Royal Dock of Goryeo — Six Weeks Later
The sea moaned beneath the weight of steel and ambition.
At the port of Haewon, thirty ships lined the shore, their sails blood-red and adorned with golden phoenix crests. Armor-clad soldiers filed in, their movements disciplined, silent. Crates of rations, weapons, and scrolls of imperial edicts were loaded aboard. The air was thick with anticipation and salt.
Standing at the edge of the dock, Emperor Go Tae-jun watched the preparations with a calm gaze.
He was dressed not as a ruler, but as a commander — in ceremonial black armor inlaid with silver thread, a long crimson sash tied at his waist. His sword, Seonghwa, rested across his back, its hilt shaped like a tiger's maw.
Beside him stood General Baek and the imperial scribe.
"Have the last rituals been performed?" the emperor asked.
"Yes, Your Majesty. The monks say the spirits favor this journey."
Tae-jun nodded slowly, though his heart told him otherwise.
This was no ordinary war.
This was a voyage into the unknown. A realm that no map could chart, no diplomat had touched, and no prophecy had ever dared to speak of — until now.
He raised a hand. The horn sounded.
The imperial fleet, wings of war on water, began its slow departure. Onlookers from the hills watched in stunned reverence as the emperor himself boarded the lead ship, standing tall at the bow.
And behind him, the war drums began.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The First War Drum.
Not heard since the conquest of the Northern Plateau.
Not heard since his coronation.
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Meanwhile — Kemetwa, Capital Zandara
The sun was merciless that day.
In the Garden of Trial, deep within the Ivory Citadel, warriors of Kemetwa trained. Barefoot in the red dust, their bodies glistened with sweat, muscles rippling with each strike of the spear, each swing of the axe.
Queen Nalya walked among them in silence.
Her royal robe was gone. Instead, she wore a light tunic of dyed indigo and a woven sash at her waist. Her braids were tied back, and her arms bore marks of past battles — old scars that whispered of her victories.
General Enar approached with urgency.
"Majesty. Our seers speak of sails in the eastern wind."
"Goryeo," she said, without turning.
"Yes. They've launched an armada. Thirty ships. Led by the emperor himself."
"He comes," Nalya murmured.
"He does not come for trade," Enar warned.
"No," she replied. "He comes to measure himself. Against us."
A silence fell between them. Only the clash of blades in the training yard broke the stillness.
"Shall we prepare the army?" Enar asked.
"Not yet," Nalya said. "Let him see our strength. Let him taste our soil. Let the land itself speak before we do."
She turned to face the sacred tree that grew in the center of the garden — a baobab older than the citadel itself, its trunk carved with generations of royal markings.
From its highest branch hung a ceremonial drum wrapped in lion hide.
She reached up and struck it once.
A hollow, thunderous sound echoed across the city.
The Queen had answered the challenge.
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At Sea — 17 Days into the Voyage
Storms battered the imperial fleet. Waves rose like mountains, and winds howled like mourning spirits. Two ships were lost. But Tae-jun did not turn back.
On the 18th day, the skies cleared.
And before them — land.
Red earth. Black cliffs. And towering trees unlike any the men had ever seen.
Tae-jun stepped ashore.
His boots sank into a soil that pulsed with warmth.
He inhaled deeply.
"So this… is Kemetwa."
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In the Spirit Realm — Beyond Time
Shadows gathered under a storm-lit sky. Two figures stood facing each other on the edge of a battlefield that was not of earth, but of soul.
One was robed in dark smoke, eyes like molten obsidian.
The Sorcerer.
The other, dressed in a white robe embroidered with moonlight, held a staff of bone and starlight.
The Chaman.
"They draw closer," the sorcerer hissed.
"They must," the chaman replied. "It was written."
"Then I shall rewrite what is written."
The winds howled between them.
War had begun — not only on earth, but in spirit.