Towering pillars of weathered granite rose toward a vaulted ceiling lost in deep shadow, casting long, fractured geometric shapes across the ancient stone floor. For centuries, this sacred mountain sanctuary had been recognized as strictly neutral ground, untouched by the shifting borders and bloody ambitions of empires. Today, it was a cage.
The massive, iron-studded oak doors were sealed completely shut, guarded fiercely from the outside by a legion of neutral Kosian soldiers. These silent sentinels ensured that the chaotic violence of the world remained locked out, leaving the three hundred elite guards of the three respective kingdoms waiting far below. They stood stationed in tense, disciplined rows at the absolute foot of the grueling, one-thousand-step stairwell that cut directly into the vertical cliff of the mountainside.
Inside, trapped within the cold, echoing walls of the temple nave, the true battle was about to begin.
At the dead center of the chamber, beneath the solemn, blind stone gaze of forgotten gods, a massive triangular table had been meticulously constructed. It was a masterpiece of political engineering, deliberately designed so that no single leader could sit at the head, yet the distance between the three points felt like a vast, uncrossable chasm.
The silence within the temple was absolute, broken only by the crackle and hiss of ceremonial torches that threw flickering shadows against the weeping walls. At each distinct point of the triangle sat the leaders of the three nations, and standing directly behind each of them was a single, trusted advisor—a silent shadow holding the deep secrets and strategies of their respective empires.
The peace talks had officially begun, but the atmosphere inside the room was that of a bloody battlefield suspended in time.
On one side of the triangular table sat Geming of Tanggolia, immaculate in courtly silks, rigid protocol, and effortless elegance, while Wang Yong stood quietly and attentively behind the Crown Prince. Opposite them sat Baxue of Payapasa, his posture stiff and defensive, carrying the heavy, unspoken weight of a nation that had only just stared down the throat of total starvation.
And at the final point of the triangle sat Chinua. Standing directly behind her, looking like a stark, imposing silhouette against the morning light cutting through the high windows, was Khunbish, her trusted personal guard. Unlike the others, the Hmagol delegation wore no courtly silks. The faint, metallic scent of dried blood and wet iron still clung stubbornly to the crevices of their heavy armor—a deliberate, menacing reminder to everyone in the room of exactly how the gates of Kark City had fallen.
No one had spoken a single word yet. All weapons had been strictly left at the threshold at the very bottom of the thousand steps, but the predatory glances cutting across the triangular table were sharper than any vanguard's steel. They all knew the ultimate truth: the war outside had paused, but inside this sacred sanctuary, the fight for the survival of three kingdoms was about to be waged with words.
Geming looked calmly across the table at Chinua and Baxue. With a smooth, deliberate motion, he unrolled a golden silk scroll across the center of the wood, laying out the vital diplomatic terms designed to be equally fair to both Hmagol and Payapasa.
"As the host, the mediator, and a relative to both of your noble nations," Geming began, his voice echoing off the high stone pillars. "Our kingdom desires nothing more than for both sides to halt the bloodshed. These are the proposed terms: since Payapasa violated the original treaty and invaded the village of Pojin—causing severe casualties to instructors from both kingdoms and an egregious loss of civilian life—we propose that it is only just for Hmagol to retain permanent control of Kark City."
"Stop right there," Chinua interrupted, her voice cutting through his diplomatic prose like a cold blade. "Please use your terminology correctly. It was Kark City." Chinua leaned forward, locking her sharp gaze directly onto Geming. "The fortress that stands today is officially known as Behrouz City. Make no mistake."
"Behrouz City?" Minister Tso sneered from across the table, his face flushing with immediate anger. "The bodies of the Paayasian soldiers you slaughtered have not even rotted into the earth yet! What right do you possibly have to rename Kark City?"
"Do you have a sudden problem with your hearing?" Chinua countered, her lips curling into a mocking sneer. "Or perhaps you simply forgot to clean the earwax out of your head this morning?"
Tso slammed his chair back as he surged to his feet, thrusting a trembling finger directly into Chinua's face. "You arrogant little girl! I have eaten more salt in my lifetime than you have eaten rice! Know your place and watch your tongue!"
Chinua let out a clear, mocking laugh. She clapped her hands together a few times in a slow, patronizing rhythm as she casually rose from her chair.
"The Magoli do not eat rice," Chinua said, her cheerful demeanor instantly vanishing into a terrifying, cold, and calculated stare. "We eat what we hunt, and we take what we conquer." She locked her predatory eyes onto Tso, giving him a razor-sharp smile. "That is precisely why the land we stand on is now Behrouz City."
Chinua slowly sat back down, completely controlling the room. "I could stay here all day and fight a petty war of words with you, but I do not have the patience. So, Crown Prince..." She turned her head slightly toward Geming. "I do not care what you have written on that silk parchment, nor do I care to hear a single word the Paayasian have to say."
She paused, letting the heavy weight of her words sink into the silence of the temple, ensuring everyone understood that she held absolutely zero interest in their compromise.
"First, we keep every single inch of land we have already taken," Chinua declared, her voice ringing with absolute authority. "Second, the Paayasian King must unconditionally surrender Ngabo City as the ultimate price for daring to cross the Hmagol border after a peace treaty had already been signed by both of our late kings. Third, they must immediately release my captain, Drystan, entirely unharmed. And finally... King Es Ke himself must personally deliver the newly signed scrolls to Ntsua-Ntu, where he will bow three times before the tombs of the innocent villagers, he ordered his men to butcher in Pojin. Those are my terms. If King Es Ke accepts them to the letter, my vanguard stops its advance."
"We will willingly release your captured captain, but to surrender Ngabo City and demand our sovereign King bow to your peasants is absolutely absurd!" Baxue roared, jumping to his feet. He slammed his palm violently against the triangular table, causing the heavy timber to tremble under the impact.
"How is it absurd?" Chinua asked, her calm gaze freezing Baxue in his tracks. "Whether a man is a king or a commoner, if he makes a mistake and breaks his sacred promise—not once, but twice—bowing to the dead is the smallest, most merciful price he could ever pay for his crimes."
Chinua stood up once more, letting out a slow, heavy sigh. "I have placed my terms upon this table. Either the war between our nations ends right here, right now, without another drop of blood spilled... or..."
She leaned over the table, casting a deathly cold look across the chasm at Baxue and Tso.
"...Our two armies will meet upon the open battlefield, and we shall see which kingdom bleeds out and falls first."
Chinua watched the twisting expressions on the faces of the two Paayasian ministers. Even before she had walked through the temple doors that morning, she knew her terms would never be accepted. Who in their right mind would willingly surrender a historical stronghold like Ngabo City—a city established since the beginning of time, deeply rooted in the blood of their fallen ancestors?
Giving them one last, lingering stare, she turned on her heel and walked out of the chamber, her armored boots echoing down the long stone hallway toward the heavily guarded entrance where the Kosian sentinels stood.
"You didn't care to hear a single word they had to say?" Khunbish asked, falling into step beside her.
"Why waste time listening to their desperate protests when our original objective remains entirely unchanged?" Chinua replied, her tone surprisingly light, almost cheerful.
"So, you intentionally offered them terms you knew they could never accept," Khunbish noted, a faint smile touching his face as they walked together out into the small open courtyard leading to the mountain descent.
"Exactly," Chinua said. "I would honestly rather head down to the city market right now to buy newborn clothes for Khawn's and Jeet's upcoming children than sit in that suffocating room. Nothing those ministers say will change the fact that His Majesty wants Ngabo."
They exited the threshold of the sanctuary and began their slow, rhythmic descent down the grueling one-thousand-step stairwell toward the main army waiting below. But they had barely cleared the top platform when the air violently shattered.
With a sudden, explosive reflex, Khunbish violently shoved Chinua aside.
A body came hurtling out of the temple doors, thrown straight at them. The corpse, wrapped in the elegant, blood-soaked silk robes of a Paayasian minister, rolled motionlessly down the steep stone steps. Instantly, the sound of clashing steel erupted from the open entrance behind them, prompting the remaining Kosian guards to draw their blades and rush inside.
Wang Yong's battered, bleeding body was suddenly thrown backward, slamming hard against the heavy wooden doorframe. An assassin dressed in midnight-black fabric charged straight at the wounded advisor to finish him. Reacting instantly, Khunbish leaped back into the threshold, his boot whipping outward in a brutal kick that shattered the assassin's wrist and disarmed him.
Suddenly, the Kosian soldiers stationed on the upper platform turned their weapons, their eyes shifting with murderous intent as they lunged at Chinua. She was left entirely isolated on the narrow stairwell platform, while a second wave of rogue soldiers slammed the massive oak doors shut from the inside—effectively sealing Crown Prince Geming, Baxue, and Khunbish within the temple trap.
Far below, the body of Minister Tso finally tumbled to a stop, generic limbs sprawling across the stone a hundred steps from the base of the mountain. Terrified and furious, a squad of Paayasian soldiers rushed forward to cradle their fallen statesman. One of the infantrymen desperately lifted Tso's head.
"Tell His Majesty..." Tso gasped, blood bubbling from his lips as his fingers clawed at the soldier's armor. "The Hmagol... prince... betrayed us... Prince... Dzham—"
Before he could finish the name, Tso's eyes rolled back, and he died heavily in the soldier's arms.
Realizing that Minister Baxue was still trapped in the slaughterhouse above, the Paayasian vanguard let out a collective roar and rushed up the stairs. But seeing Chinua fiercely cut off and fighting for her life against a massive horde of rogue Kosian guards midway up the mountain, her own inner circle—Khenbish, Khawn, Muunokhoi, and Od—surged upward to protect their general.
Instantly, the two rival armies, already nursing a deep-seated hatred for one another, collided in a frenzied, chaotic mass at the foot of the mountainside. A brutal civil war erupted on neutral ground. A river of blood began to spill and slick the bottom steps of the stairwell, while high above, Chinua fought entirely alone against the tide.
A disguised soldier thrust a spear at her chest. Chinua sidestepped the point, grabbed the wooden shaft with both gauntlets, and slammed the back of her heavy iron knuckle-pad into the man's jaw. The crushing blow sent the wounded soldier crashing backward into the men two steps below him.
Blades hissed through the mountain air. Swirling the captured spear around her body in a defensive blur, Chinua deflected a lethal sword strike, ducked low, and executed a flawless, dynamic backflip to regain her footing on the higher platform.
The moment her boots touched the solid stone, she launched her right leg forward in a devastating front kick, striking the lead soldier dead in the chest. The sheer force of the impact sent him flying backward into the ascending line, creating a chaotic domino effect that cleared a brief opening on the stairs.
"Who sent you?!" Chinua demanded, her voice cutting through the wind like thunder.
The disguised assassins offered no answer. Regrouping with chilling, silent discipline, they rallied their numbers and rushed back up the steps, their blades leveled at her throat.
Chinua stood her ground at the apex of the thousand steps. With a fierce, unyielding battle cry, she launched herself downward into the fray, driving the stolen spear cleanly through the heart of the first assassin to reach the top.