The ruined stone houses stood mostly empty. Dust hung thick in the air while a few soldiers dragged the bodies of dead mercenaries toward a freshly dug pit.
Inside a two-story shack, candlelight flickered across several exhausted, anxious faces.
Tiberius slammed a wooden marker shaped like a Volantene horseman onto a crude map spread across the table. His face looked grim in the firelight.
"That mercenary wasn't lying—Mohahta brought around fifteen hundred men," Tiberius said, his voice hoarse but steady. "They haven't launched many full assaults these past couple of days, but every probe still bleeds us. And us? We've got maybe eight hundred men still able to hold a weapon and willing to fight. We're short on everything—weapons, food, real soldiers."
Demetrius let out a heavy sigh. "Yeah." He pointed out the window at the ragged Myr troops in tattered clothes, eyes full of fear. "I've got three hundred on paper, but half of them can barely pull a bowstring. Turns out most were just conscripted porters hauling grain! How the hell are we supposed to fight like this? In just a few days I've already lost most of them!"
Nearby, a Tyroshi minor noble in a torn silk coat had gone paper-white and was shaking uncontrollably. He lunged forward like a drowning man grabbing driftwood and clutched at Tiberius's sleeve, voice cracking with sobs. "Brother… Lightning, sir! Save me! My family has money—lots of it! If you can get me out of this cursed place and back to Tyrosh, I'll give you a thousand—no, three thousand gold coins! I swear it!" His name was Lysapo, and he was clearly broken.
The only one still somewhat composed was Habro, the mercenary captain. Even after the disaster at the delta, he still had a hundred or so hardened veterans left. He tapped the map with a thick finger, indicating the rough positions of Mohahta's forces around the town.
"Lightning Kid, let's not sugarcoat it—our situation is fucked," Habro said in a low, gravelly voice. "You said they've got about fifteen hundred out there. Chariots, infantry, cavalry—the whole damn package, and most of them are proper soldiers, not slaves dragged out of mines or plantations. This morning they nearly broke the main gate. If we hadn't fought like madmen, they'd have slaughtered us already. We've been trapped in this shithole for two days now. I checked the granaries—stretching what's left, we've got three days of food at most. And there's not a soul left in this town to conscript. Our boys have to man the walls, haul stones, beams, and arrows all at once!"
He glanced toward a relatively intact courtyard nearby—where Lysandro was currently recovering from his wound—and lowered his voice.
"And… that lord in there is another problem. He's hurt bad and can barely move. Tell me, Lightning—with only eight hundred men, how the hell do we fight this?"
He paused, a dark look flickering across his face.
"Maybe… we should consider surrender?"
"Surrender?" Tiberius's head snapped up, his gaze sharp as a blade as it swept across Habro and the other officers whose eyes were already shifting.
"If you're fine with spending the rest of your life hauling ore in a Volantene mine until you drop dead, or getting baked alive and pickled in a salt field, then go ahead. Oh, and they'll brand your face so you—and your children—never forget you're their property!"
The words hit every freeborn man in the room like ice water. Even Lysapo stopped sobbing for a moment, his face twisting in pure terror.
Tiberius ignored their reactions and turned back to the map, fingers drumming the table as he stared at Stone Crow Town and the marked position of Twinbridge Town on the Flank Corridor. He fell into deep thought.
After a long silence, a cold, resolute light flashed in his eyes. He looked up, voice calm but carrying absolute authority.
"No surrender. That's non-negotiable. Surrender means death—the slow, miserable kind."
He scanned every face in the room, then spoke slowly and deliberately.
"Tomorrow… I'm going into the Volantene camp."
"What?!"
"You've lost your mind!"
"They'll nail you to a stake!"
The room erupted.
Tiberius didn't react to the outburst. Instead he turned to Vito, who had been standing silently in the shadows behind him the whole time, and gave a crisp order.
"Vito, get me ink, a quill, and a clean sheet of parchment. I need you to write a letter for me."
"I'm going into the Volantene camp myself."
---
"Mohahta, my lord—the men inside the town say they're sending someone to discuss surrender terms," a soldier with sword-scar tattoos on his face reported, kneeling.
"Good. Surrender is acceptable," Mohahta replied, visibly relieved.
For him, ending the fighting without another messy battle was the best possible outcome.
Although Volantis had crushed the Three Daughters' elite forces along the Disputed River with overwhelming power, Mohahta had been passed over for the juicy assignment of seizing the rich western crossings and outposts. Instead, he'd been sent to this backwater near the Flank Corridor to scrape together whatever minor merits he could. It left a sour taste in his mouth.
All he wanted now was to finish the job quickly, return to his estate and villa, and enjoy his lovers and chilled wine in peace.
"Looks like the Three Daughters have been thoroughly scared shitless by Lord Marcus," he said with a laugh, turning to his officers. "This is what—the fifth or sixth group that's offered to surrender? I wish I had enough fingers to count them all." His joke drew loud laughter from the men.
"Very well—raise my tent and display the family banners!" Mohahta waved a hand. "Form the troops up properly. Let them see what a real army looks like—what a conquering force looks like!"
Even though the town had signaled willingness to surrender, Mohahta wasn't careless. He had his men form ranks and set up his command tent—not only because Volantene nobles loved ceremony (it would be needed for the formal surrender), but also to crush the enemy's spirit before a single word was spoken.
Once the tent was ready and the troops were arrayed, another soldier reported that the envoy from inside the town had arrived.
"Bring him in."
Outside the camp gates, the atmosphere was lethal. Black-armored guards stood with halberds, staring coldly at the lone, suspiciously young envoy.
Behind them, two long lines of Volantene soldiers in mail and scale stood at attention, axes in hand. The morning sun had broken through the clouds, glinting off gilded blades and lighting the path ahead.
Tiberius Mord—currently wearing a carefully practiced smile that matched his age, even carrying a hint of fawning deference—walked into the camp with a slight bow, keeping his posture humble the entire way.
Seated on a lavish captured chair was, of course, the Volantene noble commander Mohahta.
Mohahta looked arrogant, a jeweled and diamond-studded curved saber at his waist. He wore a black breastplate inlaid with rubies and a blood-red cloak that nearly dragged on the ground.
"Honored lord," Tiberius said, his voice carrying exactly the right amount of humility as he respectfully offered a rolled parchment with both hands.
"My name is Vito Coppola. I am the personal bodyguard of Lord Mario Ferrero. Lord Ferrero is currently inside the town. He… he wishes to discuss surrender terms and has sent me with this letter."
Mohahta raised an eyebrow, took the parchment with obvious suspicion, and unrolled it. As his eyes scanned the contents (the carefully worded "letter of surrender intent" that Tiberius had dictated and Vito had forged), his tightly furrowed brow relaxed slightly.
But when he looked up again and saw Tiberius's still-boyish face, the corner of his mouth curled into open contempt.
"Surrender? Acceptable." Mohahta's voice carried the casual arrogance of a superior. "However, you—this little whelp…" He tapped Tiberius's nose lightly with his riding crop.
"So young, yet already the personal bodyguard of a governor's son? Hmph. Do all the officers and nobles of the Three Daughters climb the ladder by selling their asses? Just like that Myr commander Mitridas?"
His words immediately drew roaring laughter from the surrounding Volantene officers and guards—pure mockery.
Tiberius's heart hammered in his chest, but his smile only grew more "humble." He even blushed slightly and lowered his head.
"My lord is wise… I did indeed rise through… that method. I have embarrassed myself before you." He decided to lean into their prejudice, then smoothly changed the subject, his tone now laced with "worry."
"However, my lord… if we do surrender… what will happen to the common soldiers and officers besides the great lords like Lord Ferrero?"
A fierce, scar-faced lieutenant immediately barked, "What do you think? My mines are short on hands! Send them all to dig until they drop dead!"
Mohahta waved a hand, putting on a fake "magnanimous" smile.
"Now, now, don't frighten our young envoy." He looked at Tiberius with feigned gentleness. "For those who lay down their weapons willingly, I, Mohahta, swear on my family name to guarantee their safety as prisoners of war."
[After the war? Hmph, then it's out of their hands. As for the big nobles, they can be ransomed for a fat sum. And those mercenaries you killed? I'm already being merciful by not throwing the rest of you straight into the fields to work until you drop!]
In his eyes, this "Vito" and everyone else in Stone Crow Town were already destined for the mines and plantations for the rest of their lives.
Suddenly, as if remembering something, Mohahta slapped his forehead in mock realization.
"Oh, right! You said your name is Vito Coppola? In the Three Daughters' alliance army, do you happen to know a young man named Tiberius Mord? About twelve or thirteen years old, nicknamed something like 'Lightning Kid'?"
Tiberius's heart lurched violently. Cold sweat instantly soaked his back.
[They know?! No—that's impossible! How could he possibly know what I look like?]
His hand almost moved toward the dagger hidden in his boot, but he forced his face into an expression of pure confusion mixed with just the right amount of "admiration."
"Tiberius Mord? Of course I've heard of him! The famous 'Lightning Kid'! I heard he won some blood combat in Lys with a tiny force and even solved the Bloodwave Cape cannibal case! Quite the prodigy! But…" He scratched his head, looking embarrassed.
"I'm just a nobody—I've only heard the name. I don't know him personally. And there was no one by that name among those who retreated to Swordbreak Fort…"
Mohahta's face showed a complicated expression. He sighed softly.
"Not acquainted… Never mind. It's mainly about the Bloodwave Cape matter. A few years ago, an unworthy younger brother of mine disappeared in that area… no body, no trace. The family had almost given up hope. Who would have thought that this Tiberius Mord would eventually uncover the truth, find the remains, and return his belongings… Although the outcome is tragic, it's better than never knowing."
He looked at Tiberius, his tone suddenly carrying a rare note of genuine seriousness.
"Vito, if you ever have the chance to meet that Tiberius Mord—or if he hears of my offer—you may tell him that if he is willing to surrender and join Volantis, I, Mohahta, swear on my family name to grant him a fertile estate! I will send a carriage plated in gold and ivory to escort him to Volantis City with full honors and treat him as an honored guest!"
[Too close…]
When two Volantene soldiers escorted him out of the camp, Tiberius realized his back was drenched in cold sweat, his shirt clinging to his skin, his palms like ice.
This time he had truly thrown himself into an extremely dangerous situation. Even with the "Lightning" and "The Ruthless" titles boosting him, he wasn't sure he could have saved his own life if things had gone wrong.
But what choice did he have? Eight hundred men against fifteen hundred enemies—with the odds stacked against them even if the enemy made mistakes. Tiberius had to do everything possible to tilt the scales, even if only by one percent. Every extra percent meant fewer of his men would die…
He had considered sending someone else to fake the surrender, but in the end he couldn't trust anyone else with it.
Vito was clever and silver-tongued, but his mouth sometimes ran ahead of his brain—Tiberius was afraid he'd slip up.
Demetrius was the highest-ranking and most educated among the survivors who had fled with them. He could handle small matters well, and Tiberius had even learned a lot from him about Myr military organization.
If both Tiberius and Vito were gone, Demetrius would take temporary command of the camp.
But he was too cautious. And more importantly, they hadn't known each other long enough for Tiberius to fully trust him.
Lysandro, the rich young master, was brave and intelligent, but his mental resilience was lacking. Facing the arrogant Volantene nobles and their intimidating army alone in their camp would break him.
Habro was brave enough, but lacked cunning and was too rough—he didn't look like a nobleman's personal bodyguard.
As for Lysapo, while he could read, write, and calculate and had proven reliable (he was currently in charge of distributing the remaining food and doing a good job), he was simply too cowardly.
In the entire town, the only person who could be called both "greatly wise and greatly brave" was Tiberius himself.
[Although the negotiation was extremely dangerous, the result was still satisfactory. They actually followed my script!] Tiberius thought to himself with some pride as he walked back.
In truth, once you tried it, you realized that as long as you didn't slip up, the person sent to negotiate surrender wasn't in that much danger. It was far safer than the historical envoys and diplomats who were routinely thrown into cauldrons or out of windows.
Tiberius was feeling quite pleased with himself and the success of his plan when he suddenly spotted several Volantene wagons escorted by cavalry approaching. In the wagons were a group of filthy, bedraggled prisoners.
"Who are they?" Tiberius asked the Volantene soldier beside him, feigning curiosity.
"Your comrades from the Three Daughters," the soldier replied with open pride. "We've already caught two or three hundred people fleeing west from the Disputed River. They're all being held in the rear of the camp!"
Tiberius's heart skipped a beat, but he said nothing. As he continued walking with the Volantene escort, he passed close by the captured prisoners…
He saw their faces branded with tattoos, chained together in groups of ten, heavy iron shackles on their wrists and ankles. The slightest hesitation earned them a lash.
Up ahead, a commotion broke out. A pale-skinned prisoner who was clearly of noble birth was struggling on the ground. Several Volantene soldiers pinned him down while another approached with a red-hot branding iron shaped like the letter "S."
Tiberius lowered his eyes, pretending not to see. He forced the smell of burning flesh and the man's screams out of his mind.
He wouldn't speak up for that prisoner. He was deep in enemy territory, barely able to protect himself—helping a stranger was out of the question.
"As for those of you who surrender willingly, you won't need this treatment," the Volantene officer said in an arrogant tone. But Tiberius caught the cat-playing-with-mouse amusement in his eyes.
[Lies. All lies!] Tiberius thought, gritting his teeth. [They're lying through their teeth!]
---
Tiberius returned to Stone Crow Town covered in cold sweat, carrying critical intelligence. In the same rundown shack serving as their makeshift command post, he recounted everything he had seen and heard in the Volantene camp—especially the true fate awaiting prisoners and Mohahta's attempt to recruit him—to Demetrius, Habro, Lysapo, and Vito.
"…So there you have it," Tiberius said, wiping sweat from his forehead. His voice had returned to its usual calm. "I saw it with my own eyes. Forget the common soldiers—even captured minor nobles and mercenaries get branded and sent straight to the mines and salt fields. So…"
His sharp gaze swept across the group, finally settling on Habro, who had earlier suggested surrender.
"Surrender is not an option! It's death—the worst, most miserable kind!"
He stared at them all, repeating the Volantenes' "promise" word for word.
"Habro, Demetrius, Lysapo—the 'guarantee of your safety' the Volantenes talk about probably means 'safely' sending you into pitch-black mines or sun-baked salt fields until you drop dead!"
"Ptooey!" Vito spat a bloody glob of saliva onto the floor, his eyes blazing with killing intent, the muscles in his face twitching.
"Fuck! I knew those black-wall bastards couldn't be trusted! To hell with it! We're all going to die anyway—I'd rather die like a warrior with a sword in my hand than rot away in some gods-damned mine!"
Demetrius slammed his fist on the table so hard the water jug jumped. His eyes were bloodshot as he roared, "Damn right! Fuck it! My porters may not know how to shoot a bow, but they can still swing a club or throw a rock! Take one with us—take two and it's a profit!"
Even the terrified Tyroshi noble Lysapo, upon hearing "slave brands" and "mines," gave a violent shudder. Extreme fear had finally overridden his cowardice. He shrieked, voice cracking.
"I—I'll fight too! I'll pay! I'll give a bounty to every man who survives! A huge bounty! Just get us out of here!"
Seeing the group fired up and united, Tiberius knew the path of retreat was closed. There was only one way left—fight to the death. He took a deep breath and pointed at the crude map.
"Good! Since everyone has decided, let's figure out how to carve a path out of these fifteen hundred Volantenes surrounding us!"
---