The buzzing of millions of flies drowned out the morning birds. Two hundred wagons, laden with the mangled remains of Paayasian soldiers and severed body parts, sat in a grim line, the stench of rot circling the entire training ground like a physical shroud.
As the sun crested the horizon, casting a sickly gold light over the camp, Drystan stared at the clouds of black insects swirling around the wagons. His own body was a map of agony. The infection in his leg had caused the skin to turn a bruised, necrotic black, and the sharp stabs of pain had slowly faded into a terrifying numbness.
Yet, as he looked at the heaps of enemy dead, his heart was overwhelmed with a grim happiness. He didn't see corpses; he saw a message. He knew in his soul that Chinua had arrived in Pojin. This macabre display was the hallmark of Hye's strategic cruelty—a deliberate move to shatter the enemy's morale and drown their courage in the scent of their own fallen kin.
Not far from where Drystan sat by the pole wher his hand and feet were secured to, a massive war tent stood three hundred yards away, the heart of the Paayasian command. Inside, the air was thick with incense and the muffled clank of high-grade armor. Dhzambul and Koorush sat among the elite: General Jietang and his captains, Suxue, Bliang, and Nhia. Opposite them sat General Leej with his own captains—Daiji, Kulu, and Mingle—alongside Noong, the most trusted advisor to the King of Es Ke.
Leej reached into his inner robe and pulled out a bundle wrapped in golden silk. He placed it on the map-strewn table and slowly unwrapped it. Inside lay the jagged, dull fragments of what had once been a magnificent piece of shiny green jade.
"What is this?" Jietang asked, leaning forward.
Leej looked at the men around the table, his voice heavy. "This... this is the jade our hostage brought back when he first met His Majesty."
Daiji stared at the broken fragments, his face flushing with a sudden, hot anger. "How dare those savages destroy His Majesty's gift! Anyone responsible should be beheaded publicly as an example!"
Noong sighed, the sound weary and hollow. "This jade was a promise. His Majesty promised not to invade Pojin while Hmagol Eastern General and her army were in Ntsua-Ntu. To return it broken..."
Jietang, a man who had survived a hundred campaigns, understood the silent language of the North. "Since the jade is broken, it means the Hmagol Eastern General is no longer bound by any word. She is coming for us."
"It doesn't matter if they invade or not," Bliang scoffed, dismissive. "With our numbers, we have no reason to fear them."
"Captain," Nhia interjected, his eyes sharp. "We have never fought the Eastern General. We should not take this lightly." He turned to Koorush, the only man in the room who had tasted a Magoli blade. "Captain Koorush, you have faced her. Tell us what you know."
Koorush let out a long, jagged breath. "She..." He paused, the memory of the battlefield flickering in his eyes. "She fights unlike anyone you have ever met. Those who stand alongside her are the best of the best—warriors gathered from across the land. Look at the hostage you hold outside on your training ground," he gestured toward the direction where Drystan was held. "That is the spirit of a single Magoli soldier. Imagine ten thousand of them, and one woman leading them who fears nothing."
Kulu listened carefully. From what Koorush had shared, he felt the man was holding back the most vital intelligence. Koorush spoke of who fought alongside the Eastern General, but he remained silent on how they fought. He shared no formations, no maneuvers, and no glimpse into the war plan they would likely use in an open field.
"What about tactics?" Kulu asked, his eyes boring into Koorush.
"Tactics? Mm... let me see," Koorush replied, his voice non-committal as he buried the most critical information. "I don't know if they will use the same war tactics again. What they used against us in Zoaging was a combination of Ginmiao soldiers, the Salran Bandits, and the remnants of the Musian army."
The captains in the room stared at him, their expressions unconvinced. The air grew heavy, the suffocating message of their distrust circling the table like a predator.
"Well," Koorush added, breaking the tension with a grim shrug, "all I can say is this: those Magoli female soldiers... their arrows are deadly. And they never miss."
General Jietang turned his gaze toward Dzhambul, who had not spoken a single word since the meeting began. "What about you? Where are you planning to go from here?"
Dzhambul looked at Jietang, his face a mask of cold ambition. "I am heading south, into Tanggolia."
"So," Mingle interjected, "has Xin Jianping agreed to help you?"
"This is part of the plan," Dzhambul said shortly.
Koorush looked at the men sitting on the table, signaling the end of their cooperation. "We are planning to leave right away. We have done what your King asked of us in exchange for free passage. We burned Pojin on your behalf, and we even delivered a hostage as a present." He glanced toward the training grounds where Drystan lay. "Tomorrow, we head south toward Zasra. From there, Prince Dzhambul and his men will turn west, toward Tanggolia."
Across the plains and over the jagged mountains, as the sun dived into the horizon, the soldiers, bandits, and survivors of Pojin began the grim work of clearing the burning houses. They moved like shadows against the orange sky, trying to gather as much of the unburnt remains as they could—salvaging what the fire had forgotten.
The Magoli soldiers, bandits, and surviving villagers moved like ghosts through the ruins of Pojin, moving from home to home in search of supplies. One villager approached a structure that had been spared the worst of the fire; half the house was a blackened skeleton, but the other side remained intact.
He stepped inside, his boots crunching on charred wood. Finding the kitchen mostly untouched, he began to gather preserved jars from the broken shelves. Suddenly, a soft thump echoed through the room. He spun around, hand gripping his knife, fearing an enemy soldier hiding in the shadows. He saw nothing but the swaying curtains and the soot-stained walls.
A chill ran down his spine. If it wasn't the living, perhaps it was the restless dead. He grabbed what he could, turning to flee, when three distinct knocks sounded again—tap, tap, tap.
"Hello?" the man called out, his voice trembling. "Is anyone there?"
Silence. Only the passing wind whistled through the rafters, swinging a half-broken window against the frame with a rhythmic bang. He let out a long, shaky sigh of relief. It was just the storm, just the house settling in its grief. He picked up his bucket of food and walked out into the sunlight, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance.
Below the floorboards, deep within the cramped darkness of the root cellar, Sarnai lay in a pool of her own cooling blood. With the last of her strength, she had poked the cellar door with a fallen stick. After those three taps, her arm finally gave out. The stick clattered to the dirt beside her.
Her breath was a shallow rattle. She listened to the vibration of the footsteps above—her rescue, her life—as they walked away.
With lips as white as the summer snow on Whitefang Peak, she whispered into the dark. "Come back... I am here. Please... come back..."
The footsteps above grew faint, then vanished, leaving only the sound of her own slowing heart. Sarnai looked up at the cracks in the cellar door, where no light remained. She understood the truth now—a truth as old as the Whitefang Peak.
Sarnai's hand fell limp against the damp soil, the stick rolling away like a forgotten hope. The struggle was over. She knew with a cold, dying certainty that if the earth didn't open its mouth to save her tonight, it would surely claim her body by morning. She was no longer a soldier of Hmagol; she was becoming part of the land itself.
The earth will keep me, she thought, as the first touch of the eternal frost began to take hold. And with that final thought, the cold was no longer a bite, but a gentle embrace. She was no longer afraid.
Down the street, away from the blackened ruins, the villager clutched the bucket to his chest and began to run. As he fled, three final, distinct taps echoed from the burned home. This time, he realized it wasn't the wind. The terror of the restless dead seized him; he scrambled forward, glancing over his shoulder as if a ghost were clawing at his heels.
As he rounded the corner of a narrow alley, he slammed into a solid chest. The impact knocked him backward, and his bucket clattered to the dirt, spilling preserved jars across the ground.
"What are you running from?" Zhi asked, his voice steady and grounding. He reached down to help the man up while Siqi and the other soldiers began gathering the scattered food.
"I—" the man hesitated, his breath hitching. He looked up and saw Chinua standing behind Zhi, with Khawn at her side. "Chi-Chinua... I thought something was chasing me. In that house over there." He pointed a trembling finger back toward the ruins. "When I went to gather these jars, I heard tapping. I thought it was the wind, but when I walked away, I heard it again. Three taps. I was afraid it was a soldier in hiding... or a ghost."
Siqi handed the bucket back to the man, his expression darkening. "Captain," he said, turning to Zhi—his father. "We have found many Razzasia soldiers hiding in these ruins. It could be an ambush."
"Take us to the house," Zhi commanded.
Led by the villager and flanked by Pojin's finest warriors, Chinua and Zhi returned to the half-burned home. From the threshold, the house looked like a hollow skull. Chinua stepped inside alone, her boots silent on the ash. Her eyes scanned the room, watching as a gust of wind sent the half-broken window banging rhythmically against the wall.
She took three deliberate steps toward a pole still standing near the broken shelves. She lifted her hand and knocked three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound echoed through the hollow house. She waited, her head tilted, her breathing stopped. Just as she was about to turn away, three incredibly soft taps vibrated from beneath the floorboards.
Chinua spun around, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp intensity. She faced the soldiers waiting outside.
"Shh..."
She knocked three times on the pole again. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Two agonizingly soft taps answered from beneath a charred, heavy table in the corner. Chinua didn't hesitate. She motioned her hand forward, and Siqi and his men surged into the room with weapons drawn, surrounding the burnt table, ready for a ghost—or an enemy.