence, looking about the empty street with casual disdain. The other soldiers fanned out behind him in loose formation—wolves, leopards, and a handful of various mercenaries, their mismatched armor clinking softly as they advanced.
Crane remained as still as possible on the rooftop, watching. Hidden breaths were held tight behind obscured barricades, the creak of bows drawn halfway back, the rustle of shifting bodies pressed against walls. The villagers were waiting for his signal. They had only one chance at this.
The wolf's snout twitched as if scenting the air. The old veteran surely could tell something was amiss in the apparently deserted village.
"Spread out," the captain barked, his voice echoing down the narrow street. "These peasants wouldn't have fled without a fight. Find them."
The soldiers began to break formation, weapons drawn.
Crane's breath stopped.
Just a little further…
The wolf captain stepped forward again and turned his head toward one of the alleys where a few overturned carts had been hastily arranged; it was an improvised barricade just convincing enough to look like an abandoned defensive position.
A thin smirk crossed the wolf's muzzle, and he raised a paw to signal his soldiers forward. He had taken the bait.
Now.
Crane's wings snapped open, and he dropped from the roof in a blur of motion. He landed hard in the middle of the street, right before the leader of the vanguard. The other soldiers who had been moving towards the surrounding buildings stopped in their tracks at once.
"Looking for someone?" he called out.
The wolf's eyes narrowed in surprise—but not fear. He glanced at the single warrior standing before him, then snorted dismissively.
"Just a little bird?" the leader teased. "We were hoping for something a bit more impressive."
Crane shifted his weight slightly, feathers ruffling in the breeze. He kept his stance loose, relaxed—inviting the enemy to underestimate him.
"Oh, don't worry," he replied smoothly. "There's plenty more of us."
He swept his wings forward, giving the decisive signal to the others.
From the rooftops and alleyways, the villagers sprang into action.
Bows and crossbows fired in perfect unison, their projectiles slicing through the air and striking down several of the frontmost Mongols before they could react. At the same moment, hidden ropes pulled out the supports from previously-weakened buildings; the structures collapsed into the surrounding streets, crushing some of the Mongols and boxing the vanguard in from all sides.
Crane leapt into the fray, wings snapping out to deflect a sword strike before driving a powerful forward kick into the wolf captain, sending him sprawling backward with a shocked expression on his face. The street erupted into chaos: shouts, clashing weapons, and the whistling of arrows filling the air as the villagers rushed in from all around.
The wolf captain scrambled back to his feet, rage flashing across his face as he bared his fangs.
"Kill them all!" he roared.
Crane twisted through the air, his wings slicing across the face of another soldier before landing atop a fallen cart. The skirmish unfolded in a furious blur. The vanguard had walked directly into the jaws of the trap, and now they were paying the price.
The villagers fought with desperate fury—smashing spears into exposed flanks, dragging soldiers away from their allies, and swarming those who fell to the ground. They moved in small, coordinated clusters just as Crane had drilled them, overwhelming their enemies with sheer numbers.
A leopard roared as he swung his blade, but a pig villager with a pitchfork caught him in the ribs just as another clubbed him to the ground. Further down the street, a pair of rabbits with blacksmith's hammers battered another Mongol until his armor cracked and he collapsed beneath the blows. Crane wove through the chaos with purpose, deflecting blades with the edge of his wings and striking with pinpoint precision; he knew that time was of the essence.
The wolf captain fought harder than the rest, slashing through the crowd. He managed only a few steps before Crane intercepted him again. With a beat of his wings, the bird master launched the canine backwards just as another building collapsed, smothering him entirely. By the time the last Mongol had fallen, the villagers were catching their breath, wide-eyed and stunned. Then a sudden, ragged cheer broke out among the defenders. Some clutched each other in disbelief, others threw their fists into the air.
They had won.
Crane stood among them, watching. He wanted to let them have this moment, to believe in the fleeting hope that maybe they had done enough.
But he knew better.
The celebration flickered and died as his voice cut through the noise.
"This was only the first wave," he called out. "They'll be back, before the hour's out—and in far greater numbers."
The gathered villagers stilled, acknowledging the truth in his words.
"Fall back to the barricades," he ordered. "Take everything you can carry and reinforce the secondary positions. Now!"
No one argued. The taste of victory had been sweet, but short-lived. They gathered their wounded and hurried deeper into the village, disappearing behind the makeshift barricades that lined the second defensive line.
Crane lingered a moment longer, glancing back down the road. Beyond the village, the black shapes of the Mongolian main force were already shifting on the horizon.
The second wave came swiftly.
By the time the villagers had reached the secondary line of makeshift walls near the bottom of the Jade Palace steps, the sun had climbed higher. The midday shade grew alongside the building sound of war drums. Crane crouched low behind one of the barricades, eyes locked on the advancing force through the narrow gaps. The Mongol main force approached in disciplined columns; they were more heavily armored, and in overwhelming numbers. Wolves, leopards, and jackals marched in tight ranks, bearing long spears and iron shields. They had undoubtedly learned what had befallen the vanguard, and were taking no chances this time.
Crane could hear the villagers behind him shifting nervously. Their earlier victory had kindled a fragile hope, but that had diminished as the enemy's clear advantage became evident.
"Wait for my signal," Crane whispered, more to steady the others than himself.
The Mongols halted just out of range, the front ranks peeling away to either side. A single figure strode forward through the gap: a tall snow leopard, draped in a dark blue cloak.
The general.
Crane rose slowly from behind the barricade, spreading his wings and stepping forward.
"Turn back," he called out. "There's nothing here for you."
The general just gave him a low, growling laugh in response.
"You must be Crane of the Furious Five." the leopard called back. "The peasants of this land speak well of your exploits."
Crane just stared him down in response, and the general seemed amused by the defiance.
"I am Qorchi," he declared, his voice carrying easily across the quiet street. "Commander of the southern horde. Loyal servant of Khasar Khan."
The bird's stare remained fixed, offering no reply.
The snow leopard's smile thinned.
"Give up this nonsense, bird. You stand no chance against us."
Crane turned his head slightly, "Are you trying to offer us terms?"
"Heh—of course not," Qorchi laughed. "I can only offer you a less painful death!"
The avian master scowled back, "Then we have nothing left to talk about."
Without hesitation, Crane propelled himself backwards to the safety of the barricade, and the Mongol warriors surged forward. Their collective weight slammed against the improvised defenses, their weapons piercing through the woodwork with savage haste.
The first warrior crossed into the narrow choke point between the barricades.
"Now!" Crane shouted.
Just as before, more concealed villagers on the rooftops ambushed the Mongols again, releasing a volley of arrows into the advancing soldiers. The attack was effective, forcing many of the invaders to scramble for cover. This time, however, they were thwarted as several golden eagles struck from above and swept the defenders from the roofs. Seeing them as the immediate threat, Crane took flight to engage the other avians.
Crane's wings snapped open, catching the rising currents of wind as he soared into the grey sky. The golden eagles peeled away from the rooftops below, banking wide in perfect unison to intercept him. Their burnished plumage gleamed beneath the pale sun—living weapons sharpened by the Mongol war machine. He had fought birds before, but these were no ordinary warriors. The Mongol eagles were born and bred for war, trained to strike with the same ruthless efficiency as any soldier on the ground.
The first eagle broke formation and streaked toward him with a piercing shriek. Crane twisted aside just in time, the enemy's talons slicing through the air where his neck had been. He countered with a sharp wing jab, catching the eagle's side and knocking him into a clumsy spiral—but the others were already upon him. They came from different angles, driving him higher into the open sky, isolating him.
Crane blocked a second strike, batting one eagle's wing away with his own. The force of the clash sent a shockwave through his body. These warriors were heavier than he was, stronger too—but he was faster.
He dove, breaking into a steep, spiraling descent that forced the eagles to scatter or lose him entirely. One lagged behind just a half-beat too long—Crane flicked out his talons, raking them across the eagle's back. The bird shrieked in pain and plummeted out of formation, flapping awkwardly as it tried to recover.
Three left.
They came at him again, circling ominously. Crane's breathing quickened, his wings beginning to burn. He knew they wanted to wear him down—to grind him into exhaustion before delivering the final blow.
He climbed sharply, forcing the eagles to follow. Higher and higher he flew, until the rooftops and barricades below became little more than fractured shapes.
Then, he folded his wings tight against his body—and dove.
The wind howled in his ears, the world blurring past in streaks of grey and green. The eagles scrambled to follow, but they were heavier, slower. Crane's speed was his weapon—he cut through the air like an arrow.
At the last possible moment, he flared his wings wide, catching the wind to break his fall.
The eagles were not so lucky.
One crashed into a rooftop with a sickening crunch, tumbling into the street below. Another narrowly pulled out of the dive, but not before Crane whipped his leg out, striking the warrior squarely across the beak and sending him spinning into a nearby wall.
Only one remained now—the largest of the four.
Crane hovered in the air, breathing hard. The lone eagle circled him slowly, their eyes locked. The battle below them still raged, the villagers doing their best to hold the line in the bird master's absence.
The large eagle came in fast—faster than the others—wings tucked tight, talons flashing.
Crane saw the attack coming, but he didn't try to dodge.
Instead, he folded his wings and dove straight toward his opponent.
The two birds collided in a blur of feathers, tumbling through the air in a brutal mid-air grapple. Talons raked against Crane's shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood. He gritted his beak, wrapping his wings tightly around the eagle to pin him in place.
Together, they hurtled toward the earth.
At the last second, Crane opened his wings—just enough to break his fall.
The eagle had no chance to do the same.
The enemy slammed hard into the cobblestone street, feathers scattering around his crumpled form.
Crane landed lightly a few feet away, panting hard as the battle raged on behind him.
His wings ached; his heart pounded.
But he was still standing.
He turned his gaze back toward the barricades, where Qorchi's warriors were still pressing the defenders hard.
No rest. Not yet.
The battle raged on.
Crane's wings beat heavily as he landed back behind the barricades, feathers streaked with blood. The victory in the skies had been hard-won—but it had cost him precious strength, and the fight below was beginning to slip beyond control. The Mongols had learned quickly. Qorchi's lieutenants barked commands in sharp bursts, and the invaders began to press the defenders from multiple angles—dividing the village square into isolated pockets of violence.
Crane's heart sank as he watched the barricades buckle beneath the weight of the assault. Crossbow bolts clattered uselessly against shields. The villagers fought with desperate courage, but every street and alleyway was slowly being carved away.
He struck down a charging wolf with a precise kick to the temple, then wheeled around to deflect a spear thrust from another. The rhythm of the fight became a blur, but no matter how many fell, more kept coming.
"Fall back!" Crane shouted, his voice barely cutting through the din. "To the stairs! Now!"
The defenders began to retreat, breaking away from their crumbling barricades. They moved in tight, scrambling groups, dragging the wounded with them. The few remaining villagers on the rooftops dropped down, abandoning their perches as arrows hissed through the air behind them.
Crane fought a careful retreat, gliding low along the narrow avenues to guide the others. He felt the Mongols tightening around them, pressing hard to finish what they had started.
The valley's ancient stone steps rose ahead—the final path to the Jade Palace.
"This way!" Crane called, waving them onward.
The defenders scrambled up the lower steps, hurling broken crates and loose debris behind them in a desperate effort to slow their pursuers. The narrow staircase forced the Mongols to bunch together, blunting the full force of their numbers. Crane took the rear, launching quick strikes from above whenever the enemy tried to overtake the fleeing villagers. His wings blurred through the air, but he could not stem the tide forever.
Qorchi's soldiers fought with cruel efficiency, cutting down those who lagged behind without hesitation. The snow leopard general followed slowly behind his warriors, watching the retreat with a predator's patience.
The stairs stretched high above them. Crane was determined to make the invaders pay dearly for each and every step. They reached the first landing, a broad terrace that overlooked the village below. The valley stretched out beneath them, smoke curling from scattered fires.
Crane turned, scanning the path behind them.
No matter how high they climbed, the enemy would keep coming.
One of the villagers, a young pig, slumped against the edge of the stairway, clutching a bloodied gash along his leg.
"We can't—" he began, his voice breaking. "We can't hold them…"
Crane forced himself to meet the boy's wide, terrified eyes.
"Yes, you can," he said firmly. "Every second we hold them here gives the others time to escape."
A shout rang out from further down the stairs—another wave of Mongols closing in. No matter how brave they were, the villagers wouldn't survive another charge.
But they could still slow the enemy.
"Go," Crane said softly, stepping forward. "Everyone fall back to the tournament courtyard!"
The defenders hesitated.
"Go!" he barked, voice cutting through the panic.
They moved—some limping, some helping the wounded—climbing higher up the steps toward the last defensible line. Crane stood alone at the edge of the landing, wings half-spread, waiting for the next wave to reach him.
He felt the exhaustion in his limbs. The ache in his lungs.
Still, he stayed.
His chest rose and fell with each steady breath, but something within him had begun to stir—an ember flickering beneath the crushing weight of exhaustion.
The first Mongol lunged.
Crane moved without thought.
His wing whipped out, slicing across the wolf's exposed jaw with such force that the soldier crumpled instantly—his body flung back into the warriors behind him. Crane blinked in surprise, his own strength catching him off guard. Feeling a surge of energy, he pushed outward; the motion released a burst of golden energy that sent dozens of the Mongols flying backwards down the steps.
He knew this feeling. Chi. But he hadn't ever been able to do anything like this before. Crane spread his wings wide, stepping forward to meet the next wave of attackers. The remaining villagers—those too stubborn or afraid to flee—watched in awe as their protector moved through the chaos with newfound precision. His strikes became sharper, faster. The subtle glow of golden Chi shimmered along the edges of his feathers, flickering in and out.
A wolf rushed in from the side.
Crane pivoted and struck him with the back of his wing, knocking the attacker into a cluster of advancing soldiers. The Mongols stumbled, buying precious seconds for the others to climb higher.
"Stay close!" Crane called out, his voice steadier than before. "We fall back together!"
The villagers obeyed, dragging the wounded with them—yet a few remained at his side. Every step they gave, they made the enemy bleed for it. Crane's Chi flickered with every strike; it guided him, lending him strength when his body should have failed. But the power was fleeting, unpredictable. He felt it rise and fall like the wind, never quite fully under his control.
Still, it was enough.
Bit by bit, the defenders surrendered the stairs—each retreat measured, each loss counted. By the time they reached the final stretch before the tournament courtyard, Crane's breath was ragged. His wings drooped at his sides, the glow of Chi barely flickering along his feathers now.
He could feel the end drawing near. The fighting dragged on for some time as they gradually worked their way up the remaining steps.
Crane stumbled into the courtyard, his wings shaking. The tournament grounds stretched out before him, a broad stone square flanked by half-repaired archways and weathered columns. Broken banners fluttered in the rising wind, their crimson silk tattered. This was where the final line of defenders remained.
At the center of it all was Mei Ling.
She knelt at the far edge of the courtyard, eyes closed, her paws resting gently atop her thighs. The golden cat's breath was slow, measured—undisturbed by the chaos unraveling below. Behind her, the tile panoramic of the mountain landscape remained undamaged, flanked by the two golden dragon statues. The polished shaft of Shen's guandao lay across her knees, its steel blade glinting in the sunlight.
Even in the thick of war, she looked impossibly serene.
Crane staggered forward, his mind swimming with exhaustion. Only now did he truly understand—the faint flickers of Chi that had carried him up the stairs, the strength that had stirred inside him—it had not come from nowhere.
It had come from her.
The feline's eyes opened, fixing on him as if she had known he would arrive at this precise moment.
"You felt it, didn't you?" she asked softly.
Crane swallowed hard, glancing down at his trembling wings.
"How?" he rasped.
Mei Ling's gaze moved back to the horde in the distance—the endless stream of Mongol warriors swarming up the steps.
"I told you before," she murmured, rising to her feet. "We are stronger together."
With a graceful motion, she lifted the guandao and set its blade against the stones. Crane forced a breath into his aching lungs. The last of the villagers reached the courtyard behind him—scarred, battered, but still standing. They fanned out, clutching their battered weapons.
There was nowhere left to fall back now.
"Mei Ling…" Crane's voice was hoarse. "They'll overwhelm us."
"I know," she said simply.
He took a step closer, lowering his voice. "We're not getting out of this."
A flicker of sadness crossed her features, but it was fleeting.
"Maybe we're not meant to," she replied.
Crane's chest ached—not from exhaustion, but from the quiet finality in her voice.
"You could have run," he said softly.
"So could you." She turned to him at last, meeting his gaze fully. "But here we are."
The sound of the Mongols grew louder. Mei Ling's paws tightened around the guandao.
"We finish this together," she said.
Crane swallowed hard, forcing down the rising knot in his throat. He looked at her for what felt like the first time.
This was the woman who had saved his life. The one who had believed in him when he couldn't believe in himself. The one who had seen something in him—something more.
And now, here at the end, she stood beside him.
Crane's beak twitched into a faint, tired smile.
"Together," he echoed.
Mei Ling's eyes softened for a fleeting moment.
Then she stepped forward, the guandao spinning once in her grasp. The blade caught the wind, slicing the air with a sharp whisper.
Behind them, the remaining villagers clutched their weapons and braced for the charge.
The first Mongols reached the courtyard.
The last stand began.
Crane moved forward, wings flaring as he drove into the front ranks. His movements weaved between strikes, his long limbs lashing out with calculated precision. Beside him, Mei Ling was a golden blur. The guandao whirled through the air, cutting clean through armor, bone, and flesh. Every motion was a perfect arc—each strike a blend of beauty and savagery. She fought with the lethal grace of a dancer, her movements uninterrupted, unbroken.
A wolf lunged at her with a spear.
Mei Ling pivoted, catching the shaft in one paw and yanking the attacker forward—her blade slicing through his exposed throat in a single, seamless motion. The body hit the ground before the blood even splattered the stones.
The feline's eyes burned, but there was no pleasure in her fury.
More Mongols poured into the courtyard—dozens, then scores—climbing over their fallen comrades. The clash of steel and bone echoed through the hollow square, punctuated by cries of pain and the sharp ring of blades. Crane fought as if possessed—his wings slicing through the air, deflecting swords and battering his enemies with sweeping force. But for every warrior they struck down, more surged forward to take their place.
Crane looked to the precious few defenders who remained.
"Go. Leave while you still can." he ordered.
"But Master Crane—" the nearest villager protested.
"No!" the avian dismissed. "Mei and I will hold them—go to the palace and barricade the doors!"
The villagers did not want to abandon the masters, but heeded the avian's words. Crane and Mei Ling would fight alone.
A spear glanced off Crane's shoulder.
A sword slashed through the hem of Mei Ling's tunic.
The circle around them began to close.
Still, they fought on.
Back to back; side by side.
"Well, I'd say we did pretty well, didn't we?" the golden cat commented, trying to make light of things despite it all.
Crane's breaths came heavy and slow, his vision blurring at the edges. He could feel the weight of his body slowing, his limbs burning with exertion. The flicker of Chi beneath his feathers had nearly guttered out.
This was it. This was where they would fall.
Crane glanced sideways at Mei Ling—panting, blood-streaked, her golden fur darkened with grime.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
Mei Ling didn't look at him. She kept fighting.
"Don't be."
Another enemy fell.
"We'll meet again in the next life."
The Mongols had them fully surrounded now, the looks on their faces twisted with bloodlust as they moved closer. It was a hopeless situation, and Crane knew he was far too weak to fly them to safety.
The ranks of the invaders parted once more, and Qorchi emerged through the gap—his dark cloak billowing behind him. The snow leopard prowled forward with deliberate slowness, one paw resting on the silvered saber at his hip.
"I'll be damned," the leopard jested, voice thick with cruel amusement. "You fought well, bird. Killed some of my best warriors. It's only right that I kill you myself."
Crane swallowed hard, his throat tight.
Then he spread his wings wide—ready to sell his life dearly.
Mei Ling squared her stance beside him, her paws contorting around the guandao's shaft, flicking blood from its blade with a sharp twist of her wrist.
Qorchi smirked, drawing his sword in one smooth motion.
"You'll make fine trophies for Khasar," he sneered. "Perhaps I'll mount your wings above the Khan's throne."
Crane closed his eyes, accepting the inevitable.
The snow leopard stepped forward—blade rising.
And then a roar split the sky—a deafening, earth-shaking roar.
The sound rolled across the courtyard like a crack of thunder—deep and primal, carrying through the mountains. Every Mongol froze. Qorchi's smile faltered.
From above, a shadow plummeted from the heavens—falling fast, faster—until Tigress hit the ground like a meteor.
The first warrior crumpled beneath her, his skull crushed into the stone.
The second never even raised his weapon before her paw shattered his jaw with a single strike.
The third was flung through the air with a bone-cracking kick, his body colliding with the outer wall.
Qorchi staggered back, his golden eyes wide with shock.
Crane froze, his heart catching in his chest.
It can't be. It couldn't—
"Tigress?" he whispered.
She didn't look at him—never even paused.
She flowed into the chaos, her striped form cutting through the Mongols like a living storm. Every strike was raw, ruthless—imbued with a fury Crane had never seen before.
It was her.
Alive.
Impossible.
Qorchi's shock curdled into rage. He bared his fangs, raising his saber.
"Kill her!" he roared.
But before the order could be followed—
Another shadow fell across the courtyard.
A streak of grey and purple.
Tai Lung.
No—Boragal.
The Demon of Dūnhuáng landed with fluid, predatory grace, his claws unsheathing with a metallic whisper. He moved without mercy—tearing through the Mongols like paper.
Crane's mind reeled. His breath caught in his throat. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible.
Tigress flicked a glance toward him—just once.
But in that instant, he knew.
It's really her.
His knees nearly buckled.
Mei Ling's breath caught beside him.
"Xian…" she whispered, her voice trembling.
But there was no time for questions, no time for disbelief—only the fight.
Crane shook himself free of his shock, spreading his wings and diving back into the fray. Mei Ling followed without hesitation, her guandao carving through the stunned Mongols.
The tide had turned.
As Tigress continued to ravage the advancing ranks of Mongols, Tai Lung was a streak of death through the courtyard—unstoppable. His claws carved through armor and flesh with mechanical ruthlessness, every motion honed from a lifetime of perfecting the art of violence.
A wolf soldier lunged from the side, aiming to catch him unaware with a curved saber. Tai Lung's ears twitched—the only acknowledgment he gave before spinning to intercept. His paw snapped forward, seizing the wolf's wrist mid-swing. With a bone-crunching twist, he forced the weapon from his enemy's grasp and caught it in the same motion.
The wolf barely had time to blink before Tai Lung buried the blade into his chest—then wrenched it free without breaking stride.
Qorchi saw the display from across the courtyard, his snarl twisting into something halfway between rage and fear.
"You—" the snow leopard spat, leveling his saber at Tai Lung. "You betray your own people?"
Tai Lung didn't answer. He only walked forward—slow, deliberate. The captured saber gleamed in his paw, streaked with fresh blood.
Qorchi lunged.
Tai Lung sidestepped effortlessly, catching the downward slash with the flat of his own blade. Their weapons locked, and for a brief instant, the two snow leopards stood face to face—eyes burning into each other.
"You will never be Khan," Qorchi growled through gritted teeth.
Tai Lung's eyes narrowed.
"No," he said coldly.
He wrenched the saber free, twisted his wrist—and drove the blade clean through Qorchi's ribs. The snow leopard gasped, his body going rigid. Tai Lung held him there, face inches from his own as the life drained from his enemy.
"I am The Demon."
With a single, brutal slash, Tai Lung cleaved the snow leopard in half from shoulder to hip—scattering blood across the stone.
The body crumpled at his feet, broken and lifeless.
Tai Lung cast the stolen blade aside without a second glance.
The courtyard was silent for a brief moment—Mongols and defenders alike frozen by the sheer savagery of the execution.
Then another roar from Tigress cut through the lull, and the battle surged back to life.
Crane stood frozen, his chest heaving with exhaustion. The saber that had nearly claimed his life lay discarded on the blood-soaked stone. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.
Tigress and Tai Lung—brother and sister—moved together through the chaos like twin specters of death. Their mirrored forms carved through the Mongol ranks, every motion perfectly calculated. Where one struck high, the other struck low. When Tigress' feet swept an enemy from the ground, Tai Lung was there to deliver the killing blow. Crane had seen Tigress fight countless times, but never like this. There was a fury in her now—something raw, unrelenting, barely held in check behind those burning amber eyes.
Mei Ling stood beside him, clutching the bloodied guandao with trembling paws. Her breath came in short, uneven bursts. The golden feline's gaze moved between the battling siblings, still trying to make sense of what she was seeing.
"They're…" she trailed off, voice barely audible.
"Alive," Crane whispered, scarcely believing the word himself.
A broken cry rang out as Tai Lung caught a wolf soldier by the throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground before hurling him down the stone steps. Tigress flowed seamlessly into his wake, intercepting another warrior with a brutal spinning kick that sent him crashing into the barricades.
The Mongols—so sure of their victory only moments ago—began to falter. Just as the invaders had forced Crane and the defenders up the steps before, they were now being forced back down. The sight of Tigress and Tai Lung cutting through the enemy ranks like twin blades had shaken the Mongols. Fear rippled through their lines, breaking their unity as they stumbled back down the steps.
Still, the invaders numbered in the hundreds, far too many for even two warriors to defeat alone.
Then the horn sounded.
A long, low note carried through the valley, rising above the clash of weapons and the dying screams. Coming to the edge of the steps, Crane and Mei Ling could see that yet another army had arrived upon the Valley of Peace—an army bearing the sigil of the Grey Flame. The rebel forces had completely enveloped the Mongol horde, and were thoroughly eviscerating it from all sides.
Crane's eyes moved back toward Tigress, still fighting below. She had done this. She had brought them here.
A thunderous cheer erupted from the defenders still holding the courtyard, their voices rising in desperate relief. The ache in Crane's wings and limbs was nearly unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the storm in his heart. The air hung heavy with the copper tang of blood, the stone slick beneath his feet. The sounds of distant fighting echoed from the lower steps—fading, retreating. The few villagers still standing leaned against the walls, clutching makeshift weapons and binding wounds. Others sat slumped against the stone, staring blankly at the carnage around them. No one spoke.
They had survived.
Crane should have felt relief—should have felt something. But all he could do was stare at the bloodied steps, at the warriors still locked in battle below.
Tigress and Tai Lung—alive.
The world had been turned upside down. Everything he had thought buried now walked the earth again.
Author's Notes:
- As always, thanks for your continued interest in this fic!
- It was a pleasure to write this chapter, similar to chapter sixteen, this is yet another instance of two "sides" of the fic coalescing together
- Even though I'm adamant about Tigress and Tai Lung hating each other, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to show just how deadly the two of them could be when fighting together for once
- Thanks for reading, and until next time!