Linh and Gankou are up to their usual antics, slipping through the bustling streets of An'alm with grins that spell trouble. The morning market hums with life, vendors shouting their wares, mothers bargaining, children darting between stalls, but none suspect the chaos about to unfold.
"Look there," Linh whispers, nudging Gankou and pointing to a stall brimming with sweet pastries. "Fancy some breakfast?"
Gankou's eyes light up. "Only if it's free." He shoots Linh a wink before they exchange a quick nod, silently agreeing on their plan.
Linh steps forward, innocent as a lamb, and strikes up a casual conversation with the vendor. "Good morning, sir! That bread looks heavenly. What's your secret recipe?" he asks, his voice syrupy sweet.
The vendor coughs. "Ah, Linh. I hope you're not planning trouble, right? Well, it's all in the dough and a little extra honey. Keeps it soft and rich!"
As the vendor is distracted, Gankou swoops in from behind, swiping a pastry with lightning-fast reflexes. He bites into it as soon as he's clear, eyes closing in bliss. "Perfect," he mutters through a mouthful of sweet bread, tossing another to Linh.
They wander down the street, snickering as they polish off their stolen breakfast, but Gankou isn't satisfied yet. "We can do better than pastries," he says, his mischievous grin widening as he spots a large cart piled high with oranges.
"What're you thinking?" Linh raises an eyebrow, already intrigued.
Gankou scans the market, his eyes locking onto a cluster of gossiping women nearby. "Watch and learn." He sneaks up to the cart, grabs a few oranges, and then—with all the poise of a street performer—begins juggling them.
The vendor's eyes widen as he spots Gankou. "Hey! Gankou! You can't do that!"
But Gankou, undeterred, keeps juggling, edging his way into the crowd and drawing laughter from onlookers. He flashes them a grin. "Come on, now, a bit of fun, eh?"
Linh seizes the moment and casually fills his pockets with oranges while everyone is focused on Gankou's performance. When Gankou finally lets the oranges fall, he bows dramatically, earning scattered applause and a few coins tossed in his direction.
They retreat, oranges and coins in hand, laughing so hard they almost drop their loot. "You're ridiculous," Linh says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
"Admit it, you're impressed," Gankou replies with a smug grin.
As they turn the corner, they spot a small flock of chickens being herded by a farmer. Gankou's face lights up with devilish inspiration. "What do you say we spice up the market a bit?"
Linh doesn't even need to answer. With a quick nod, he signals his approval, and they both dart over to the flock. Gankou reaches down, scoops up a chicken, and tosses it gently toward the nearest stall. The chicken, flapping and squawking, lands amidst a display of vegetables, scattering greens everywhere.
Pandemonium erupts. Chickens run amok, vendors scream, and baskets topple as Linh and Gankou dash through the chaos, each releasing a chicken in a new direction. By the time they reach the far end of the market, everyone is either chasing or dodging a runaway chicken.
Gankou leans against a wall, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. "I'm dying—did you see the look on that guy's face when the chicken flew at him?"
Linh grins, nodding. "The best yet. They'll be talking about this all week."
Gankou's laughter cuts off abruptly as he catches sight of a figure looming over them, his face as hard as stone. Ghuba, flanked by a couple of his soldiers, stands with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed in a piercing glare. Linh straightens, quickly wiping the grin off his face, while Gankou swallows hard, managing a sheepish smile.
"Linh. Gankou," Ghuba's voice rumbles like distant thunder, layered with irritation. "Should I even ask what you two think you're doing?"
Gankou opens his mouth, then shuts it again, casting an uneasy glance at Linh.
"Just…inspecting the morale of the city," Linh says, attempting a casual shrug. "Everyone could use a good laugh."
Ghuba doesn't look impressed. He takes a step closer, his gaze unwavering. "And do you think the Moukopl will share your sense of humor when they arrive to find half our walls still crumbling?"
Linh's face shifts, the playfulness draining as he locks eyes with Ghuba. "So you're back from the south-east fortress? How is it looking?"
Ghuba nods, his expression grim. "As bad as the others. The outer walls are too far gone. No matter how many men we throw at it, they won't be reinforced in time." His tone grows sharper, more urgent. "We need to be realistic, Linh. The defenses won't hold; not all of them."
Linh's mouth tightens for a moment as he considers this. "Then we don't make them hold."
Ghuba's brow furrows, clearly unimpressed by the reply. "Excuse me?"
"We make it look like we're restoring every wall," Linh explains, his voice quickening with a confident edge. "Put up scaffolding, make it look like work is in progress, get people moving. Keep the guards patrolling and make a show of reinforcement."
Ghuba folds his arms, still skeptical. "And when the Moukopl march in and find the walls practically held together by prayers? What then?"
Linh's eyes flash with a touch of defiance. "The Moukopl have no reason to suspect we haven't restored our defenses. If we throw them off just long enough, we can buy the time we need."
Ghuba sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Any decent general would see through the decorum, Linh. This isn't some simple ruse. Even if we make it look like repairs are underway, any officer worth his salt will know you can't restore a fortress in a week."
"We're not aiming to fool their generals. We're aiming to fool the soldiers," Linh insists. "They're the ones who'll be climbing those walls, and if they think it's solid, they'll hesitate. Doubt will do half our work for us. And if we can lure a few of their troops into specific points where we actually have the walls fortified—"
Ghuba's face softens just a fraction as he catches on. "Draw them in where we want them."
"Exactly," Linh replies, his voice dropping low. "We need to use what we have, not wish for what we don't."
Ghuba's mouth twitches, almost like he's fighting a reluctant smile. He crosses his arms and fixes Linh with a long, evaluating stare. "You're asking your warriors to take a hell of a risk."
Linh's gaze doesn't falter. "They know what's at stake. They're willing. They trust you. And they trust me."
Ghuba studies him a moment longer before letting out a slow breath, nodding. "Fine. But if we're doing this, you keep it disciplined. I don't want to see another 'market performance' while there's work to be done." He gestures to Gankou, whose grin has turned nervous.
Linh flashes a grin back at Gankou, but it's quickly tempered as he nods to Ghuba. "Understood. No more distractions."
"Good." Ghuba's gaze softens just slightly, though his voice remains as firm as ever. "Now get moving."
In a lavish banquet hall of Pezijil, the air is thick with the scent of spiced meats, roasted vegetables, and the heady aroma of imported wines. Golden lanterns cast a warm glow over tables laden with exquisite dishes, and servants glide quietly around, refilling cups and offering platters to the guests of honor. Amidst the opulent surroundings, a chorus of laughter and spirited chatter echoes through the hall.
Official Mo, seated at the head of the table with a cup of wine in hand, leans back, a sly smile playing on his lips as he listens to the lively discussion of generals and officials around him. The topic, inevitably, has turned to the escalating rebellion in Bos.
"An'alm has fallen, can you believe it?" General Han says with a shake of his head, his voice filled with a mix of disbelief and begrudging admiration. "The Siza rebels managed to take the city. I hear it's absolute chaos over there."
Mo raises an eyebrow, sipping his wine with mild interest. "And how does our dear Emperor respond to such chaos?" he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm.
One official, trying to keep his face serious, replies, "His Majesty has mobilized one of the largest armies in recent memory. They say he's sparing no expense to crush this rebellion."
Mo scoffs, wiping his glasses before placing them back on his nose. "Oh, of course. I'm sure that will go just perfectly. Spend a fortune, march thousands across the empire—certainly that will fix all our problems."
General Han chuckles, leaning in conspiratorially. "Apparently, His Majesty even summoned General Li Song."
A silence falls over the table as a few heads turn, eyes widening at the mention of Li Song. An official, his expression confused, clears his throat and asks, "Wait, I thought Li Song was retired?"
Han nods, his expression solemn but a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Indeed he is—or was. That's what makes it all the more serious. For the Emperor to call him back now means things must be dire."
One of the younger officials, clearly fascinated, leans forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "They say he's practically a legend. Didn't he single-handedly save—"
"Oh, please spare us the legends," Mo interjects, rolling his eyes. "We're drowning in them as it is. The man was retired, and now he's been summoned like an old relic pulled from a dusty shelf. Next thing you know, he'll be preaching in temples."
The officials chuckle, but one of them, scratching his head, murmurs, "Mobilizing such a huge army. It must be because of that letter the rebels sent to His Majesty."
Mo's brow furrows, his curiosity piqued. "Letter? What letter?"
The official fumbles for words, looking around as if hoping someone else will fill in the blanks. "Oh, uh...it was...what was it again? Something about… uh…" He stumbles, snapping his fingers as if that might help jog his memory. "Oh, yes, um… 'The Tiger is... uh... freed from its cage'? Or no, maybe it was, 'The Tiger…' uh…"
Mo sighs deeply, placing his cup down. "For the love of Heaven, spit it out, man!"
The official winces, scratching his head with a sheepish grin. "Right, right… it was something along the lines of… uh… 'The Tiger is headed for the Heavens'? Or… or was it 'The Tiger seeks revenge'? No, no, wait, I think it was 'The Tiger… the Tiger will devour the Emperor's—'"
A general at the far end bursts into laughter, slapping the table. "At this rate, the Tiger's going to get lost before it does anything!"
Laughter erupts around the table, and the official, flustered and red-faced, shrinks back in his seat, mumbling, "Well, I remember it was something with a tiger."
Official Mo and General Han sit closer now, their plates pushed aside, deep in conversation while the banquet hums around them. Mo leans in, his tone low but animated as he begins.
"General Han, I've been thinking about those barbarian weapons. The ones they call 'muskets.' You've heard of them, I assume?"
Han chuckles, swirling his wine. "Oh, I know what you're talking about, Mo. Yes, muskets. Fascinating little gadgets, really. I saw a few of them once; they're rare even among pirates."
Mo's eyes glint with an almost boyish enthusiasm, a sharp contrast to his usual cynicism. "Gadgets, you say? I think they're far more than that. The muskets may be crude now, but imagine if we understood their mechanics fully. These aren't siege weapons; they're like bows—only stronger, more lethal."
Han raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "So stronger bows. And the Moukopl army's problem with barbarians will be solved with stronger bows?" He laughs, a little dismissively. "Come now, Official Mo, the barbarians ride horses in droves and scatter before our formations. No musket will help us pin down the winds."
Mo sighs, adjusting his glasses as he peers intently at Han. "Perhaps you misunderstand. I'm saying that if the empire learns to craft and use these weapons ourselves—perhaps even improve upon them—our own soldiers could wield them. We wouldn't need to rely only on siege engines or cavalry. A man, armed with one of these weapons, could become a one-man fortress."
Han rolls his eyes but listens, smirking. "You're the one always going on about misused funds and over-spending, Mo. Do you think the court would invest in such a—what would they say—'frivolous foreign toy'?"
Mo's voice sharpens. "You said it yourself: we're plagued by these northern barbarians. Picture it, Han. A legion of Moukopl soldiers armed with these muskets, able to pick off charging riders before they even reach our ranks. Isn't that worth pursuing?"
Han pauses, his expression thoughtful now. He finally nods. "If you're this certain, Mo, I'll back you up. We'll bring it to the court—perhaps they'll humor us."
Before Mo can respond, the official from earlier, who'd been listening intently to their conversation, perks up, chiming in with a self-satisfied grin. "Speaking of gunpowder… isn't General Li Song the one who's made the most use of explosives in combat? By calling him out of retirement, His Majesty practically guarantees the rebels in Bos won't stand a chance."
Han chuckles, glancing at Mo. "Now there's some firepower you'd like, Mo. Li Song is bound to bring down half the Bos mountains with him."
They clink glasses, a flicker of anticipation dancing in Mo's eyes as they sip, both men contemplating the possibilities for the future.
The Moukopl militia, a disciplined column of soldiers clad in dark armor, marches steadily through the rugged hills of the Bos region. Leading them at the forefront, Li Song rides with an aura of unbreakable calm, his face composed, eyes fixed ahead, taking in the landscape with a meditative focus. Beside him, on a slightly restless horse, is his second, Jin Na, whose young, sharp features glint with intensity. He rides close, scanning the horizon as he rehearses his thoughts, finally turning to Li Song.
"General," Jin Na begins, leaning forward with a spark of eagerness, "we're approaching Gan'ol fortress. There are a few effective ways to tackle it, if I may share them." He waits for a nod from Li Song, which comes after a brief pause, and Jin Na continues, his tone becoming brisk and analytical.
"One approach is to concentrate our archers along the east side," Jin Na says, pointing ahead, "and create a diversion on the opposite wall. The defenders will rally to the noise, giving us time to breach their weaker points."
He pauses, watching for a reaction, but Li Song remains impassive, his gaze unwavering.
"Or," Jin Na pushes on, his voice picking up momentum, "we could use a feigned retreat along the main road, drawing out the garrison to ambush them on open ground. It would lessen the burden on our men once we do go for the walls."
Again, he stops, and when Li Song remains silent, he clears his throat, offering another suggestion. "Alternatively, we could lay siege at a distance, encircle it and starve them out. It'll take time but would conserve resources, weaken their morale."
Jin Na leans closer, eyes flicking to the general's face. "Which strategy should we use, General Li?"
Li Song turns to Jin Na, his expression serene, and only the slight movement of his lips breaking the stillness in his gaze. "No tactics are necessary, Little Jin."
Jin Na blinks, his brows furrowing in surprise. "No… tactics?" He looks back at the fortress in the distance, standing grim and dark against the horizon. "Sir, if we approach without strategy, we'll risk—"
"There is no risk," Li Song interrupts gently, his voice low and steady. "This fortress is non-functioning. Its walls, its gates, its men—all show without substance."
Jin Na hesitates, glancing from the fortress back to Li Song, baffled. "But… with respect, sir, how can we be certain of that? We've yet to see inside. There may still be defenses hidden from view."
Li Song holds his gaze, his expression unchanging, calm yet somehow authoritative in a way that requires no force. "The White Mother guides my path, Jin Na. She has shown me the way. There is no need to waste our energy here."
Jin Na frowns, his voice lowering, trying to understand. "The White Mother…" He glances at the towering walls ahead, now so near he can see the weathered stones and crumbling mortar. "Forgive my doubt, General, but we can't base our strategy on… on faith alone. They could still have troops prepared to ambush us."
Li Song's gaze remains distant, fixed beyond the fortress as if seeing something only he could. "Faith is not the absence of reason, Jin Na. It is seeing beyond what is visible. There is no trap, only empty walls and weary men who have not the means nor spirit to resist. They are clinging to remnants."
The general's tone is final, leaving no room for debate. Jin Na searches his face for a hint of doubt or hesitation, but finds none. In that moment, the weight of Li Song's presence feels almost overwhelming, his words imbued with an undeniable conviction.
Jin Na finally sighs, nodding reluctantly. "As you say, General." He turns his gaze back to the fortress, a slight furrow still between his brows. "And we approach how, then?"
Li Song's eyes trace the distant form of the fortress, his voice calm and unhurried. "We approach as ourselves. We walk openly, bearing no threat, because there is no need for one."
Jin Na's mouth tightens, a part of him chafing against the idea, yet unable to argue with Li Song's unyielding certainty. "Very well, sir. We proceed as you wish."
As they ride forward, Jin Na's mind races with unspoken questions, the fortress looming nearer with every step, but Li Song rides with the tranquility of someone who has already seen the outcome. The quiet confidence emanating from him is both baffling and oddly comforting, a mystery Jin Na cannot grasp but feels compelled to trust.
Li Song approaches the towering fortress gate, his steely gaze fixed on the weathered stone that rises before him. His voice rings out, clear and calm, carrying over the silence like a distant bell. "I am General Li Song of the Moukopl army. Surrender, and you shall live to see the sun rise again. Open the gates."
A heavy silence falls. The fortress seems to hold its breath. Inside, the defenders—the Siza and Yohazatz warriors—exchange wary glances, pressed flat against the cold stone. They hadn't anticipated the audacity of the Moukopl, nor the simplicity of the request. They lie in wait, hands gripping weapons, breaths held, fear sparking in their eyes.
When the silence stretches, unbroken, Li Song sighs. He turns his horse with calm, practiced ease and starts to ride away, the slight disappointment in his gaze barely visible. Jin Na opens his mouth to speak, his fingers twitching against his sword hilt. But before a word can escape, the wall erupts in a wave of movement.
Arrows fly down from the walls, their iron tips glinting in the pale light. In a heartbeat, the Moukopl soldiers shift into formation, shields raised in a near-perfect wall of its own. The arrows slam against the shields with a fierce metallic clatter, striking in rapid succession. Jin Na, his brow furrowing, urges his horse close to Li Song.
"General, take cover!" Jin Na's voice strains against the chaos, his hand extended in a gesture of urgency.
But Li Song remains motionless, his gaze fixed on the fortress as arrows rain around him. He stands unmoving, watching the defenders with a sorrowful glint in his eyes, his voice low, murmuring, as if to himself. "So many must die...for the will of a crown with no soul."
He lifts his hand, murmuring a prayer, his voice soft, yet resolute. "White Mother, may you grant mercy where this empire cannot. May your light guide the lost."
With a final look toward the heavens, Li Song reaches into his cloak and draws forth a long, thick-barreled hand cannon. The weapon gleams in his grip, its polished barrel catching the light with an almost supernatural glint. Jin Na's eyes widen at the sight, his breath catching as Li Song lifts it, steady, resolute.
"Oil!" Li Song commands, his voice carrying the weight of authority that spurs his soldiers into swift action.
Soldiers move in tandem, jars of oil sloshing as they heave them toward the gate. Thick, viscous liquid pools at the base, slickening the wood. Some oil seeps into the cracks, and the gate, weakened and brittle, seems to absorb it like a sponge. The defenders hesitate, a ripple of fear passing through the ranks at the unusual sight. The Moukopl soldiers continue to maneuver, their shields raised, guarding the men who carry the crouching tigers—large iron tubes mounted on tripods, their barrels pointed with deadly intent toward the gate.
"Fire!" Li Song's voice cuts through the air, firm and unwavering.
The soldiers, crouched behind their shields, ignite the cannons. A split-second passes as the fuse sizzles down, and then the crouching tigers roar. The ground trembles as the first cannon blasts, spewing flame and smoke as it lurches back, coughing out fiery iron that slams into the oiled gate. The wood groans under the impact, the metal tearing through with ease, splinters and embers flying.
The defenders on the walls stagger, their cries of alarm ringing out as flames snake up the splintered wood. The gate shudders, quaking under a second blast, and then, with a final shriek of tortured wood, it collapses. A cloud of smoke and ash billows outward, fragments of the gate spinning through the air like lethal confetti.
Jin Na watches, awe and horror mingling on his face as the Moukopl soldiers press forward, their shields glinting in the light of the fire. Li Song lowers his cannon, watching with solemn eyes as the pathway to the fortress lies open, the firelight casting an orange glow over his face.
"Press on," Li Song says quietly, his voice heavy with resolve, "and bring mercy where none will be given."
As the Moukopl soldiers pour into the smoldering remains of the gate, Li Song lingers for a moment, his gaze lingering on the flames licking at the shattered wood, his expression one of resignation. The White Mother, he knows, will watch and mourn with him, even as the echoes of war rage on.