Seventy Weis south of Enka's southern walls lay the provisional encampments of the Imperial Xia Dynasty's army—two hundred thousand strong.
Dust choked the plain. Hills ringed the horizon like scorched sentinels.
This was Xia's first campaign since the brutal nine-year civil war.
After years of cold battles that fractured the land into warring factions and left it vulnerable to foreign claws, warmth had finally begun to return. First to the soil, then to the people.
In the second year of Xia Emperor Kan Shi's reign, as spring returned to the land, a massive force was raised to invade the region of Enka in the country of Nokrang. Four armies, each fifty thousand strong, began their march in the blooming season that followed the war's end. With every step, they trampled the flowers of the newborn spring.
The soldiers marched tall and proud, burning high with ambition and carrying deep within them an unshaken trust in their commander—General Zhao, greatest among them all.
The higher officers were discussing the siege plans in the officers' tent, and other officers stood outside of it, awaiting their orders.
Some distance away sat Commander Zhao on the barren wasteland, a clay bottle of alcohol in his hand. Beside him stood a man dressed in a similarly worn uniform, silent and still.
Zhao drank quietly, eyes fixed on the northern horizon. He smiled, stood up, and wiped the alcohol from his mouth. "It appears someone has come to give me a grand welcome," he said, looking toward the southern walls of Enka.
"Yes, my lord," his subordinate replied softly.
"But I was under the impression that all the prominent generals in Nokrang—those capable of even attempting to deceive you—were long dead. Killed by you, of course," the aide said coolly. "So it makes me wonder… who are we up against now, that managed to pull this off?"
Zhao raised the clay bottle high, letting the sun strike its dull surface, and then downed what remained.
"Strange, isn't it?" he said. "Commander-in-chief—missing from his own war council." Behind him, a young man in pristine, ornate armor stood stiffly. Zhao glanced over his shoulder, grinning.
"Ah, you're the Ling-something boy, aren't you?" Zhao said with a chuckle.
"Come, have a drink." He held out the bottle. Its stench alone could dull the mind.
"I will reintroduce myself," the man replied curtly, ignoring the offer. "I am General Lian Zhi of the Lian family."
Though he carried himself with pride, Lian Zhi couldn't fully hide the tension in his stance.
The old general's aura pressed heavily on him, a weight of experience forged in blood long before Lian had earned his titles.
"My lord's orders and intentions were conveyed clearly at the meeting, General Lian," Zhao's aide added firmly.
"Clearly?" Lian Zhi scoffed, narrowing his eyes at the man. "The commander-in-chief ordered a covert scouting mission into the eastern forests—yet not one of us knows why. Six hundred men sent into a wasteland no army dares enter, and for what? We've languished in this wasteland for five days with no movement—and you call that clear?"
To Lian Zhi, born into a prestigious military lineage, Zhao was a relic of a bygone era. His fame had been carved out long before the civil war—one in which Zhao never took part. Lian, on the other hand, had emerged from that conflict with victories, and the present king's favor.
He did not see Zhao as a hero, but as a fading shadow clinging to old glories.
"Of course, a man of his reputation wouldn't be so incompetent as to tip off the enemy and throw six hundred men to their deaths before the first arrow was even loosed. Right?" Lian Zhi said, his tone like ice beneath a thin smile.
Zhao's aide offered no response, his expression unreadable.
"It's no surprise Nokrang was alerted," Zhao's aide said coolly. "Massing two hundred thousand men at their doorstep was warning enough. And if I recall correctly, your younger brother was among the scouts we sent—Zhen, wasn't it?"
"A mere fifty-men commander," Lian replied with a flicker of disdain. "A failure. A stain on our family name. I'll deal with him myself when this war is over. He's unworthy of the Lian name."
His voice betrayed a flicker of irritation. Even the smallest jab cut deeper than he dared show.
Zhao sat beside them in silence, at ease, his posture loose with the air of indifference. Yet in his eyes burned the reflection of the coming war—unblinking and lit with a golden fire that knew only death.
After a decade away, he was returning to the battlefield, and the thought thrilled him.
He stood as the supreme commander of the invading force. Beneath him, four generals commanded their legions of fifty thousand each.
The Xia military ran on a rigid hierarchy, rooted in the dynasty's founding. Nobility filled many officer ranks, their bloodlines being considered proof enough of leadership. But even in such a world, merit carved its path.
A commoner who proved his worth in battle could rise.
Zhao was one such man. And to a noble man like Lian Zhi, he was an affront. A living contradiction to everything men like Lian Zhi had been taught to believe.
"Why haven't you given the order to attack the southern walls?" Lian snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. "We've been camped here for five days—our infantry is growing restless. Even today's officers' meeting was useless. No plan, no briefing—just more meaningless unit assignments. What exactly are we doing here?"
He stared at Zhao's back, unmoving and uninterested, as if Lian's words hadn't even reached him.
"Even your own officers are in the dark. No one knows what the hell is going on. And those six hundred scouts—we haven't heard a word. Are we just going to sit here and wait for reinforcements to arrive from the Nokrang heartlands?"
Still no answer.
Zhao's aide remained motionless as well, eyes lowered, not offering so much as a glance. The silence that followed wasn't awkward or tense—it was intentional. Zhao didn't respond because he didn't need to. He hadn't heard Lian out because he didn't care to. Whatever he was planning, it was already in motion.
And it was working.
For a time, only the wind moved—soft and steady, brushing past the empty plains.
Then, faint at first, came the sound of hooves—a slow rhythm building over the dust.
All three turned toward it. Zhao, seated still as stone. His aide, sharp-eyed and silent. Lian Zhi, stiff with unease.
A lone rider emerged on the horizon, cutting across the wasteland. His approach was steady, his path direct. Whatever he carried, it was not light.
Zhao didn't need words. He knew—the rider brought news.
◇◆◇
A thunder of hooves broke the silence near the encampment gates.
"SURVIVORS! WE HAVE SURVIVORS!"
The cry rang out as three scouts charged into view—dust trailing behind them like smoke. Their horses stumbled, drenched in sweat, barely staying upright.
Behind him, two other riders cradled limp figures slumped over their horses—bloodied, broken, barely breathing.
Arrows still jutted from their backs, their torn uniforms soaked and stiff with dried blood. They didn't stir.
Soldiers at the gates froze, stunned by the sudden arrival.
"C-CALL THE MEDICS!" one shouted, breaking into a run toward the medical tents.
The lead scout dismounted with shaking hands, his breath ragged.
"Inform the general…" he gasped, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Two men—two survivors from the scouting unit of the six hundred."
◇◆◇
Not long after, the news reached the officers' tent, stirring chaos amidst the ongoing discussions of battle plans and unit assignments.
As the messenger stepped in, several officers rose with anticipation, expecting orders to mobilize. But when it became clear that no command to attack the southern wall had arrived, confusion quickly spread.
"What in the world is General Zhao thinking!?" barked an elderly man clad in gleaming armor that outshone everyone else's.
"If we don't strike soon, reinforcements will pour in from the Nokrang heartlands! We have a chance—only forty thousand enemy troops are guarding the walls! Why hasn't he given the order? Has he gone senile?" He turned sharply toward the messenger by the tent's entrance. "And now he sends us news about two survivors from the scouting team?"
His tone was filled with irritation and derision, openly criticizing General Zhao in front of the entire war council—many of whom were from Zhao's personal army. Each one of them sat still, their eyes narrowed, silently fuming at the disrespect being thrown toward their commanding officer by what they clearly saw as an old, noisy relic.
"Calm down," came a quiet, monotone reply.
It was not a command, nor did it sound like one. Yet the room fell silent. The voice belonged to a man seated at the center, his posture relaxed, his tone composed. Though his rank appeared equal to the old general's, there was a weight to his words that quieted even the loudest in the tent.
That man was General Wang.
He turned to the messenger. "Did General Zhao give further instructions?"
"Yes, sir!" the messenger snapped to attention. "General Zhao has instructed both you, General Wang, and General Meng Ji to accompany him to the medical camp and meet with the survivors."
General Wang raised a brow slightly. "What about General Lian?"
"Sir! General Lian Zhi is already with General Zhao at the medical camp." the messenger replied.
Wang closed his eyes for the briefest moment, then rose from his chair. The old wooden seat made no sound—almost as if it dared not disturb his grace.
All eyes followed him. Though young to hold command over fifty thousand troops, General Wang carried himself with the quiet poise of someone far beyond his years.
Trailing behind him was the same irate old man, General Meng Ji. His face was twisted with discontent. Around the room, many officers mirrored his frustration—except, of course, those loyal to Zhao. They remained still, their faith in their general unshaken.
General Wang stepped out of the tent, pulling aside the entrance flap. "Yoku! Kojun!" he shouted to his subordinates.
Yoku, still sitting on an oddly shaped rock, snapped to attention. Kojun, as calm and composed as ever, moved immediately.
"Yes, sir!" they both responded in unison, quickly sprinting uphill toward him. The presence of two of the four highest-ranking officers, Wang and Meng Ji, immediately caught the attention of the other officers waiting near the main tent.
"You two hear about the survivors?" Wang asked as they closed the gap.
"Yes, sir! We've been hearing it from everyone," Kojun replied, slightly breathless. "Yoku and I were just discussing the fate of the scouting team sent to the eastern forests."
Wang raised an eyebrow, noting the concerned looks on their faces. "And from the looks of you two, you seem to have some ideas about what's going on."
"Accompany me," he said, starting to walk toward the medical camps, his two officers trailing closely behind.
◇◆◇
The medical camps had been set up close to the encampment gates for swift access. Though the battle had not yet begun in full, the medics were already in motion—stocking supplies, organizing tools, and tending to foot soldiers who had suffered scrapes or bruises during drills and preparations.
Their methods were primitive, yet rooted in a deep and time-tested knowledge passed down through generations. Herbs, roots, and forest plants were the foundation of their craft, but the medicine of this era had expanded far beyond that—animal organs, bones, and even certain earthly minerals had found their place in treatments and remedies.
Among many, it was also believed that healing required more than salves and mixtures—that prayer to the heavens and ritual offerings were an essential part of recovery. Whether out of conviction or tradition, these rites were widely practiced. Those who didn't believe in them remained silent, choosing to focus on the material craft of medicine, never speaking out against the sacred customs of their elders.
As General Wang and General Meng Ji entered one of the larger tents, followed closely by Yoku and Kojun, the sharp, pungent scent of medicine thickened in the air. Inside, soldiers in varying attire moved with purpose, their expressions taut with urgency.
Pulling aside the entrance flap, the four officers stepped into the presence of Commander-in-Chief Zhao. He sat calmly with his aide at his side, flanked by men from his personal guard. General Lian Zhi stood a short distance away, arms folded, his face tight with restrained impatience.
"General Zhao, what's the meaning of this?" barked General Meng Ji the moment he stepped into the tent. The old man's voice, ever laced with irritation, cut through the dense air thick with incense. Behind him, General Wang entered in silence, followed closely by Yoku and Kojun. Their eyes were already drawn to the injured soldier lying on a cot in the corner, shrouded in the scent of medicine and watched over by medics.
"Welcome, Wang," Zhao said calmly, entirely ignoring Meng Ji's grumblings—not out of rudeness, but because he hadn't even registered them.
"Yes, my lord." Wang gave a polite nod, then looked toward the wounded man. "I was told there were two survivors. Where is the other?"
"He was dead by the time they reached the camp," Lian Zhi cut in sharply, arms still crossed. "Only this one lived long enough to reach us. And even that's uncertain. He may not survive the night."
He took a step forward, frustration simmering in his tone.
"Only one returns.
We're the invaders—but we sit, motionless.
The battle hasn't even begun, and we're already bleeding.
It's shameful."
His words hung heavy in the air. But Zhao's men, as well as Wang and his subordinates, remained still—unmoved.
"Only one came back alive…" Zhao finally spoke, his voice calm, eyes distant. "That's one more than I expected."
The room fell into a hush. Every gaze turned toward him—shocked, confused. Even Meng Ji was silent for once.
Yoku and Kojun exchanged a glance. The corners of their lips twitched with restrained amusement.
"What are you implying, General Zhao?" Meng Ji snapped.
Zhao waved a hand lazily. "It'd take too long to explain. Better to hear it from the survivor himself."
He rose to his feet, pausing only to glance at Wang and his two officers. "Though I suspect you three already understand why we've stayed idle these past five days…"
With that, Zhao turned and strode out of the tent, his aide following without a word. The rest were left behind in stunned silence.
Not long after, word reached him: the survivor had awakened.
Zhao returned, stepping back into the thick air of herbs and blood. The wounded scout was coughing violently, his body convulsing as he tried to swallow what little water he could. The noise was gut-wrenching, the hacking wheeze of a man who had crawled back from the edge of death.
The tent fell still.
The man's lips trembled. Whether from pain or memory, no one could tell.
And then, with a voice barely stronger than a whisper—
He began to speak.