As Nusi stepped forward, her hands moved with practiced ease, grinding herbs in her mortar with a rhythmic cadence. The air soon became perfumed with the potent scent of the herbal concoction, and as if summoned by the aroma itself, ethereal trees began to materialize around her, their existence blurring the line between the mystical and the mundane.
Meanwhile, atop the fortified walls of the town, the defenders stood watch with a mounting sense of dread. Each warrior was acutely aware that their sovereign, the king, had been taken by the enemy — the very enemy that now threatened their doorstep. Clad in armor that reflected the somber mood, they nervously clutched their weapons, spears, and arrows at the ready, yet hesitant to launch them. The presence of their king in the enemy ranks tied their hands with an invisible thread of caution.
Even as they recognized the scent of the trees as a harbinger of an approaching assault, confusion reigned among the defenders. They could not fathom how such a seemingly benign phenomenon could pose a threat to their well-fortified position. This uncertainty created a palpable tension, paralyzing their response as they failed to unleash their deadly missiles upon the advancing foe.
As moments passed, the town’s atmosphere grew oppressive, the once-clear air now thickening into a dark smog that crept over the ramparts like a silent predator. Those among the defenders with fewer years of cultivation began to drop one by one, their senses overwhelmed, succumbing to an enchanted slumber. It was then that their leader’s voice boomed across the stone battlements, a desperate plea to rouse his faltering troops: “What nonsense is this? Wake up and arm yourselves!” But his command was cut short when he realized the grim reality — his men were being claimed by the same unnatural drowsiness. In a final act of indignation, he turned to shake them awake, only to find the lure of sleep clawing at his consciousness. Before a minute had passed, the entire garrison lay inert, a silent testament to the potency of Nusi’s unseen assault.
From afar, Armad, the orchestrator of the siege, watched the scene unfold with detached interest. Raising his hand, he summoned the power of the storm, casting a mighty bolt of lightning toward the town’s gate. Yet, as the formidable energy struck, the gate responded with an unexpected luminosity, emitting a radiant light that absorbed the lightning, causing it to pass through harmlessly and vanish into the ether.
A small smile played on Armad’s lips. He was reminded once again that no matter how small or remote, a town of cultivators was still a bastion of ancient knowledge and power. Such places were invariably protected by enchantments, the accumulated wisdom of ages. Given the town’s long history of rulership, it stood to reason that they had access to a trove of ancestral artifacts, relics capable of defending against even the most formidable of attacks.
However, as the smile faded from his face, Armad acknowledged a crucial insight: the importance of his captive, King Konfot.
Armad raised his voice without hesitation, his words slicing through the tense air. “If one of you does not come to open the gates of this town within the next thirty seconds, we will execute him, cast his severed head over the wall to you, and then scale these fortifications to exterminate every last one of you.” These were the stern words Armad declared before he turned to give a nod to one of the devas accompanying him. The deva, understanding the gravity of the situation, raised his sword and assumed a position behind the king, much like an executioner ready to fulfill his morbid duty at a moment’s notice.
In an extraordinary turn of events, at this critical juncture, an old man materialized atop the wall of the town. His appearance was as sudden as it was silent; no one had perceived his approach, and he remained unaffected by the mysterious smoke that had lulled the other soldiers on the wall into an inexplicable slumber. “There’s no need for violence. The gate will be opened,” the old man spoke with a voice tinged with sorrow. His face, a canvas of regret, seemed to bear the weight of a lifetime of decisions, now haunting him in this hour of defeat. It was as though he was reflecting on all he had done in service to the town and contemplating the value of his past achievements, which, at this moment, appeared to him as utterly futile. With a heart heavy with regret, yet knowing it was all in vain, he descended from the wall and made his way to the gate. His fingers touched the ancient wood in a precise manner, his lips muttered secret spells that had guarded the town for ages, and the magical barrier dissipated. Despite the burden of his years, he skilfully disengaged the lock and pushed the gate open.
Nusi and the two devas accompanying her were swift to enter, their feet barely touching the ground as they crossed the threshold into the town. Shortly after their careful advance, she invoked her power to summon trees from the earth, a safeguard against potential threats. Then, with a measured pace, Armad and the battalion of 500 soldiers filed into the town with a presence that suggested both victory and the potential for mercy.
Once inside, Armad approached the old man, his gaze inquisitive and commanding. “Who are you? I demand you introduce yourself.”
With a deference that spoke of his acceptance of the circumstances, the old man bowed slightly. “I am the presiding leader of the king’s council, the same king you have vanished. It was I who played a key role in advocating for the battle against you, even when our king was inclined to withdraw from the coalition that sought your downfall. I was the one who convinced him to take up arms. If there is to be blame or punishment meted out, it should be directed at me, not our king. I beseech you, let him live. You may choose to strip him of his rule, keep him under your watch, but let his life be spared. For it is I who should face the consequences of these actions, I who should meet death, not him,” he pleaded, his voice a blend of dignity and desperation, while his posture remained one of humble submission.
Armad’s expression turned into a frown, a sign of his inner turmoil. For reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, the elderly man before him was beginning to command his respect.
The old man was well aware of the brutal realities of war, where mercy is a scarce commodity. He recognized that Armad and his soldiers might be compelled to take lives in the conflict. Nonetheless, he had resolved to face death if it meant the liberation of his king.
Armad shook his head in a slow, almost imperceptible motion. Unfortunately, the old man’s eyes were downcast, and he failed to see Armad’s reaction. Individuals like this old man, draped in his simple shawl, were the pillars of their community. They were the essence of the town’s resilience and progress. Regardless of an empire’s might, it is sustained by those who are brave enough to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Armad realized that to forge an empire as grand as those of the great tribes, he would need people like this old man—people endowed with both the vision and wisdom to guide the future.
“What is your name?” Armad asked, his voice revealing a trace of curiosity.
“Your Highness, this old man is named Kalidu,” the elder responded with a deferential bow.
“Kalidu,” Armad repeated, his eyelids falling shut as he pondered the name. While it was not particularly rare in this region, it was also not a name one would call commonplace. In Armad’s native lands, the name Kalidu would be met with unfamiliarity, seldom encountered in daily life. His studies of world maps and cultural practices across different regions had highlighted the diversity of naming conventions. Some names bore a clear connection to tribal lineage, while others stood out as unique, a reflection of regional idiosyncrasies.
Armad recalled a passage from a rarely consulted tome that suggested such distinctive naming patterns could be traced back to a time when inhabitants of a given area all descended from a common ancestral line. With population growth and subsequent misunderstandings, they branched out, founding new towns and communities. Whatever the significance behind the name Kalidu, it was one that Armad found himself willing to accept.
“If I spare the life of your king, what would I stand to gain? You waged war, yet you failed to secure victory. Should your king have emerged victorious, do you think he would have extended mercy to us?” Armad posed these strategic questions to Kalidu, anticipating his reply. Such inquiries were crucial, for they often served to reveal the depth of a person’s insight and the potential contributions they could make to Armad’s grand vision.
Kalidu paused, his voice falling silent as he considered his next words carefully. After a moment of reflection, he nodded slowly, a gesture of reluctant acquiescence. “Of course, Your Highness, should we have been the ones graced with victory, mercy might not have found a place in our hearts. Any spared life would have been a luxury we could not afford, for this war is one birthed from insatiable greed. And beyond that, those who have maneuvered in the shadows on our behalf would never allow for survivors; the fear of their clandestine actions being unveiled and the subsequent repercussions would be too great a risk for them to bear.”
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Armad’s frown deepened his face a mask of contemplation and displeasure. “If that is your belief, how do you reconcile my choice to leave you breathing now that I am the one draped in the mantle of victory? Do you not perceive the contradiction within your rhetoric, a hint of hypocrisy that undermines your argument?”
With a solemn nod, Kalidu acknowledged the pointed critique. “You speak the truth, Your Highness. There is a vein of injustice that runs through my words. It may well be that our intent to act mercilessly in the event of our triumph has led to our downfall. Your Highness, I believe that it is the essence of our thoughts, the very fabric of our intentions, that preordains our fate. The divergence in our philosophies, the disparity between your magnanimous vision and our narrow outlook, may very well be the reason you stand before me as the victor.”
Armad’s expression shifted once again, the shadows of his thoughts flickering across his face. The implication that their triumph was owed to anything other than martial prowess seemed to strike a chord within him. However, a subtle smile momentarily softened his stern visage. It was clear to him that Kalidu, driven by the instinct to survive, was employing every rhetorical strategy at his disposal to secure his safety. Armad was not fooled by the old man’s gambit. Were it not for the deep-seated respect that had been forged during their initial encounter—respect that now stayed in Armad’s hand—the old man’s life might have already been forfeit.
Armad’s voice, when it came, was calm and measured, but it carried an undercurrent of unyielding authority. “I demand a comprehensive inventory of your resources: enumerate your treasures, catalog the provisions in your granaries, and detail the demographics of your town—every man, woman, and child, the aged and the infirm. And let us not forget the remaining cultivators whose strength is of particular interest to me. Should you fail to disclose even the most trifling of details, or should I discover deceit in your accounting...” His voice trailed off, and he allowed a chilling laugh to escape his lips—a sound that carried with it an unspoken threat, heavy with the promise of dire consequences. His eyes fixed on Kalidu with an intensity that left no room for doubt. “You are well aware of the fate that awaits those who cross me.”
To his surprise, the elderly man offered a bow before advancing a mere two steps. His progress was swiftly halted, though, as Armad Nusi intervened with a swift motion, her sword finding its way to the side of his neck in a threatening gesture. “Who gave you the order to move?” she asked, her voice tinged with authority and suspicion.
The old man seemed to realize the gravity of his situation, as he took several cautious steps backward, his hands diving into the depths of his magical bag. With a certain reverence, he pulled out a modestly sized book and extended it towards Nusi. “Your Highness, I wish to bestow upon you this humble volume, the product of my recent days’ toil,” he stated earnestly.
With a discerning eye, Nusi evaluated the book’s exterior before invoking her cultivation to probe the book’s interior, ensuring that it harbored no malevolent enchantments or traps. Once satisfied, she gingerly flipped through the pages, her expression one of bewilderment. The old man seemed to have anticipated their every question and more. She handed the book to Armad, urging him to examine its contents.
Armad understood that the book was not just a simple response to their inquiries; it was an exhaustive compendium of the town’s details. It listed the quantities of food bags, described the natural resources, depicted the layouts of farms, and detailed the various plants present—both those harvested and the medicinal ones awaiting collection. Additionally, the old man had included an extensive demographic breakdown, counting young men and women, divorcees, and married couples. The level of detail was such that it painted a vivid narrative of the community’s life, almost as if it were prepared by someone who knew they would be recounting their story posthumously to their conquerors.
Armad contemplated the effort behind such an endeavor. To gather such comprehensive information would surely require months of diligent investigation, suggesting the old man had intimate knowledge of all he had written. The new entries seemed inconsequential at a glance, yet Armad knew that in matters of intelligence, every detail could prove pivotal.
Armad raised an eyebrow, turning to the old man with a mixture of intrigue and skepticism. “Are you certain all the information contained within these pages is correct? Should I conduct my investigation, I trust there will be no contradictions to what has been presented here?” he pressed.
The old man met his gaze, unflinching. “I’m sure, Your Highness,” he replied with a confidence that left no room for doubt.
After a moment of contemplation, Armad resumed his examination of the book. He landed upon a page outlining the total number of cows and sheep in the town, noting that the old man had not only counted them but had also assessed their quality. With a heavy sigh, a reflection of both exasperation and resignation, Armad deposited the book into his magical bag.
As he pondered the implications of the old man’s work, he came to a realization. Despite the meticulous detailing of assets and population, the wealth and numbers of the town were modest at best, certainly not on par with the more prosperous town of Tiriba.
Daily, a steady stream of approximately 5,000 people flowed in and out of the bustling town of Tiriba before the shadow of battle loomed near. The indigenous inhabitants of Tiriba numbered well over 190,000 souls, and it was not uncommon for the town’s population to swell beyond the 200,000 mark on a given day. In comparison, the slightly less populous town of King Konfot maintained a steady count of around 170,000 residents, with a daily flux of more than 4,000 people traversing its borders. Although the demographic difference between the two towns was marginal, the stark contrast lay in their respective resources and industries.
Tiriba was renowned for its abundant metal wells, a resource conspicuously absent in King Konfot. Conversely, King Konfot’s forte was its rich agricultural landscape and robust livestock farming. The sheer number of cattle and sheep in King Konfot dwarfed that of Tiriba by an impressive multiple of twenty. Such a disparity could lead one to surmise that Tiriba’s engagement with agriculture and animal husbandry paled in comparison to the thriving agrarian culture of King Konfot, which also played a pivotal role as a food supplier to neighboring towns.
Yet, what truly piqued the interest of Armad was not just the ordinary crops but the medicinal farms detailed in a list he had acquired. The list revealed a staggering fact: the Medicine Producers Association’s procurement of medicinal herbs from King Konfot exceeded the volume acquired from Tiriba by a factor of ten. This was a testament to King Konfot’s unparalleled prowess in cultivating valuable medicinal plants.
Armad, struck by a sudden and intense covetousness for these herbal treasures, struggled with the sensation. It was as if he was caught in the web of an illusion, with whispers from the system nudging him towards the medicinal fields. The voice was elusive, barely more than a murmur, and Armad grappled with the possibility that his mind was conjuring phantoms. Yet, the strategic value of conquering King Konfot, illusion or not, was undeniably appealing to his calculating mind.
This revelation led Armad to a broader contemplation of the region’s towns, each a treasure trove of distinct resources. If King Konfot alone could boast such wealth, what untapped potential might the other towns hold? For instance, one town was singular in its focus on insect-repellent production. Almost every small enterprise engaged in this industry within the surrounding area operated under the aegis of a colossal parent company headquartered in this specialized town.
Equally impressive was another town, a hub of the textile industry, which had earned its reputation as the heartland of clothing production for cultivators. Here, artisans and craftsmen weaved and stitched, creating specialized attire, caps, and a myriad of clothing items that were sought after for their quality and the prestige they bestowed upon their wearers.
Armad’s strategic mind understood the latent power nestled within these towns. He realized that dominating these centers of industry could bestow upon him not just wealth but also influence and control over the region’s economy and trade. Each town, with its unique specialty, was a piece of a larger puzzle that, when assembled, could grant him unprecedented power.
Armad had realized that he was at the threshold of establishing an empire. When he had towns that could sustain themselves and produce resources that supported mutual growth, the creation of an empire seemed not just possible, but inevitable.
“Let’s continue. I want you to guide me to your town’s palace and warn your citizens to exercise caution. We do not wish to encounter anyone en route, aside from those individuals you specifically intend for us to meet. Should you engage in any actions that displease me, do not cast blame upon others for the consequences. The responsibility will be yours alone,” Armad commanded the elderly man known as Kalidu.
With a nod of acquiescence, Kalidu began to lead the way, with Armad’s troops trailing behind them. Throughout their dialogue, Armad scrutinized the old man intently, curious to see whether he would dare to steal a glance in the direction of King Konfot. However, throughout their exchange, the old man’s gaze never shifted toward the king, as if bound by a shyness that forbade direct eye contact with the king.
King Konfot himself was in a pitiable state, bearing the marks of Armad’s brutality. Tied and beaten, the king could scarcely open his eyes, much less articulate his thoughts. Armad had abandoned him in such a manner that only those familiar with the king would be able to recognize the man before them.
With urgency, the group made their way across town, from the eastern outskirts to the western quarter where the palace stood imposingly.
The council leader, having been informed of their arrival, had made the necessary announcements. As Armad and his contingent arrived, they found the Royal Guards already stationed outside the palace, their presence a palpable sign of their readiness yet their faces betrayed their fury. However, despite their evident anger, it was clear that they were under strict orders from the council leader and dared not contravene his directive.
“Your Highness, please, come inside,” the council leader said as he gestured towards the open doorway of the palace, his words directed towards Armad.
Armad, however, paused at the threshold, allowing Nusi and two other devas to proceed first. Together with Kalidu, they permeated the palace’s interior, systematically searching through the rooms. Their mission was clear: to secure the royal family, which they did with precision, leaving no member unbound. They took great care to ensure the palace was devoid of any hidden seals, spells, or arcane traps that could undermine their conquest. After methodically securing the palace, they reemerged just under an hour later, just moments before Armad himself chose to grace the palace with his presence.