The villagers hurried up the steep hill, carrying whatever they could salvage. The cries of children, the shouts of adults, and the hurried footsteps blended with the rustle of dry leaves underfoot. In the distance, a rising cloud of dust signaled the approach of new danger.
Patimura stood beside Arga, his eyes keenly observing the advancing enemy. "They're moving fast," he muttered, his voice low but tense. "We're running out of weapons, and many of us are injured."
Arga only nodded, his mind racing to find a way out of the seemingly impossible situation. "How many arrows do we have left?" he asked one of the soldiers standing nearby.
"Just five," the soldier replied, his face taut with tension. "And only one bow is still usable."
Above them, the sky filled with the whistling sound of arrows tearing through the air. "Hold your positions!" Arga shouted hoarsely. "Aim carefully with the first shot. Don't waste it!"
Amid the chaos, a young singer holding a wooden tray as a makeshift shield slipped, dropping her protection to the ground. Arga saw her. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, shielding her fragile body with his own. In mere seconds, an arrow shot through the air and pierced his abdomen. Pain radiated sharply, but he bit down hard, suppressing the scream that threatened to escape.
"Your Majesty!" Patimura cried out in panic. He froze mid-battle, his gaze fixed on Arga's faltering form. "Stay at your position, Patimura!" Arga commanded with the last of his strength. "Protect them! I won't let my people fall into the hands of those bandits!"
Patimura's eyes reddened, tears streaming unnoticed down his face. Yet, he obeyed the order, though his heart was in turmoil. Meanwhile, the young singer Arga had protected knelt by his side, her hands trembling as she tried to stem the flow of blood from his wound. Small sobs escaped her, but she could not form any words.
Arga's body grew weaker, his breaths ragged, and his vision blurred. Yet, just as the situation seemed hopeless, a rumbling sound echoed in the distance. It was faint at first, then steadily grew louder. The morning sun began to illuminate the hilltop, and under its warm rays, clouds of dust rolled closer. The forces of Kashgar had arrived.
They came in massive numbers, their ranks resembling an unstoppable wave surging down the hill. Their weapons reflected the morning light, momentarily making the battlefield glisten like a moving sea of gold. Within minutes, the reinforcements charged, slicing through the battlefield with incredible speed. The remaining bandits panicked, like cornered prey. Some threw down their weapons, surrendering without resistance. However, their leader—a man with wild eyes and agile movements—took advantage of the chaos to escape into the dense forest. His shadow vanished among the trees, leaving his terrified men behind.
As the final clash of weapons subsided, the sound of footsteps was replaced by the labored breathing and moans of injured villagers. All eyes turned to Arga, lying weakly on the ground, his blood soaking his clothes and the earth beneath him. A woman, who had been trying to help him, kept pressing on the wound in his abdomen. "Your Majesty, please hold on just a little longer," she whispered, her voice trembling with restrained sobs. Her shaking fingers were covered in blood, but she refused to give up.
Patimura, his face showing an unusual panic, tore a red cloth from his clothing. Quickly, he wrapped it around a sword and raised it high. It was an emergency signal, a call made only in the direst circumstances. From the rear ranks, a young soldier knelt before Arga. "Your Majesty, I am an envoy from Lady Nining. We have brought 1,500 troops to support you," he said, his voice steady despite a slight tremor in his body.
Patimura, who had been holding back his emotions for too long, struck the soldier sharply across the face. "What are you doing? Do you want the emperor to die here? Quickly set up a medical tent and take him there!" he shouted.
The soldier bowed deeply, his face full of regret. "Understood. I deeply apologize for my negligence!" Without delay, he led his men to erect a medical tent. The wounded villagers were soon brought to the shelter, while Arga was carefully lifted, his frail body surrounded by both honor and deep concern.
Inside the medical tent, the atmosphere was tense. Village healers worked tirelessly, their hands moving swiftly like a well-rehearsed dance. Arga's wounds were gradually treated, and the heavy bleeding finally stopped after immense effort. Patimura stood at the tent's entrance, his face a mix of tension and anger. Though no enemy was in sight, he remained vigilant, his gaze sharp like an eagle watching its prey.
"I want to chase that bandit leader into the forest and ensure he never returns," he declared with firm determination to the leader of Kashgar 's forces.
The force's leader shook his head gently, his eyes filled with understanding. "I'm sorry, Patimura. Without the emperor's orders, I cannot permit that. Our priority now is to protect this village and ensure the emperor recovers."
Outside the tent, the atmosphere began to calm. The surviving villagers moved slowly, their bodies weary and their skin marked by wounds. With tears still streaming down their faces, they approached the soldiers, expressing their gratitude with hoarse voices full of emotion. Some started repairing destroyed buildings, while others helped set up additional shelters.
Birds resumed their chirping in the distance, as if carrying a message from nature that the storm had passed. The rising sunlight bathed the hill, erasing the remnants of shadows and darkness. Amidst the devastation, a new hope began to sprout, like shoots emerging from the earth after a heavy rain.
But the peace didn't last long. As night cloaked the sky, a letter arrived in the heart of Kashgar . It brought shocking news, like lightning in a dark night. Nico, Sana, and Nining read the letter with increasingly heavy hearts. The news that Arga had been gravely injured by bandits struck them like a sudden storm battering a calm sea. Their gazes were filled with worry, and the silence that followed only emphasized the depth of their fear.
Under the dim glow of the medical tent, Arga's unconscious body lay motionless. Yet his mind seemed to drift beyond the confines of his physical form. He felt as if he were being pulled into corridors of the past, where buried memories resurfaced with painful clarity. Was this a dream, or perhaps his past choosing to rise to the surface?