alam stoically watch the battlefield. until loud explosion erupted. and sound of khaganate gunfire soldier is reduced significanly.
“Interesting. What’s our status?” he inquired, eyes narrowed.
The mercs had full control of the area, but the enemy was still resisting, albeit weakly. Casualties were high, but they had dealt even worse damage to the enemy.
“Keep pushing! Rotate your shifts and watch for traps!” Alam commanded.
The mercenaries obeyed, maintaining pressure. After hours of conflict, morning sunlight began breaking over the horizon, revealing the battlefield's grim reality.
“Someone get me a visual of the battlefield!” Alam barked.
The mercs reported significant gains; they were encroaching on the enemy’s last bastions. Qilong's whereabouts were still a mystery, but they weren’t going to let her slip away.
“Find Qilong! Don’t let her get away!” Alam ordered, tapping his fingers impatiently.
“Damn it, I can’t sit around!” Alam decided, grabbing his suit and grenade launcher.
“Commander, here!” a merc handed him his gear.
“Let’s finish this!” Alam declared, heading to the frontline.
As he arrived, he witnessed the mercs applying relentless pressure, pushing the enemy back. They were battered but still holding on.
“Current situation?” Alam demanded.
The enemy was on the verge of collapse, but they were still clinging to their positions, albeit weakly.
“Rotate the duty! Send the reserves in! Half of the night attack soldiers back to the trenches!” Alam ordered.
The mercs complied, rotating in fresh troops to maintain momentum.
“Alright! They’re down to a few strong points left. No mercy! Flatten their buildings if we have to!” Alam shouted.
“Understood!” the mercs replied, concentrating their fire on the remaining enemy strongholds.
“Send in the flamethrower tanks!” Alam commanded with a grin.
The tanks rolled forward, unleashing waves of fire that scorched the enemy’s positions, forcing them to retreat into their main buildings.
“Hey, you!” Alam patted a nearby merc. “Still using explosives or just small arms now?”
“They’re low on ammo, sir. Their fire is weakening,” the merc replied.
“Good. Time to finish this with our armored vehicles. Move in without infantry!” Alam ordered.
The armored squad charged ahead, but Alam called for a tactical retreat to bait the enemy.
“They’re charging! They think we’re retreating! Now, attack!” Alam hollered.
The armored squad pivoted and opened fire, cutting down the charging enemy with devastating firepower.
Alam joined the fray, launching grenades at enemies hiding in ruins, his explosive rounds wreaking havoc. The battlefield was a symphony of destruction, and Alam was determined to compose the final act of victory.
“Alright, this is madness! Somebody make them surrender—use that speaker!” Alam shouted, exasperated.
One of the mercenaries pulled out a speaker and started blaring a surrender announcement in English. He didn’t really expect the enemy to understand—just wanted to create some confusion and maybe a little panic.
To everyone’s surprise, the enemy listened. They dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender like they were at an awkward peace rally.
“Great, now form a line!” Alam commanded.
The enemy complied, forming a line like obedient schoolchildren. Alam’s mercs kept watch, ensuring these former foes didn’t suddenly decide to play hopscotch with their weapons.
“Now, where is General Qilong?” Alam demanded.
Silence. The enemy stared blankly, as if they had suddenly forgotten how to speak. Alam sighed.
“Don’t torture them; it’s ineffective,” he muttered. “Someone follow me.” He headed toward a half-collapsed building.
One merc followed, and they cautiously navigated the ruins, Alam peering through his periscope like a reluctant tourist.
“Alright, let’s find the basement,” he instructed, spotting a staircase leading down.
As they descended, Alam remained alert, gun drawn. The basement was surprisingly intact, a stark contrast to the chaos above.
“This must be it. On three, we throw a flashbang and charge in. Got it?” Alam instructed his companion.
They counted down and threw the flashbang, which exploded with a blinding flash. Alam charged in, shouting, “Drop your guns or die!”
The disoriented enemy, still dazed from the flashbang, complied, raising their hands in confusion.
“Good. Collect their weapons while I aim my gun at them,” Alam ordered.
As the mercs gathered the enemy’s guns, Alam turned the pressure up. “Who is Qilong? Where is she?”
The enemies looked nervously at one another, clearly hesitant to answer. Alam fired a warning shot into the ground.
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“Qilong must be nearby,” he said, watching them jump.
“Your force is decimated!” he added, sensing their morale plummeting.
Panic spread among the enemy ranks. They whispered to each other, eyes darting nervously.
“Look, in the past, I’d torture you one by one. Just be a good boy and tell me what I want,” Alam threatened, relishing their fear.
They huddled together, whispering like school kids trying to decide who would take the blame for the broken vase.
“Alright, I’m just trying to be a nice guy. Last chance before someone else arrives,” Alam said, smirking as he prepared to leave.
With nothing but silence as his answer, Alam stepped out, leaving the mercs to deal with the anxious lot.
Back at his tent, Alam relaxed for a moment. “That engineer’s device is definitely working. Send supplies to Feihong’s front to help Zhang. Implement the same decoy tactics while we recover.”
The merc operator nodded and got to work, ensuring the chaos would continue to unfurl in their favor.
Alam picked up the radio, his impatience palpable. “Well, girl, why’s it taking so long? We’ve already cleaned out Qilong’s base. Only Feihong left!”
Baihu's voice crackled through. “We’re moving forward, but there are still enemy positions to clear. The flydecoy unit is working its magic, but it’s a slog. We’ll get to Feihong, but obstacles abound.”
“Oh, you’ve seen the flying decoys? Hehe, good! Just take care of business; my main force will join the fun soon!” Alam replied, a grin creeping across his face.
“Copy that. We’ll hold the line for your grand entrance,” Baihu confirmed.
“Gott bless. Out.” Alam ordered his troops to loot Qilong's base and set explosives, ensuring the prisoners got a front-row seat to the destruction.
Hours later, after the looting was done and explosives were set, Alam stood before the line of prisoners. “Okay, folks, you ready for some fireworks?”
The prisoners shuffled nervously, eyes wide with fear. Alam chuckled at their dread. “Make sure those eyes are wide open!” He pressed the detonator.
The base erupted in a massive fireball, sending debris flying. The prisoners watched, terror etched on their faces, as their former stronghold was reduced to rubble.
“Now, how about I put some of that boom right at your feet?” Alam teased,
Their fear intensified. They knew he could easily follow through. “Where's Qilong?” Alam demanded.
One prisoner stammered, “She’s... near here.”
“Lead me to her... wait, she’s a woman?”
The prisoner pointed to a room amidst the wreckage. “She’s inside that room!”
“Okay, squad, check it out!” Alam ordered, and they approached cautiously.
As they peered into the room, it was eerily quiet. “Report!” he barked into the radio.
“Sir, no sign of Qilong. It’s empty. Odd, considering the intel,” the squad leader replied.
“Keep looking!” Alam insisted.
“Checking for hidden rooms now,” the squad leader responded.
After a thorough search, they found a secret door behind the carpet. “Sir, we found a hidden room!”
“Good. Proceed with caution,” Alam instructed.
The squad advanced carefully, and soon they spotted a figure cowering in the corner. “Report!”
“We’ve located Qilong,” the squad leader confirmed.
“Jackpot! Bring her out—no, I mean, bring her outside!” Alam laughed.
They dragged Qilong from her hiding spot, she was a old woman with dark military uniform, her expression is clear. a expression once a fierce general now without a single troops and weapons, then Alam sized her up. “Alright, are you Qilong?”
“Y-yes, I am Qilong,” she stammered.
“Welcome to the party! You’re my prisoner now!” Alam grinned, enjoying her nervousness.
“Before we get cozy, what’s Feihong?” he pressed.
“Feihong is a territory of the Red Nation, a major stronghold,” Qilong replied, clearly anxious.
“So, it’s not a general’s name, but a province?” Alam tilted his head, feigning confusion.
“Yes, it’s a territory crucial for the Red Nation, serving as a gateway to Central Asia,” she clarified.
“Thanks! Now, enjoy your fate as my captive!” Alam said cheerfully.
Qilong couldn’t hide her fear as she faced her uncertain future.
“Oh, and one more thing: Who’s the big cheese in Feihong?” Alam asked.
“General Zhang. He’s in charge there,” Qilong answered, resigned to her new reality.
“Zhang who?” Alam probed.
Qilong hesitated before answering, “General Zhang, the leader and governor of Feihong. He commands all Red Nation forces in the territory.”
“I see… what a coincidence! One of my officers attacking Feihong is named Zhang too,” Alam smirked.
“Really? Your officer’s named Zhang too?” Qilong replied, eyebrows raised in surprise.
“Yep. Funny fate, huh?” Alam grinned.
Qilong shot back, sarcasm dripping from her voice, “Oh, yes, really funny—so funny that I’m your prisoner.”
“Don’t worry; war is always unpredictable.” Alam nodded to his mercs. “Take her away.”
The mercs grabbed Qilong firmly, leading her off without resistance. She followed, knowing that causing trouble would only make matters worse. qilong was surprisely compliant. perhaps the crack within khaganate is indeed not a rumor.
With Qilong secured, Alam raised his hands to the sky, closing his eyes for a moment.
The quiet was broken by his intercom. A message from Bayarl Khan of the Golden Caravan: a military donation, and a demand for a meeting regarding equipment accusations. Alam narrowed his eyes. “Yellow Nation… old rivals,” he muttered, glancing north, towards Zhang and Jax’s struggling front. “Looks like my reward for winning is more work.”
The black Hind carried him west, over Carpathia—the familiar medieval towns and monuments a blur below. Then, Yellow Nation territory.
Crossing the designated border checkpoint was like stepping into a different world. Gone were the static fortifications; here, the landscape undulated in shades of ochre, dust plumes swirling on the horizon, kicked up by a constant flow of movement.
Caravans dominated the scene. Towering mobile fortresses rumbled past, bristling with armored vehicles and artillery. Soldiers in olive fatigues stood watch, faces stoic behind visors. Smaller caravans, carrying merchants, nomadic families, and artisans, weaved through the dust haze. The air vibrated with a cacophony of languages, bartered deals, and the thump of traditional music. Scattered camps dotted the horizon, herds of livestock grazing under the watchful eyes of mounted scouts. The Yellow Nation was a nation perpetually on the move.
Patrolling armored vehicles carved through the dust clouds, and checkpoints, manned by grim-faced soldiers, punctuated the landscape. But amidst the military presence, there were the "ramblers"—individuals and small groups on foot, easily identified by their colorful garb and souvenir-laden packs.
One such rambler, sporting a particularly flamboyant pointy hat, approached Alam as he dismounted. "Greetings, traveler! Perhaps a trinket to commemorate your journey? A small purchase brings good fortune, a larger one… well, let's just say it opens doors to certain… exclusive areas," he winked, a sly grin spreading across his face.
Alam, checking his chronometer, sighed. "Don't have much time, but… I might be persuaded."
"Excellent, excellent! A discerning customer! What treasures catch your eye?" The rambler gestured to his stall, a chaotic display of cheap plastic souvenirs and gaudy trinkets. Fake golden horse statues gleamed under the harsh sun.
"Got anything… practical?" Alam asked, eyeing a particularly garish plastic horse. "Something for writing?"
"Ah, a man of letters! Of course!" The rambler produced a yellow fountain pen, a crudely etched golden horse icon on the barrel along with the words "A Gift from Golden Horse." It looked like it had been fished out of a bargain bin. "This, my friend, is a relic. A gift from the Golden Horse himself! Pure gold nib, guaranteed to write for a thousand years! A mere 199 credits."
Alam raised an eyebrow. "One credit."
The rambler recoiled as if struck. "One credit?! You wound me! This is a masterpiece! 190 – I'm practically giving it away!"
Alam shrugged. “Never mind. Got any fireworks?”
The rambler’s face lit up. “Fireworks? My friend, you’ve come to the right place! The best in the Yellow Nation! Explosions, colors, designs… I have it all!” He pulled out a large crate overflowing with fireworks—rockets, sparklers, fountains, and packs labeled "Golden Horse Firecrackers." “For a discerning customer like yourself… 40 credits.”
Alam considered the crate. It was a good price, and he had a use for a distraction. “Deal.” He handed over the credits.
The rambler beamed, handing over the crate. “Excellent! You won’t regret this! Just… be careful. These are powerful. And… perhaps keep them away from any… sensitive areas.” He winked again, a knowing look in his eye.
Alam hoisted the crate. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." He turned to leave.
"Anytime, friend. Remember, if you need more souvenirs, you know where to find me. Enjoy the fireworks, and be sure to spread the word about my shop. Safe travels!” He gave one last, lingering wink.
As Alam walked away, he heard the rambler muttering to himself, “Forty credits for those old things… should have asked for fifty.”
As Alam made his way to the center of the Yellow Nation, the terrain shifted from rolling hills to an urbanized landscape. Yellow tents gave way to larger canvas and bamboo structures.
He arrived at a vast clearing, a bustling marketplace surrounding the Khan’s mobile capital, the Golden Horse. It was a moving city, a military base, a symbol of the Yellow Nation's might. The steel tracks stretched into the horizon, carriages like grand pavilions on wheels. The Khan's own pavilion dominated the complex.
Alam parked his hovercraft and was met by a wary guard who checked his identification.
"You're here for the Khan," the guard grunted, then led Alam through the labyrinthine corridors of the Golden Horse. Vendors, merchants, and patrolling soldiers filled the passageways. They reached the central pavilion, a lavish display of wealth. Silk tapestries lined the walls, intricate carpets covered the floor, and golden trinkets adorned the corners. In the center sat Bayarl Khan.
"Hello, old man," Alam said, striding in.
Bayarl Khan raised his gaze from a stack of paperwork, his eyes meeting Alam's. "The Second Leader of the Wanderers. Alam. Formidable and reckless, I hear."
"Funny you wanted to meet in person," Alam said, taking a seat. "Thought you might want to strangle me yourself."
Bayarl Khan smirked. "I assure you, I have no such desire. Yet. I wished to discuss a matter of great importance to both our factions."
"Enemy of my enemy, and all that," Alam said. "Kinda makes us asshole friends, doesn't it?"
Bayarl Khan chuckled. "You're direct, Alam. I appreciate that. We share a mutual enemy."
"Right," Alam said. "But you see… aren't you worried about escalation? Red Nation mercs are everywhere."
"I'm aware of their presence," Bayarl Khan said. "Their influence is… contained. They are a threat, but not yet one we cannot handle. Escalation is a concern, but we are prepared."
Alam rubbed the back of his neck. "Prepared for what? World War Four?"
Bayarl Khan paused. "It's a delicate subject. Suffice to say, the situation is tense. Many prepare for conflict. If things worsen… it could become inevitable."
"Is there no other way?" Alam asked.
Bayarl Khan sighed. "I wish there were. But diplomacy has failed. Those who crave power understand only strength. War has become… necessary."
Alam rubbed his chin. "I think… intervention in the Red Nation government might offer a solution. At least… reduce the carnage."
Bayarl Khan's eyes narrowed. "Intervene? That's… risky. It could provoke retaliation from them, or even other factions. Are we prepared for that? Why would they listen to us?"
"At least their leader isn't a zealot," Alam shrugged, a slight smile playing on his lips.
Bayarl Khan chuckled. "So it's the leader, not the faction. You believe a… more reasonable leader would be preferable."
"It's a gamble," Alam admitted. "It could backfire spectacularly. A more fanatical faction could rise, or a rogue general. But… empires have pulled it off before. Even the US, before its collapse."
Bayarl Khan nodded slowly. "You speak truth. It is a gamble. But… perhaps a necessary one."
Alam rubbed his forehead. "Anyway… let's get the paperwork done. I have a war to win in the East."
Bayarl Khan gestured to several documents on the table. "Of course. Time is of the essence."
After the paperwork was completed, Alam stretched. "Well," he said, turning serious again. "We're rubbing each other's backs again, old man."
Bayarl Khan chuckled. "Old partners in chaos. We've had our differences, but we've also supported each other when it mattered. A strange relationship, but… one I value."
"Alright," Alam said. "Farewell. Maybe we'll meet again in… heaven or something."
Bayarl Khan grinned. "Indeed. Let us hope Heaven welcomes us. Until then, may fortune favor us."
Alam nodded, raising his hand. "Assalamu alaykum." He turned to leave.
Bayarl Khan returned the gesture. "Wa alaykum assalam." He watched Alam go, his mind already returning to the matters at hand.