Chapter 31: The Ambusher

“Let me lay out my analysis,” Zheng Yu began. “You’ve seen Ronggu City yourself—no rain, rivers dried up. Without the dam, we wouldn’t have had a harvest this autumn, let alone sent grain to the Eastern Xu front.”

Zhu Minglang listened, eyes scanning the sky.

The air was shifting. That strange pressure in the atmosphere made his chest tight. And that heaviness—it always meant rain was coming.

Duan Lan had already begun summoning clouds and rain.

“If even our fertile valley, irrigated by streams, is suffering like this,” Zheng Yu said, lifting his gaze to meet Zhu Minglang’s eyes, “what about Wutu? A land of harsh terrain, barren soil, wild people?”

“We have no rain,” Zhu Minglang replied. “Neither does Wutu.”

“Yes,” Zheng Yu continued. “Wutu’s farming is primitive, their society uncivilized. No rain this season at all. Winter’s almost upon us…”

A thunderclap split the sky—sudden, deafening.

**BOOM！！！！！**

The heavens darkened in an instant. The once-clear sky turned murky. A lightning bolt tore across Ronggu City, flaring like firelight over ancient streets, illuminating the faces of common folk in simple clothes, standing in the open, waiting for rain.

Their expressions—hopeful, joyful. They could *smell* it—the scent of life returning.

At the gate, Zheng Yu stood motionless, still bowing respectfully before Zhu Minglang.

Zhu Minglang looked at the young city lord, and something stirred within him—not from the thunder or the storm, but from Zheng Yu’s words. From the way he saw things.

This war…

A wave stirred in Zhu Minglang’s mind.

“There will be only one outcome,” Zheng Yu said, voice low and steady.

Zhu Minglang stared eastward.

In truth, only this small valley was shrouded in clouds. Beyond it, sunlight still blazed fiercely.

*滴答~*

One drop landed squarely on Zhu Minglang’s neck—cold, damp.

*滴答~*

*滴答滴答滴答~~~~~~*

More drops followed. Pattering on old stone paths, creating music like piano keys—soft at first, then building in rhythm, rising in intensity, swelling into a symphony that swept through the soul.

It was raining.

“Rain!”
“Rain!!”

Shouts erupted from streets, homes, fields. A chorus of joy. The rain tasted sweet, even in the air. It broke the weight in every heart. Like blood finally flowing through a dry body, it brought life back to the valley, to the city.

People cheered—truly cheered—more than at any festival, more than after a victory in battle.

Listening to the rain nourishing everything, hearing the city’s joy, Zhu Minglang stood beneath the eaves, his sleeves and shoes soaked by the drizzle.

Zheng Yu remained outside, unmoving, still bowed.

But the rain drenched his hair, soaked his robes, clung to his cheek. His delicate face, once soft and scholarly, now bore a new strength—etched by the storm. His eyes glowed—not with triumph, but with unyielding resolve.

“You don’t join your people in celebration?” Zhu Minglang smiled, mocking. “You delayed the rain. Now, even if you’re caught, you can say the reservoir is full.”

“Brother Zhu,” Zheng Yu said, sincere. “How long have we spoken?”

“Just minutes.”

“Do you know what happened before we met? A battle report arrived—delayed.”

Zhu Minglang’s expression flickered.

A delayed report?

Zheng Yu had just laid out the grim truth: the Wutu war was lost. There was no other outcome.

Why had Long Dragon Confederation fallen?

They had fine weapons. Skilled generals. Massive walls and fortresses.

So what?

Wutu faced its worst disaster.

Zhu Minglang had lived there. He knew most Wutu farmers worked all year just to eat. Poor soil. Hardly enough food to survive. Saving grain or cloth? Almost impossible.

And since he left Wutu, not a single drop of rain had fallen.

Even Ronggu City—fed by streams—was on the brink of drought and ruin.

Now imagine Wutu.

No rain. Fields dead. Trees withering. No food.

Winter came. No wool, no cotton. How would they survive? Wutu’s winters were brutal.

They were trapped.

No room to live.

That was the spark of rebellion.

As autumn deepened, as winter loomed, more and more Wutu people realized—they wouldn’t make it to spring.

It wasn’t greed for Long Dragon’s fertile lands. They weren’t chasing wealth.

They were being driven—by a death god named *Winter*—to the edge of survival. Either break through those strong fortresses and risk a sliver of life… or die where they stood.

What did it matter if their soldiers were well-trained? If their dragon beasts were fierce?

When survival is at stake, men become moths drawn to flame.

They fought to live.

Long Dragon fought for honor, for land.

Who would win?

Zheng Yu knew. Zhu Minglang knew now.

So that delayed report…

Ronggu City was only fifty miles from the front lines.

And nestled in a valley—no matter how high you climbed, you couldn’t see beyond the hills. The rebel army from Wutu would arrive soon.

*Tatata-tatata-tatata~~~~~~~~~*

The rain roared.

The people rejoiced.

Zheng Yu stood in the downpour, one step away from shelter—but he didn’t move.

“The rain has come,” he whispered. “The city is lost.”

Zhu Minglang finally understood why Zheng Yu hadn’t smiled.

“Brother Zhu,” Zheng Yu said again, bowing deeply. “Now you may tell the two masters to take the students and leave quickly. Please convey my thanks—to them, and to the dragon riders—for their compassion toward the suffering.”

Rain pounded his back, poured into his collar, streamed down his hair and face.

Zhu Minglang dropped his suspicion. He clasped his hands together, stepped down the stairs, let the rain wash over him. Slowly, he lowered himself—then deeper—bowing deeply in return.

“I am powerless,” Zhu Minglang said. “Brother Zheng… take care.”

They parted. Zhu Minglang ran through the rain, his heart heavy.

Zheng Yu didn’t flee.

He would stand and fight. Fight the rebels who had just broken through the fortress.

He would protect the people of Ronggu—those who had just tasted rain.

***

Flying wyverns, false dragons, rose slowly through the storm. Their bloodline traced back to pterosaurs—fleshy wings. Rain didn’t soak them, but added resistance.

Thirteen trainees wore pre-prepared leather cloaks. Duan Lan and Ke Bei stood atop the eagle-dragons.

They were lifting off, ascending slowly above Ronggu City.

At two hundred meters, they looked down—and saw it.

At the mouth of the valley, a flood of people surged forward like a stampede of beasts, rushing into the valley, toward Ronggu City.

The Wutu rebels.

Their cries grew louder, drowning even the thunder. Like endless rolling storms approaching from the horizon.

On the ground, just silhouettes. But from above—endless waves of humanity. Some still wore armor taken from Long Dragon soldiers. They charged headlong into the newly soaked rice fields, straight toward the city.

“The fortress is breached?!” a dragon rider stammered, stunned.

“Master Ke Bei,” Nan Ye shouted, “we’re also citizens of Long Dragon! Can we just watch these rebels invade our city? We’re dragon riders—why fear common rabble?”

As a scion of the Southern Clan, he was royalty. To see his family’s land trampled? Unbearable.

With two master dragon riders and thirteen students—all bearing dragon lineage—couldn’t they wipe out these rebels?

“Once you enter the Dragon Academy, unless attacking an evil city, you must never engage in war,” Ke Bei snapped. “Don’t you know the rule?”

“But they’re savages! They have their own land! Why invade ours? They deserve no mercy!”

Why not act?

These masters could stop the rebels. At least delay them until reinforcements arrived!

“They’re not beasts,” Duan Lan said quietly. Her voice cracked. “They’re just trying to survive.”

She had summoned the rain to save lives. But instead, she’d saved only a few in this valley. Not the tragedy of the entire world.

Even without the academy’s ban, what should she do?

Kill men fighting for their families’ lives? Or protect people starving under drought?

She could do nothing.

Dragon riders.

Beyond mortal spirits—yet still so small.

**隆隆隆隆隆隆~~~~~~~~~~~**

Suddenly, deep in the valley, a rumbling began. Through the sheets of rain, they saw it—a primordial beast smashing through the narrow streambed. Rocks, trees, torn apart and thrown into the current, swept forward like a tidal wave, crushing the path into the valley.

“A flash flood?!” someone gasped.

After months of drought, how could rain cause such a flood?

The rain might moisten the forest—but not trigger such a violent surge.

Yet the river swelled, unstoppable, roaring across Ronggu’s farmland, pouring into the narrow pass leading into the valley.

And that pass—packed with rebels.

Their long lines had no idea the valley would unleash such a flood.

Chaos.

Screams. Thousands swallowed by the torrent. Trying to retreat, but the valley was too narrow—no place to hide.

Thousands died—crushed against rocks, drowned, swept into the river delta.

The rebel army, so confident, so fierce—now shattered. Corpses floated alongside the floodwaters.

From above, the sight shook Zhu Minglang to his core.

He remembered the polite scholar at the gate.

The young city lord, standing firm in the storm.

His eyes—glinting with quiet determination beneath the gray rain.

Water held back, not released.

Rather than let the people suffer, he refused to open the gates.

*Before winter comes, the Eastern Xu fortress will fall. Then Ronggu will be next—surrounded, overrun. The rebels will slaughter us. Drink our blood. Eat our flesh.*

*The people can suffer. They’ll find ways to endure winter. But they mustn’t lose the will to fight back.*

*I know their pain. But I want them to live—through this chaos.*

*Brother Zhu… take care.*

The rain roared in his ears. The cloak offered no shelter. All he could see was that thin, soaked figure in the storm. The final bow—silent, but full of meaning.

Zhu Minglang took a deep breath. The air was thick with dampness. He looked at the storm-lashed sky, at the desolate earth.

We are all dust.

“More rebels behind!” Li Shaoying suddenly cried. “Good heavens—how many people are in this uprising?!”

As they flew past the valley, they saw it.

Beyond the ridge—thousands more. Only a fraction had entered Ronggu.

The rebels were wounded—but not broken.

The reservoir would eventually empty. The narrow pass would reappear. The rebels would pour into this granary city.

With Wutu’s cruelty, the civilians of Ronggu wouldn’t survive.

“The pass is low-lying,” Nan Ye said excitedly. “It looks like it was dug out on purpose. The flood didn’t drain completely—it’s formed a lake. The rebels must swim through muddy water to reach the city.”

That lake stretched across the only entrance—like a trap designed by fate.

The road was flooded. Horses and beasts couldn’t cross. The cliffs on either side were steep—impossible to climb, especially after rain, when footing failed.

The lake became a natural barrier.

A wall of water.

“One thousand guards on the far side,” Nan Ye said, “could hold off ten thousand with arrows. Is this… a miracle?”

The rebels who broke through the fortress—now helpless before a tiny valley town?

“Master Duan Lan’s rain saved everyone,” another student whispered. “Even if they clear the lake, it’ll take days. By then, help will arrive.”

It was divine.

Only Zhu Minglang knew the truth.

All of it—this flood, this salvation—came from one frail scholar.

He held back the water, not for glory, but for defense.

With foresight and wisdom, he guarded the city. Protected his people.

Zheng Yu… take care.

Live through this chaos too.

Zhu Minglang stood on the eagle-dragon’s back, and bowed once more—deeply—toward Ronggu City.