The smell of iron, a ringing in the ears.
"WE'RE SURROUNDED!"
"HOLD THE LINE—HOLD—"
"RETREAT— DON'T LET THEM REACH—"
The order never finished.
A bolt slammed into the man's throat. Blood spurted like a fountain.
Everything descended into noise.
"T-They have… THEY HAVE TRAPPED US…!"
"RUN! IT'S A TRAP!"
"AHHH..!!"
The man's pupils dilated.
All he could remember was the godawful stench of blood.
Blood.
Guts.
The distant creaking of crossbows.
Crows circling above.
"I-I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE!"
"MOTHER—PLEASE, PLEASE…"
"NO..!"
A metallic tang in the air.
A bone-deep chill.
A distant horn echoing across the field.
The wet tearing sound of flesh being ripped apart.
His steed charged blindly through the chaos.
Sweat poured down his face.
He couldn't even look around—there was nothing to see but death.
It blanketed the fields.
His heart throbbed.
He hadn't even eaten lunch.
He hadn't married the girl he loved.
Hadn't bid farewell to his sick mother.
All the chants of glory—drained from their mouths, crushed beneath boots and bone.
What remained was nothing but the brutal image of intestines dragging across mud, rivers of blood soaking into the earth.
"No, please… please…"
He heard the screams of the others, but he couldn't move—frozen, clinging to life while his steed bolted.
Any second now, he knew—an arrow would find its way into his skull.
And he knew it.
The earth was shaking.
No—he was just shaking.
One man ran past him, screaming with no weapon in hand, only to get impaled mid-sprint.
The smell—burning hair, metal, shit, blood.
The ground soaked with it.
He couldn't tell if he pissed himself.
"WHY... WHY WON'T THEY STOP!?"
He ducked. Another man's arm flew past him—disconnected.
A fresh spray of blood rained on his face.
He fell back.
He didn't even realize he was crawling.
Didn't realize his ears were ringing.
His cheek pressed to the mud. His nails clawing at the blood-slick dirt like some dying animal.
Closing his eyes against the stench.
——————————————————————————————————————
The haze returned.
A flood of blurry memory, drowning him, as he wheezed and gasped for air.
"AHHHHH—PLEASE, PLEASE—"
He screamed, lying down, pupils still blown wide.
General Zhao stood beside him.
The same man who had sent him into hell.
Zhao stared down at the screaming man, eyes unblinking.
General Wang stood nearby, flanked by his two subordinates.
He watched the soldier.
And though no one noticed—tears slipped down Wang's face. Quiet.
In the background, Generals Lian and Meng stood in silence.
Medics and soldiers in various uniforms moved in and out of the tent, some carrying bandages, others tending to the man.
Outside, the wasteland wind beat the tent's flap like a drum.
Then—quiet.
The man stopped screaming.
He placed his hands over his forehead, breathing hard.
And finally spoke.
"We told them we wanted to surrender."
Everyone turned to him.
"It was a massacre," he continued. "They didn't stop. After our Five-Hundred-Man Commander fell, we dropped our weapons. We begged for mercy."
His voice didn't tremble.
It wasn't panic.
It wasn't rage.
It was just... truth. Hollow and stripped bare.
"Some of us didn't even want to fight in the first place. We were scared shitless the moment we saw them."
"I was one of them."
He stared into nothing. Pupils unmoving.
"We threw down everything—swords, spears, glaives. Just wanted it to end. But they slaughtered us."
He turned his head toward the line of commanders watching him.
Eyes vacant. Voice dead.
"Everyone was already dead, sir. I was buried under corpses. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. I was choking on my own puke…"
He paused.
And the tent, again, fell silent.
General Zhao's aide lowered his gaze, unable to meet the man's eyes. The weight of it bore down on him. He had followed orders—sent those boys into the dark, knowing full well they wouldn't return. Certain death.
And for the briefest moment, his loyalty wavered. Not to the Court. To Zhao. To the man he'd followed through snow, blood, and silence.
"It was the first battle for the majority of them," the aide thought. The weight of that truth sank deep. The lives of those young men, sacrificed to save the rest… Who were they to make that trade?
For a brief moment, his mind went blank. Torn between duty and conscience.
"Was this really necessary?" He wanted to ask. But the words never left his throat.
And in the next, he remembered—Zhao's pale face, unmoving as a mountain.
——————————————————————————————————
Seven days earlier
A week before the survivor arrived, four separate Xia armies—each fifty thousand strong—converged in Meiryu, the northernmost region of Xia. A cold, desolate land with only a handful of cities, Meiryu bordered the region of Enka.
These forces, raised from different provinces and led by their own generals, were to be unified under the command of General Zhao. According to the royal decree, once merged, they would march northward into Enka, laying siege to the Southern Walls. It was meant to be a straightforward campaign—clean and decisive.
This operation also marked the long-awaited return of General Zhao, absent from the public eye for nearly a decade. His reputation had grown almost mythic in that time. Among the soldiers and officers—especially those from outside his original ranks—there was a sense of curiosity, even unease. Who was this man they'd heard so much about?
Yet when the armies reached Meiryu, General Zhao was nowhere to be found. Neither he nor any of his trusted subordinates had appeared. He left behind only a single order: "March."
General Wang gave the order to move forward without hesitation—he trusted Zhao, always had.
Lian Zhi followed, lips pressed thin, silent but fuming.
Meng Ji said nothing—to everyone's surprise.
"Classic General Zhao, huh?" Kojun remarked from atop his horse.
"How would you know? You ever fought under him?" Yoku replied, voice laced with mockery.
"I just picked it up," Kojun said, eyes fixed ahead. Behind him, thousands of soldiers marched steadily through the growing dusk, some carrying torches to light the path. "From the way General Wang talks about him."
Up front, General Wang also wondered about the whereabouts of his 'lord'.
Though deep down, he had a vague idea.
The Xia army marched through the barren wastelands of Meiryu.
Enka was at least three days' march away for the full army—
But for a small cavalry, taking a shorter route, it could be done in a day. Day and a half at most.
Through wavering hills and lifeless dustlands, a cavalry force—no more than twenty—bolted ahead, General Zhao at the front.
They had split from the main army.
Their destination: the Southern Walls.
◇◆◇
The stars shined over the floodplains of Enka.
The Southern Wall stood tall, stretching far beyond the horizon.
Enka was a contradiction to Meiryu. The Han River made the land fertile, and the mountains to the south blocked the cold winds—Made the place moderate. A land where life could actually flourish.
And yet, Enka was a place of endless conflict.
The Southern Wall bore the scars to prove it—etched deep into its stone, each one telling a story of death.
"See that slope?"
Hidden beneath the cover of moonlight and thick emerald trees, those twenty Xia riders sat atop their horses.
The Southern Walls lay in their sight, coated in a bluish glow under the silver moon.
General Zhao's voice engulfed his men, drawing their attention.
His Aide sat at his side.
They all turned toward the wall.
"It wasn't always that gradual," Zhao said, voice cold as steel.
"They softened the incline. No siege tower ever made it up there before—used to tip halfway."
"My Lord, that's… impressive. Even I couldn't tell it apart from the walls we once laid siege to, many generations ago," one of his subordinates said, eyes narrowed on the slope.
"It's been a long time since we stood here," another muttered.
These men were Zhao's elite—
Veterans who had followed him through fire, through snow, through hell itself.
And come back.
Somehow.
"Us old timers can't even tell what's been changed anymore," one of them added. "That's how good the work is."
The man reflected quietly, "Back in the time of Emperor Xianfen… we once invaded Nokrang."
There was a faint, bittersweet edge to his voice.
"We lost over half our men just trying to breach this wall."
"They say these walls have stood since the age of gods—long before the realm of the Eleven Kingdoms ever came to be."
The group fell silent, eyes fixed on the towering stone. Some pondered Zhao's words, others simply stared, feeling the weight of history pressing down on them.
"Could it be," Zhao's aide asked slowly, "that they rebuilt the wall—deliberately shaping it so it could be taken more easily in a siege?"
Zhao didn't even turn his head.
"Exactly."
Zhao paused, then spoke to his aide in a low, measured tone.
"Haku… do you sense it? Look at the walls."
Ranhaku, his aide, glanced upward. The torchlight flickered across the ramparts, where soldiers kept a routine watch. Everything looked as it should.
"I see nothing unusual, my lord. The guards are in position... All seems normal."
But even as he said it, the weight of Zhao's words began to settle over the group.
One of the officers murmured, dread creeping into his voice,
"…My Lord."
Zhao gave a faint smirk.
"I once knew a man who could lure hundreds of thousands into a trap like this… and devour them all." He paused, then added, "I killed him. Right here—on these very plains of Enka. Fifteen years ago."
Ranhaku's eyes narrowed as he pieced it together.
"The wall… rebuilt too conveniently. Only forty thousand troops inside, against our two hundred thousand. No sign of reinforcements, no unusual movement within the walls…"
Zhao nodded slightly.
"Exactly, Haku. There are many explanations for this—but one in particular keeps returning to me."
He fell silent.
And Ranhaku said the words for him:
"…We're walking into a trap."
No one else spoke.
Not Zhao.
Not his men.
Only the wind stirred.
Zhao's grin faded, replaced by a colder calm.
"Send five to six hundred men eastward, into the forests," he said quietly. "In a week's time, we'll know whether it's a trap."
His voice carried just enough to be heard. Nothing more needed saying—they all understood.
Ranhaku, still standing beside him, spoke as they stared at the lapis-tinted walls glimmering under the moonlight,
"Sometimes, you let a twig snap... just to see if the hyena comes sniffing."
They stood still, listening to the wind brushing over stone and soil. Perhaps the next time they returned, it would be under the harsh light of day—when the scent of blood and iron would rise, devouring what little peace remained.
◇◆◇
"March…" Kojun muttered, recalling the lone order left behind by General Zhao.
He and Yoku stood in the corner of the command tent. The army had encamped just a day's march from Enka, weary from the harsh climb through Meiryu's highlands. Some of the newly conscripted soldiers were already showing signs of fatigue—shortness of breath, trembling hands.
"What's on your mind, Kojun?" Yoku asked, noticing his comrade deep in thought.
Kojun's voice dropped to a near whisper. "It might be nothing… but I think I know where General Zhao went."
Around them, the atmosphere inside the tent was thick with uncertainty. The ten-thousand and five-thousand-man commanders under Wang were gathered—each bearing the weight of an absent supreme commander.
"What's happening with the general, sir?" one of the officers finally asked, his voice tight with unease. "I've never seen a commander vanish like this. Not without a word…"
Another added, more hesitantly, "The troops are starting to talk. Some say… he deserted."
Before the room could spiral into anxiety, General Wang raised a hand.
"Easy, Manhu," he said with a faint smile, swirling a fine porcelain cup of liquor in his hand.
"You've had time to rest," he said calmly. "Don't waste it by running in circles. Worry too much and your hair will fall out."
A few men chuckled. The mood in the tent lightened—just enough to take the edge off.
But one of the commanders still pressed on. "Even so, sir, we're without direction. The soldiers—"
Before he could finish, the flap of the tent flew open with a sharp whff.
A tall figure stepped in—towering above everyone, with a wide grin stretched across his face and a cheap earthen bottle of liquor swinging casually in his hand. At his side stood a younger man, quiet and serious, eyes closed, his presence cold and unreadable.
"I see you've built quite a gathering for yourself, Wang," the tall man said, surveying the tent with a hint of amusement.
All heads turned toward him.
There was a pause, brief but total, as though breath itself had been stolen from the room.
Yoku and Kojun stiffened.
General Wang immediately rose to his feet, his expression shifting to one of reverence.
"Lord… General Zhao," he said, bowing deeply.
General Wang's gaze shifted to the man standing beside Zhao. He gave a respectful nod.
"Sir Ranhaku."
Ranhaku's stoic expression softened just slightly.
"Drop the honorifics, Wang. We're equals now."
Wang smiled—a rare, grounded smile, warm and familiar.
For most in the tent, this was their first time laying eyes on the legendary figure which was General Zhao. A man whose name was whispered in stories told to children—some who grew up idolizing him, others haunted by his bloody reputation. A man spoken of as a harbinger of death.
Not a word passed. Instinctively, every officer in the tent bowed. Some were trembling. A few broke into cold sweat.
"Come, drink with me, Wang," Zhao said, his tone casual, yet commanding.
"At once, sir," Wang replied—but his voice carried no formality, only a quiet fondness.
As Zhao turned to leave, Ranhaku's voice broke through.
"General Wang," he said calmly, "I'll need some of your new recruits."
Wang paused, then called out, "Yoku!"
"Yes, sir!" Yoku snapped to attention, still bowed toward Zhao.
"Assist General Ranhaku with his request," Wang instructed, before following Zhao out of the tent.
Ranhaku stepped toward Yoku, measuring him with a glance.
"I'll need two units. One of five hundred, the other of a hundred. Fresh recruits."
Yoku nodded, masking the confusion flickering in his mind.
"Yes, sir."
The atmosphere in the tent eased after Zhao's departure, like a coiled tension finally released.
But Yoku's thoughts still raced.
He kept his questions buried, offering no resistance as Ranhaku gave him a final look—sharp, unreadable—and then exited the tent in silence.
"Man, that was exhausting," Kojun said with a heavy sigh.
"Why do they even need recruits? If it's scouting they want, why not just send the scouting teams?" Yoku blurted out, frustration in his voice.
"Forget it. Just follow the orders," Kojun replied, his expression blank.
"Yeah, sure..." Yoku muttered. Deep down, they both knew this assignment was only going to lead to trouble.
"So, who are you sending?" Kojun broke the silence.
"There's a 100-men commander under me—Yue. A woman, recently promoted. Her unit's all fresh recruits. Also, a new 500-men detachment from Meiryu was placed under my command. They'll go too."
The open fields of the encampment stretched out under a silver moon, its light washing over rows of foot soldiers and low-ranking officers—infantry, all of them. Torches crackled beside scattered bonfires where men sat cross-legged, eating their rations in silence, their armor piled at their sides. The air was thick with smoke, oil, and quiet tension.
Near a large boulder at the edge of the clearing, a lone girl sat in the moonlight. She looked no older than her late teens, but the stillness in her eyes told another story—one carved by blood and fire. Her uniform, pale and plain, glowed faintly under the sky's cold light.
She ate in silence—coarse bread and rice porridge, the standard ration. If one was lucky, there might be a sliver of meat. It wasn't made for taste, only function: enough to move a man to battle, easy to transport, easier to forget.
Her gaze lingered often on the night sky—wide and endless, uncaring of what dawn might bring.
"Ma'am Yue," a voice called. It was her lieutenant. "Ten-thousand men commander Yoku has ordered us to move out with the Meiryu five-hundred."
"A scouting mission. Or so they say," he added.
"Scouting?" Yue scoffed as she rose, brushing crumbs from her uniform. "Sending rookies on their first campaign for a 'scouting mission'? Sure, Zhen. I'll believe that."
Still, she strapped on her armor with quiet resolve. "Let's go."
——————————————————————————————————
Later, they would say Unit Yue And Unit Meiryu never stood a chance in the massacre.
Five hundred and one marched out under a silver sky.
Only one returned.