//Content Warning// Dear readers, before you begin this chapter, I want to offer both caution and apology. This part of the story carries heavy shadows that may disturb or unsettle you. For two days I wrestled with whether to soften it further or to leave it as it was, and in the end I chose to shape it into something bearable while still keeping its raw heart. My original draft was far darker, filled with explicit cruelties and horrors that I knew would do more harm than good if left untouched, so I stripped much of that away; still, even now, shadows remain between the lines Please know my intent is not to glorify cruelty, but to show the harsh truth of this tale. If it troubles you, forgive me. Read with care, and thank you for walking with me, even when the path is grim. //Content Warning//
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The woman's voice softened as she leaned closer to the boy. "Wait, little boy. Before you go running off, let me tell you story first. Tell me, what is your name?"
The boy hesitated, scratching at the dirt. "I… I don't know."
She smiled, though the sadness in her eyes betrayed her. "Then I'll call you 'little boy.' Listen well…"
"Twenty years ago, there lived a man known to us as Mount Tai. His given name was Tai Kun, but people seldom used it. They called him Mount Tai because he was a giant among men. He was taller than most by two heads, broad as a barn door, and wherever he went, he carried the weight of the mountains themselves.
He was never seen walking alone, always astride a tiger the size of a cart horse. In one hand, he carried a long spear, its tip glinting like lightning under the sun. In the other, a whip coiled like a serpent, ready to strike anytime. When he rode through villages, his presence made even the fiercest men bow, yet the poor lifted their children to wave at him, for they knew he would never harm them but for rich people he was fieriest.
No one was certain where he had come from. Some whispered he was born among the great sects far to the north, where warriors are trained from childhood in the arts of war. Others swore he had crossed the Loon Mountains, where few men returned alive, their peaks guarded by storms and spirits. But whatever his true origin, he appeared in our land like a force of nature.
At that time, the general of this place and nearby 10 villages, was a cruel man named Bku Khali Singh. He ruled with iron fists and iron taxes, taking from the weak to fill his vaults. Mount Tai challenged him openly. For three days and nights they fought on the plains outside the city — spear against sword, tiger against warhorse. Villagers lined the hills to watch, and the sound of their clash echoed like thunder.
On the morning of the fourth day, it was Mount Tai who stood victorious. Khali Singh fell, and though he begged for his life, Tai Kun spared him, for such was his nature. The king, moved by his strength and mercy, named him General Mount Tai, protector of the land. From then on, peace returned, and for the poor, those years were a blessing.
But even a mountain can be shaken by love."
The woman's voice grew softer, almost tender.
"Every day, Mount Tai would ride along the riverbanks and through the fields, making sure no villager went hungry. And there, among the flower gardens, he saw her, a girl of lower birth, kneeling among the blossoms, plucking them with careful hands. She was not draped in jewels, nor clothed in silk, but her beauty was of the kind that shines brighter than gold.
He found himself returning, again and again, pretending to inspect the land when in truth his eyes sought her alone. Her smile disarmed him more than any sword could. She was gentle, modest, and carried herself with a quiet strength that no noblewoman could imitate.
One day, unable to endure the silence of his own heart, he approached her. Dismounting from his tiger, he stood before her and said, 'Will you be my wife?'
The girl lowered her eyes. Her voice trembled, but it was steady enough to pierce him. 'I cannot. I am of a lower caste. My family has already arranged my marriage.'
Those words fell upon him heavier than any enemy's blow. For a man who had toppled generals and crossed mountains, rejection was a wound he had never prepared for. Yet, he did not grow angry. Instead, he became patient, waiting like the cuckoo bird that sings for rain, hoping love would one day descend upon him.
He searched for the name of her promised husband, but none came forth. Some whispered her family dared not speak it, for fear of insulting a general. Others thought the arrangement was a lie to keep him away.
Still, Mount Tai did not give up. Each morning, he would watch her pluck flowers, guarding her silently from afar. For him, the battlefield had shifted, it was no longer steel and blood, but hope, longing and love.
Yet fate, as it always does, was already turning its wheel."
The woman paused, looking at the boy with serious eyes. "Do you see, little one? Even the strongest man can be undone, not by armies, but by the heart. Remember that as you listen further… for the story of Mount Tai does not end in peace."
She took a deep breath and started again...
"He watched her from the riverbank for days before he found the courage to speak. At first he would ride past and pretend it was only to look after the land; his heart tightened every time he saw her hands among the blossoms. At last, one evening when the world was flat and quiet and the river held the sun like a coin, he could not hold back. He left his spear by the reeds, sat beside her, and asked her to be his.
She did not refuse him that night. They stole a small season together beneath the reeds, hidden from the traders and the world, and when they parted the promise between them felt like something made of warm light. Weeks later, a trembling hand at his sleeve told him she was with child. He rode back to court singing, proud and light as a man who believes the world will meet him halfway. He paid the taxes he had gathered for the king and came home lighter of coin and heavier of hope.
"Little boy," the woman told him as she picked at the dust, "she was not only beautiful but also she could heal. In all this empire there was no one so skilled with herbs and wounds as she. A true healer, she was."
Two days later the world tilted. Her family, it turned out, had already promised her to another household, a rich and distant clan who could give them land and standing. They swept her away in the night like something fragile to be delivered. Some said they had taken her beyond the borders of the province; others whispered that she had vanished altogether. The news struck him like a spear. The man who had toppled generals and crossed mountains sat by his fire and drank until dawn blurred into dawn again. The tiger by the stable waited and watched its master with endless, puzzled eyes.
She said " It was his first mistake, he should have keep her by himself, not to leave her when he already got her. Remember boy, if you want something enough, don't stand with your hands open and beg. Don't wait for time to be kind, don't wait for someone to bless your claim. The world doesn't hand out what matters — it takes what it wants and laughs at those who wait. If you must snatch it from another's grasp, snatch it. If you must fight for it, fight until your nails break and your blood dries. And when the thing is in your hands, don't drown afterward in regrets for the moments you let it slip. Crying for a thing you once could have taken is a poor comfort. Remember this: hesitancy buries more men than blades. Learn to move when the moment comes and accept the cost"
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The woman's voice grew heavier, as if the burden of the memory pressed on her chest. The boy leaned closer, wide-eyed, waiting for more.
"Two years passed like that," she said quietly. "Two years of waiting, two years of silence, two years of watching a mountain turn hollow from the inside."
The boy frowned. "Didn't he ever find her? Didn't anyone know where she went?"
She shook her head slowly. "He tried. God knows he tried. He sent scouts, riders, even the king's best spies, but every lead crumbled into dust. It was as if the earth itself had swallowed her whole. The courtiers pitied him at first, their undefeated general. They started sending women to him, fine daughters from noble houses, delicate beauties trained to please. At first he humoured them, spoke a few kind words, but in the end? He sent them all away. His heart was chained to a ghost, and no living woman could break that bond."
The boy asked softly, "So… he lived alone?"
The woman's smile was bitter. "Alone? He was worse than alone. He was like a dry leaf clinging to a branch, waiting for the wind to snap it. He lived in his duties, buried himself in court work, but every night, every silence, reminded him he had no one. His body grew weaker, his spirit dimmer, but something inside him
something damn stubborn, kept him alive.
Maybe hope.
Maybe vengeance.
Maybe... just the refusal to die without answers."
She laughed harshly. "His life was in too much pain. Painful doesn't even cover it. Pain was his only companion. And in that weakness, wolves began to circle."
Her voice dropped. "See, boy, people are rotten at their core. The moment they smell blood, they come running like dogs. Nobles, rivals, little lords who thought they could take his place—one by one, they challenged him. They thought a wounded tiger would be easy prey. But let me tell you something…" She leaned closer, her eyes sharp. "A wounded tiger is ten times more ferocious than a fat one."
The boy's eyes widened. "What happened to them?"
"They lost. Some limped back, broken bones and shattered pride. Some never rose again. He cut them down without mercy. On the battlefield, he was still Mount Tai—unyielding, unstoppable. But outside it, he was still the man who sat alone with a broken heart. And that contradiction burned everyone who tried to cross him."
Her tone grew darker. "And the nobles? Oh, they hated him for it. Hated that they couldn't touch him, couldn't remove him. Because even in ruin, he still used his wealth for the people. Food, shelter, safety—he gave it all away. The rich gritted their teeth while the poor sang his name."
The boy asked, "Didn't the king help him?"
She sighed. "At first, yes. But then came the drought. Three years long. Crops failed, rivers dried, markets rotted. Prices climbed like vultures, and still he fed his people. For two years, he emptied his coffers. And by the third… he had nothing left. Nothing but his oath."
"What did he do?"
"He went to the king himself," she said. "He stood before the throne and said, 'Majesty, I will repay everything within three months.' And do you know what that bastard king said? He smiled. Smiled like a snake. He said, 'No, no… you don't need to repay. I have something better. Win me a war, and your debt is forgiven.'"
The boy gasped. "A war? Is there any war at that time? what is war?"
The woman's jaw tightened. "That's what Tai Kun thought too. He said, 'What war? My scouts report peace.' And the king leaned back on his fat throne and chuckled. 'Oh, there is war. We've been fighting Sangli kingdom in secret for three years. You will end it.'"
Her voice cracked with bitter laughter. "'What if I fail?' Tai Kun asked the king. And do you know what that coward said? 'You cannot fail. You are my undefeated general.' The arrogance, the audacity... fuck, the king spoke as if defeat was impossible, as if Tai Kun was not a man but a damn puppet carved of stone."
The boy looked unsettled. "And he… accepted?"
"He had no choice. He bid farewell to the villagers, promising brighter days ahead. The people believed him. They cheered, held puja for his victory, painted blessings in his name. And he, the fool, believed them too. He mounted his tiger, spear in hand, and rode to war. And that, little boy… that was his second mistake."
The boy blinked. "Second mistake?"
She leaned closer, her voice trembling between rage and grief. "He never understood, little one, that those he helped would be the ones to betray him. He thought kindness bought loyalty. But listen to me, and listen well: the human heart is filth. It is malicious, worse than demons. Demons will kill you outright. Humans? They'll smile, thank you, take your bread, then slit your throat when you're weakest."
Her tears finally fell. "Everyone wears a skin, boy. A mask of politeness, of loyalty, of love. But when hunger comes, when fear rises, when greed whispers in their ear… that mask peels off. And what's left? A heart blacker than ash. Demons don't pretend, they do everything with in their orders to kill anyone. But humans—they'll make you believe, they'll make you trust, and then they'll crush you until you have nothing."
And the woman, with tears running down her face, whispered the truth: "Never trust the human heart, little boy. It will damn you faster than any blade."
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The march to the battlefield took him two days, and by the time he arrived, the horizon shook beneath the weight of soldiers. One million stood at his side, yet against them stretched a sea of ten million, a tide of blades and banners that made the earth itself tremble. Still, he charged, heart pounding with the madness of duty. He told himself every drop of blood spilled here would buy five years of peace. But he soon realized the truth, these were not soldiers of his, but an army sworn to bury him alive.
He fought like a beast cornered by fate. For 5 days and nights he cut his way through, his sword singing, his arms refusing to rest. The ground became rivers of gore, the air a fog of screams. Four million fell beneath him during his retreat into the forests, yet still, they came. No one truly knew how many more his fury consumed. By the end, his body was half-dead, his eyes hollow, his soul ash.
When he staggered back to his village, he thought perhaps the sight of home would heal him. Instead, it broke him further.
The pond before the gate was not water anymore, it was a pit of corpses. Men and women, stacked and swollen, their faces frozen in agony, drifting like wreckage. Two foxes gnawed a severed head, rolling it playfully before tearing at the cheek, their jaws dripping scarlet. They lifted their eyes to him, lips curled back in snarls, and for a moment he thought even beasts now carried hatred for his failure.
The village gate had been remade into a grotesque archway: human heads spiked on spears, bodies split open and bound together by arrows. Blood sprayed in thin, dried fountains down the posts. The stench made his stomach twist. Every step forward was over mud made of blood and ash.
He raised his eyes, and saw the trees. What once shaded the village path were now gallows. From every branch dangled villagers, their charred flesh cracked and flaking, black smoke curling from bodies still burning. Dogs circled below, barking viciously, tearing at dangling limbs whenever the wind shifted. Their howls pierced him deeper than steel, for he swore each bark carried the voices of the dead.
His chest tightened. His eyes watered, not from smoke, but from terror. A warrior who had felled millions now shook like a child. Every shadow clawed at him, every gust whispered, You are too late.
Deeper within, a single house still burned, fire licking the night. It stood alone, like a shrine to despair. And beyond it, he saw movement. Chains. Soldiers dragging women out of basements like rats pulled from burrows.
He tried to help those captured people, but his body betrayed him. His legs buckled, heavy with the weight of slaughter. He collapsed beneath a tree, its bark slick with blood, its roots fattened by corpses buried shallow beneath. His eyes fluttered closed, though he knew sleep here was death.
Darkness swallowed him anyway.
The tree pulsed against his back, and in the dream—or was it waking?—the bark peeled away, revealing faces. Dozens of faces, screaming without sound, their mouths stretching open until they split apart. The branches curled like claws and reached for him. He could not scream. He could not breathe.
A voice slithered through his mind: You carried the war with you. You carried it home.
He jolted awake, breath ragged. His body was drenched in sweat. For a heartbeat he thought it was over. But then the voices returned—real ones this time.
"Oi! Look at this bitch biting me!" one soldier snarled in the distance.
Another laughed, spitting on the ground. "Hold her hair, drag her up. Fresh meat should know her place. Toss her to the pups at the back—they'll play with her."
The woman screamed, a sound sharp enough to cut bone. He tried to rise, his sword heavy in his hand.
Another soldier jeered, "Think they'll share her? Hah! You know the rule, they first, then we will taste. If we take them to the general, they will took it. So, enjoy newbies. These bastards hiding in basements think they're clever? We'll smoke 'em out."
They laughed like demons, voices echoing through the ruined village.
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They dragged her toward the burned hulk of a house as if leading a sacrificial animal. The rafters still smoked where flames had once kissed them, and the doorway sagged like a crooked mouth. Inside, the air tasted of ash and old blood.
They strung her up by a rope, wrists high above her head, and let her feet dangle. Her body hung limply now, bruises darkening the skin, her hair matted with soot. Two men crouched below, voices low and cruel, trading jests about which of them would take the first turn in whatever mockery they had planned. Their conversation had the casual tone of men arranging a feast. "Big blade first," after measuring, both of them decided with smirk. "No, let's do two at once. Quick and clean," the other answered, and both laughed as if comparing knives.
They stripped her until the cloth that remained was only tatters, and thrust her between two blades set like obscene props. She kicked and trembled, but their hands were iron. They slapped her mouth with a cloth, so that even her fear could only make muffled sounds. Still she was grogging in pain. But they shouted in more and more...
When another soldier returned, he tossed aside his helmet like a man joining a play. "Good—already started," he said, grinning. He tightened his grip on the boy's shoulder and shoved him forward, shoving the child's face toward the scene. "Look," he hissed. "See how much fun she's having." His laughter sounded small and brittle against the hollow beams.
The boy stumbled into the doorway, breathless, eyes wide. He saw his sister. her mouth muffled, eyes rimmed red, made to wear a smile that did not belong on her face. She shook her head once, a tiny, frantic motion that said: Don't come closer. The soldier pressed him down until he could do nothing but watch.
"What are you doing to her?" the boy croaked, voice raw.
The men answered with taunts and curses. They made leering suggestions, mocking the brother with words like meat and game. The girl's chest heaved; she bowed her head as if to hide the shame they soaked her in. Their cruelty was not measured in actions alone but in the way they toyed with her dignity—forcing her to perform for their pleasure, turning pain into a show. The room reeked of smoke, fear, and old liquor. The boy felt sick, his stomach curling as if his gut were trying to climb out of him.
He tried to move forward, to tear her down from the ropes, but those soldiers hands seized him, pinning him like a captured bird and put him on the floor. Tears filled his eyes. He could not make sense of the scene before him.
Then a shadow filled the doorway.
Mount Tai entered as in that house as a silent predator went inside that room, an seeing that room condition, his blood boiled, anger rose like demon. His spear's point caught the last of the dying light and threw a thin silver across the floorboards. That spear went through their necks horizontally.
Tai's voice was low and old. "You dogs," he lowered the sister gently to the floor, wrapping his cloak around her shoulders. He put his brother near her. Mount Tai knelt in the ash and wrote in the soil with the butt of his spear, a rough, angry script: If you live, go north and do not look back. If you die, may your soul rest. He paused, fingers white on the shaft. "Forgive me," he whispered, voice cracking. "Forgive me for coming late."
A brave man who had hidden nearby could no longer hold himself. He stepped out and sobbed openly, a raw sound that split the ruined hush like a struck bell. Mount Tai's shoulders shook. For all his victories on the plain, for all the battles that had carved his name into the dirt, the sight of a single sister broken changed him as no spear ever could.
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He slept again but woke up by instinct, he felt some wolves were rotating around him and they drawn by the scent of blood, slunk from the shadows, saliva was falling down like, they were hungry for years. But his eye met them, they understood who was predator and who were pray, they dragged a body with them and went away.
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Mount Tai pressed the butt of his spear against the ground, tracing the bloodied grooves left in the soil. Wheels had rolled, boots had stamped, and bodies had been dragged across the mud. He crouched and touched the earth; it was still wet and warm. Someone had been pulled here alive, clawing at the earth until the dirt itself seemed to bleed. The men who had taken the women were none other than Bku Khali Singh and his sons. No one really knew where they had gone, but the path told its own story: blood smeared into the mud, dragged footprints, the marks of ropes and bodies pulled across the earth.
The woman said softly to that boy, "Remember little boy, That was his third mistake. Never leave your enemy breathing. Kill at once, or one day they'll return and carve into you as you see here."
He said nothing, only tightened his grip on the spear and followed the trail.
The path led to the paddy fields, but what he found there was no longer farmland. It had become a carnival of corpses.
Both sides of the road were lined with man remains, mounted on spears driven deep into the ground. In another life, flags might have flapped proudly there; now bodies flapped instead, skin stretched like banners of rot. Each corpse had been mutilated. Their lower halves were missing with virile member or shredded, their eyes gouged so deep the sockets looked like caverns filled with crawling beetles. Blood had soaked their skin until it turned black and glossy.
The air itself was sick. Crows flapped clumsily from stake to stake, their beaks wet with someone's ear, someone's fingers, someone' tongues, their wings greasy with gore, . Vultures wheeled overhead, dropping scraps of intestine onto the mud as if feeding the land itself. Dogs and hyenas fought below, tearing strips from the fallen and snarling through broken jaws. Worms spilled from open stomachs, squirming like veins given independence.
And then he saw the trees.
The trees bordering the field were no longer trees but grotesque totems. Dozens of bodies had been nailed to their trunks, each pierced through with sharpened branches. Some hung upside down, tongues swelling purple, faces bloated like grotesque fruit. Others had their limbs twisted back, nailed at impossible angles, their mouths stretched wide in eternal screams. Black sap dripped down from the bark, mingling with human blood until it was impossible to tell which fed which.
One trunk bore five corpses stacked on top of one another, their torsos punctured by a single spear that pinned them like meat on a spit. The lowest body twitched faintly, perhaps still alive, eyes rolling in horror but unable to speak. Mount Tai's stomach clenched, but he forced himself to walk on.
Everywhere, the world reeked of iron and rot. Each gust of wind rattled bones like wind chimes, each flutter of wings sounded like laughter.
At the far end of the field, tents rose like obscene decorations, bright silk canopies flapping in mockery of the slaughter. Beyond them, the pond rippled under the cries of men and women. Soldiers splashed in the water, shouting drunkenly, their voices wild with false joy. But beneath their laughter was a different chorus, the cries of women, thin and broken, soaked in fear.
Every time one tried to climb from the water, hands grabbed her hair and yanked her under. They surfaced coughing, gagging, only to be shoved beneath again. The pond's surface was smeared red, each ripple spreading the stain wider.
From the tents came jeering voices:"Where's the next one?""Don't waste her breath — drag another!"A roar of laughter followed, echoing out like festival drums.
Some soldiers, drunk on a purplish brew, sloshed it down their chins until their teeth gleamed violet. Their eyes glowed fever-bright, and their movements became jerky, fevered, less human by the cupful. The women chained to them were forced to serve, trembling as if their very skin had begun to peel.
The cries rose together: weeping, moaning, shrieking, and laughter forced out through pain, a terrible chorus stitched together from terror and mockery. It was not music, not sound, but something fouler, something that turned the air into sickness.
Mount Tai stopped at the field's edge, his chest tightening. His hair stood on end, every pore of his skin bristling. This was not fear. This was rage given shape.
The roar came from his throat before he could stop it, the sound of a tiger. It cut through the mockery, silencing the soldiers, freezing them in place for an instant. Their heads turned. Then, like insects disturbed, they broke apart, fleeing for the far bank of the pond.
He charged.
His spear became a storm, slicing through the air with such ferocity the water itself shuddered. Men fell screaming, cut apart before their cries finished leaving their lips. The pond became a whirlpool of blood, bodies collapsing into the water to float among the women they had tormented.
Mount Tai moved like fury itself, each strike precise, each blow tearing the laughter from their throats. Silence followed, except for the ragged breathing of the women.
Some clung together, eyes wide and empty, their voices gone. Some stared at the horizon, unmoving, their souls already broken free of flesh. Others floated lifeless in the water, mouths open, eyes reflecting the sky as though still searching for salvation.
Mount Tai stood in the middle of it, chest heaving, his spear dripping. He whispered, almost a prayer, "Enough. No more."