The steam from a table laden with roasted meats and spiced grains rose into the morning air, catching the pale sunlight that filtered through the window of the seized manor. Outside, the village of Pojin was a graveyard of ash and flies, but inside, the atmosphere was one of calculated luxury.
Sitting around the table were Dzhambul, Lixin, Ehri, and Koorush.
"If my guess is correct, Chinua and her army will have already left Ntsua-Ntu and are heading here," Dzhambul said, his eyes fixed on the map spread out near his plate. "She will come at you with everything she has after what she sees you did to the village."
Koorush smiled, casually picking up a chicken drumstick. "And are you afraid?" he asked, slowly chewing as if he had all the time in the world. "To be honest, I want her to see this. Not just this—I made a promise to Payam that I will scatter his ashes across Lao-Da Pass."
"Do you think you can?" Dzhambul countered with a smirk. "If it were that easy to defeat the Southern General, the Tanggolians would have done it already. Why do you think Xin Jianping and his army are still standing at the border, only daring to look at the Scorched Grave Desert but never crossing the De-Lia River?"
Koorush set the bone down, his expression sharpening. "But this time it's different. This time, I have you. As the elder brother of Consort Ankhtsetseg and brother-in-law to the Crown Prince Geming of the great Tanggolia, you have a unique leverage. You could use your status to request the soldiers necessary to establish yourself as the Hmagol Southern King once the Southern General is removed."
He paused, his predatory gaze studying the shifting expressions on Dzhambul and Ehri's faces.
"Although my aunt is married to Xin Jianping and I am cousin to the great young general Xin Xiyan, I can tell you this: the wind is shifting. Many support Xin Jianping because Xin Xiyan holds more soldiers than your brother-in-law Geming. If Tanggolia splits into two nations—West and East—which side do you think will win?"
Koorush leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let me be clear: Xin Xiyan is not just a young general; he is the husband of Prince Koa, the crown prince of the Ofleisia Kingdom. So, when it comes down to the final decision, do you think the King of Ofleisia will help Prince Koa or Princess Pua?"
Dzhambul stared at the remains of the feast, his mind spinning like the gears of a siege engine. He understood the cold reality of the north: if Tanggolia split in two, Prince Koa would have the backing of the Ofleisia Kingdom. Without that support, Geming would lose the civil war. If Geming fell, Dzhambul's sister, Ankhtsetseg, would never be Empress, and Dzhambul himself would be a man without a country, a shadow without a light.
"You still have time to think about it," Koorush said, casually wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "From here until we reach Zasra Kingdom is a long journey. You have many days to decide your fate."
"And what do you get out of this?" Dzhambul asked, his voice steady despite the high stakes.
Koorush's eyes turned into cold slits. "Once I help you establish your kingdom in the south, you will use your power to help me take over the Umusa Kingdom. I want every Musian dead. I want them vanished from this earth."
Dzhambul smiled. It was a dark, hollow expression. He knew they were both monsters using each other's claws to reach their prizes. He wanted Hmagol; Koorush wanted blood. Without the Razaasia army, Dzhambul was a ghost; without Dzhambul's political legitimacy, Koorush was just a raider.
"Alright," Dzhambul said, his voice ringing with a new, dangerous authority. "Once I have established myself as the King of the South, I will use every resource I possess to help you annihilate the Umusa Kingdom."
Koorush's smile widened. The big fish had not just taken the bait; it had swallowed the hook. "Then let us take you across the border and down south toward Tanggolia," Koorush said. "As much as I would love to stay and see the look on the Eastern General's face when she finds the 'surprise' I left for her, I will not trade my soldiers' lives for such a small, petty victory."
"Then we must hurry to meet General Leej," Dzhambul said, standing up. "The agreement was to attack Salran Pass from the front and back at noon, before Chinua and her reinforcements arrive."
Koorush wiped his greasy hands on the side of his pants, his smile turning wicked. "Then let us get going. Noon approaches. My hand is itchy to kill some 'bandits.'"
On the far, jagged edge of the Salran Pass, the air was silent and thin. General Leej, Jietang, and their six loyal captains—Suxeu, Bliang, Nhia, Daiji, Kulu, and Mingle—stood like statues of iron, staring at the seemingly clear mountain pass. They knew the geography of this place; they knew that the moment they crossed the threshold, the hidden traps of Salran Hill would snap shut. But the life of a soldier was a currency they were willing to spend to secure the future of Lixin and Dzhambul.
Jietang turned to Leej, his eyes burning with a cold, vengeful fire. "There is no need for tricks anymore. They dared to sneak into our camp and burn our supplies—an insult that can only be washed away in blood. Today, no matter the cost of life, we bring Salran Pass to her knees. We will take Behrouz's head as our trophy."
Leej did not blink. He stood like stone, his gaze sweeping across the vast, weary ranks of his soldiers. These were men who had aged a lifetime in a single campaign, veterans who had spent years watching their brothers-in-arms fall in the mud, all to satisfy the unyielding weight of their King's command. Every scar on their faces was a map of a lost friend; every dent in their armor was a silent testament to a sacrifice made in the name of a throne that felt further away with every passing season.
"Bring in the machine," Leej commanded, his voice a low growl. "Destroy everything in the pass."
As the heavy wooden gears of the siege engines began to groan and turn, a single red flare streaked across the mid-morning sky, blooming like a drop of blood against the blue.
"General, that is Lixin's signal," Captain Daiji noted, pointing toward the shimmering horizon. "They are on the other side of the Pass. The pincer is set."
"Attack!" Leej's voice roared, echoing through the stone canyons like a landslide.
The air in the pass shattered with the first volley. The heavy "machines"—massive catapults Leej had smuggled to the border—began their rhythmic, devastating launch. They weren't aiming for the gates or the towers. Instead, the heavy arms swung upward, launching massive boulders directly at the jagged cliff faces of Salran Hill.
Leej knew exactly where the Hmagoli "bandits" were entrenched. They were deep within the natural limestone veins and hidden caves of the mountain, positions that were nearly immune to arrow fire. If he couldn't reach the soldiers, he would bury them.
The first impacts sounded like the world was cracking open. Boulders of varying sizes slammed into the mountainside, denting the ancient rock and triggering massive cascades of shale and earth. Each hit made the Salran Pass look wider, more exposed, as the natural defenses were literally ground into powder.
Rock fragments—sharp as daggers—flew across the pass like shrapnel, and a thick, choking veil of dust rose into the morning sky, blotting out the sun. The "invincibility" of the mountain was being systematically dismantled, stone by stone.
As Koorush wiped the grease from his hands on the side of his pants in the village manor, miles away at the Salran Pass, General Leej raised his iron-gloved hand to signal the first launch. The grease of the breakfast table was replaced by the heavy grease of the catapult's gears as they groaned under the tension of the kill.
The mountain groaned, a deep, tectonic sound that vibrated through the soles of every soldier's boots. Inside the hidden arteries of Salran Hill, the world was ending. Each boulder launched by the catapults sent shockwaves through the limestone; support beams snapped like dry twigs, and the "bandits"—the elite mountain defenders—found their escape routes vanishing.
The impact from the heavy stones blocked the primary veins of the upper tunnels, cutting off the air and the light. Choking on dust and the smell of pulverized stone, the soldiers were forced to abandon their high-ground nests, scrambling down toward the lower levels as the ceilings began to rain death upon them.
One by one, they were flushed out. They emerged from the mountain walls—the very stone that had protected their ancestors for generations—and stumbled, coughing and blinded by the morning sun, into the middle of the Salran Pass.
General Leej watched through the haze of dust, his face a mask of iron. He didn't wait for them to form ranks. He didn't offer a chance to surrender.
"Kill them where they stand," Leej ordered, his voice cutting through the roar of the catapults.
He knew his enemy perfectly. He knew that as long as Salran Hill bandits were scattered across the pass floor, Behrouz would never pull the levers to activate the "Mountain's Tooth"—the series of spiked pits and falling boulders designed to wipe out an invading army. Behrouz's love for his men had become the very leash Leej used to pull him toward defeat.