After a humiliating defeat in his attempt to conquer the Valley of Migase, Billok, the eighth son of King Bollock of Balevad, returned to the capital—wounded and disgraced. His body was bruised, his severed arm replaced with a grotesque fusion of bone and metal: a massive flail permanently grafted to his flesh. It was a crude weapon forged from rage and desperation. But instead of sympathy or support, Billok was met with scorn.
King Bollock stood tall in the great hall, robed in imperial gold—the symbol of Balevad's power. Before him, Billok knelt, swallowing the pain that burned through his body and pride. The king's eyes seethed.
"You've shamed me, Billok!" his voice thundered. "You didn't just disgrace yourself, you humiliated the entire kingdom! To lose against a tribe so small—it's a stain that may never wash off."
"Father," Billok rasped, voice heavy with shame, "I… I did everything I could."
"Everything?" King Bollock descended the steps, glaring down at his son. "You crawl back here without the head of Migase's leader? You know our law: never return unless your enemy is dead—or you are!"
Billok said nothing. The chamber around him bristled with silent judgment. The other princes stood in judgment—some sneering, others shaking their heads. Among them, Bolisi, the cunning fifth prince, crossed his arms and offered only a cold smirk.
"You are not worthy of the Balevad name," Bollock snarled. "I don't want to see your face again until Migase is dust. Bring me their leader's corpse and his head at my feet. Fail me again, and you will not return."
It was a brutal command—but Billok had no choice.
Of Balevad's twenty-five princes, only seventeen remained. The others had fallen in battle, martyrs to their empire's code of honor. One had even perished by Rogg's hand.
After leaving the throne room, Billok paused in the dark iron corridor, his breath ragged. The pain in his body was nothing compared to the torment within.
Footsteps echoed. Bolisi.
"My poor brother," he said mockingly. "It seems you're in quite the mess."
"What do you want, Bolisi?" Billok didn't turn. "You never dared set foot in Migase yourself."
"I'm merely offering help. That battlefield is beneath me now." Bolisi's grin twisted. "But you see, I have a strong army. If you need reinforcements, I can provide them—with conditions."
Billok turned. "What conditions?"
"A share of the spoils," Bolisi said breezily. "You kill Rogg and win back your honor. I get half of the loot. Simple, isn't it?"
"And you won't fight?"
Bolisi shrugged. "I have better things to do than wade through mud and blood. You handle the fighting—I'll handle logistics."
Billok wanted to refuse, but he knew his father's support was limited. If he wanted vengeance—and redemption—he'd need every resource.
"Fine," he said. "But if you betray me, I'll make you regret it."
"You've chosen wisely," Bolisi said. "I'll send Daguda, my commander. One of my best."
In the days that followed, Billok scoured Balevad for allies. He rallied clan leaders, battle-hardened veterans, anyone with a sword and a grudge. The massive flail fused to his body had become a rallying symbol of his resolve. Warriors flocked to his banner.
Daguda arrived with Bolisi's troops—a significant boost in manpower. But Billok remained wary. Bolisi always played a long game.
Before marching for Migase, Billok stood before his army. Morning light bathed the camp, casting long shadows from the thousands arrayed before him.
"We have known defeat," he said, voice sharp. "But today, we take back what is ours. The Valley of Migase will fall, and Rogg will pay for his defiance. We will not stop—we will not rest—until victory is ours!"
The army roared. The ground trembled with the sound of renewed conviction.
But Billok knew—this war wasn't only about reclaiming pride. It was about proving that he was more than a failed prince. He would become the scourge of Migase—or die trying.
He spent the next three months gathering strength. Partly out of necessity—his supply chain had collapsed. His contacts in Blacksand had vanished after Rogg's forces intercepted a slave shipment, killing Barugu—Billok's trusted agent. That revenue, expected in the third moon, never came.
Desperate, Billok turned to Skull Island's warlords. He struck deals with tyrants and mercenaries. Piece by piece, the war machine was rebuilt.
Fifteen warships stood ready at the docks, their sails stretched like the wings of vultures. Billok's gaze burned with vengeance.
This time, he wouldn't fail.
Their journey began on Skull Island, stretching southward toward the Sinear Valley in the lower reaches of the Megido Continent. Upon arrival, they regrouped and prepared. Three days of marching through the narrow spine of Megido led them to their true destination—Migase Valley.
After a grueling week at sea, the Balevad army, led by Billok, finally reached the shores of the hidden Sinear Bay. Chosen for its unmatched strategic value, this secluded valley became their base of operations. Here, they began the next phase of their mission: gathering the wild beasts they had managed to tame. These creatures would soon become a vital force in their assault on Migase.
Three months of relentless preparation followed. When Billok finally deemed his forces ready, he set his sights on Migase Valley. But he knew the road ahead held more than just enemy blades—it held fractures within his own ranks. The Balevad army was split between two distinct groups: an elite force of 300 veterans under the command of Daguda—a hardened warrior with countless victories for Bolisi under his belt—and 1,200 fresh recruits, untested and uninspiring, conscripted by the lords of Balevad.
These new troops were no gift. They were a message. Billok's defeat in the last battle against Migase had planted doubt deep in the hearts of the ruling class. They no longer believed he could deliver victory. Yet none dared defy a prince of Balevad—the son of King Bollock, supreme ruler of the Balevad nation.
Billok saw the weaknesses in the soldiers handed to him. But he refused to accept the low expectations that came with them. With unwavering resolve, he instilled pride in their hearts. Day by day, he drilled them—mercilessly. He pushed them beyond their limits, breaking them down only to build them stronger. It wasn't just physical training. It was mental fortification. He taught them how to survive in battle, how to think like warriors, and above all, how to believe in themselves.
Still, his efforts drew ridicule. Daguda, commander of the elite, scoffed openly. "They're nothing but fragile weaklings," he muttered to his men. "The wind alone could bring them down."
Daguda was a man who trusted only in strength—his own most of all. He looked at Billok with disdain, convinced that the disgraced prince had no right to lead. Yet, under Bolisi's orders, he had no choice but to follow Billok into war. His loyalty was a formality. In truth, he harbored no intention of submitting.
Tensions flared as Billok gave the order to march toward Migase. Daguda, ever arrogant, approached and said, "If you want victory, leave everything to me. My men are more than enough to crush Migase."
Billok met his gaze, calm and measured. He didn't rise to the bait. "Your soldiers are strong," he replied, voice low but firm. "But the path to Migase is treacherous. My men don't know the terrain. Go ahead. Lead the charge. We'll follow close behind."
Daguda sneered. "Don't blame me when Migase lies in ruins before you even arrive."
"Then let it be so," Billok answered. "We'll be there to finish what's left—if anything remains."
Believing victory was already his, Daguda surged ahead with his 300 elites, leaving Billok's army a full day behind. In his mind, this was the perfect chance to prove who the real commander was.
But Billok's plan was far more calculated. He deliberately held his troops back—not just to give the newer soldiers time to adapt to the dense forests, but to observe. He wanted to see how the Migase army, now under the brilliant strategist Rogg, would react. Charging in headfirst was never his intention. He intended to win smart—not fast.
As night fell, Billok addressed his troops beneath the stars, his voice cutting through the silence. "They underestimate you," he said, gaze fierce. "But that doesn't mean they're right. We are the Balevad. We are strong because we endure. And now we will prove them all wrong."
The recruits, once unsure of their place, felt something ignite inside. They were no longer just bodies in armor. They began to believe they belonged.
Meanwhile, Daguda marched at full speed, oblivious to the trap awaiting him in Migase. His confidence blinded him. He saw only an easy victory. But Billok had accounted for this. He knew Migase's defenders would not break easily.
As Daguda's forces neared the valley, they were met with a chilling reality—Migase was ready. This wasn't the effortless conquest he had imagined. The clash of steel and the roar of battle echoed through the air, and from a distance, Billok and his advisors watched the chaos unfold.
"Let them fight," Billok murmured. "This is their test—and our lesson."
On the second night, Billok's army finally advanced. They moved with caution, every step deliberate, every formation tight. They followed Daguda's trail, but this time with preparation. In Billok's mind, this war wasn't just about defeating Migase—it was about reclaiming the trust that had been stripped from him. It was about becoming, once again, the true leader of Balevad.
And as the lights of Migase flickered on the horizon, Billok knew one thing for certain: this time, there would be no defeat. No disgrace. No more doubt about who he truly was.