Sang and the other prisoners were led into what looked like a military camp belonging to the rebel group. The camp was surrounded by a short wooden palisade, more symbolic than protective—just tall sticks jammed into the ground in a circular formation. Inside, rows of worn-out medieval tents stretched across the field, each swaying gently under the strange, purple-tinted sky.
Around 200 rebel soldiers had already arrived. Some stood around sharpening weapons, others sat on barrels or rocks, casually chatting. It was noisy, tense, but oddly organized.
A few soldiers walked up to the group, stopping in front of the lieutenant who had led them there.
"Sir Varn, glad you arrived safely," said one of the soldiers, saluting with a clenched fist to his chest. "Unit One and Two from the West District are already here. You're the third to arrive. A few more units are still on the way."
Varn glanced around the camp. "Where's the Chief?"
"She'll be here soon."
With that, the mounted rebels dismounted, and others began unpacking supplies. The prisoners were ushered toward an empty area near the horse pens. They sat down, worn and filthy, surrounded by soldiers who barely even acknowledged their existence.
Sang, still weak from exhaustion and the alien environment, slowly opened his eyes. His breathing was shallow, his body heavy and sickly. But even through his foggy senses, he observed.
The camp looked... ancient. Soldiers wore armor that reminded him of medieval knights—though not quite European. The fabric, the weapons, even the tents—they screamed medieval era, but with odd details he couldn't quite explain.
"They look like… no, this feels like a medieval period setting," Sang thought, eyes scanning their surroundings. "The armor, the tents… it's like Europe from centuries ago. But their faces… they're not exactly European."
A student of history, Sang could see the differences others might miss. The culture here felt both familiar and alien.
Then he looked at the grass—green like home. Normal. Comforting. But when he tilted his head back, his chest tightened.
The sky was far from normal. The clouds swirled gently in purples and golds. The light burned a little too brightly. The colors of the trees, the air, even the soil—it all felt off.
And with that realization, the truth hit him harder than ever.
"Now that I really think about it... I can confirm this isn't my world."
Sang gave no reaction. His face was blank. But deep inside, something cold gripped his heart. He was afraid.
A few minutes later, another small group arrived—less than twenty riders in total, but fully armored and radiating authority. One of them carried the rebel flag high, fluttering in the wind. The signal was clear:
The Chief had arrived.
The entire camp seemed to snap to attention. Soldiers rushed toward the camp's entrance, forming a horizontal line to welcome her. As the riders passed through the wooden gates, every rebel stood straight, fists to their chest in salute.
The lead rider dismounted with fluid grace. She removed her uniquely crafted helmet, revealing a woman with long white hair that shimmered under the purple-tinged sky. Her face was delicate yet commanding—a rare beauty that made every soldier instinctively straighten up even more.
She wasn't just beautiful.She was their leader.
Despite her being a woman, she carried an aura that demanded absolute respect. Her posture, the way she walked, and the armored elites who followed closely behind her made one thing very clear—this was not someone to be underestimated.
As she walked between the rows of saluting soldiers, the lieutenants stepped forward and bowed slightly.
"Greetings, Chief!"
She nodded subtly, her sharp eyes scanning the camp. "Is everyone present?"
"Not quite," one officer replied. "Some small groups are still making their way here. But we can begin the discussion."
The Chief's eyes drifted toward the prisoners seated near the horse pens. Her expression turned unreadable.
"And those people?" she asked.
Sir Varn stepped forward quickly, trying to keep his voice even. "They're prisoners I brought with me. I thought they might prove useful in some way."
He didn't dare mention the word slaves. Everyone knew the Chief loathed slavery—and those who profited from it.
She studied the group quietly. Then her gaze locked onto one boy in particular.
Sang.
He looked fragile, barely conscious, slumped beside a wooden post with sunken eyes and a trembling frame. Something about him caught her attention.
"Who is that boy?" she asked. "He doesn't look like he's from our land."
Varn followed the Chief's gaze and scratched the back of his head, clearly unsure."Ah… forgive me, Chief. I don't know who he is. But perhaps we should begin the meeting."
She gave the boy one last glance—curious but unreadable—then turned away and walked toward the main tent without another word. Her armored guards followed closely behind her, as did the lieutenants.
Inside the command tent, the mood shifted. Maps and scrolls covered the table at the center. Lanterns flickered softly, casting long shadows over the faces of the three attending lieutenants. Behind the Chief, two elite guards stood like statues, silent and watchful.
She took her seat at the head of the table, eyes cold and voice steady.
"Commanders," she began, her voice firm. "We've gathered here for one reason. The Royal Family—who were declared missing three days ago—have been confirmed dead."
A stunned silence filled the tent.
One of the lieutenants—calm but clearly shaken—leaned forward slightly.
"Did he find them before us?"
The Chief's eyes narrowed, jaw tightening.
"Yes. That bastard, King Vortigan, reached them first… and slaughtered them on the spot."
Gasps broke out from the table. The tension in the room thickened.Grief shadowed their faces—then slowly turned to rage.
The Chief let them absorb the blow before continuing.
"But—" she said, her voice sharper now, "—there's something strange."
The others looked up at her.
"What do you mean, Chief?" one asked.
She leaned forward slightly.
"Although the Kingdom announced the Royal Family's deaths… I've received intelligence that their soldiers are still searching."
A pause.
"Searching for what?" another lieutenant asked, frowning.
The Chief locked eyes with them, her gaze intense.
"A survivor."
The word hit the room like a thunderclap. Hope and disbelief flared across every face.
She rose from her seat now, voice rising with purpose.
"Yes. There's a possibility that someone from the Royal Bloodline survived. That's why the King's men haven't stopped hunting. But this time—we won't let them win."
She looked around at each of her commanders.
"We will find the last heir before King Vortigan does."
Everyone stood at once, saluting with clenched fists to their chests.
"Yes, Chief!"
Just as the meeting began to settle, tension still heavy in the air...
A rebel soldier stationed at the rear perimeter squinted toward the dense woods. At first, it was just a flicker—a small flame rising unnaturally from the sky and went toward them.
"What the...?"
Before he could shout a warning—
BOOOOM!!!
A massive burst of flame exploded from the Sky, faming particles fall into the camp and instantly burned.
"AMBUSH!!"
Panic spread like wildfire.
From the smoke and shadows of the forest, Kingdom soldiers charged, their armor gleaming, weapons drawn, war cries echoing through the valley.
The rebels scrambled for position. Soldiers grabbed their weapons. Horses screamed. The Chief's eyes widened.
"Everyone! To arms! DEFEND THE CAMP!!"
But it was too late.
The enemy was already upon them.
To be continued...