The cannons roared to life the moment the warships descended, their barrels glowing with searing energy before unleashing torrents of destruction. The sky burned with streaks of mana-infused projectiles, each one capable of reducing stone to molten slag. Yet, as the barrage struck the warships' shimmering barriers, the attacks splashed harmlessly against their shields, sending ripples of distorted light across the sky.
The warships hovered, massive and imposing, their hulls bristling with weaponry-but for now, they could not attack. The sheer power required to maintain their defensive barriers left them momentarily paralyzed, buying the Xiaxoans precious time.
Zakop stood atop the fort's highest tower, his totem planted firmly into the stone. The carved wood pulsed with golden-blue energy, its intricate runes flaring as he channeled his will into it. The totem's roots had already begun burrowing into the tower's mortar, tendrils of glowing mycelium fusing with the stone. Zakop felt everthing - the mana, the people, the corruption through that connection—a flash of heat behind the eyes here. Moimui had warned him about this during the bonding ritual: "You'll feel everything twice—once through their eyes, once through the earth's memory." He'd laughed then, young and invincible. Now his gums ache from biting back the chaos of the battlefield.
The warship's cannons fired, and this time, the barrier made a plop sound, engulfing the energy of the canon and its shell. The impact was absorbed by the golden dome, their strength seemingly improved by the cannon fire.
Then, the warship's belly opened.
From its depths, Kirati elites descended-warriors clad in golden steel, their faces hidden behind masks shaped like snarling beasts. They dropped onto the fort's walls like shadows given flesh, their blades were already brandished, their short spears protruding behind them.
Zakop roared a command, and his warriors met them head-on.
The battle was a storm of steel and fury. The Kirati moved with terrifying aura, their swords flickering like serpent tongues. But the Xiaxoans fought with the desperation of those who had nothing left to lose. A soldier drove his spear through a Kirati's throat, only to be bisected by another's sweeping slash. A woman with a curved dao parried three strikes in succession before burying her blade into an elite's skull.
Zakop himself waded into the fray, his totem now a weapon, its glow intensifying with every swing. Where he struck, bones shattered, armor crumpled, and men died. But for every Kirati that fell, two more seemed to take their place.
The barrier above made another plop-like sound, Zakop knew that they can win if they held their ground.
The Tlawng River churned below, its waters turned black with the reflection of the warship looming above. Pupi's warriors had turned the river fort into a killing field-spiked barricades, trenches filled with burning oil, and arrow slits manned by archers who fired without pause.
The Kirati came not just from the sky but from the water. Elite shock troops emerged from submerged pods, their armor watertight, their movements unhurried as they waded ashore.
Pupi met them at the docks, his twin axes slick with rain and blood. His totem, strapped to his back, thrummed with power, its energy seeping into his muscles, making him faster, stronger. He moved like a whirlwind, his axes carving through Kirati limbs with brutal efficiency.
One elite, taller than the rest, locked blades with him. Their duel was a blur of steel, sparks flying with each clash. The Kirati was skilled-inhumanly so-but Pupi fought with the cunning of a man who had spent his life in battle. He feinted left, then drove his axe into the elite's side, ripping through armor as if it were parchment.
Yet the Kirati did not slow. Even bleeding, even wounded, he fought on, his sword nearly taking Pupi's head before a Xiaxoan arrow punched through his visor.
The warship above fired again, and this time, the barrier flickered. Pupi spat blood and tightened his grip on his axes. They were holding-but barely.
Hwehwe's position was the most vulnerable. The intelligence center was not built for war-its halls were narrow, its rooms cramped. But she had turned it into a labyrinth of death.
The Kirati elites entered to find corridors lined with corpses-their own scouts, slaughtered and left as warnings. Then the traps began. Ceiling nets dropped, tangling warriors before hidden spears impaled them. Floors gave way beneath their feet, plunging them into pits of jagged spikes.
Hwehwe fought from the shadows. Her totem was different-not a weapon, not a shield, but a conduit for deception. Its glow twisted the air around her, making her flicker in and out of sight. She appeared behind a Kirati, slit his throat, and vanished before his body hit the ground.
But the elites adapted. They moved in tight formations, their shields interlocked, their eyes scanning for the slightest disturbance in the air. But Hwehwe was an expert, even tight formations couldn't deter her and her troops, one hundred and twenty five troops under Hwehwe remained in the shadows, their golden totems blocking the perimeter of any blasts from the warships.
Then the warship's cannons fired again, and with renewed vigor the barrier seemed to be strengthened.
At each location, the warships ceased their bombardment. The shields flickered and died. And from their decks, figures emerged-hooded, their forms wreathed in shifting, unnatural light.
Cosmic Magi
Five for each position. They did not walk. They did not run. They simply stepped off the warships and floated downward, their presence warping the air around them.
Zakop felt it -a pressure in his skull, a wrongness in the world. He looked up and saw them descending, their combined power radiating like a coming storm.
Pupi spat a curse as the magi touched down outside the river fort, the ground blackening where they stood. The Tlawng's current carried strange gifts—a child's straw sandal, a cookpot still clattering with river stones, the bloated corpse of a Kirati messenger carp. Pupi's axes cleaved through elite armor as easily as they'd once split firewood for winter pyres. He remembered teaching Larin this same economy of motion: "Wasted strength is stolen time." The lesson rang hollow now. Every parry cost him a breath he couldn't spare, every kill a memory of the boy who'd preferred fishing to blade drills.
Hwehwe, clutching her arm, watched as the magi passed through her traps as if they were nothing. The intelligence center's floors drank greedily. Hwehwe watched blood seep between floorboards—Kirati black, Xiaxoan crimson—swirling into mandala patterns only visible from the rafters. She'd seen such designs once in Sinlung's abandoned temples, their meanings lost to imperial book burnings. Now they reemerged in viscera, a language older than sorrow. Her totem pulsed approval, its light refracting through dangling scout's teeth strung like windchimes. Survival as sacred art.
The Kirati troops pulled back, forming a perimeter. The real battle was about to begin.
The Xiaxoans anticipated this, they steeled themselves for what was to come. Each of their leaders were Cosmic Magi as well, but outnumbered, it might be a tough battle ahead, they only had to stop the five Cosmic Magi each who powered the warships, then the warships could be shot down.