When the heavy oak doors had slammed violently shut, locking Chinua outside, the deadly trap snapped shut right there on the small opening area—the high stone terrace nestled precariously between the temple entrance and the sheer precipice of the thousand-step stairwell. Thirty-five hidden killers materialized like wraiths from the deep shadows of the stone pillars and mountain crags: twenty-five men cloaked in midnight black, and ten assassins disguised in the pristine armor of Kosian peacekeepers.
They had fully expected an easy execution on the high terrace. They had completely failed to account for Khunbish.
"Protect the Prince!" Khunbish's voice boomed, echoing off the ancient mountain walls.
In a flash of silver, Khunbish hooked his right foot beneath a fallen sword, sending it flying up into the air. He rushed forward, snatching the hilt mid-flight as he sprinted straight toward the group of disguised Kosian peacekeepers. As a legendary sword master of Hmagol, he did not merely fight; he orchestrated a ruthless symphony of death. The men in black lunged forward across the narrow courtyard, but they stood absolutely no chance against his blinding speed.
Khunbish moved like a phantom across the stones. His sword hissed through the air, parrying three descending spears at once with a deafening, metallic screeech of iron before he spun on his heel, slicing cleanly through the throats of two attackers in a single fluid motion.
Beside him, Prince Geming fought with the desperate, ferocious elegance of a royal tiger cornered on the cliffs. His own imperial blade flashed in perfect harmony with Khunbish's. Geming deflected a lethal thrust from a disguised Kosian soldier, stepped fluidly into the assassin's guard, and drove his sword straight through the center of the breastplate. He kicked the corpse away, his eyes wild and his breathing heavy as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Hmagol sword master on the blood-slicked terrace.
While the frontline near the edge of the stairs was a swirling vortex of clashing steel, a desperate battle for survival was happening against the weeping temple wall.
Wang Yong knelt on the cold stone floor, his own body bleeding heavily from a deep gash across his shoulder. He ignored his pain entirely, his hands shaking, but he stood defiantly in front of Baxue. The Payasian minister was clutching a wounded shoulder, knowing intimately that his entire lifeline depended on the wounded man standing before him, his back pressed hard against the cold stone wall of the temple.
"Stay close, Minister!" Wang Yong hissed through gritted teeth. His sword swung in a tight arc, stabbing deeply into a charging man in black's thigh, while his right foot slammed violently against the man's face, causing the injured killer to stumble backward and fall flat on his back.
An assassin broke away from the main melee, raising a blood-slicked sword to finish them both off. Wang Yong didn't even flinch. With his left hand still tightly holding onto the injured minister's wrist, he scooped up a fallen dagger with his right foot, grabbed it in mid-air, and hurled it forward. The blade buried itself to the hilt in the assassin's throat. The man collapsed with a heavy thud, his lifeless eyes staring up just inches away from them on the stone terrace.
Back in the center of the opening, the slaughter was reaching its brutal end. Khunbish was a whirlwind of unstoppable martial perfection. He deflected a throwing blade out of mid-air with the flat of his sword, lunged across the courtyard, and cleanly decapitated the leader of the black-clad killers. Every strike from his blade cracked bone and severed limbs; the men in black were being cut down like wheat before a scythe.
With a final, thunderous clash, Geming ran his sword through the last remaining disguised Kosian guard, sending the body tumbling over the precipice of the stone terrace.
Suddenly, the mountain terrace fell dead silent, save for the heavy, ragged breathing of the few survivors. Thirty-five bodies lay strewn across the small opening between the temple and the stairs, their blood mixing into a horrific river. The twenty-five men in black and the ten disguised assassins had been completely annihilated under the open sky.
Khunbish flicked his wrist with practiced precision, sending a sharp line of crimson flying off his blade onto the stones before stabbing his sword firmly into the ground. Just as he turned instantly toward Wang Yong and Baxue to check their status, the heavy sound of the gates echoed into the mountainside. The barriers swung open, and Khenbish was the first to approach, breaking through the threshold.
"Chinua?" Khunbish asked immediately, his eyes scanning the blood-drenched terrace for his commander.
"She is safe with Khawn and the others," Khenbish replied, his voice tight but reassuring.
"What about Minister Tso?" Baxue asked, his voice trembling as he desperately held back the searing pain radiating from his punctured shoulder.
Khenbish turned his head, looking straight into Baxue's anxious eyes with a chillingly detached expression. "Before your fellow minister expired at the foot of the mountain, he loudly accused us of orchestrating this bloody trap."
Baxue swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out across his brow. "Young soldier... Minister Tso must not have been in his right mind when he spoke those final words," he stammered, forcing a frail, placating smile. He scrambled internally to hide the bitter, catastrophic truth—that a treasonous coalition of exiled Hmagol prince, scheming court concubine, and their own sovereign King were pulling the strings from the shadows, a secret that absolutely could not be exposed to the light. "Perhaps... perhaps he was trying to say that it was not the Hmagol who did this."
"I can serve as a direct witness that these assassins were not brought here by the Hmagol vanguard," Geming intervened smoothly, his voice carrying the calm, steady weight of royal truth. He looked around the ruined terrace, his expression solemn. "In fact, I must apologize to you all, as it appears these killers were sent here specifically to claim my life. I deeply apologize for the tragic loss of Minister Tso. Once the perimeter is entirely secure, I will travel personally to Zouis City to explain this treachery to the Royal Uncle myself."
Khunbish leveled a long, deathly cold glare at the trembling Baxue, his silence louder than any spoken threat. Satisfied that the immediate threat to the Crown Prince had been neutralized, the Hmagol sword master sheathed his blade, turned on his heel, and began his descent down the steep stone steps. Khenbish and the twenty remaining vanguard soldiers fell into step right behind him, leaving the Tanggolian and Paayasian survivors alone among the corpses.
Far from the vibrant green of the open grasslands, the landscape slowly began to shift. The lively emerald of the plains bled into a muted, grayish-brown expanse, signaling their approach toward a harsher, unforgiving terrain. Rising sharply in the bleak distance, the great peaks of the Whitefang Mountains stood like iron spears piercing the heavens, their jagged summits casting long, cold shadows over the dying earth.
Ahead, built directly upon the volatile border line separating the Hmagol Empire and Kosanz, sat the small village of Purran. It was a rugged, isolated settlement, lying exactly a day's ride away from the highly strategic Cigan Pass.
Standing at the absolute outskirts of the village was an ancient, weathered inn—the only sanctuary for miles. Built from heavy, dark timber and rough river stones, the two-level structure had endured decades of punishing steppe winds. The lower level sat low and sturdy against the graying earth, while the second level, constructed from dark, interlocking logs, featured a narrow wooden gallery that looked out over the changing horizon.
Minister Gegeen pulled tightly on his reins, bringing his powerful mount to a sudden stop in front of the building. Behind him, the company of thirty battle-ready men halted in perfect, disciplined unison, the stomping of their hooves kicking up the gray dust of Purran.
Gegeen dismounted quickly, his heavy leather boots striking the hard ground as he walked over to Chinua's horse to offer his assistance. But as Chinua slowly and carefully swung her leg over the saddle—her face turning stark white as the sharp movement flared the deep, agonizing wound at her waist—Khawn intervened.
Sensing the proximity, Khawn dismounted in a single, fluid motion and stepped immediately between them. He gently took hold of Chinua, using his powerful, massive frame to completely support her weight, deliberately distancing the vanguard commander from Gegeen's reach.
Chinua leaned into Khawn's steadying grip, her breath catching in her throat, though she kept her chin held high despite the blinding agony.
"I booked the entirety of the inn, given that it is such a small establishment," Gegeen noted smoothly, his sharp eyes lingering for a tense moment on Khawn's fiercely protective posture before he turned toward the heavy oak door. "I will have my men search for a medical doctor immediately to treat Your Highness's wounds."
With a dramatic sweep of his heavy traveling cloak, the minister led the way inside, the warm amber glow of the hearth fire spilling out into the graying afternoon.
Khawn walked Chinua straight to the nearest table inside the dimly lit tavern, where Muunokhoi quickly pulled out a heavy wooden stool so Khawn could gently ease her down onto it.
"Get us some hot water, immediately!" Muunokhoi ordered the inn staff, his voice tight with worry as he began working at the straps, carefully pulling the heavy leather armor away from Chinua's torso.
"Young soldier," Gegeen intervened smoothly, walking over as he gestured to his own men standing stiffly behind him. "This might not be the most appropriate setting to treat Her Highness's wounds. In such an open area, anyone could walk in."
"Well," Muunokhoi snapped, dropping Chinua's blood-stained armor to the floorboards with a soft, heavy thump. He looked up, his eyes flashing with distrust. "What exactly do you suggest, Minister?"
From the shadowed right side of the common room, the elderly innkeeper shuffled forward, holding a steaming wooden basin. He slowly placed it on the edge of the scarred table. "Sirs, if you don't mind the modesty... there is a small room normally reserved for the tavern hands to sleep in, just to the back of the inn. It would be perfect for treating this soldier's wound. With an injury that severe, it will be far too difficult for the young man to navigate the stairs."
"That will do," Chinua said hoarsely, her jaw clenched as she forced herself to stand up.
"Lead the way," Khawn commanded the innkeeper. He carefully draped Chinua's arm over his broad shoulders to bear her weight. As they began to move toward the back hallway, the heavy front door of the inn creaked open, and one of Gegeen's soldiers ushered a weathered, local doctor through the threshold.
The old doctor took one look at the trail of crimson and quickly followed Khawn, Muunokhoi, and Chinua toward the back room.
Left behind in the main hall, Gegeen stood perfectly still. He watched their retreating figures, a faint, slow grin spreading across his face. He let out a soft sigh and took two measured steps forward toward his prizes.
"Is everything ready?" Gegeen asked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur.
"My Lord, everything is fully prepared," the soldier whispered back, his posture rigid. "We are merely waiting for your command."
"Get the food ready then," Gegeen said, his eyes tracking the dark hallway where Chinua had vanished. A faint, mocking smile touched his lips. "A light morning breakfast. After expending so much of her strength slaughtering those assassins, Her Highness must be absolutely famished."