The following morning, the sky remained a bruised and unbroken gray, holding fast to dark clouds that refused to part. A bitter, restless wind swept through the valley, scattering a fine, icy drizzle over the stone ramparts and stinging the faces of the fleeing crowds. It was a dreary, weeping sky, warning the people of Ngabo that their days of tears had only just begun.
Below, the heavy wooden gates of Ngabo swung wide. In the shadow of the threshold, fathers, sons, and brothers offered tearful, hurried goodbyes to their loved ones. The young and middle-aged men—conscripted to hold the line—were permitted to march only as far as the outer archway. They stood frozen at the gate's edge, watching helplessly as their wives, children, and elderly kin disappeared into the vast sea of refugees fleeing toward the two bridges.
Though every instinct screamed at the men to run after them, a quiet, bittersweet comfort anchored their heavy hearts: no matter what grim fate awaited them within the walls of Ngabo, their families were at least safe across the Paayasian border.
Jietang and Phia stood side by side on the high ramparts, their eyes fixed on the Magoli army camped at the foot of Mopia Mountain. All eight thousand soldiers remained motionless and unyielding—a silent, dark wall of iron—even as the heavy gates of Ngabo swung wide below them and thousands of terrified citizens streamed eastward, carrying whatever meager belongings they could salvage.
"So, the rumors were true," Jietang said softly, his eyes never straying from the enemy camp less than two thousand yards away. "The People's Princess always gives her enemy fair warning before she strikes."
"That is precisely why it is so difficult to predict her," Bliang remarked, stepping up beside them with his arms crossed over his chest. "And despite being an invading conqueror, the common folk find it almost impossible to truly hate her."
"It is a brilliant strategy," Phia admitted, a faint, bitter nod escaping him. "By granting an evacuation, she ensures that anyone remaining inside those walls is either a soldier sworn to fight to the death or a civilian willing to surrender to her rule. When she inevitably marches onward to continue her campaign, she won't have to waste a single squad guarding a rebellious population."
"There is no need for us to linger here," Jietang said, breaking the heavy silence on the ramparts.
"General, what if the Magoli strike now?" a squad leader asked, his knuckles white as he gripped his spear shaft tightly.
"If she intended to attack, she would have stormed the gap the second we threw open the gates," Phia replied smoothly. "Now, we use this time to prepare our defenses. If she promised us two days, it means her assault will fall upon this city on the morning of the third."
"How can you be so certain?" Yongyee asked, his brow deeply furrowed.
"Because," Phia answered, casting a fleeting look down at the camp in the valley, "it appears the Hmagol Eastern General is a warrior with a heart."
Before anyone could answer, the sharp slap of hurried footsteps echoed down the stone walkway. A young runner came to a sliding halt before Phia, Jietang, and the surrounding commanders. Panting heavily, he extended a pristine envelope bearing a royal wax stamp.
"General Phia! An urgent message—it just arrived!"
Phia snatched the letter from the runner's hand, snapped the royal seal, and unfurled the parchment. As his eyes swept down to the final paragraph, the color completely drained from his face. His fingers gave a slight, uncontrollable tremble against the paper.
"What is it?" Yongyee pressed, stepping closer.
"His Majesty's decree," Phia said, his voice hollow with dread. "The hostage... is not to be released."
He passed the parchment to Yongyee, whose eyes darted wildly across the ink. Yongyee's breath caught in his throat. He looked up, wide-eyed, at Phia and the surrounding officers.
"This... this is a death sentence."
"If our king has spoken, then we must prepare accordingly," Phia said softly, turning his gaze toward Jietang. "His Majesty orders you to withdraw from the city immediately, General."
Jietang held his gaze, his expression unreadable. "And what of you?"
"My orders are clear," Phia replied, straightening his shoulders. "I am to hold Ngabo—and fall with it."
Inside the grand palace of Zouis City, heavy, hurried footsteps echoed down the grand corridor of the royal palace—a hall elegantly decorated with polished golden lanterns and vibrant porcelain planters bursting with seasonal blooms. A cool breeze swept through the open arches, yet the oppressive gray clouds overhead refused to part for the sun.
Although the wound in his shoulder had nearly healed and no longer throbbed with pain, Geming felt a cold dread settling deep in his chest. The decision King Es Ke had just made would inevitably plunge the Paayasian people into utter ruin. Having failed his own diplomatic negotiations in Taegye City, Geming knew the terrifying reality better than anyone: regardless of the blood spent, Chinua would take Ngabo. She would secure that stronghold to ensure Hmagol and Payapasa no longer shared a land border. Once that happened, the southern kingdoms would fall one by one under Hmagol's shadow—a catastrophic threat not only to his allies, but to his own homeland.
As Geming surged toward the royal study, twenty palace guards abruptly shifted formation, their spear shafts interlocking to block his path.
"Prince Geming," the lead guard warned, his hand resting firm on his pommel. "These are His Majesty's private quarters. No one is permitted entry without an explicit royal summons."
"I must see His Majesty immediately!" Geming demanded, his voice ringing with fierce determination.
"Prince Geming," the guard countered, holding his ground. "This is Payapasa, not Tanggolia. Though Your Highness is the son of our Second Princess, it does not grant you free rein to wander the Paayasian royal palace at will. Please know your place."
Geming's temper flared. "Regardless of your duty, I will see His Majesty today!"
"Let him pass."
A senior eunuch stepped through the carved mahogany doors of the study hall, waving his hand softly. The guards instantly parted, lowering their weapons. Geming swept past them and strode up the grand marble staircase, stepping directly into King Es Ke's inner sanctuary.
Es Ke sat behind a sprawling desk of dark teakwood, studying a large tactical map of the northern frontier.
"Nephew," Es Ke said smoothly, without looking up from his parchment. "To what do I owe this dramatic intrusion?"
"Your Majesty," Geming began, bowing curtly out of forced protocol. "I have just heard that you issued an order to—"
"Even in a foreign court, you manage to keep your eyes and ears sharp," Es Ke interrupted, finally raising his sharp gaze to meet Geming's. "Impressive. But nephew, allow me to impart a lesson to you." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "Those who persistently thrust their noses into other men's affairs inevitably end up paying a steep price."
"Your Majesty!" Geming took a firm step closer, his eyes pleading. "If you refuse to release the captain, Chinua will slaughter every soldier left in Ngabo City alongside every civilian who remains! Does Your Majesty truly wish to bear the weight of all that blood on your hands?"
Es Ke let out a harsh, dry scoff. "That is precisely why General Phia was ordered to hold Ngabo to his last breath."
"Ngabo is already lost!" Geming shouted, unable to contain his frustration. "Your Highness must release the hostage and come to terms with Chinua! Surrender Mopia Valley to spare the lives of your people! Weapons possess neither eyes nor hearts, Your Majesty—when the steel clashes, the blades will not distinguish between a soldier and an innocent child!"
"You dare stand in my hall and advise me to bow my knee to a Magoli woman?" Es Ke's jaw clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white against the edge of his desk. "You and I both know what Hmagol truly desires! For decades, they have plotted to strip us of Kark and Ngabo because they despise sharing a land border with us!"
His breathing grew ragged and hot. "Attacking Pojin was a miscalculation—I acknowledge it was a foolish move. But even if I lose every single battalion in Ngabo, I will carve a scar so deep into that Magoli woman's heart that it sends an unmistakable message: if she backs a cornered dog into a dead end, that dog will tear out her throat before it dies!"
Es Ke slammed a heavy fist onto the desk and stood up, locking his blazing eyes with Geming's. "Tell me you wouldn't do the exact same thing if she and her iron vanguard were standing across the De-Lia River, threatening to swallow the western territories of Tanggolia!"
Geming swallowed hard, a long, heavy sigh escaping his lips as he slowly shook his head.
The tragic truth of Es Ke's words struck him like a physical blow. He knew the king was right. If the situation were reversed, Geming himself couldn't bear to imagine the nightmare of standing on opposite sides of a battlefield against Chinua, watching her march into his own homeland.
"Your Majesty... I know it is not my place to dictate your rule," Geming said softly, the anger completely draining from his voice, leaving only a profound, tragic sadness. "I have offered my counsel. Whether you choose to heed it or burn it remains entirely with you."
He looked up at Es Ke one last time, his expression unreadable. "I shall take my leave."
Geming offered a slow, formal bow, turned on his heel, and walked out of the study, leaving the king alone with his map and his doomed ambition.
The sun set, rose, set again, and finally climbed high into the sky on the third morning.
Above the battlements of Ngabo, the golden banners of Payapasa still snapped defiant in the wind, and the heavy city gates remained stubbornly sealed. Standing four hundred yards away at the perimeter marker, Chinua and her commanders stared up at the high stone walls in absolute silence. Behind them, eight thousand Magoli warriors stood frozen in battle formation, every pair of eyes locked on the ramparts above.
Along the city wall, General Phia stood flanked by his captains: Yongyee, Mingle, and Bliang. Mingle and Bliang held Drystan firmly between them, his hands bound tightly behind his back.
Standing tall in the center of the battlements, Drystan looked down at the dark, unyielding ocean of Magoli armor in the valley below. He knew the hour had arrived—the deadline had passed—but fear was entirely absent from his eyes. He had long accepted his fate.
Bliang turned his head slightly, gazing at Drystan with profound sorrow. "Tell me, Alhu... will your general yield to save you?"
A soft scoff escaped Drystan, a faint, fearless smile spreading across his face. "Chinua doesn't yield to anyone who threatens her," he said quietly. "And even if she tried... I wouldn't have let her."
Beside them, General Phia watched the shadow of his spear shaft on the stone deck shorten until it aligned perfectly with the mark of noon. The time was up. His king had chosen blood over negotiation, and now blood would run.
Phia turned to Drystan, studying this stranger—a man from a distant foreign land who had chosen to stand, fight, and die for Hmagol. Drystan's bright blue eyes showed not a single flicker of fear, his golden hair glinting like spun fire under the blazing midday sun.
"If you have any last words," Phia said gently, his voice thick with grief, "now is the time."
Drystan let out a quiet chuckle. He raised his chin, locking his gaze onto the solitary figure of Chinua standing at the front of the army hundreds of yards away.
"Magoli!" Drystan roared, his voice echoing off the stone canyon and thundering through the valley.
As his breath hit the cold mountain air, a flood of memories rushed through his mind—taking him back to the very first day he had met her...
Chinua's voice was cold, precise. "Move and die."
Drystan glared at Chinua, then at the two dead men lying just a few feet away. A sneer twisted his lips. "Who the hell are you, lady?"
"You're truly a talented person," Chinua observed, her voice calm. "Why choose to be a bandit?"
Drystan chuckled, a dry, bitter sound. "It's not like I have other options."
"Everyone has options," Chinua countered, her gaze unwavering. "It's up to you which ones you choose." She fixed him with a sharp look. "Hey, Alhu, if you want to live, don't commit crimes in Hmagol."
Drystan was a man who knew no fear of death. Even when staring it in the face, his pride would not falter. He sneered, "What if I do? What are you going to do, Magoli?" He smirked, challenging her.
Chinua met his stare, slowly loosening her bowstring, her eyes never leaving Drystan. He didn't even blink as Chinua's arrow zipped past him, missing by mere inches. Chinua then lowered her bow, hanging it back on a hook in her saddle.
"Because when I return from my trip," Chinua declared, her voice holding an ominous promise, "I'm going to pick out all the bad grains in our rice bucket and feed them to the chickens." Her gaze hardened as she looked at Drystan. "Alhu, what's your name?"
Drystan chuckled, a light, mocking sound. "I don't know why you keep referring to me as an Alhu. I've never been to that part of the country and know nothing about it." He paused, his gaze meeting hers. "What's your name?"
Chinua smoothly mounted her horse, looking down at him. "Tell me yours, and you'll know mine."
"Drystan," he stated simply.
Chinua smiled, a subtle, almost taunting curve of her lips. "You won't be worthy of my name until you're no longer a bandit." With that, she wheeled her horse and rode away from Drystan.
Drystan stood watching, as the three figures, mounted on their horses, rode into the setting sun. He cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting after them, "Magoli! If I have eyes on someone, that person can't get away!" A smirk played on his lips. "You're one hell of a Magoli!"
As the memory dissolved back into the glare of the noon sun, tears welled in Drystan's eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat, taking one final, deep breath of the cold mountain air.
With a defiant, triumphant smile breaking across his face, he summoned every ounce of strength in his chest. In a thunderous, proud roar that shook the very battlements of Ngabo, he screamed down to his general:
"BURN IT DOWN!"
Phia swiftly drew the heavy broadsword of the guard standing beside him. With a powerful, desperate swing born of tragic duty, he brought the steel down across Drystan's neck.
The strike cut clean through. Drystan's body collapsed onto the rampart stone as his head fell, tumbling off the high battlements into the open air—plunging straight toward the earth below.
As Drystan's severed head tumbled from the high ramparts, plunging through the cold air to strike the dirt below, Chinua stood frozen. Watching the horrific descent, her lips trembled uncontrollably as hot, furious tears filled her eyes. A second later, her heart shattered completely as Drystan's bound body was callously tossed over the stone wall, crashing into the dirt beneath.
A suffocating silence fell over the front lines, thick with absolute shock—before turning into an inferno of pure, unfiltered rage.
Chinua's brows hardened, her eyes squinting angrily as she gripped the staff of her spear so tightly that her knuckles turned stark white. Her chest heaved with a suffocating, silent rage.
Then, after a long, agonizing moment, she slowly turned back toward her commanders. Her face was a mask of cold, terrifying vengeance, her eyes blazing through the unshed tears.
"You heard him," she rasped through gritted teeth, her voice slicing through the wind like drawn steel. "Burn it down."