Moonlight streams through the cracked window of the modest bedroom in Qhuag’s cottage, casting silvery patterns on the rough-hewn wooden floor. The room is dimly lit, the only sounds the distant howls of the siege outside and the soft rustling of leaves swaying in the night breeze. Linh lies sprawled on a simple bed, the musket resting heavily against his chest, exhaustion etched into his youthful face. Mihin sits beside him, her fingers absently tracing the edges of her blindfolded eyes, sensing the tension in the air.

“Linh,” Mihin’s voice trembles. “Are we going to die?”

Linh turns his head slightly, eyes searching his sister’s face for reassurance. “We won’t die. Remember my destiny. Show it to me again, Mihin. It will tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

Mihin sighs, her hand squeezing his shoulder gently. “I wish I could help more, but I never finished my witch training. My visions… they’re not as clear as they could be.”

Linh’s demeanor shifts abruptly. He rises and pins her firmly to the bed, his eyes blazing with a fiery intensity. “Please, show me my future. I need to know.”

Mihin recoils slightly, confusion and fear flickering across her face. “Linh, stop! You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

But Linh is relentless, his grip tightening as his hair seems to shimmer with an almost living flame. “I don’t have a choice. I need the truth to protect us.”

Desperation clouds Mihin’s eyes as she struggles against his hold. “Divinations can be wrong, Linh. You shouldn’t trust them blindly.”

Linh shakes his head vehemently, his voice rising with conviction. “Don’t forget. I am the son of Nahaloma, the sun god. You’re blessed too, Mihin. The visions are always the same. They’re proof that our destiny is real.”

Mihin’s resistance falters, her shoulders slumping as she realizes the depth of Linh’s desperation. With a heavy sigh, she places her hands gently over his eyes, her touch hesitant yet resolute.

As her fingers make contact, Linh’s world fades to black, his consciousness slipping into a deep slumber. In the darkness of his mind, visions unfurl with vivid clarity. The sun shines brilliantly above his head, casting a radiant glow that seems to infuse him with divine power. He stands atop a grand balcony overlooking a vast, jubilant crowd gathered below. The air hums with cheers and the clinking of celebratory glasses.

“Behold, the living god among us!” a herald proclaims, his voice booming across the plaza. The crowd erupts in applause, banners bearing Linh’s emblem fluttering proudly in the breeze. Linh lifts his arms, basking in the adulation, feeling an overwhelming sense of purpose and destiny.

A chorus of voices sings his praises as he descends to the main square, greeted by kneeling subjects and loyal warriors. Among them, a high priest steps forward, bowing deeply. “His divinity has brought us salvation. Under His rule, prosperity and peace shall reign.”

Linh smiles, his fiery hair catching the sunlight as he addresses the crowd. “Together, we have built a new era. Let our unity and strength guide us to everlasting glory.”

The city around him transforms into the majestic Imperial City, now under his command. Towering spires pierce the sky, their golden rooftops gleaming under the noonday sun. Banners bearing Linh’s emblem—a blazing sun intertwined with intricate Siza patterns—flutter proudly in the breeze, draping over grand arches and bustling marketplaces. The air is thick with the scent of victory and the murmurs of a populace enthralled by their new savior.

Linh descends the grand staircase of the central palace, his footsteps echoing with authority. Loyal warriors flank him, their armor reflecting the sunlight. The crowd parts before him, eyes wide with awe and reverence. He raises his arms, the symbol of his dominion clear to all who witness.

The banners wave majestically, but a shadow looms ominously in the corner of his vision. His eyes follow the movement, momentarily distracted by the grotesque sight of the emperor’s lifeless body hanging from a peach tree.

But as Linh turns his head, a figure materializes beside the emperor’s corpse—a woman, a Northern Barbarian, her presence commanding and terrifying. Her arms are crossed defiantly, fiery eyes glaring with an intensity that cuts through his triumphant vision. She stands tall, exuding a raw, unyielding power that disrupts the perfection of his imagined future.

“Who the hell are you?” Linh demands, his voice echoing with a mix of fear and anger.

The woman’s eyes never waver, her stance unbroken. “I am the storm that will unravel your destiny, the shadow that will consume your light. Your victory is built on betrayal, and now, I will ensure it crumbles.”

Linh feels a chill run down his spine as the vision shifts, the once glorious scene now tainted with impending doom. The woman’s presence is a harbinger of chaos. As the image fades, Linh jolts awake, gasping for breath, sweat dampening his brow. It seems like nights and days have happened in the real world while he was in the other.

Mihin sits beside him, her hands still on his eyes, her face pale with concern. “Linh, are you alright?”

He sits up slowly, the weight of the vision pressing heavily on his mind. Linh’s eyes burn with a newfound determination, the curse now a tangible threat he must confront. “No, Mihin. I have to prepare. I can’t let them betray us again. I swear, I will betray the enemies of Siza before they ever have a chance to betray us.”

...

The grand courtyard of An’alm lies bathed in the crimson hues of twilight, the sky bleeding into the horizon as the siege intensifies. Linh’s words echo ominously in Gankou’s mind, “Go, Gankou. Join your father. Let us repair these walls and prepare for the assault that will cement our legacy. Do not let the curse consume us. Die and take one or two with you while you’re at it.”

With a heavy heart, Gankou spurs his horse into motion, racing across the vast, windswept plains surrounding An’alm. The swirling dust obscures his vision, each gust threatening to unseat him as he battles against the relentless storm. The rhythmic pounding of hooves merges with the distant sounds of clashing steel and desperate cries carried on the howling winds. His breath comes in sharp, ragged bursts, eyes darting through the murky haze in search of his father. Finally, breaking through a particularly fierce gust, Gankou spots Ghuba atop a rocky outcrop, surrounded by a beleaguered band of Yohazatz warriors. Jin Na’s relentless troops swarm them from all sides, their numbers overwhelming and their advance unstoppable.

“FATHER!” Gankou calls out. His presence ignites a spark of hope among the fighters.

Ghuba turns, his eyes widening with surprise and relief. “Gankou! Why are you here? Where are the Siza?” he exclaims, his voice strained as he directs his warriors to form a defensive line.

Gankou dives into the fray, his movements fueled by a desperate need to protect his father and comrades. Together, they fight valiantly, cutting down enemies with ferocious precision. But the tide is against them, the Moukopl forces pressing ever closer.

“We need to retreat!” Ghuba shouts, signaling his men to fall back. “To the gates! Now!”

The sun sinks low behind the rugged horizon, casting elongated shadows across the desolate plains surrounding An’alm. The air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood, remnants of the relentless siege that has ravaged the city. Ghuba and Gankou, along with the remaining Yohazatz, battered and bloodied, race back across the storm-lashed landscape, their breaths ragged, hearts pounding in unison with the chaos around them.

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As they approach the fortified gates of An’alm, the once-strong barricades stand impenetrable, sealed shut by Linh’s ruthless decree. The massive wooden doors, reinforced with iron bands and studded with spikes, loom before them like the maw of a beast, unyielding and unforgiving. Ghuba slams his horse’s reins, desperation etched into his battle-worn face. “The gates won’t open, Gankou! That piece of shit Linh has sealed us out!”

Gankou’s eyes dart towards the imposing walls, his mind reeling from the betrayal. Memories of shared hunts, laughter echoing beneath the open skies flood his thoughts, now tainted by Linh’s dark transformation. “Father, what are we going to do? The Moukopl are closing in fast,” he whispers, his voice cracking under the weight of impending doom.

The thunderous sound of approaching Moukopl soldiers grows louder, the clanging of their armor and the pounding of their boots sending a chill down their spines. The ground trembles with each step, the air thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and fear. Ghuba’s jaw tightens as he grabs Gankou’s arm, pulling him towards the looming darkness beyond the gates. “We have no choice. We must charge through the enemy lines. It’s our only way out.”

Gankou’s heart shatters as he nods reluctantly, tears glistening in his eyes. “Let’s do it, Father.”

With a final, defiant roar, Ghuba spurs his horse forward, the Yohazatz warriors following him into the fray with grim determination. The clash is immediate and brutal—steel meets steel in a cacophony of war cries and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. The air is filled with the sounds of clashing swords, anguished screams, and the metallic scent of blood that hangs heavy around them.

“Pierce through!” Ghuba barks, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. He swings his sword with lethal precision, felling enemy soldiers with every powerful strike. The warriors around him fight with a ferocity born of desperation, their faces set in grim determination as they push forward against overwhelming odds.

Amidst the chaos, Gankou is swiftly dismounted, a brutal strike from a Moukopl warrior cutting deep into his leg. He cries out in agony, the world spinning around him as he collapses to the blood-soaked ground. “Gankou!” Ghuba roars, his voice a mix of fury and desperation. He fights through the swarming soldiers, his movements a blur of calculated aggression as he grabs his son’s limp form and drags him forward.

Blood pools around Gankou’s injured leg, his breaths shallow and labored. Ghuba’s grip tightens, ignoring the pain shooting through his own body as he pulls his son towards the narrow escape route. The sounds of battle blur into a horrifying symphony of violence, the screams of the fallen and the relentless assault of the enemy creating an almost surreal backdrop to their desperate flight.

“We need to get through!” Ghuba shouts over the din, his eyes scanning the battlefield for any sign of respite. He spots the shimmering water in the distance, the only possible escape from the encroaching Moukopl forces. “Hold on, Gankou. We’re almost there!”

But the river seems impossibly far, the distance stretching out before them as the soldiers continue their relentless pursuit. Ghuba pushes forward, his muscles straining against the weight of his son’s body. The ground beneath them is slick with mud and blood.

Just as they reach the river’s edge, Ghuba’s horse stumbles and collapses, its body lifeless on the muddy bank. Without hesitation, Ghuba plunges into the icy currents, clutching Gankou tightly against his chest. The water rushes violently around them, the cold biting through his armor as he fights against the relentless pull of the river. The sounds of the battle fade into a distant roar, replaced by the deafening rush of the water and the frantic beating of his heart.

“Hold on, son, we’re almost safe!” Ghuba gasps, his voice barely audible over the roar of the river. He struggles to keep them afloat, each stroke a desperate bid for survival. The current is unforgiving, pulling them deeper into its deadly embrace, but Ghuba’s determination drives him onward.

They reach the opposite bank, the water tearing at Ghuba’s clothes as he pulls himself and Gankou out of the currents. Exhausted and broken, Ghuba collapses onto the muddy ground, cradling his unconscious son in his arms. He presses a desperate hand to Gankou’s chest, trying to revive him, but the reality settles in with crushing finality—Gankou is dead.

Exhausted and broken, Ghuba cradles his son’s lifeless form, tears mingling with the blood on his face. “No… Gankou,” he whispers, his voice choked with grief.

Behind him, the sound of Moukopl cavalry closing in grows louder, the thundering hooves a relentless reminder of the impending doom.

...

The first light of dawn creeps over the horizon, casting a somber glow on the ravaged gates of An’alm. The aftermath of last night’s bloodbath is stark—broken weapons lie scattered, bodies of Yohazatz warriors are strewn across the mud, and the air is thick with the metallic scent of blood and smoke. The once formidable barricades now stand marred by the chaos, their integrity compromised by the brutal assault.

Li Song stands solemnly amidst the carnage, his robes flowing gently in the morning breeze. He raises his hands, silencing the murmurs of the surviving soldiers. His voice, calm yet heavy with grief, begins to chant an ancient prayer, his words resonating with reverence and sorrow.

“Spirits of the fallen, your sacrifice honors our cause. May your souls find peace beyond this turmoil,” he intones, his eyes lingering on the lifeless forms of the Yohazatz warriors. He kneels beside their bodies, placing a hand gently on each fallen warrior’s chest. The courtyard falls silent, the only sound the distant cries of mourning and the soft rustle of banners still clinging to the battered gates.

As the prayer concludes, the ground trembles with the approach of reinforcements. Dust swirls in the air as fresh troops emerge from the distant hills of Lingzhou, their arrival heralded by the thunderous march of hundreds of canons from the second largest Bos city. Among them, a significant number of newly converted Siza warriors ride alongside the Moukopl soldiers.

The sight of the Siza "barbarians" alongside the disciplined Moukopl forces sends a ripple of tension through the crowd. A group of Moukopl officers exchange uneasy glances, their expressions betraying a mix of skepticism and reluctance.

One officer, his uniform pristine and his demeanor rigid, steps forward, his voice edged with contempt. “I won’t fight alongside rebels!”

Li Song meets his gaze unflinchingly, his authority unassailable. “We stand together. Let personal prejudices be set aside for the greater good.”

The officer clenches his jaw, his eyes darting towards the newly arrived Siza warriors before relenting with a grudging nod. “As you command.”

With a subtle gesture, Li Song signals the commanders to take their positions. The newly arrived canons are swiftly deployed. As he watches them, his face seems to hide something darker than normal.

...

The following day, the sky is ablaze with the remnants of last night’s artillery. Muzzle flashes still sporadically light up the early morning gloom. Li Song stands atop the highest outer trench, his silhouette stark against the fiery backdrop. Before him, rows of colossal canons are meticulously aligned, their barrels gleaming ominously in the new day’s light.

Soldiers move with a tense urgency, loading the massive weapons with precision. The air is thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder and the metallic scent of blood lingering from the previous night’s carnage. Whispers ripple through the ranks, voices hushed yet filled with awe and fear. “An’alm’s walls... they’re holding up better than we ever imagined,” one soldier murmurs to another, eyes wide with a mix of reverence and disbelief. “Is it divine favor or just superior engineering?”

Li Song watches silently, his jaw clenched, eyes burning with a barely contained fury. The walls of An’alm stand nearly unscathed, their stone surfaces smeared with fresh blood and scorched by lingering gunfire. The resilience of the city gnaws at him, each passing moment of ineffective siege fueling his wrath.

Inside the tactician tent, the atmosphere is thick with tension. Maps are strewn across a large oak table, strategic points marked with red ink. Jin Na stands beside Li Song, his expression grim. “The siege isn’t improving, General. Troops are losing morale, and the reinforcements are slow. We don’t have enough rice to feed everybody until the next supply comes.”

Li Song’s patience, once as steady as the stone walls of the fortress they’re trying to break, now simmers like water on a high flame. His hand clenches around a goblet, knuckles whitening as he fights to maintain his composure. But the frustration bubbles over, erupting with terrifying intensity.

With a violent motion, Li Song slams his fist onto the table, sending maps flying and ink blotting the fabric. The tent falls silent, all eyes fixed on him. He raises his hands towards the heavens, his voice a chilling blend of prayer and rage. “White Mother, hear my plea. I have tried to maintain peace, to spread love and compassion, to minimize the suffering and bloodshed. But my true nature, the darkness within, has resurfaced. The violence I’ve witnessed cannot quell my thirst; it only fuels my appetite for more.”

His eyes blaze with a malevolent light, hair seemingly ignited by his fervor. “I have no more patience. I can no longer show mercy. I command you, Jin Na, begin digging. Let the inhabitants of An’alm starve and die in immense suffering. Let my hatred consume them as it has consumed me.”

Jin Na stands frozen, the weight of Li Song’s words sinking in. The realization dawns harshly—Li Song’s religious zeal was merely a facade, a desperate attempt to contain his insatiable bloodlust and violent nature. His face pales, understanding the true horror of the man he serves. “General, you… you’re…”

Li Song steps closer, his presence overwhelming and terrifying. “Silence, Jin Na, or I might crush your skull as we speak.”

Jin Na swallows hard, nodding reluctantly. “As you command, General Li Song.”