The sun cast a golden glow over the Katzen settlement, bathing the familiar landscape in warmth. Birds chirped, the wind whispered through the trees—it all seemed peaceful. But nothing was ever truly peaceful in the Katzen tribe.
Ries struggled to her feet, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. She had been knocked to the ground in a duel, and the realization dawned on her—why was she here?
An afterlife, perhaps?
The thought was unsettling, but she barely had time to consider it before the sound of the cheering crowd filled her ears. The boy she was fighting was grinning, thoroughly enjoying himself. It wasn’t every day that someone got to beat the chieftain’s child in combat over and over again.
The sting of humiliation burned hotter than the pain in her body. This wasn’t Paluushtag at all—she was reliving a memory, one from long ago. Ries’ eyes narrowed as she glared at the boy, his grin wide and mocking as he approached her. He didn’t expect her to get up, not after the beating he’d given her. But she wasn’t one to stay down easily.
If she is to relive her experiences, she won’t let it go to waste.
With a sudden burst of energy, Ries dashed forward, catching the boy off guard. Her fist slammed into his stomach, the force of the blow sending him stumbling back a couple of meters. The powerful punch was a signature move of the Katzen tribe. The grin disappeared from his face, replaced by a look of surprise and pain. But he didn’t fall—he’d managed to block just in time.
The crowd’s cheers grew louder, but Ries barely heard them. Her focus was entirely on her opponent. The memory might have placed her back in this moment, but this time, she wasn’t going to let him have the upper hand.
She read from somewhere—an obscure theory published by the Imperial Sithica Academy of Arcane Studies. It stated that dreams were nothing more than the creations of the individual, shaped by the dreamer’s thoughts and desires. If that was true, then this memory, this entire scene, was hers to control.
The boy recovered quickly, his expression darkening as he prepared for another attack. But Ries was more than ready for it.
As the boy lunged at her, Ries didn’t retreat. Instead, she closed her eyes and felt something in her hand as if materializing it out of nowhere. It was her handgun, the same one given to her by Eden. She raised it without hesitation.
The boy’s eyes widened in shock, but it was too late. The first shot rang out and he was stopped in his tracks. The second shot followed immediately, ensuring he was as good as dead before he even hit the ground.
But Ries didn’t stop there. Something inside her, something dark and primal, triggered her to keep firing. Her finger squeezed the trigger again and again, each shot punctuating the eerie silence that had fallen over the crowd. The bullets seemed endless, the gun an extension of her will.
She continued firing at the boy, the boy’s body was no longer recognizable, reduced to a grotesque mass of flesh and blood, yet her finger refused to release the trigger. What is this feeling? Was it liberation? Joy? She was unleashing years of pent-up frustration, fear, and anger. Each shot was a catharsis, a release of the emotions she had kept bottled up for so long.
Fear. Anger. Frustration. All the feelings she had buried deep within her were now pouring out with every pull of the trigger. She had spent so long fighting against the world, against herself.
A weak Katzen, desperate to gain approval from her strict father who threw her away because she was weak. A desperate Katzen who left her own home to gain strength, just so her father could notice her. A mouthpiece of the Empire who forced itself upon her. A child who fought tooth and nail, not just against opponents, but against her own perceived inadequacies.
With each shot, those memories flooded her mind—the cold dismissal in her father’s eyes, the whispers of her tribe calling her a failure, the endless struggle to prove herself, to be something more than the “weakling” everyone saw. She remembered the loneliness, the constant need to push herself harder, to be stronger, faster, better—because anything less was unacceptable. She had buried that pain deep inside, masking it with bravado and a fierce will to survive.
But here, in this twisted echo of her past, all of that hurt, that anguish, was laid bare. The shots from her handgun were like an exorcism, each one expelling another demon from her soul. Yet with every pull of the trigger, she felt something else stirring within her.
“Ries! What is the meaning of this?” She heard her father’s yell, but without thinking twice, she immediately aimed the handgun at him and pulled the trigger.
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Her eyes shot open, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she bolted upright. Cold sweat clung to her skin, her heart pounding in her chest as the remnants of the dream clung to her mind like a dark cloud. The vividness of it all—the gunshots, the rage, the final act of pointing her weapon at her own father—felt terrifyingly real.
Almost immediately, the pain from the previous night came rushing back. She winced as she tried to move, her muscles stiff and her back throbbing with a deep ache. Tentatively, she reached behind her, her fingers brushing against the rough fabric of makeshift bandages. Someone had patched her up.
She frowned, trying to recall what had happened after she blacked out, but her memory was hazy, fragmented. The last thing she remembered was the searing pain in her back and the world going dark around her.
Ries slowly took in her surroundings. The wooden roof above her, the thin wooden walls, and the door covered by a piece of cloth—it was all too familiar. She had seen similar structures during her time occupying the Brahe tribe. The Palushians had captured her.
Her back ached with the memory of the wound from the night before, but the fact that it had been treated was a curious detail. They could have killed her easily, yet they hadn’t. Perhaps they wanted information, or maybe they recognized something in her that stayed their hand. Whatever the reason, this could be the opportunity she needed to warn them about the coming onslaught.
Pushing herself to sit up, she winced as the pain shot through her back. The bandages were rough, hastily applied, but effective enough to keep her alive. The room was sparse, with only the bare essentials—a small table, a few mats on the floor, and a single flickering candle.
The sunlight was shining through an opening on the roof, she guessed it must be morning judging from the cool air still around. That, and the fact that she’s probably in Wilten.
Just as she was about to stand, the door’s cloth covering rustled, and two Palushians entered the room. They looked at her with curiosity, but not hostility—at least, the woman did. The man wore lightly armored leather, the kind favored by Palushian warriors who relied on speed and agility in battle. The woman, on the other hand, was dressed in a tribal outfit that, while adorned with traditional patterns, still carried a degree of armor for protection.
“Are you okay?” the female Palushian asked, her voice gentle but firm. The male crossed his arms, his gaze sharp as he watched her every move, as if daring her to make the wrong one.
“I’m fine,” Ries managed to replied with a hoarse voice.
The woman offered a light smile, a hint of relief in her expression. “Glad to hear. My name is Kali, and this is Hali,” she introduced, nodding toward her companion.
Ries studied them both, trying to gauge their intentions. They didn’t seem hostile, but she knew better than to let her guard down. "Why am I here?" she asked cautiously, her eyes flicking between them.
Hali said something in his native tongue, Kali nodded and translated for him. “Hali shot you with his arrow during his patrol mission.”
The Palushians had patrolled that far from Wilten? Or was it a scouting mission? She had calculated that it would take at least five more hours by horse to reach the Wilten tribe, which meant she was much closer to their territory than she’d anticipated.
“You were patrolling that far out?” Ries questioned, trying to glean more information without directly asking for it.
Kali nodded. “We’ve expanded our patrols to keep an eye on imperial movements. We can’t afford to be caught off guard.” She seemed sad by something, but nonetheless replied. “Ever since our home, the Brahe tribe, fell, we’ve had no choice but to band together at Wilten.” She added.
‘Wonder what they would do to me if they knew I was in charge of the occupation there for a while?’
She forced herself to focus on the present, pushing the troubling memory aside. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said quietly. The destruction of a tribe—any tribe—was something she couldn’t condone, even if it served the Empire’s interests.
Hali’s reaction was immediate, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he took a step closer to her. he growled something in a language she didn’t understand, his voice low and filled with anger. She knew anyways he was cussing and cursing her out.
Ries could feel the tension in the room thickening as Hali’s words, harsh and untranslatable, cut through the air. Though she didn’t understand his language, the venom in his tone was unmistakable. His body was coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap, and she couldn’t shake the sense that he was just looking for a reason to lash out.
Kali placed a calming hand on Hali’s arm, but the anger in his eyes didn’t dissipate. Instead, it seemed to simmer just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest provocation. Kali turned back to Ries, her expression softer, but still tinged with wariness.
“Forgive him,” Kali said with a strained voice. “We’ve all lost people we cared about. The Empire has taken so much from us.”
Ries nodded, understanding the deep-seated anger that fueled Hali’s hostility. “I understand,” she replied with a low voice. “But I’m here today to end the hostilities between us.”
Hali’s eyes narrowed further, his mistrust deepening. He growled something else in an accusatory manner. Kali hesitated before translating, as if weighing whether or not to share his words.
“He wants to know,” Kali said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, “how many of our people you’ve killed. How many tribes have suffered because of you.”
The truth was, she didn’t know. She had only been deputy minister for a short time, and most of that time had been spent either in meetings or on the field, far from the halls where decisions were made. The paperwork she had seen barely scratched the surface of the Empire’s actions. But that didn’t absolve her of responsibility. She had worn the uniform, carried out orders, and in doing so, she had played a part in the suffering of the Palushians, or many others.
Noticing her hesitation, Hali yelled something again. He was interrupted by Kali who stepped in between them. “Hali,” she said gently, placing a hand on his arm. “Let’s hear her out. If she’s truly here to help, then maybe we can find a way to stop this madness. If not… well, we’ll know what to do.”
Hali looked at Kali, then at Ries. He promptly stormed out and left, leaving Kali to sigh, rubbing her forehead as if trying to ward off an impending headache.
“I’m sorry about Hali,” Kali said after a moment, her voice tinged with exhaustion. “He’s been through a lot. We all have. The Empire has taken so much from us, and it’s hard to see someone—a Beastmen—willingly work for them and not feel the weight of everything we’ve lost.”
Ries nodded, understanding the pain and frustration that fueled Hali’s anger. She couldn’t blame him for hating her for seeing her as the enemy. In many ways, she had been, whether she wanted to admit it or not.
“I don’t expect forgiveness,” Ries said quietly, her eyes meeting Kali’s. “I know that what’s been done can’t be undone with a few words. But I want to try to make things right, even if it’s just a small part of it.”
Kali studied her for a long moment, as if searching for any sign of deceit or ulterior motive. Finally, she gave a small nod. “We’ll see,” she said, echoing her earlier words. “For now, you should rest and recover. We’ll talk more later.”
“Right…” Ries murmured. A sudden thought struck her, and she hesitated before asking, “By the way, what time is it?”
Kali glanced out at the opening on the roof before answering. “It’s almost noon, when the sun is at its highest. I don’t know what you imperials call it, though.”
Ries’ stomach dropped. Noon. That was when Jachs had planned to begin the bombardment. Panic surged through her. She had to warn them.
“Kali, I—” Ries began, her voice urgent.
But before she could finish, the tent’s cloth flapped open, and a tall, imposing Palushian woman entered. She was clad in armor unlike anything Ries had seen before, a mix of tribal designs and reinforced plates that seemed both ceremonial and battle-ready. Her eyes were hard, cold, and without a hint of mercy.
Ries barely had time to process what was happening before the guards stepped forward, their grips firm as they seized her by the arms. She struggled instinctively, but their strength was undeniable, and they began dragging her out of the tent as her protests fell on deaf ears—if they can even understand her.
She heard Kali scream something at the woman but she didn’t budge. Outside, the camp was alive with movement. Palushian warriors hurried about, preparing for whatever was to come. But all of that activity seemed distant, irrelevant, as Ries was pulled roughly toward the center of the settlement. Her injury throbbed with each jarring step, but the guards cared little for her pain.
Ries’ heart pounded as she was forced against a wooden pole, the rough bark digging into her back. Before she could protest or plead, they began tying her to the pole, the ropes biting into her wrists, chest, and legs binding her tightly.
She glanced down, and her blood ran cold. At her feet, a pile of firewood had been carefully arranged, the meaning of which was unmistakable.
‘Uh oh.’ Ries could tell where this was going and she didn’t like it one bit.
The Palushians were preparing to burn her alive, likely as a swift act of vengeance. To them, she was a symbol of the Empire, of all the suffering and destruction that had befallen them. Her pleas for peace might have fallen on deaf ears.
A crowd was beginning to gather, murmuring among themselves, their eyes full of distrust and anger. She caught glimpses of faces twisted with grief, people who had lost everything to the Empire’s advance. To them, she was just another Imperial—one who deserved to burn for her sins.
Panic surged within her, and she frantically scanned the crowd, her eyes darting from one face to another. She spotted Kali at the edge of the gathering, her expression a mix of frustration and desperation as she argued with the warrior who had ordered Ries' capture. The woman, likely the chief—or perhaps even the High Queen—stood with an air of authority, her arms crossed as she listened to Kali’s pleas.
She needed to make them understand—needed to find a way to communicate the danger that was about to descend upon them. “Kali!” Ries called out, her voice trembling but loud enough to cut through the murmurs of the crowd. “You have to listen! There’s no time!”
Kali’s eyes snapped to Ries, and she said something hurriedly to the High Queen before rushing toward her. The chief watched with narrowed eyes, clearly suspicious but could care less about them.
“What is it?” Kali asked with a hushed voice as she leaned in, trying to mask her concern from the others.
Ries took a deep breath. “The Imperial army is going to initiate bombardment of this tribe. I was sent to negotiate a ceasefire, but they won’t wait. The attack is scheduled to start at noon.”
Kali’s face paled, her eyes widening in shock. She glanced over her shoulder at the High Queen, who were now walking up to them with bo dyguards in tow.
“If you’re lying—”
“I’m not,” Ries interrupted. “Please, we don’t have time to debate this, I don’t want to die.”
The High Queen yanked Kali back, her gaze cutting down at Ries with a mixture of contempt and cold judgment. Standing tall and imposing, she turned her attention to the crowd, her voice rising in a powerful, impassioned speech. Although Ries didn’t understand the words, it was clear what she is conveying. That is, killing her by burning her.
The jeers grew louder, a wave of hatred crashing over Ries as the High Queen continued her speech, stoking the fires of resentment and rage.
Ries nervously watched as the High Queen speak on and on until finally, she approaches her with the lit torch, the flames danced menacingly in the wind. The crowd roared in approval fueled with anger and bloodlust.
This was it. The end. She had come here to stop a war, and instead, she was about to die at the hands of those she had hoped to save. Her heart pounded in her chest as she squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the inevitable searing pain as the flames consumed her.
But then, before the torch could touch the firewood beneath her, the world erupted into chaos.
An ear-splitting boom shattered the air, the ground trembling beneath the force of an artillery shell detonating nearby. Ries' eyes flew open in shock as screams of terror replaced the jeers. The crowd that had been baying for her blood scattered in all directions as their anger were quickly replaced by primal fear.
Another explosion followed, this time even closer, its impact tearing through the settlement with brutal force. Houses crumbled, and the ground where the people had gathered erupted in a shower of dirt and debris. Thankfully, most had fled in time, but the destruction was horrifying.
The High Queen dropped the torch and ran away presumably to organize a counterattack against the imperials. But Ries’ relief was short-lived. The torch, still lit, rolled across the ground, caught by a sudden gust of wind. It tumbled toward the firewood beneath her, and within moments, the dry kindling began to smolder, small flames licking at the base of the pile.
Panic surged through Ries as the reality of her situation hit her like a blow to the gut. She frantically wiggled against the ropes, her wrists chafed raw as she struggled to free herself from the pole. Usually this isn’t a big deal for her, as she can untie her easily. Unfortunately for her, she was still reeling from her injuries when she was shot by Hali.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered to herself, her voice trembling with fear. The flames were growing, small at first, but steadily creeping closer, feeding on the wood and rising with the wind. She could feel the heat against her skin, the crackling sound growing louder in her ears.
Her muscles screamed in protest as she pulled harder against the ropes, trying to twist her wrists just enough to slip free. But her strength was waning, and the ropes held firm, unyielding.
She glanced around wildly, hoping against hope that someone might come to her aid, but the settlement was in chaos. The Palushians were too busy fleeing the bombardment, or preparing for a counterattack, to notice her plight. She was on her own.
When all hope seemed lost and Ries began to resign herself to her fate, there was a swift movement behind her. In an instant, the pole behind her cracked with a sharp sound, and the tension in the ropes slackened. She barely had time to register what had happened before her body, weakened and exhausted, began to fall forward. But before she could hit the ground, strong arms caught her.
Perplexed and disoriented, Ries looked up, trying to make sense of who had come to her rescue. Through the haze of pain and confusion, she focused on the face of her savior.
It was the black-haired boy, the same one she met on the train to Alyrus. Saitou.
Why was he here?
Almost immediately, she felt someone hug her arm from the side. She felt taken aback by it, it wasn’t painful, but it surprised her.
She looked to her side and found Kali, almost in tears but holding it back with all her might. “Please! Stop this massacre!”
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Jach [https://i.imgur.com/On9evQt.png]
“Target reached.” The crackling of the radio sounded like melodies to Jachs’ ear, his eyes were fixed on the horizon where smoke and fire marked the destruction of the Palushian tribe. The mage he stationed high above the sky as a spotter proved his use for directing artillery fire, even more so than just merely enchanting a shell or two.
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Thanks to the mages who were able to fly swiftly along the sky, he was able to see that Anise, the deputy minister, had been captured and was about to be burned at a stake with her attempt at diplomacy ending in tragic, If predictable, failure.
The Palushian tribe was crumbling under the relentless bombardment, trees and hills cannot defend you from the lobbing of artillery shells from above. Brigades of long-range artillery were able to launch around two hundred shells every hour, and he intends to soften the Palushians up before making a move.
Deep inside, he was pleased. It brought him satisfaction, this was war at its finest, a modern war. Efficient, devastating, and entirely under his control. There was a certain elegance in the precision of it all, a cold, calculating beauty in the way the artillery shells traced their deadly arcs through the sky before landing with earth-shattering force. It was a symphony of destruction, and Jachs was its conductor, guiding every note to perfection as it built towards its inevitable crescendo.
His musings were abruptly interrupted by an annoying bug. “General, they seem to be collapsing from our bombardment. Shouldn’t we attack now?”
Jachs suppressed a sigh, glancing to his side. He wasn’t the only one responsible for commanding this army, there were other officers, many of them fresh-faced graduates from the military academy. Assigned to serve under him because some higher-ups believed that a “war against uncivilized peoples” would be the perfect training ground for young officers.
It was one of the many decisions from the general staff that he found himself questioning, as if his army had become a daycare for inexperienced young adults. He could see the eagerness in the officer’s eyes, the impatience of youth and inexperience. It was almost amusing, but was most definitely irritating. These young officers, with their ambitions barely concealed, didn’t understand the broader picture.
“Continue the bombardment for another hour,” Jachs answered dismissively. There was no need to rush. Patience was a virtue in war, one that had served him well over the years. He had no intention of risking unnecessary casualties by moving too soon, and certainly not to satisfy the impatience of a green officer.
The officer hesitated, clearly wanting to argue, but wisely chose to remain silent. Good, he thought. The imperial military prides itself in its discipline and loyalty, at least the academy did teach them something useful.
The radio came back to life. “General, I see movement,” The mage announces. “An army of Palushians, roughly forty thousand if I had to guess.”
Jachs quickly grabbed his binoculars and swept the horizon. Sure enough, out in the plains and coming out from the tree line were tens of thousands of Palushian warriors were charging toward his position with a desperate ferocity. The sight was both awe-inspiring and alarming—a massive wave of bodies surging across the land, their battle cries filling the air.
Those not charging directly at his forces were firing arrows in coordinated volleys, the sheer number of projectiles momentarily darkening the sky as they arced through the air. The sun itself seemed to dim under the mass of arrows descending upon his troops.
“Order the troops to take cover!” Jachs bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. He pointed to the nearest officer, who immediately relayed the command down the line. The signal went out across the battlefield, a chorus of whistles and shouts as soldiers scrambled to take cover in the trenches scarring the earth in a serpentine fashion.
Jachs watched as his men moved with the practiced efficiency of a well-trained army, diving into the safety of the trenches just as the first wave of arrows rained down. The sound of arrows thudding into the ground, into the metal artillery, and unfortunately into some of the slower soldiers, filled the air.
He could see the Palushian forces drawing closer, their momentum undeterred by the barrage of artillery that had softened their defenses earlier. Their sheer numbers were staggering, and their resolve was absolute. This was a full-scale assault. A desperate, all-or-nothing gamble that could only be met with the full might of the Imperial army.
Jachs had to commend the Palushians for their audacity. Charging head-first into an entrenched army was a tactic that bordered on madness, yet here they were, surging forward with the tenacity of warriors who had nothing left to lose. In most battles, cavalry would be used to break through the enemy’s lines, but the Palushians, with their unmatched agility and ferocity, were the cavalry themselves—metaphorically, of course.
He also had to commend their bravery, even as he prepared to crush it. These warriors were charging headlong into a defensive line equipped with thousands of rifles, each one fixed with a bayonet, ready to meet flesh. Several machine gun nests were strategically positioned to create kill zones, and the artillery, now prepared for close support, would soon unleash hell upon them.
Jachs' lips curled into a thin, satisfied smile. The Palushians were formidable, but they were not invincible. Their bravery would be their downfall, leading them straight into the teeth of his well-oiled war machine. As much as he respected their resolve, he would show them no mercy. This was war, and in war, only the most ruthless would emerge victorious.
“Hold the line!” Jachs shouted, his voice carrying over the din of the battlefield. “Let them come closer. Wait for my signal.”
His officers relayed the command, and the Imperial soldiers, already in position, tightened their grips on their rifles, their eyes fixed on the approaching enemy. Silently counting down until the moment where all hell breaks loose.
As the Palushians drew nearer, Jachs raised his hand, poised to give the signal that would unleash the full fury of his army. He waited, letting them come within range, letting them believe that they might actually reach the trenches, before he brought his hand down in a swift, decisive motion.
“Fire!” he commanded, and the battlefield erupted in a deafening roar.
A hail of bullets tore through the Palushian front line with merciless precision, mowing down the first wave of warriors before they could even react. The roar of gunfire was deafening, drowning out the shouts and cries of the Palushians as they charged headlong into the storm of lead. The machine guns, strategically placed to create overlapping fields of fire, added to the carnage, cutting swaths through the advancing ranks.
Jachs watched with cold detachment as the Palushians faltered under the onslaught. Their bravery was undeniable, but bravery alone was not enough to overcome the brutal efficiency of modern warfare. They were being torn apart, their bodies crumpling to the ground in heaps, yet still, they pushed forward, driven by sheer desperation and the will to fight to the last.
"Keep firing!" Jachs commanded, his voice unwavering amidst the chaos. His officers echoed the order, and the Imperial soldiers redoubled their efforts, their rifles spitting fire as they held the line. The trenches had become a wall of death, impenetrable to the Palushian assault.
But the Palushians, undeterred by the growing number of their fallen comrades, continued their charge. They were getting closer, some even managing to reach the outer defenses, where they clashed with the bayonets of the Imperial soldiers in brutal hand-to-hand combat. The air was thick with the stench of gunpowder and blood, the ground slick with mud and gore.
Jachs scanned the battlefield, his keen eyes assessing the situation. Despite the heavy losses, the Palushians were not breaking. Their numbers, though thinned, still posed a threat if they managed to breach the trenches. He could not afford to underestimate their resolve.
“Artillery, prepare for close support!” he ordered, knowing that this would be the final blow to break their spirit. The artillery crews, already primed for action, adjusted their aim, targeting the advancing Palushians.
The ground shook as the first barrage landed among the charging warriors, the explosions sending bodies and debris flying into the air. The devastation was immense, the once-cohesive force of Palushian warriors now scattered and disoriented. Yet, still, they fought on, refusing to surrender.
He turned to the nearest officer, “Tell the carabiniers to sweep the battlefield. Aim for the archers!”
The officer snapped a quick salute and hurried off to relay the order. Jachs returned his gaze towards the battlefield.
The battlefield was a maelstrom of blood and chaos as the Palushian warriors clashed with the Imperial soldiers in the outer trenches. Jachs' frown deepened as he observed the relentless ferocity of the Palushians. Even as their ranks thinned under the withering fire of artillery and rifle volleys, they pressed on, hacking and slashing with a primal intensity that seemed to defy reason. It was clear that they were willing to fight to the last man. They were willing to die for their land, for their people, and that made them all the more dangerous.
The carabiniers, emerging from the flanks with their sabers held high, provided a much-needed reprieve for the embattled Imperials. Their swift, disciplined charge cut through the Palushian ranks like a blade through flesh, driving a wedge between the warriors and their archers. The carabiniers moved with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, their horses galloping at full speed as they tore through the disoriented Palushians.
The tide of the battle seemed to have turned decisively in favor of the Imperials. Jachs watched with satisfaction as the carabiniers tore through the Palushian ranks, scattering their once-cohesive force like leaves in the wind. The Palushians, though fierce and determined, were on the brink of collapse. It was only a matter of time before the last of them fell beneath the relentless advance of the Imperial army.
But just as Jachs allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, something unexpected caught his eye. A bright, pulsating light began to form in the distance, just beyond the treeline. At first, he thought it might be the reflection of the sun on some metal, but as the light grew more intense, he realized it was something else entirely.
Wincing against the brightness, Jachs focused his binoculars on the source. Through the haze of smoke and the chaos of battle, he could just make out a figure—no, a woman—standing at the edge of the forest. Her hands were raised, the light emanating from her staff, and as it spread across the battlefield, something extraordinary began to happen.
The Palushians, who had been on the verge of defeat, suddenly seemed to regain their strength. Warriors who had been staggering from wounds moments before now stood tall, their injuries healing before Jachs' very eyes. The deadliness of their assault redoubled, their movements no longer sluggish but filled with renewed vigor.
Healed…
Jachs' eyes widened in realization. A healer!
The woman wore the distinctive robes of the Western Gaia faith where most of its clergy are proficient in healing magic!
Panic surged through him. If she wasn't stopped, all the progress they had made would be undone in an instant. Grabbing the radio with urgency, Jachs barked into it, “I need all mages to eliminate that healer immediately! Focus your fire on the woman in the treeline—now!”
The response was immediate. The Imperial mages—a whopping three of them, stationed at various points behind the front lines, began to channel their magic. The air hummed with energy as they gathered their power, the crackle of arcane forces mingling with the sounds of battle.
Jachs watched as the first volley of spells arced through the sky, brilliant streaks of energy homing in on the healer's position. Lightning bolts, fireballs, and shadowy blasts tore through the air, aimed directly at the woman whose light was now a beacon of hope for the Palushians.
But as the spells closed in, the healer raised her hands higher, and a shimmering barrier of light erupted around her. The magical attacks slammed into the barrier, causing it to ripple and flare, but it held firm. The healer remained unscathed, her light undimmed.
"Keep firing!" Jachs snarled, refusing to accept that this woman could single-handedly turn the battle against him. He could see the desperation in his soldiers' eyes as they struggled against the revitalized Palushians. If this healer wasn't stopped, the battle would become a bloodbath, and not in his favor.
And he didn’t like losing.
“Order the artillery—all of them—on that woman! NOW!” he barked into the radio, his voice laced with a cold fury that brooked no argument.
The response was immediate. The artillery crews, who had been focusing their fire on the main body of the Palushian forces, began to redirect their aim. Massive cannons and the experimental howitzers groaned as they swiveled towards the lone figure at the treeline. It was overkill, perhaps, to direct so much firepower at a single target, but Jachs wasn’t taking any chances.
The ground rumbled as the first artillery shells were launched, their trajectories arcing high into the sky before descending with deadly precision toward the healer. Explosions rocked the earth, each one a thunderous roar that sent plumes of dirt, smoke, and debris into the air. The area around the healer was engulfed in a maelstrom of fire and shrapnel, a relentless barrage meant to obliterate anything in its path.
Jachs watched intently, his heart pounding in his chest as the bombardment continued. Surely no one, not even a mage of such power, could withstand such an assault. The noise was deafening, the force of the explosions sending shockwaves across the battlefield that could be felt even in the trenches where his soldiers huddled for cover.
As the smoke began to clear, Jachs strained to see the results of the onslaught. His eyes narrowed as he peered through the thick haze, searching for any sign that the healer had been completely obliterated.
For a moment, there was nothing. Just the smoldering remains of trees and the churned-up earth where the artillery had struck. But then, to his disbelief, a faint light began to shine through the smoke, growing stronger with each passing second.
The healer was still standing.
The barrier of light surrounding her had dimmed, flickering like a candle in a strong wind, but it had held. Beside the woman there were now a man wearing an absurd cacophony of a mercenary attire holding up his sword, a Beastmen just like the deputy minister—though Jachs had to admit the deputy minister were much more good looking—and an Elf. And Elf! This far out?!
Jachs’ frustration boiled over into rage. This wasn’t just a setback, this was a humiliation. His artillery, his mages, all the power at his disposal, and still she stood.
He broke the binocular with his fist tightening in anger, a rare display of emotion from the usually composed general. “Get the snipers in position!” he barked at his nearest officer. “If magic and artillery can’t bring her down, then I want a bullet through her skull! And prepare for an all-out assault—we're finishing this here and now.”
As the officer rushed to carry out his orders, Jachs cursed his luck under his breath. Why in the hell was a Western mage all the way out here, and of all things, helping the Beastmen?
His army was not equipped for arcane warfare. They were trained for conventional battles—rifles, bayonets, artillery. Against a healer of this caliber, one who could withstand a bombardment that would have leveled a city, he knew his forces were at a disadvantage.
He had seen what a single high-level mage can do on their own in battle, even against a superior army. There was a reason the Empire developed a new doctrine specifically to counter them—a doctrine that relied on mages of their own. However, he only had three mages under his command, and that was nowhere near enough to deal with this kind of power.
Fine. If that’s what they want, then so be it.
He hadn’t ordered the storm troopers to start the assault yet, but as he watched the reinvigorated Palushians making steady gains through the trenches, he realized the situation was becoming more critical by the minute. The Palushians were pushing his forces to the brink, if they manage to break through completely, the consequences would be disastrous.
The storm troopers, mimicking the Valkorians, was a battalion of highly trained soldiers, designed to break through enemy lines with brutal efficiency. They were trained for exactly this type of close-quarters, high-stakes combat, using concussions and shock tactics to disorient their enemies before striking them down with ruthless precision. Creeping artillery barrages would lead their way.
He grabbed his radio and spoke into it. "Deploy the storm troopers," Jachs commanded. "Exterminate them. Leave none to chance."
Within moments, the storm troopers began to move. As they approached the front lines, the storm troopers lobbed concussion grenades into the midst of the Palushians. Explosions erupted, not with the fiery destruction of artillery shells, but with a bone-rattling force that sent shockwaves through the air. The Palushians staggered, their formation breaking as they were thrown off balance.
And then the storm troopers struck. With bayonets fixed, they charged into the fray, cutting down the disoriented warriors with a ruthless efficiency that left no room for mercy. The Palushians, already battered by the relentless artillery and rifle fire, now faced a new terror, one that moved too fast, hit too hard, and showed no signs of stopping.
Jachs watched as his storm troopers began to turn the tide, driving the Palushians back inch by bloody inch. But his gaze kept drifting back to the healer, the woman who had somehow managed to defy everything he had thrown at her. She was the key to this entire battle, and until she was neutralized, nothing was certain.
His thoughts were interrupted by a report from one of the officers. "The snipers are in position, sir,"
Jachs nodded and contacted the three mages under his command. “Listen carefully, I need all of you to converge on that healer. Now,” he paused to look back at the healer. “You’re going to engage the healer directly. Hit her with everything you’ve got, but don’t expect to take her down. Your job is to keep her busy, make her use all her power to defend herself. I’ll take care of the rest.”
He ended the transmission and turned to his officers, who were waiting for further orders. “Get the artillery ready for another round. Once the mages engage, I want you to hit that healer with everything we’ve got left. Snipers will take the shot as soon as she’s exposed, and for the love of Reyvrys if you want to see your families do your job right!”
The officers saluted and rushed to carry out his orders. Jachs returned his gaze to the battlefield, this battle had turned into a personal vendetta. He would not allow one woman, no matter how powerful, to humiliate him and his army.
They would be crushed here and then, once and for all.
Jachs stood on the precipice of victory, his every move was a carefully calculated step in the symphony of destruction he had orchestrated. He was the conductor of this performance, guiding his army toward its inevitable crescendo. The battlefield was his stage, the soldiers his instruments, and the Palushians—along with their defiant healer and her guards—his unwilling audience.
The mages began their advance, their hands crackling with arcane energy as they prepared to engage the healer directly. The artillery crews were in position, the cannons loaded and ready for another devastating barrage. The cavalry prepared another assault.
That barrier WILL break, one way or another. Her guards beside her won’t and cannot do anything that will stop him. The Palushians would be crushed, their healer neutralized, and Jachs would emerge victorious. As always.
His fingers tightening around the radio. The healer’s barrier had held against everything he’d thrown at her, but he was confident that it was weakening, fraying at the edges under the relentless pressure of his assault. Her guards, the motley crew of a mercenary, a Beastman, and an Elf, stood defiantly by her side, but they were nothing more than obstacles to be swept aside.
He brought the radio to his lips, his voice low but clear, each word a commandment etched in steel.
"FIRE!"
The battlefield erupted in a deafening roar as the artilleries unleashed their fury, the sky darkened with smoke and the earth trembled beneath the onslaught. The mages, their spells already in motion, hurled wave after wave of arcane energy at the healer’s barrier, each impact a hammer blow against the light that had defied them for so long.
Jachs' forces had launched a full-scale assault with the combined might of artillery, mages, and storm troopers alongside infantry working in unison. The air was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and the searing heat of magic, the once pristine landscape now a hellscape of craters and smoldering debris.
The storm troopers cut through the Palushians like a scythe through tall grass. Their precision and relentless advance demoralized the already battered Palushian forces, who found themselves being driven back, their tenacity slowly waning in the face of overwhelming force. The regular infantry, emboldened by the storm troopers' success, surged forward with renewed vigor, reclaiming the trenches that had briefly fallen into enemy hands. It was a brutal push, every inch of ground gained was stained with blood, but they were regaining control, pushing the Palushians further into disarray.
High above the relentless tide of destruction, the mages were preparing for another round of arcane assault. Manifesting their energy as they began to swoop down and deal another devastating blow to the barrier.
Yet the healer remained at the center of it all, her barrier flickering like a candle in a storm, but still holding. The light was dimmer now, the once impenetrable shield showing signs of strain under the relentless assault.
Mages, by their very nature, were masters of manipulating the mana that flowed unseen through the world. They could bend reality to their will, manifesting the arcane from the ethereal currents of magic that surrounded them.
But this woman… her resilience was something beyond comprehension. The power she commanded to maintain such a barrier for so long, even under such intense pressure, was unlike anything Jachs had ever seen.
And then, through the haze of battle, Jachs saw something—or rather, someone—through his binoculars. Amidst the chaos, cutting through the smoke and fire, was a rider galloping at full speed toward his position. The figure was unmistakable, even from a distance. It was the deputy minister, Anise, her wild mane of hair flowing behind her as she rode, a white cloth tied to a stick held high in one hand.
A flag of truce.
Jachs’ eyes narrowed, then to surprise, then to disbelieve. He had forgotten all about her!
The realization hit him like a sledgehammer. In the midst of this chaotic battlefield, with artillery thundering and spells flying, she had somehow slipped from his mind. And now, here she was, charging toward him with a flag of truce in hand. It was absurd. The Carabiniers came to escort her.
Why was she here now, of all times? What did she hope to achieve by riding into the heart of a battle that was still very much undecided? He knew she was unpredictable, fierce, and driven by a sense of justice that sometimes bordered on reckless, but this?
Jachs raised a hand, signaling his officers to hold fire. The artillery fell silent, the mages held their spells, and the storm troopers paused in their relentless advance. For a moment, the battlefield was eerily quiet, the only sound the pounding of Anise’s horse’s hooves against the earth as she galloped toward him.
He took a deep breath and straightened his uniform. After all, her authority supersedes his.
As Ries finally reached him, pulling her horse to a stop just a few feet away, Jachs met her gaze, her determined gaze. She was here, in the middle of a war, a Palushian riding with her, and with a white flag in hand suddenly appearing from enemy lines.
And she had his attention.
She dismounted the horse, and approached Jachs face-to-face. Her uniform was disheveled as if she hurriedly wore them, or as if she didn’t have the time to properly wear them. There was visible dry blood in her uniform.
“General,” she began with a firm voice. “The enemy has agreed to an unconditional surrender. I order you to cease your fire and help the wounded on both sides.”
Jachs narrowed his eyes, his pride pricked by her commanding tone. “I command this army, Madame Deputy Minister. You are a civilian minister who has—”
“Do not confuse your rank with my authority, General. I am the representative of Her Majesty the Empress, the extension of her will. You will obey, in the name of Her Majesty.”
For a long moment, Jachs stared at her with a complicated expression. The rage that had driven him moments ago still simmered beneath the surface, but he knew there was no arguing with the weight of the crown. Begrudgingly, he swallowed his pride.
With a deep breath, he unclenched his fists and gave a curt nod. “Very well, Madame Deputy Minister,” he said, his voice tight with barely concealed frustration. “I will comply with your orders.”
He turned to his officers, who were standing by. “Cease fire,” he commanded, “tend to the wounded, and prepare to receive the enemy’s surrender.”
The officers saluted and quickly moved to carry out his orders, relaying the commands down the line. The storm troopers and the regular infantry, who had been poised for the final assault, lowered their weapons, the mages allowed their spells to dissipate, and the artillery crews stood down, their cannons falling silent.
----------------------------------------
It was nearly sundown, yet the soldiers are still picking up dead bodies from both side as they cordon of the battlefield for a full cleanup.
Ries watched them from on top of the mound where the command tent is located, medical tents are being set up nearby to tend to the injured.
She had never seen herself as a miracle worker, but when Kali, had come to her, begging for an end to the slaughter, Ries had faced a decision she hadn’t anticipated. Certainly, riding into the thick of battle on horseback and risk getting exploded by an artillery shell wasn’t the brightest idea she had in mind.
But for the thousandth time, she was tired. And whatever works, works.
Then there was the issue of the ‘Hero’s party’. In which Saitou and his companions were apart of. The healer, who was Asumi, her power were nearly spent and her spirit nearly broken. It surprised her that she was the one who volunteered to do all of those things herself.
For a price, of course. They would help her and in turn she would lead them to meet the Empress. Even though she doesn’t really know how to do that.
A young officer approached her, saluting before he spoke. “Madame, the General requests your presence.”
Ries nodded, taking one last drag from her cigar before snuffing it out. She glanced down at her uniform, still disheveled and stained with dried blood, and made a half-hearted attempt to straighten her clothes, knowing that appearances hardly mattered now.
With a sigh, she followed the officer into the command tent, where General Jachs and Kali were already waiting along with other witnesses, such as the record keeper and the Hero’s party. This was the moment of surrender—the official end to the Palushian resistance. Jachs, representing the military, stood stiff and formal as if it was business as usual. Kali, on the other hand, looked weary and resigned, her shoulders slumped under the burden of defeat.
She was told by her that she is the chieftain’s and the High Queen’s daughter, and therefore, after their deaths, she was the one responsible for all of her kind.
Her father and the High Queen for all she knew could be dead and piled on top of bodies in the battle field from before. Who knows?
Ries took her place in the middle of the table, representing the civilian government as well as the TAC, her presence there to ensure that the terms of surrender would be honored.
The table between them held the documents of surrender, plain and final in their simplicity. This was no negotiation, no carefully worded treaty—this was the unconditional surrender of a people who had fought valiantly but had been overpowered by a force too great to resist.
Kali’s hand trembled slightly as she reached for the pen. The weight of what she was about to do bore down on her like the sky itself. This signature would mark the end of her people’s resistance, the surrender of their spirit to an empire that had overwhelmed them with sheer force.
The future of her race was uncertain, would the empire enslave them? She heard stories about slavery in the empire. Would their tribes be erased, their culture destroyed?
She isn’t even doing this out of the tribe’s consensus. This decision, this surrender, was hers alone, a desperate attempt to stop the bloodshed, to save what was left of her people.
Taking a deep breath, she braced herself, her fingers tightening around the pen. She hovered it over the paper, and for a long moment, she stared at the document, the words blurring as tears welled in her eyes.
And then, with a shaky exhale, she signed her name.
And so, with the stroke of a pen, the war was over. But for those who had fought and those who had fallen, the scars would remain long after the ink had dried.
Ries meanwhile, exhaled a sigh of relief. She was looking forward to go back home and have a rest. It’s been chaotic, and she hasn’t even been paid yet.
instrument of Surrender [https://i.imgur.com/Ml6SLsq.png]