Rushing down the main street of Nue-Li City, Mayor Dae hurried toward the northern gate, his mind reeling from the news of a public execution. The chaos of the city was a stark contrast to his own undisturbed home. As he ran, he realized that many civilians were standing outside while Magoli soldiers searched their homes. He noticed that the houses with white cloth tied to their doorsteps were not being disturbed. He was even more surprised when the Magoli soldiers on the street didn't stop or question him, allowing him to pass freely. The mayor's confusion grew with every step; the city was a paradox of strict military law and a puzzling display of respect for a few pieces of fabric.
A new sense of purpose took over his panic when he saw a unit walk out of a house empty-handed, confirming that the Magoli soldiers were not committing theft as Hye had told him. His feet began picking up their pace, with his two servants trailing a few feet behind him.
Just as he entered the northern area of Nue-Li City, the mayor was met with a large group of Magoli soldiers heading his way. He and his two servants stepped aside to let them pass, hoping to remain unnoticed. Then, he saw it. Walking among the soldiers, his hands behind his back, was Jochi, and behind him, the soldiers were dragging the five dead bodies of the executed men. The sight was shocking, a final, brutal display of justice that created an unforgivable scene in the quiet street. The mayor stood frozen, the grim reality of the Magoli's discipline now undeniable.
Seeing that the person standing on the side of the road was dressed differently from an ordinary civilian, Khawn stopped before Dae. The Magoli soldier's expression was grim, but his tone was polite. "May I ask, which way is to the prison cell?" he asked, his question a strange, formal contrast to the brutal scene that had just passed.
Dae looked at the young soldier, a mix of caution and curiosity in his eyes. He wasn't about to give away information without understanding the purpose. Instead of answering directly, he returned the question with a diplomatic calm. "May I ask your reason?" he said, his voice measured and firm. He needed to understand if this was a simple request or another veiled show of force.
"I am escorting Captain Jochi to the prison," Khawn said, his voice flat and direct. "This is my first time here." He made no attempt to hide his purpose. The reason for his question was a simple, professional matter of business, and he expected the mayor to treat it as such.
Khawn's answer shocked Dae, and a sense of profound satisfaction settled over him as he realized that Jochi was not the commander of this small unit of soldiers but in fact, a prisoner. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. The Magoli's justice was more severe than he could have ever imagined. He pointed down the street, his voice now a steady, calm whisper. "Go straight ahead, and when you are closer to the southern gate, the courthouse should be on your left." He stared at Jochi, and then back at Khawn, a new question forming on his lips. "May I ask what his crime is?"
Khawn looked at Dae, his polite demeanor still intact, but a new, subtle caution in his eyes. He wasn't about to give away information without a good reason. He returned the mayor's question with a calm, professional counter-inquiry. "Why do you need to know?" he asked, his voice firm and unwavering, making it clear that his previous politeness was not a sign of weakness.
"Well," Dae said, his voice now confident and firm, "you want to use my prison, at least share the crime committed with the host." He was no longer a terrified bystander, but the mayor of the city, and he had just reminded the Magoli soldier of his authority. He wasn't demanding information; he was requesting a simple courtesy, an act of trust between a guest and a host.
"Well," Dae said, his voice now confident and firm, "you want to use my prison, at least share the crime committed with the host." He was no longer a terrified bystander, but the mayor of the city, and he had just reminded the Magoli soldier of his authority. He wasn't demanding information; he was requesting a simple courtesy, an act of trust between a guest and a host.
Dae sighed, a heavy, tired sound that conveyed his exasperation. He was done with the diplomatic games and the cautious back-and-forth. "I am the mayor of this city," he said, his voice now flat and firm. It was not a request or a polite inquiry; it was a simple, unyielding statement of his authority.
Khawn looked at Dae, his eyes raking over the mayor's face up and down in a final, quiet assessment. "Encourage soldiers to commit war crimes against surrender civilians," he said, his voice flat and unemotional, stating the crime as a cold, undeniable fact. He then looked back at his soldiers, and without another word, they slowly began walking down the street toward the courthouse, leaving the mayor to process the brutal truth.
As the afternoon took over Nue-Li City and the shadows of the houses shifted to the left, the long-heated standoff between the Northern and Eastern Magoli soldiers came to a quiet conclusion. The streets, which had been thick with tension, now held a heavy, unnatural stillness. A palpable silence had replaced the shouts of fury and the sounds of steel, leaving behind an unsettling calm. The air itself seemed to hum with the memory of the violence, an unsettling prelude to the new reality the city would face.
Many Ginmiao civilians who had been forced to stand outside their homes while they were searched had returned, but others remained, standing in the oppressive silence, waiting for the Magoli soldiers to finish their work. The city was left in a state of unsettling calm, a hollow echo of the violence that had just taken place. The lingering tension was a thick, heavy blanket, muffling the sounds of daily life. The quiet was more terrifying than the shouts of fury had been, as it suggested that the Magoli's justice was not a moment of passion, but a cold, calculated act that would forever change the rules of their existence.
Hye looked at the young Ginmiao woman who stood beside him. His mind, now clear, finally allowed him to see her as she was. The young woman whom he had thought was Nabi was not Nabi. He sighed, the sound heavy with a deep sadness, and realized that Nabi, the person he had wished to save most of all, was long gone. All that was left of her was a fragment of memories that he continued to keep alive. He looked at the woman beside him, her face bruised but her eyes clear. She watched him, understanding in her gaze, a silent acknowledgment of his grief and the ghost that still haunted his every move.
"What... what's your name?" Hye finally asked. The question was a halting, hesitant one, as if the words themselves were a struggle to form. He looked at her, his dark eyes still distant with grief, but a new, fragile curiosity had sparked within them.
The young woman looked at him, her own bruised face a mirror of the city's pain, and she didn't answer right away. She saw that his question was not an easy one, but an act of reaching out, a small, tentative bridge being built across their shared, terrifying experience.
After a long pause, the young woman finally said in a soft, low voice, "Kaj... my name is Kaj." The simple name felt heavy, a single word that carried the weight of her entire ordeal. It was a humble offering, a small sign of trust that she was willing to share her identity with him.
Hye nodded, a small, barely perceptible movement. The ghost of Nabi still lingered in his mind, but for the first time, he was looking at the woman who was actually there.
Hye stood to face Kaj, the weariness evident in his posture. He spoke in a low, gentle voice, a stark contrast to the violence that had just taken place. "Everything is over now," he said. "You can go back home."
Hye's words were meant to be a comfort, a final act of release, but Kaj's expression remained uncertain. Her face was bruised, her body still trembling, and the promise of "home" felt like a distant, fragile concept. She simply looked at him, a stranger who had stood by her side and saved her, a quiet question in her eyes.
With tears streaming down her pale cheek, Kaj shook her head, her voice still filled with sadness and sorrow. "Everything might be over from your point of view," she said, wiping a tear from her cheek with her right hand. "But the true nightmare had just begun for me." Her eyes, filled with a raw, agonizing grief, locked with his. "I don't want to go back to the place where my sister-in-law and my nephew were murdered, kind brother." She looked up at him, her voice a small, desperate whisper. "Please help me bury my sister-in-law and my nephew."
Kaj turned to her left, her movements a blur of desperate grief, and snatched the dagger that was hanging on the side of a female soldier. She unsheathed the dagger in a single, fluid motion and, without a moment of hesitation, aimed the blade straight at her own right chest. But before the knife could find its mark, it was grabbed by Hye. His hand closed around the blade, blood blossoming on his palm, a testament to his desperate act of saving the very soul he was trying to console.
"Lady Kaj, what are you doing?" Hye said, his voice a low, urgent whisper filled with genuine concern. He showed no sign of pain, even as the blood from his sliced palm began to drip one drop at a time onto the dirty street. The red droplets created a stark contrast against the dust, a testament to his immediate, self-sacrificing decision to save her.
Kaj sobbed, her body wracked with a deep, consuming grief. "Kind brother, you have no idea," she said, her voice filled with a raw sadness that made the nearby soldiers turn to look at her. "Although this so-called justice has been served, is this truly justice? Their nightmare might be gone, but... my true nightmare had just begun." She saw Hye's blood on her hand, and slowly, gently, let go of the dagger's hilt, afraid of doing any more damage. "For a woman like me, whose innocence has been stained," she sobbed, lowering her head in shame, "I would rather die than be the subject of town gossip."
Standing and watching, the voices of the command civilians made their way to Chinua's ears. As she listened to their words, she heard no comfort, but instead a cold accusation of the victim. In that moment, she understood a grim truth: as a woman, it didn't matter in which kingdom she lived, she was never a victim, even when she was victimized. Therefore, Chinua thought, choosing death was perhaps the most merciful logic for victim like Kaj in this unforgiving world.
Chinua stood forward, and her voice, now loud and comforting, broke the silence. She looked at her fellow soldiers, her gaze searching for a willing man. "Are any of you willing to marry this young woman as your wife?" she asked, her question a quiet plea for decency and honor. She waited, but there was no answer from any of the soldiers. In the face of her powerful command, the disciplined men remained silent. They could not defy her, but they could not overcome their own deeply ingrained social stigma, and their silence was a grim, final answer.
Standing there, Chinua, Kaj, and the female soldiers shared a silent, grim understanding. They knew what the few civilians still on the street knew: because Kaj had been violated by the Northern Magoli soldiers, no man would ever want her as his wife. In the silent street, the women's eyes met, and they understood a truth that went beyond armies and laws. They understood that the soldiers' silence was not a sign of disrespect toward their general, but a reflection of a deeply ingrained social code that branded women like Kaj as unfit for marriage, leaving them with no future but public shame.
Listening to the ill words of the civilians on the street, Jeet looked at Chinua, and with his deep, low voice, he made a solemn declaration. "I will marry her, Chinua," he said, the words cutting through the gossip like a cold blade. He sighed, the weight of his decision heavy on his shoulders, and walked to stand directly in front of Kaj. He looked at the bruised, sobbing woman, a look of profound respect in his eyes, and his voice softened. "How old are you?" he asked, his question a single, quiet offer of a future where there was none.
Kaj looked up at the middle-aged man who stood taller than her, her head barely reaching his chest at her height of four feet, nine inches. She stood small and fragile before his imposing figure, her voice a small whisper. "Seventeen..." she said, the word trailing off into the quiet, as if the number was a burden she could no longer bear. The grim truth of her youth hung in the air, a final, heartbreaking layer to her tragedy.
Jeet looked down at the young woman, his expression grim but honest. He wasn't a man to waste words, and his offer was as direct as his demeanor. "I am thirty-nine and have never been married," he said, the words a simple declaration of fact. "I am a soldier of Chinua's army, and my home is in Pojin." He had laid out the terms of his life for her to consider, a practical and unadorned promise of a future she could choose to accept or refuse.