In the iron-clad depths of Kumaruchaisan, where dark spires coiled towards the heavens like the fingers of a strangling hand, Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann stood upon his private training grounds, watching with measured amusement as his son, Yannis Jo-Ann, danced with steel.
The air was thick with the scent of oiled leather, scorched iron, and the sweat of war. The courtyard, a coliseum of brutality, was lined with rows of torches whose flames flickered like the souls of the condemned. In the centre, upon the cold marble floor stained with old blood, father and son clashed.
Yannis moved like a viper, his blade hissing through the air, his footwork light as the whisper of death. Kekaumenos, towering, immovable, deflected each strike with an almost casual disdain, his movements as effortless as a lion swatting away a cub's reckless pounce.
Their swords met in a shower of sparks, steel grinding against steel, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a symphony of impending doom.
Then—a voice shattered the rhythm of combat.
A soldier, breathless, dust-streaked, and bearing the insignia of the imperial scouts, fell to one knee before the Tekfur.
"My Lord, news from the East!"
Kekaumenos did not lower his blade. Instead, with deliberate slowness, he turned his head, his ice-pale eyes locking onto the messenger with all the warmth of a frozen grave.
"Speak."
The soldier swallowed hard, his gaze flickering nervously to Yannis, who now stood poised, blade resting against his shoulder, a smirk curling across his lips like a blade caressing flesh.
"The Ji-Gong Clan has raided Abhammuddin Obasi. The massacre is unspeakable. Women, children, warriors—none were spared. The tribe has fallen."
Silence.
Then—laughter.
Low at first, like the purr of a beast before the kill, then rising, curling into something hollow, amused, devoid of all human restraint.
Kekaumenos finally lowered his sword, turning fully to face the messenger. His laughter was not mirthful, but predatory, like a wolf that had just heard of a rival pack tearing itself apart.
Yannis, his breath still steady from their duel, tilted his head, his grin spreading. "Oh, how delightful."
The soldier—trained in war, hardened by conflict—felt an unnatural chill crawl up his spine.
Kekaumenos stepped forward, placing a firm hand upon his son's shoulder. His grip was iron, unyielding, an unspoken declaration of conquest.
"It seems," Kekaumenos murmured, "that fate has delivered us an opportunity."
His voice, deep and velvety, carried the weight of a man who held entire empires in the palm of his hand and crushed them for sport.
Yannis, ever eager, tossed his sword into the air and caught it by the hilt with casual grace. "Father, you know what this means, don't you?"
Kekaumenos turned to him fully, a slow, wicked smirk curling upon his lips.
"It means," he said, "that we will soon have the pleasure of allying with Ji-Gong. Abjannas is already fractured, its commander preoccupied with academia while his father's kingdom awaits the blade."
Yannis let out a mock gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. "Oh, but father—what of Shi-Wudu? Surely they won't sit by and sip tea while their fellow states are reduced to ruin."
Kekaumenos' smirk widened, his teeth glinting like a wolf's under the pale torchlight.
"Shi-Wudu," he murmured, stepping past his son, "will face the consequences, just as Abjannas will. They think themselves untouched, hidden in their snow-capped mountains, away from the clutches of war."
He turned slightly, his cloak of deep crimson trailing behind him like spilled wine upon marble.
"Let them think so."
Yannis chuckled, twirling his sword once before sheathing it. "And when they finally wake up?"
Kekaumenos turned, his eyes gleaming with the promise of devastation.
"They will wake up in fire."
The office of Headmaster Falani was not merely a room but a sanctum, a cathedral of intellect and strategy. Marble pillars lined the chamber, etched with calligraphic inscriptions from scholars long past, their wisdom engraved into the very bones of Miracheneous Academy. Golden filigree wove through the vaulted ceiling, where a massive holographic astrolabe rotated in perpetual motion, mapping the constellations that guided both scholars and warriors alike.
Behind a vast mahogany desk, buried beneath an ocean of scrolls, data tablets, and parchments old enough to crumble at a breath, sat Headmaster Falani—a man whose eyes held the weight of decades, yet burned with the fire of foresight. His robe, a fusion of regal blue and deep violet, draped over his broad yet weary shoulders, and upon his fingers gleamed rings of authority, wisdom, and perhaps, more secrets than any mortal should carry.
As Aleeman Hakiman entered, his boots clicked against the polished floor, his expression unreadable, yet his presence unshakable.
Falani leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded the commander-turned-scholar before him.
"Aleeman Hakiman," the Headmaster's voice was both a greeting and an assessment, as if simply uttering the name allowed him to weigh the measure of the man. "I have received word from your father."
Aleeman exhaled through his nose, bracing for whatever lecture was about to unfold.
"And what did Bey Baba say this time?"
Falani's lips quirked, but there was no humour in it.
"That you are lacking in the one thing that makes an empire endure."
Aleeman arched a brow, folding his arms. "And that would be?"
Falani sighed, standing up from his desk and pacing towards the massive window overlooking the academy grounds, where students sparred, debated, and honed their crafts like artisans of war and wisdom.
"Politics, Aleeman."
Aleeman's jaw tightened. Here we go.
Falani turned to face him again, his violet robes billowing slightly as if even the air around him bent to his authority.
"You are a warrior, yes. You command soldiers, you wield a blade as though it were an extension of your own soul. But a nation is not ruled by steel alone. It is ruled by cunning. By diplomacy. By knowing when to wield the sword—and when to sheath it."
Aleeman's gaze did not waver, but there was something unsettling in the truth of Falani's words.
Before he could respond, the doors burst open.
A woman rushed in, her breath ragged, her braided blonde hair slightly disheveled, her uniform a clear indication of her rank as an academy aide.
"Headmaster! Commander!" she gasped, placing a hand over her chest to steady herself.
Falani turned sharply. "What is it, Alenka?"
Alenka, a woman whose usual poise had all but vanished, took a deep breath before uttering the words that would shatter whatever illusion of peace remained.
"Abhammuddin Obasi has been raided."
Silence.
A silence so thick, so suffocating, it crushed the very air from the room.
Aleeman froze. His fingers tightened into fists, his breath stalled in his chest.
Falani's aged features hardened, his brows furrowing, his lips pressing into a grim line.
"By whom?" Aleeman's voice was dangerously low, barely more than a whisper.
Alenka's eyes flickered to him, then back to the Headmaster.
"The Weng Clan."
The news rippled through the Academy like wildfire.
Students gathered in corridors, whispers turning into murmurs, murmurs into panicked discussions.
Hua-Jing, who had been sitting in the courtyard with Mei-Xi-Li and the others, shot up from her seat, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"What did she just say?!"
Wang Ji-Pang, who had been mid-bite into an apple, dropped it entirely. "Did she say… Weng?"
Finn Ming Ju-Go cursed under his breath. "Those bastards..."
Shi Zhao Mei, standing at a distance, stiffened.
She turned slowly, her breath shallow, her fingers curling around the edge of her cloak.
"What… what happened to the people?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
Hua-Jing turned to her, her expression one of sorrow, of barely restrained anger.
"The tribe… the tribe belongs to my family. To the Hakiman bloodline."
Shi Zhao Mei's stomach twisted into knots, a lead weight forming in the pit of her soul.
She staggered back slightly, her head spinning.
Her father.
Her father did this.
Men. Women. Children.
By his command.
She felt bile rise in her throat.
Aleeman stormed from the office, his movements sharp, purposeful, lethal.
"Now the time has come for the sword to talk."
His voice rang through the halls, sending a shiver through all who heard it.
Falani stepped forward, his presence demanding silence.
"Warriors of Miracheneous, hunters of the academy, hear me! The Weng Clan has waged war upon the innocent! We shall not sit idly by as tyrants burn the land! Prepare for battle!"
A roar of approval erupted from the academy's fighters, a unified call to arms that shook the very foundation of their institution.
Shi Zhao Mei, standing at the back of the crowd, felt the ground tilt beneath her feet.
She had to stop this.
She had to stop the bloodshed before it swallowed both her people and the world itself.
Her father was leading them into oblivion.
And now…
She would have to confront him.
Shi Zhao Mei swallowed hard, clenching her fists.
"So be it."
The gates of Ji-Gong Palace loomed high, their iron-bound doors etched with golden dragons coiling in endless pursuit of their own tails. The stone courtyard shimmered beneath the midday sun, the marble underfoot reflecting the tense figures gathered there like a mirror reflecting an omen.
At the forefront stood Emperor Shi Jon Ying, his crimson robes trailing behind him like the tide of an approaching storm. His raven-black hair, bound with a golden dragon pin, remained unmoved by the wind—his sharp, hawk-like gaze scanning the palace with an air of quiet, simmering fury.
At his side, his elite guards, clad in obsidian and jade armour, gripped their swords as if expecting blood to spill upon the tiles before the hour was through.
Opposing him, standing at the entrance of the great palace steps, were Lady Mei Lian and Pan Zhihaou.
Lady Mei Lian, draped in robes of deep violet, bore an expression that was neither hostile nor welcoming, but laced with an underlying fear that was impossible to ignore.
Pan Zhihaou, ever the shadow behind the throne, stood with his hands hidden beneath the folds of his saffron robes, his calculating eyes taking in every movement, every breath, every flicker of unease.
The tension between them thickened like storm clouds, heavy with the promise of thunder.
Shi Jon Ying's voice, measured yet resonating like the strike of a war drum, broke the silence.
"Where is Weng Jin Shun?"
Mei Lian hesitated, her fingers twisting around the silk of her sleeves, her throat bobbing as she swallowed the fear she dare not show.
Before she could answer, the sound of marching boots and rattling chains filled the air.
From behind the gates, a procession emerged—rows upon rows of Ji-Gong soldiers in their fearsome black-and-red armour, their spears gleaming in the light. And at their head, like the very spectre of conquest itself, strode Emperor Weng Jin Shun.
His presence was an eclipse, blocking out all warmth. His crimson and gold battle robes dripped with imperial arrogance, the dragon insignia upon his chest gleaming like an unholy sigil.
And behind him—the captives.
They were bound, bloodied, their once-proud garments stained with dust and humiliation. Among them, Samiyoshi Hakiman, his golden turban now torn, his dark eyes glaring with unbroken defiance despite the chains that bound him.
Shi Jon Ying's gaze flickered to the captives, his eyes narrowing. Then, slowly, he turned back to Weng Jin Shun.
"We need to speak."
A beat of silence.
Then, with a mocking smirk, Weng Jin Shun spread his arms, as if welcoming an old friend rather than a potential executioner.
"Then let us speak."
Within the grand hall of Ji-Gong Palace, where red silk banners draped from the high domed ceilings and the scent of burning incense coiled like a living thing, the two emperors faced each other.
The air between them was not one of mere diplomacy—it was the quiet before the warhorns, the stillness before the sword unsheathes.
Shi Jon Ying stepped forward, his gaze steady, unshaken, the embodiment of a ruler whose patience had worn thin.
"Release the captives and leave Abhammuddin Obasi."
Silence.
Then—laughter.
Low, deep, rich—not of mirth, but of amusement laced with venom.
Weng Jin Shun leaned back upon his golden throne, fingers tapping against the carved dragon armrests.
"You come into my home," he mused, "demanding that I release prisoners of war?"
Shi Jon Ying's eyes darkened.
"Prisoners of war?" he repeated, voice dripping with cold steel. "They are civilians, slaughtered without provocation. You massacred women and children, Weng Jin Shun. Not warriors—families."
A flicker of irritation crossed Weng Jin Shun's face. "A necessary culling."
Shi Jon Ying's teeth clenched.
"You think war a game?" he hissed. "You think you can slaughter and pillage without consequence?"
Weng Jin Shun leaned forward, his smirk vanishing into a glare that burned with a ruler's unyielding pride.
"You dare stand before me, in my throne room, and lecture me on consequence?"
With a sharp motion, he gestured towards a nearby servant, who stepped forward, bearing a bloodstained arrow upon a silk cloth.
The crescent moon and star of Abhammuddin Obasi gleamed upon the shaft.
"This arrow," Weng Jin Shun growled, "was found lodged in the skulls of my soldiers. It is the mark of Abhammuddin. My men were attacked first. This war was brought upon my house, not the other way around."
Shi Jon Ying's gaze locked onto the arrow, his expression unreadable.
Then, slowly, his fingers curled into fists.
"Your arrogance blinds you," he muttered, voice like a brewing storm. "If you do not release the captives, if you do not leave Abhammuddin Obasi, then you will not only face Abjannas… but you will face me."
Weng Jin Shun's brow twitched, his smirk returning.
"A declaration of war, then?"
Shi Jon Ying straightened, his red robes flowing like the tide of an approaching tempest.
"No," he said, voice unwavering. "You already started the war. I am merely ensuring you reap what you have sown."
A tense silence wrapped around the room like a noose.
Lady Mei Lian, standing at the side, paled, stepping forward with urgency.
"Emperor Shi Jon Ying, please! My husband is a man of great pride, but this path leads to ruin. Shi-Wudu has always maintained balance—surely you would not let this escalate into something we cannot return from?"
Shi Jon Ying's gaze flickered to her, his expression unreadable.
"You misunderstand, Lady Mei Lian. It is no longer up to me."
Pan Zhihaou, who had remained silent thus far, finally stepped forward, his voice slow, deliberate, tainted with underlying amusement.
"And tell me, Emperor Shi Jon Ying," the monk murmured, "do you truly believe Shi-Wudu will aid Abjannas? Do you think the other dragon clans will march at your behest?"
Shi Jon Ying's jaw tensed.
Pan Zhihaou smiled.
"Shi-Wudu may be the head of all dragon clans, but even the mightiest head cannot force the body to move."
Weng Jin Shun's smirk widened.
"You are alone in this, Shi Jon Ying. You and your little ideals of justice."
Shi Jon Ying exhaled, slow and controlled, his eyes burning with an unspoken promise.
"Then so be it."
And as he turned and strode from the throne room, the weight of war settled upon Weng like a spectre waiting to consume.
The prison of Ji-Gong, a monolithic structure of steel and shadow, rose from the earth like a forgotten relic of a bygone war, a graveyard of the living where hope came to die. Its walls, forged from darkened alloy and embedded with energy-barrier technology, pulsed with a cold, artificial glow, as if the prison itself were a beast breathing in the despair of those trapped within.
The air was thick with the scent of metal, damp stone, and the distant hum of power coursing through the security grids. The floors—slick, black, reflective—offered no comfort, only a cruel reminder that those who walked here did so as prisoners, as ghosts of the men they once were.
Beyond the sealed energy-barred doors, in a cell that barely deserved the name, Samiyoshi Hakiman sat, chained but unbroken.
His hands, bound in electromagnetic cuffs, rested upon his knees as he gazed at the weary faces of his fellow captives—men of Abhammuddin Obasi, warriors stripped of their weapons, yet not of their will. Their once-proud garments were torn, their bodies bruised, but in their eyes, the fire of resistance had not yet dimmed.
They had been dragged here like cattle, beaten, shackled, cast into this hell of circuits and steel, yet none had begged for mercy.
And that, more than anything, infuriated their captors.
The silence in the cell was a weighted thing, pressing against their chests like a mountain unwilling to let them breathe. The only sound was the distant thrum of security drones hovering in endless patrol, their crimson eyes sweeping over the halls, searching for a reason to unleash punishment.
Samiyoshi, despite the pain wracking his body, straightened his spine, lifted his chin, and let the steel in his soul shine through his voice.
"Do not lose hope, my brothers." His voice, though soft, carried the weight of a commander who had seen both victory and loss, a man who had stood before death and refused to bow.
Some of the younger captives—barely men, their hands still learning the weight of a sword—glanced at him with uncertainty.
"Hope?" one of them whispered, his breath shaky. "We are locked behind barriers that could burn a man to cinders. They have technology we cannot overcome. We have nothing."
Samiyoshi's gaze sharpened.
"You are wrong. We have something greater than steel, greater than warships, greater than the walls that confine us."
The men watched him, waiting.
His lips curled into a smirk, defiant despite his bruises.
"We have men who are coming for us."
A laugh split through the air like a blade against stone.
It was low, guttural, tinged with the smugness of a man who believed himself untouchable.
From the other side of the energy-barred cell, a Ji-Gong guard stood with his arms crossed, clad in a sleek, dark exo-suit, his face partially hidden by a high-tech helmet that pulsed with scanning data. His armour, reinforced with kinetic absorption plating, reflected the dim prison lights, giving him the appearance of a shadow given form.
But it was his laughter, more than his presence, that clawed at the silence.
"Men who are coming for you?" he repeated, his voice laced with mockery, tilting his head as if genuinely amused. "What delusions keep you alive, Hakiman?"
Samiyoshi did not answer immediately, merely lifting his gaze to meet the soldier's through the flickering blue light of the barrier.
The guard took a slow step forward, his boots clanking against the metal flooring, reverberating through the cell like the footsteps of an executioner approaching his victim.
"Listen to me, prisoners." His voice dropped lower, colder. "Tomorrow will be your last day."
The younger captives stiffened, but Samiyoshi did not even blink.
The guard noticed this. It irked him.
With a flick of his wrist, he tapped his wrist-bound interface, and the energy barrier crackled violently, sending a pulse through the metal cuffs that bound the prisoners.
A sharp shock ran through their bodies—not enough to kill, but enough to ignite pain in their bones, to remind them that their lives were no longer their own.
Some of the men gritted their teeth, hissing in pain. Others fell to their knees, their bodies convulsing against the torment.
Samiyoshi?
He laughed.
It was quiet at first, but it grew, curling through the tension in the air like wildfire seeking fuel.
The guard's expression twisted. "You think this is funny?"
Samiyoshi grinned, his lips splitting, blood still dried at the corner of his mouth.
"I think you are scared."
The guard stiffened.
The other captives lifted their heads.
"I think," Samiyoshi continued, his voice growing sharper, more precise, like a blade pressed to the skin. "You know that my people do not die in chains. You know that my brother will come. That Abjannas will come. That you will not stand unchallenged."
His eyes gleamed with unwavering certainty.
"And I think," he added, his grin widening, "you know that when this door opens again, it will not be for an execution."
The guard's fist clenched.
For the first time, his laughter had vanished.
With a growl, he tapped his interface once more, sending another wave of electrical pain through the captives before turning on his heel and storming away, his boots striking the floor with suppressed rage.
The energy barrier hummed once more, locking them in.
Silence returned.
But this time, it was not the silence of despair.
It was the silence before the storm.
Samiyoshi, still breathing through the remnants of the shock, lifted his head.
He exhaled deeply, the fire in his heart unshaken.
He glanced at the men beside him, their expressions shifting, transforming—where once there was defeat, there was now something else.
Something dangerous.
Something unbreakable.
Hope.
Samiyoshi grinned.
"They think we will die tomorrow."
He chuckled, leaning back against the wall, closing his eyes as if already hearing the sound of approaching hooves, the clash of swords, the roar of vengeance.
"Let them dream."
The dormitory of Aleeman Hakiman was unlike the usual chambers occupied by scholars of Miracheneous Academy. It was neither adorned with tapestries nor cluttered with scrolls; it was a fortress of simplicity, a room where function triumphed over ornamentation.
The walls were carved from polished obsidian stone, cold to the touch yet unwavering in its presence, much like the man who inhabited it. A single window, framed by an arch of intricate calligraphy, allowed the moonlight to spill into the room like silver ink upon dark parchment.
A low wooden desk, stacked with military reports, lay untouched, ink drying upon an unfinished strategy proposal. His bow and quiver rested against the wall, their presence a constant reminder that he was not merely a student—he was a commander.
And yet, his mind was a battlefield with no victor.
Aleeman sat upon the edge of his cot, his elbows braced against his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His dark eyes, once sharp and decisive, now bore the weight of questions that gnawed at him like wolves upon wounded prey.
Why would the Ji-Gong Clan attack Abhammuddin Obasi?
What did they hope to gain?
His tribe was no threat to them—strong, yes, but not an empire that sought conquest. Their lands were rich, but the Ji-Gong did not seek gold.
Unless—
Unless this was not about Abhammuddin at all.
His fingers tightened into fists.
His mind drifted to the conversation he had earlier with Headmaster Falani, his words still echoing in his ears like a prophecy waiting to be fulfilled.
"Headmaster, we must move swiftly!" Aleeman had urged, his voice steady yet charged with urgency.
Falani, ever the man of wisdom rather than impulse, had merely observed him from his seat, the candlelight flickering against his unreadable expression.
"No, Aleeman. We must wait."
Aleeman had bristled, his jaw tightening. "And if we wait too long, my people will be ash beneath their boots!"
Falani had exhaled, rising from his chair, his robes whispering against the floor like the turning pages of a forgotten manuscript.
"You are not a rogue warlord," the Headmaster had said, his gaze piercing. "You are a commander. And a commander does not rush into battle without the word of his Sultan."
Aleeman had pressed his lips into a thin line, his hands twitching at his sides.
But he knew Falani was right.
And so, reluctantly, he had given the order: Hold. Wait for the command of the Sultan.
A sharp knock at the door pulled him back into reality.
He exhaled, rubbing his temples before rising to his feet.
"Enter."
The door creaked open, and Shi Zhao Mei stepped inside.
She had seen Aleeman in battle, in command, in defiance—but never like this.
He stood near the dim candlelight, his arms crossed, his shoulders tense as though carrying a burden that could not be shared. His brows were drawn, his face carved with contemplation, and the dim glow of the lantern cast long, weary shadows beneath his eyes.
For a man made of iron, he looked... tired.
Her fingers gripped the edge of her cloak as she hesitated in the doorway.
Aleeman lifted his gaze, his eyes locked onto hers with the intensity of a storm held at bay.
"Why would the Ji-Gong Clan attack us?" he asked, his voice low, but each word laced with unspoken accusation. "Because I saved your life? Or because of you?"
Shi Zhao Mei felt her breath hitch.
This was it.
The moment to tell the truth.
To tell him that the Ji-Gong Clan had not attacked Abhammuddin for war or conquest, but out of vengeance—because their Emperor believed his son had been stolen.
That his father had ordered the massacre to reclaim a prince who no longer existed.
That the bloodshed, the destruction—it was all because of her.
And yet—she could not.
Because if she did, if she admitted the truth, she would not only condemn herself but possibly condemn her people as well.
So she did what she did best.
She lied.
Her lips curved into a wry, bitter smirk, but it did not reach her eyes.
"The Ji-Gong are war-hungry. It is in their nature."
Aleeman's gaze did not waver, his dark eyes searching hers for something more—something real.
And for a moment, she thought he saw through her.
But if he did, he did not press.
Instead, he merely exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"That is not an answer," he muttered, but his voice lacked its usual sharpness, as if exhaustion had dulled the edges of his temper.
Shi Zhao Mei clasped her hands together, forcing herself to meet his gaze with confidence.
"Then take it as you will," she said, her voice steady. "But war is coming, Aleeman. You do not need to know why. You only need to survive it."
His jaw tensed, but before he could respond—
The door burst open once more.
"Brother!"
Hua-Jing strode in, her braids slightly undone from what was clearly a hasty run, her expression alight with urgency.
Aleeman turned sharply. "What is it?"
Hua-Jing, catching her breath, lifted a sealed letter bearing the insignia of their Sultan.
"Headmaster Falani has received a message from the Sultan. He has ordered you to come to the palace immediately."
Silence settled over the room like a shroud.
Aleeman's fingers curled around the edge of his scabbard.
The call had come.
The wait was over.
The war had begun.
She watched as Aleeman's entire demeanour shifted.
The moment he heard his Sultan had summoned him, the man before her was no longer a scholar of Miracheneous.
He was a commander again.
His weariness evaporated, his gaze sharpened, his posture straightened with the weight of duty.
And that was when it hit her—truly hit her.
This man, who had saved her life, who had treated her with reluctant kindness, who had given her warmth when she had none—
He would stand against her father.
And she?
She would have to choose.
Would she fight against her own blood, or watch as the man before her marched into battle, never knowing that his greatest enemy…
Was standing right beside him?
Her fingers trembled beneath the folds of her cloak.
But she said nothing.
And neither did he.
Instead, Aleeman merely turned to Hua-Jing, his expression unreadable.
"Then let us not keep the Sultan waiting."
The grand hall of Ji-Gong Palace, a sanctum of power and legacy, now trembled beneath the weight of an Emperor's fury.
Emperor Weng Jin Shun, seated upon his throne of obsidian and gold, gripped the armrests so tightly that the veins on his hands bulged like rivers surging against their banks. His gold-embroidered crimson robes billowed slightly as he leaned forward, his expression twisted into something that could have shattered stone.
The confrontation with Emperor Shi Jon Ying still burned through his veins like poison laced with fire.
"That insolent fool dares to threaten me?" His voice was low but venomous, a whisper before a storm. "He claims Abjannas will be my nightmare? He dares to challenge the will of Ji-Gong?"
A goblet of priceless jade, filled with golden rice wine, sat upon the carved table beside him. In one sharp, violent motion, he seized it and hurled it across the chamber.
The goblet shattered against a marble pillar, sending shards flying like splinters of his broken patience.
From the shadows, Pan Zhihaou, ever the whisperer of ill omens and veiled counsel, stepped forward, his saffron robes flowing like dying embers beneath a fading sun. His expression was calm, measured, but beneath the surface, his eyes gleamed with something that only those who dealt in deception would recognise—opportunity.
"Your Majesty," Pan Zhihaou began, his voice a slow, deliberate weave of silk and steel. "Shi Jon Ying's threats are the desperate cries of a man who knows he is too late to stop the inevitable. He would not have sought negotiation had he possessed the strength to act."
Weng Jin Shun's breath was heavy, his eyes still ablaze with unrelenting wrath.
"And yet," he hissed, "he left me with a warning. That boy—Aleeman Hakiman—will come for my head."
Pan Zhihaou tilted his head slightly, his fingers stroking the beads of his prayer bracelet.
"Aleeman Hakiman is not to be underestimated," he admitted, his voice laced with intrigue. "A child in years, perhaps, but a man in war. If the world underestimates him, it is not because he is weak, but because they are blind."
Weng Jin Shun's fury burned hotter, but a flicker of something else entered his gaze—unease.
Before another word could be spoken, the doors of the throne room creaked open, and a Ji-Gong guard stepped forward, clad in dark iron, bowing low.
"Your Majesty," he announced, "Tekfur Kekaumenos of Kumaruchaisan and his son, Yannis Jo-Ann, have arrived to seek an audience with you."
At that, Weng Jin Shun's expression darkened with suspicion.
"Let them in."
The great doors swung open, and through them strode Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann, the ruler of Kumaruchaisan, followed closely by his son, Yannis Jo-Ann.
They walked with the unmistakable arrogance of men who had never known fear, men who had dined with warlords and danced upon the graves of kings.
Kekaumenos, clad in deep midnight-blue robes lined with silver, moved with the measured grace of a viper coiling before the strike. His shoulders bore the weight of an empire built upon conquest, his ice-pale eyes scanning the throne room with amusement rather than reverence.
At his side, Yannis Jo-Ann, his features sharp as a well-honed dagger, wore a smirk that spoke of indulgence and cruelty intertwined. Dressed in dark chainmail beneath a richly woven black-and-silver mantle, he looked less like a prince and more like a blade disguised as a man.
Behind them, servants followed, carrying gilded chests, their lids slightly open to reveal exquisite silks, rare spices, and precious gemstones.
The two men approached the throne, lowering their heads just enough to be courteous—but never enough to seem subordinate.
"A gift," Kekaumenos murmured, "for the great Emperor Weng Jin Shun and his esteemed wife, Lady Mei Lian."
Lady Mei Lian, standing at the side, forced a polite nod, though her hands curled into her sleeves, her unease visible only to those who knew her well.
Weng Jin Shun narrowed his eyes as he gazed upon them. He did not trust men who smiled too often.
"You did not travel across the world merely to deliver gifts, Tekfur Kekaumenos." His voice was cool, measured, but the edge of suspicion lingered beneath it. "Speak your true reason for coming."
Kekaumenos chuckled, stepping forward.
"Abjannas is preparing for war against you, my friend."
The throne room stilled.
Weng Jin Shun's jaw clenched, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.
"And how would you know this?"
Kekaumenos spread his arms as if offering nothing but honesty.
"Because I make it my business to know."
He paused, then leaned slightly forward, lowering his voice as if revealing a great secret.
"And more importantly, I know who leads them. I know who you will face."
Weng Jin Shun's eyes narrowed further, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his throne. "Aleeman Hakiman."
Kekaumenos smirked.
"Indeed."
Weng Jin Shun exhaled slowly, his rage still present but now accompanied by calculation.
Kekaumenos continued, "Your Majesty, I have fought many wars, and I tell you this—Aleeman is no ordinary boy. He is not just a commander; he is a tactician, a man whose mind for war surpasses even the most seasoned generals. His hands may be young, but his strategies are ancient. He will not charge blindly. He will carve a path through your men like a blade through silk."
Weng Jin Shun's lips pressed into a thin line.
Kekaumenos smiled, the expression slow and serpentine.
"But... if we join forces, if Kumaruchaisan and Ji-Gong stand as one, not only will we crush Abjannas, but we will reshape the world in our image."
A heavy silence fell upon the throne room.
Then, Weng Jin Shun turned to Pan Zhihaou, his most trusted advisor, the man whose whispers often dictated the fate of nations.
"What do you say?"
Pan Zhihaou, stroking his prayer beads, exhaled slowly.
"Two blades are always sharper than one, Your Majesty."
A long pause.
Then—a slow nod.
"Then so be it."
And with those words, the alliance of darkness was forged, the first stroke of war etched into history.
The Grand Minar Palace, a beacon of architectural splendour, stood at the heart of Abjannas, its towering domes kissed by the moonlight, its minarets piercing the heavens like celestial spears. It was a masterpiece of tradition interwoven with modernity, where the wisdom of the past embraced the wonders of the future.
The marble-clad walls, adorned with intricate carvings of calligraphy and celestial maps, whispered tales of conquerors, poets, and visionaries. Fountains lined the grand courtyard, their water illuminated by golden lanterns, casting rippling reflections upon the polished stone floors.
The palace corridors, vast and echoing, held an air of unshaken sovereignty, where the past watched over the present, and the present prepared for the storms of tomorrow.
At the highest chamber, within a balcony that overlooked the city of Abjannas, stood Sultan Alibek Hakiman, his hands folded behind his back, his gaze lost in the tapestry of stars above and the world below.
The moonlight bathed his regal face in silver, highlighting the wisdom carved into his features, the deep lines upon his brow a testament to battles fought not just on the battlefield, but within the halls of diplomacy.
His robes, a fusion of midnight blue and deep gold, embroidered with the insignia of Abhammuddin Obasi, flowed like the river of time itself.
Yet tonight, time was not an ally.
The air was heavy, charged with the unspoken truth that war, like a looming tempest, was upon them.
A voice interrupted the stillness.
"My Sultan."
Sultan Alibek did not turn, though his brows lifted in slight acknowledgment.
From the grand entrance, Emir Nasir Tamzid, a man of hardened resolve and quiet ferocity, strode forward, his footsteps echoing against the polished tiles.
His robes of dark crimson bore the emblem of the Abjannas military, his sword fastened at his hip a reminder that loyalty was measured not in words, but in steel.
"The Commander has arrived."
A brief silence.
Then, with measured grace, Sultan Alibek turned, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes glowed with the depth of a thousand unspoken thoughts.
"Then let us greet him properly."
With slow, deliberate steps, he descended from the balcony, his robes swaying with regal authority as he strode towards the golden throne of Abjannas.
The throne room itself was a marvel—a fusion of ancestral heritage and contemporary grandeur.
Towering mashrabiya screens, carved from dark oak, allowed the soft glow of the moon to filter through, casting geometric patterns upon the marble floors.
Above, a massive chandelier, crafted from pure crystal and laced with strands of suspended golden filaments, glimmered like the constellations themselves had been captured and woven into light.
The throne, forged from polished stone and inlaid with sapphire and emerald mosaics, stood as a symbol of unwavering strength and lineage.
As the Sultan took his place, the doors swung open once more.
And Aleeman Hakiman entered.
Aleeman, draped in the battle-hardened robes of his lineage, strode forward with an air of quiet authority, his presence filling the vast chamber with a force beyond his years.
He stopped before his uncle, lowering his head in a brief gesture of respect before lifting his gaze, sharp as the edge of his blade.
Sultan Alibek regarded him for a long moment, then spoke.
"Do you know why I have summoned you?"
Aleeman, ever the man of strategy rather than wasted words, nodded.
"The Ji-Gong have declared war."
Sultan Alibek's lips pressed into a thin line.
"They did not just declare war, Aleeman." His voice was low, measured. "They brought it to our doorstep. They did not strike an enemy; they slaughtered the innocent. They burned our lands, shackled our kin, and called it justice."
Aleeman's fingers twitched at his sides, but his expression remained composed.
Sultan Alibek leaned forward slightly, his tone now that of a man passing a torch not of light, but of fire.
"Tomorrow, you shall lead the army of Abjannas. And blood shall answer blood."
A beat of silence.
Then, Aleeman exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable—except for the flicker of steel behind his eyes.
"Then so be it."
At that moment, the doors swung open once again.
A guard, clad in dark blue armour, strode in with urgency, holding a sealed letter.
He bowed deeply, then spoke.
"A message, My Sultan. From Emperor Shi Jon Ying of Shi-Wudu."
Sultan Alibek lifted a brow. "Read it aloud."
The guard unsealed the parchment and began to recite:
"To His Majesty, Sultan Alibek Hakiman of Abjannas,
War no longer lingers at the horizon—it stands at your gates. The Ji-Gong Clan has allied with the wolves of Kumaruchaisan, and with them, five more states: Faliton, Machekwon, Blogina, Geoblin and Aranodole march under their banner. At dawn, they ride for your land, not to negotiate, not to conquer—but to erase.
Your walls shall crumble, your mosques shall burn, and your legacy shall be but an ember in the wind.
There is no diplomacy left. Only steel.
As the head of Shi-Wudu, I extend this warning not as a plea, but as a truth carved into the bones of history: prepare for war. If Abjannas falls, the world follows.
For tomorrow, the world will bleed.
Emperor Shi Jon Ying."
The room was deathly silent.
Aleeman's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides.
Sultan Alibek, however, merely leaned back upon his throne, a slow smirk curling at the corner of his lips.
Then, with a voice dripping in irony, he exhaled:
"Ah… so the infidels are helping the infidels."
He chuckled, low and humourless, shaking his head slightly.
"How poetic."
Aleeman, his expression unreadable, finally spoke.
"Then let us welcome them."
Sultan Alibek's smirk widened.
"Yes. Let us."
And as the night deepened, the stars above bore witness to the final moments before the greatest battle of their age.
The castle of Kumaruchaisan, a fortress carved from the bones of fallen empires, stood under the cloak of night like a slumbering beast. Its gargantuan walls, slick with the sweat of past wars, rose high into the darkness, jagged as the teeth of a predator. The torches that lined its walkways flickered weakly, suffocated by the weight of treachery that thickened the air.
At its heart, within a grand hall veiled in shadow and ambition, sat a table long enough to host tyrants, murderers, and kings alike.
The crimson banners of Kumaruchaisan, embroidered with silver serpents entwined in a symbol of dominance, draped over the stone pillars like funeral shrouds. Above them, a massive iron chandelier, shaped into a hanging cage, held a dozen golden candles—their flames barely illuminating the faces of the men who had come to feast upon war.
At the head of the table, Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann, the master of deception and tyranny, leaned back into his throne-like chair, his pale fingers tracing the rim of his goblet, filled with blood-red wine that glowed like the promise of carnage.
Beside him sat his son, Yannis Jo-Ann, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the hilt of his dagger, like a wolf counting the heartbeats before the kill.
Across from them, their allies in destruction, the monarchs of Arcanodole, Machekwon, Faliton, Blogina, and Geoblin, reclined upon their gilded seats, their expressions a mixture of amusement, greed, and barely restrained bloodlust.
Each man had come not to negotiate, but to plan the extinction of a kingdom.
King Charle IV of Arcanodole, a man of silvered hair and wolfish eyes, ran a gloved hand over his neatly trimmed beard, his voice as smooth as silk soaked in venom.
"So, it is decided then," he mused, his gaze flickering towards Tekfur Kekaumenos. "Abjannas shall fall. The boy-commander shall be crushed beneath the weight of our armies."
Beside him, his son, Prince Edmond Charle, a man with a face carved from arrogance and cruelty, smirked.
"A child should never play at war. He will soon learn how quickly boys burn upon the battlefield."
King Nikolas Cruz of Machekwon, a man built like a warship, his arms thick as battering rams, chuckled, his voice a deep, guttural thing that rumbled like thunder on the horizon.
"Let us see if Aleeman Hakiman still fights so bravely when his lands are drowning in blood."
His son, Prince Lorenzo Cruz, a swordsman renowned for his brutality, toyed with a dagger in his hands, his eyes glinting with the eagerness of a man who relished the thought of spilling blood.
King Kosma Kuznetsov of Faliton, whose icy blue eyes reflected nothing but calculation, leaned forward, his fingers steepled.
"I have heard whispers," he said, his tone a chilling contrast to the heat of war, "that Aleeman is no ordinary commander. That his mind is a labyrinth of war tactics beyond his years. If we underestimate him, we may find ourselves fighting a battle we cannot control."
His son, Prince Arkadi Kuznetsov, a warrior forged in the coldest winters, scoffed.
"No man is invincible. We will bleed him dry like all the others."
King Diluc Nakamura of Blogina, a man whose every movement was calculated, whose every word was a dagger in disguise, gave a lazy smirk.
"A single brilliant strategist cannot defeat an army of six empires. Abjannas will be torn apart, and we shall divide its carcass among ourselves."
His son, Prince Sora Nakamura, his midnight-black hair falling over piercing amber eyes, simply nodded.
"By sunrise, they will kneel or they will burn."
And lastly, King Hoffman Lupaz of Geoblin, a man as wide as he was cruel, his rings encrusted with the wealth of conquered nations, exhaled slowly, his voice like the grind of rusted gears.
"And what of Shi-Wudu?"
At that, the room fell silent.
Then, slowly, Tekfur Kekaumenos leaned forward, his smile a slow, poisonous thing that slithered across his face.
"Shi-Wudu will not interfere," he said. "The dragon clans are powerful, yes, but they are not fools. They will not lay down their own armies for a kingdom that is already lost."
Yannis Jo-Ann, smirking, took a sip of wine before adding,
"Besides, by the time they even think of moving, the battle will already be over."
King Charle IV raised his goblet, his smile razor-sharp.
"Then let us drink to war."
The kings lifted their goblets, toasting not to honour, nor to righteousness, but to the ruin of their enemies.
"Tomorrow, Abjannas shall fall."
And as their voices rose in a chorus of treachery, the night around them whispered with the coming storm.
A storm that would decide the fate of empires.
The war chamber of Minar Palace was no mere room—it was a crucible where battles were forged long before the first sword was drawn.
The walls, embellished with gold-trimmed geometric patterns and Qur'anic inscriptions, seemed to hum with the whispers of generals long since buried, their wisdom etched into the very bones of the palace. A grand mashrabiya window, overlooking the city of Abjannas, allowed the silver touch of the moon to illuminate the great map spread upon the table before them.
Upon the map of the known world, markers of iron and onyx were placed—each one a representation of an army marching for war.
Seven enemy states. One kingdom standing against them.
The air was thick with the scent of burning oud, parchment, and destiny.
At the head of the table stood Sultan Alibek Hakiman, his royal robes of deep indigo draped over his battle-ready frame, his crown of blackened gold resting upon his brow like a weight only he could bear.
To his right, Orhan Bey, his armour donned, his eyes weary but alight with the embers of war, traced a finger across the map with grim contemplation.
To his left, Aleeman Hakiman, the Commander of Abjannas, stood tall, his gaze a smouldering flame, his hands resting upon the hilt of his sheathed sword—a sword that would soon sing in battle.
Beside him, his most trusted :
Mehmet Arslan,
Tariq Al-Khattab,
Headmaster Falani, the scholar- and the head of the Miracheneous Academy, whose knowledge of war was not drawn from the battlefield alone but from the scriptures of the past, where the mistakes of fallen empires were laid bare.
Before them stood the greatest war of their age.
Sultan Alibek exhaled, his voice a deep, commanding force.
"We are outnumbered seven to one." His finger tapped the cluster of enemy markers, which loomed upon the map like a black tide crashing towards their shores.
Orhan Bey, arms crossed, nodded grimly.
"Kumaruchaisan, Arcanodole, Geoblin, Blogina, Faliton, Machekwon… and at the head of the beast, the Ji-Gong Clan." His voice was low, tempered with the weight of responsibility. "This is no mere battle; this is a war meant to wipe us from existence."
A silence settled, broken only by the soft crackle of torches lining the chamber.
Aleeman's jaw tightened.
"Then we shall answer them with fire and steel." His voice was neither loud nor boastful—it was the calm before the storm, the quiet rage of a man who had already accepted his fate.
He gestured towards the southern pass, where the Ji-Gong forces would advance first.
"The enemy expects a direct confrontation. They believe they will march through our lands unchallenged. We will let them believe it—until the moment they realise they are walking into their graves."
Mehmet smirked, leaning over the table.
"Ah, I see it now—a welcome party of arrows and cannon fire."
Aleeman nodded.
"Our cavalry will lead them deeper into the valley, retreating as if in disarray. This will force them into our first line of hidden artillery—our cannons will be stationed in the hills, where the enemy will have no cover. Ji-Gong and their allies will be caught in a storm of fire before they even reach our main forces."
Tariq chuckled darkly.
"Like leading a herd of pigs to slaughter."
Orhan Bey, though approving, remained solemn.
"And when they break through?"
Aleeman's fingers shifted towards the central plains, where the final confrontation would be fought.
"That is where swords and guns shall speak."
Headmaster Falani, having remained silent thus far, stepped forward, his keen eyes flickering over the map.
"The enemy wields brute strength and overwhelming numbers. We wield precision and knowledge. This battle is not won by courage alone—it is won by superior strategy."
Aleeman's expression hardened.
"Our infantry will form defensive crescents, with gunners stationed at the rear. Ji-Gong's cavalry will attempt to break through—we will let them try. The moment they advance, our muskets will cut them down in waves. If they push further, our swords will meet them, inch for inch, breath for breath."
Orhan Bey nodded, his voice grim.
"And if their numbers are too great?"
Aleeman's gaze did not waver.
"Then we fight to the last man."
A heavy silence followed.
Then, Orhan Bey's voice, low and sombre, broke through.
"Samiyoshi is still in their hands."
Aleeman's fingers curled into fists.
"Then when we win, we take back what is ours."
His words, though steady, burned with a promise of vengeance.
Sultan Alibek, who had been listening with the patience of a ruler who had seen too much war, finally spoke.
"And if we fail?"
Aleeman did not hesitate.
His voice was steady, his resolve unshaken.
"Then we will be martyred."
The words hung in the air, final and unwavering.
Sultan Alibek's lips pressed into a thin line. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, placing his hands upon the table.
"Then let them come."
He turned to the gathered men, his voice ringing with the weight of history.
"Tomorrow, the world will know that Abjannas does not fall upon its knees. It rises with its sword drawn."
A murmur of approval rumbled through the chamber.
Mehmet chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "Then we should get some rest before our grand spectacle. I'd rather not die looking sleep-deprived."
Tariq smirked. "You look sleep-deprived every day."
Mehmet sighed dramatically. "Yes, but I'd rather die beautifully."
Orhan Bey shook his head with amusement, while Aleeman merely exhaled.
"Enough," he said, his voice carrying the finality of a man with no more time for laughter. "Tomorrow, we fight."
Sultan Alibek stood tall, the final seal upon the council's decision.
"May the Almighty guide our blades."
And with that, the meeting was concluded.
The fate of Abjannas had been set in motion.
Tomorrow, swords and guns would speak.
And the world would listen.
The endless plains of Pansilar, where the earth stretched out like the unrolled parchment of fate, bore witness to the arrival of two mighty forces. The land, once untouched by the sins of war, now trembled beneath the weight of armoured steeds and marching legions, as if recoiling from the inevitable carnage.
The air was heavy with the scent of steel and silence, an expectant hush before the first cry of battle. Above, the heavens wept, casting a pallid grey over the battlefield, as though the sky itself lamented the blood that would soon stain the land.
On one side, beneath the crescent moon and star, stood the warriors of Abjannas, draped in the resplendent regalia of their forebears. Their turbans were crowned with steel, their robes embroidered with golden inscriptions of divine verses, their chainmail glinting beneath the sun's solemn gaze.
Before them, upon a stallion black as the void between stars, rode their commander—Aleeman Hakiman.
Clad in the armour of a Sultan, adorned in the relics of his ancestors, he was both a leader and a legend in the making. The Miğfer, the imperial battle helmet, rested upon his brow like a crown of war, its golden embellishments whispering of victories past and conquests yet to come.
At the centre of this convergence, Aleeman raised his hand, and silence followed.
The opposing forces, an unholy alliance of six western states, gathered beneath banners that bore the sigils of ambition, greed, and fear.
At their helm, upon a great steed of silver-white, sat Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann, his pale eyes glinting with malice, his mouth twisted into a cruel smirk.
Beside him, the rulers of the west, each adorned in their own war regalia:
King Charle IV of Arcanodole, his cloak woven with the imagery of golden lions.
King Nikolas Cruz of Machekwon, his armour heavy with the burden of conquest.
King Kosma Kuznetsov of Faliton, his icy gaze unreadable.
King Diluc Nakamura of Blogina, his katana resting lightly at his side.
King Hoffman Lupaz of Geoblin, his girth and greed as great as his hatred for Abjannas.
And in their midst, the Ji-Gong Clan, led by Emperor Weng Jin Shun, their scarlet banners billowing like flames, their warriors clad in the dark lacquered steel of their empire.
A moment of stillness.
Then, Aleeman's voice rang across the battlefield, carried by the wind like the call of fate itself.
"I am the son of Orhan Bey, owner of Jabal Al-Safir! The protector to those who needs! I am the nephew of Sultan Alibek, ruler of Abjannas! I am Aleeman Hakiman!"
The words struck the enemy ranks like the first strike of a war drum, rippling through their forces like a ghostly wind of inevitability.
Silence lingered.
Then—movement.
Prince Arkadi Kuznetsov, the heir of Faliton, his armour kissed by the frost of the north, turned to his father, King Kosma.
"Let me take his head." His voice was brimming with arrogance, thick with the ignorance of youth.
King Kosma's gaze was cold as tundra winds. "Do not underestimate him," he warned.
But Arkadi only smirked, tightening his grip upon his long sword before spurring his steed forward.
The thunder of his gallop echoed across the battlefield, each hoofbeat a hammer pounding upon the anvil of fate.
Aleeman, however, did not charge.
Instead, he let his horse walk forward in a slow, deliberate fashion, each step a statement of control, of discipline, of a man unshaken by the approach of death.
They stopped, facing each other, the battlefield holding its breath.
Arkadi smirked. "A boy leading men? How amusing."
Aleeman said nothing, only reaching for the Miğfer upon his head.
With one smooth motion, he removed it, revealing his face—young, yet carved with the weight of war, his gaze sharp as the blade at his hip.
Then, with the ease of a man tying a loose thread, he unsheathed his sword and raised his shield.
Arkadi laughed. "Fine then, let us see if your name is worth the breath it takes to utter it."
With a sharp kick to his horse, Arkadi charged.
And Aleeman—waited.
Arkadi's blade flashed in the morning sun, a silver streak of death as he swung downward—a strike meant to cleave through bone.
Aleeman twisted to the side, the edge of the sword missing him by a breath, and in that same motion, he swept his shield upward, slamming it into Arkadi's exposed ribs.
The prince grunted, stumbling back, eyes wide with surprise.
But he recovered quickly, circling, his blade singing through the air once more.
Aleeman met him, sword to sword, the clash of steel ringing through the field like the opening chords of a deadly symphony.
Then—treachery.
Arkadi, with the cunning of a cornered rat, kicked up a spray of sand, aiming for Aleeman's eyes.
But Aleeman was no fool.
Anticipating the trick, he pivoted, turning his body just enough to shield his eyes while his blade moved of its own accord.
Arkadi lunged, expecting a blinded opponent.
Instead, he was met with a shield crashing into his face.
Blood sprayed from his nose, his head snapping back, his stance faltering.
And Aleeman—struck.
With a fluid movement, he brought his sword down in an arc, forcing Arkadi's weapon low, before twisting his blade and driving it straight into the prince's gut.
Arkadi's eyes widened in horror.
He staggered, his hands clutching at the steel embedded within him, his breath ragged.
Then, with one swift motion, Aleeman yanked his sword free, and Arkadi crumpled onto his knees.
The field fell silent.
A prince had died.
A kingdom had lost its heir.
And on the other side of the battlefield, King Kosma Kuznetsov's expression did not falter—but his knuckles turned white upon the reins of his steed.
A deep, throbbing silence.
Then—chaos erupted.
The first war cry split the heavens.
And Pansilar was drowned in the screams of men and the song of steel.
The earth trembled beneath the hooves of warhorses, the sky thick with the scent of blood, gunpowder, and the sweat of warriors who had long cast away their fear.
Aleeman stood amidst the chaos, his sword slick with the lifeblood of a fallen prince, his breath steady despite the maelstrom of war closing in around him.
And then—he roared.
"Praise to Almighty"
His voice pierced the heavens, raw and unyielding, a declaration that rippled through the ranks of Abjannas like lightning igniting the sky before the storm.
From behind him, his soldiers echoed the cry, their voices melding into one, a war hymn that sent shivers through the bones of their enemies.
But then—silence.
A moment of eerie, pregnant stillness.
The soldiers of Abjannas, their hearts still thundering with zeal, now stood frozen, their eyes widening with collective awareness.
Aleeman, sensing their shift, turned his head sharply—
And there, across the ashen fields of Pansilar, the seven armies thundered forward, their banners whipping through the wind like the wings of blackened vultures.
Ji-Gong cavalry led the charge, their scimitars flashing, their guns barking with the fury of fire-spitting demons.
Behind them, the forces of Kumaruchaisan, Arcanodole, Geoblin, Blogina, Faliton, and Machekwon followed in a maelstrom of clashing iron and roaring gunfire, their formation like a tidal wave poised to crush the shores of Abjannas.
And yet—Abjannas did not falter.
Aleeman's jaw clenched, his grip upon his sword tightening.
His eyes met Finn's, then Wang Ji-Pang's, then his other comrades—each of them nodding, as if death was merely an obstacle to be cut down.
"Forward!" Aleeman roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a scythe through wheat.
And the warriors of Abjannas surged forth, their hooves pounding against the battlefield, a storm answering the storm.
At the forefront, fighting side by side with Aleeman, were his most trusted warriors:
Finn Ming Ju-Go, his twin sabres flashing like lightning, his movements a dance of death, weaving between enemies like the wind between reeds.
Wang Ji-Pang, his poleaxe carving through enemy ranks like an artist painting strokes of carnage.
Tariq al-Khattab, the sharpshooter, his rifle cracking through the din of battle, each shot finding its mark with divine precision.
Mehmet Arslan, the giant of Abjannas, whose mace crashed through armour like an iron meteor splitting the heavens.
Zayd ibn Malik, the dagger-wielding spectre, moving unseen through the carnage, his blades whispering death to all who dared stand against him.
Rüstem Bey, a veteran of war, his sword an extension of his very soul, cleaving through enemy lines with merciless efficiency.
And then—the two storms met.
Swords clashed, shields splintered, muskets roared, and the air filled with the howls of the dying.
Aleeman ducked beneath a swinging scimitar, countering with a sharp upward thrust, his blade piercing the throat of a Ji-Gong warrior.
Blood spurted in a crimson arc, staining his cloak, but he did not slow.
Beside him, Finn parried a sabre with one blade while slashing another enemy's throat with the second, his grin bordering on manic exhilaration.
"This is what I live for!" Finn bellowed as he whirled through the battlefield like a storm given flesh.
Wang Ji-Pang planted his foot into the chest of a knight from Arcanodole, sending the man crashing backward, before bringing his poleaxe down with enough force to shatter both steel and bone.
Tariq al-Khattab, perched atop a fallen tree, fired shot after shot, each bullet piercing through the visors of enemy knights, dropping them before they could even raise their swords.
"Stay in formation!" Rüstem Bey bellowed as he cut through a Machekwon soldier's chest, his sword gleaming with righteous fury.
The battlefield became a hurricane of death, of flashing steel and roaring gunfire, of dying screams and war cries that shook the heavens.
But the enemy was relentless.
The forces of Ji-Gong pressed forward, their elite spearmen driving into Abjannas ranks like a dagger through silk.
Kumaruchaisan knights, their massive warhorses trampling all in their path, smashed into the flank, pushing the warriors of Abjannas into a vicious melee.
Arcanodole's musketeers, perched upon a rocky ridge, unleashed a rain of bullets, each shot ripping through armour, biting into flesh.
Yet—Abjannas did not yield.
Aleeman, at the heart of the fray, moved like a force of nature.
A sword arced towards his head—he ducked, pivoted, and drove his blade through the ribs of his attacker.
An enemy rifle raised to fire—he flung his shield forward, the edge slamming into the gunman's face, shattering teeth and bone.
He fought like Alparslan reborn, his movements precise, his every strike lethal.
Then—a sudden, sharp pain.
A bullet grazed his shoulder, tearing through his cloak.
Aleeman hissed but did not slow, spinning on his heel, his blade slicing across the throat of the shooter before he could reload.
And then—he saw him.
Tekfur Kekaumenos, watching from atop his steed, his lips curled in amusement.
Beside him, Emperor Weng Jin Shun, his expression unreadable, his blood-red armour gleaming under the sun's pale light.
And there, among them, King Kosma Kuznetsov, his face a mask of pure rage, his eyes locked onto Aleeman.
Aleeman knew why.
He had killed his son.
And the war had only just begun.
With one final, mighty cry, he raised his sword high, his voice echoing across the battlefield like the call of destiny itself.
"For Abjannas!"
And the battle raged on.
The battlefield was no longer earth and stone—it had become a living beast, snarling with the cries of dying men, breathing with the smoke of muskets, bleeding with the rivers of crimson that pooled beneath clashing steel.
The crescent moon and star of Abjannas flew high, flickering through the haze of war like a defiant beacon against the oncoming storm.
But the storm would not be tamed.
Ji-Gong warriors clashed with Abjannas swordsmen, their scimitars whirling like tempests, their black-and-red banners swirling in the chaotic dance of death.
The knights of Kumaruchaisan, clad in ruthless steel, charged with shields locked and lances lowered, their horses kicking up dust and death in equal measure.
Arcanodole's musket lines, perched upon the hills, unleashed a barrage of bullets, each shot carving through armour, embedding itself into flesh, toppling warriors before they could even draw their final breath.
But Abjannas stood unshaken.
At the heart of the fray, Aleeman Hakiman fought like a man waging war against fate itself.
A spear thrust lunged for his chest—he twisted, stepping aside with the grace of a desert wind, his blade flashing upwards, severing the attacker's wrist.
A knight swung a flamberge at his side—Aleeman ducked, rolling beneath the deadly arc, his shield slamming against the knight's knee, sending him collapsing into the dust.
An enemy musketeer, perched atop a rock, aimed his rifle at Aleeman's back.
Before he could fire, Finn Ming Ju-Go was upon him.
With a mad grin, Finn somersaulted through the chaos, his twin sabres flashing like twin streaks of silver lightning. He sliced through the musketeer's throat in a single fluid motion, his laughter lost amidst the roars of war.
"You'll have to do better than that!" he jeered, spinning to parry another incoming blow.
Nearby, Wang Ji-Pang fought like a storm given flesh.
He drove his poleaxe into an enemy's chest, wrenching it free with a sickening crunch before whirling in a deadly arc, the broad end of the weapon smashing through the helm of another foe.
"Hold the line!" he bellowed, gripping the banner of Abjannas and driving it into the earth.
And then—the cavalry struck.
The Ji-Gong cavalry thundered forward, their war cries piercing the heavens, their sabres gleaming in the morning sun.
Aleeman turned, his eyes narrowing.
"Archers! Loose!"
From behind the Abjannas line, the whine of bowstrings filled the air, followed by the deadly whistle of arrows slicing through the sky.
The first row of Ji-Gong cavalry fell, their horses rearing, warriors tumbling, arrows piercing through their armour like rain through parchment.
But still, they came.
And then—the knights of Kumaruchaisan charged.
Armour clashed against armour, swords met lances, and in that instant, the battlefield became a hurricane of steel and gunfire.
Aleeman turned just in time to see a knight of Arcanodole bearing down upon him, his mace raised high.
Aleeman raised his shield just as the strike fell, the impact vibrating through his bones, the sheer force of it nearly knocking him off balance.
But before the knight could swing again, Aleeman ducked low, sweeping his sword beneath the knight's horse, severing its tendons.
The beast screamed, toppling forward, throwing its rider from the saddle.
Aleeman wasted no time.
Before the knight could rise, Aleeman plunged his blade through his exposed neck, his movements precise, cold, and unrelenting.
A death. Another. And another.
And yet—the battle did not end.
The ground was a chaotic storm of bodies and steel, a place where kings and warriors alike bled into the soil.
Through the chaos, King Kosma Kuznetsov of Faliton pushed forward, his axe dripping with the blood of Abjannas soldiers.
His eyes blazed with grief and rage as he searched for Aleeman—the man who had slain his son.
Beside him, Tekfur Kekaumenos watched the battle unfold, his lips curled in amusement.
"How beautiful," he murmured, his fingers tightening around the jeweled pommel of his sword.
"You admire carnage too much," Emperor Weng Jin Shun remarked, his scarlet cape flowing behind him like a river of blood.
Kekaumenos chuckled. "And you, not enough."
But then—Kosma found him.
Through the dust and carnage, his gaze locked onto Aleeman.
With a roar, he spurred his horse forward, his axe raised high.
Aleeman turned, his bloodied blade gleaming.
The next duel was upon him.
And the battle of Pansilar—raged on.
The battle raged, its fury unmatched, the earth beneath it reduced to a field of ruin and death. The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder, the metallic tang of blood, the dying gasps of men who had once believed themselves invincible.
And amidst this carnage, two figures locked eyes—one driven by vengeance, the other by unshaken resolve.
King Kosma Kuznetsov of Faliton, the North's battle-hardened sovereign, his great axe slick with the lifeblood of fallen warriors, spurred his armoured warhorse forward, its hooves striking the earth like thunder heralding the storm.
Aleeman Hakiman, standing amidst the fallen, did not retreat, did not falter. His grip upon his sword tightened, his gaze cold as steel itself.
Kosma roared, his voice a bellow of fury and mourning, his charge like a mountain collapsing upon its prey.
Aleeman remained unmoved.
And just as the axe descended—
He pivoted.
Kosma's weapon crashed down upon empty space, striking only air, the sheer force sending dust and gravel skyward.
Aleeman, now beside Kosma's steed, gripped his sword in reverse, then drove the blade deep into the horse's flank.
The beast screamed, rearing violently—too violently.
Kosma, for all his strength, could not control the fall.
The great king toppled from his saddle, crashing onto the battlefield with a resounding thud, his armour clattering like a collapsing fortress.
A hush fell over the battlefield.
For a single breath, all eyes turned—to see the Wolf of Faliton brought low.
Kosma, groaning, pushed himself up, his bloodied helmet falling from his head, revealing his greying hair and the deep lines of war upon his face.
But he was not a man to die upon his knees.
With gritted teeth, he rose, gripping his great axe with both hands, turning to face the man who had slain his son.
"You…" Kosma's voice was a growl, his breath ragged with grief. "You took my blood from me. I shall take all of yours in return."
Aleeman, breathing steadily, raised his sword.
"Then come."
And the two warriors clashed
Kosma swung his great axe in a brutal arc, the weight behind it enough to cleave a man in two.
Aleeman ducked low, feeling the air shudder as the weapon tore past his shoulder, missing him by mere inches.
He countered—his sword flashing forward, seeking flesh.
Kosma deflected with the haft of his axe, sparks flying as steel kissed steel.
Then, with a savage kick, Kosma drove Aleeman backward.
Aleeman stumbled but did not fall, planting his sword into the earth to steady himself.
Kosma came again, his strength unrelenting, his attacks like a raging storm.
Aleeman dodged, sidestepped, parried—his speed the only thing keeping him alive.
But Kosma, though strong, was also a veteran. He saw the youth's agility, the way he danced around the battlefield like an untouchable spectre.
And so—he changed his strategy.
As Aleeman moved in to strike, Kosma shifted his grip, swung low—
And smashed the haft of his axe into Aleeman's ribs.
Aleeman gasped sharply, pain erupting like fire along his side, the force sending him skidding backward.
He barely had time to breathe before Kosma pressed forward again, swinging his axe downward in a killing blow.
Aleeman, mind racing, dropped to his knees, rolling beneath the attack, feeling the blade miss his skull by the width of a breath.
And then—opportunity.
As Kosma recovered from the momentum of his failed strike, his side was left exposed—just for a second.
But a second was all Aleeman needed.
He lunged, his sword flashing.
The blade struck true.
Kosma stiffened.
A deep silence fell.
The battlefield, still raging, seemed suddenly muted.
Kosma staggered backward, eyes wide, lips parting in a breathless gasp.
Aleeman's blade was buried deep into his chest.
The great King of Faliton, the warlord of the North, the man who had survived countless battles—fell to his knees.
His fingers twitched, as if reaching for his axe.
But there was nothing left to hold.
His body, weary with grief, trembling with rage, finally gave out.
And with one last ragged breath, Kosma Kuznetsov collapsed.
Dead.
The warriors of Faliton, seeing their king slain, let out cries of rage and despair.
The forces of Abjannas, seeing their commander triumph, roared in defiance.
Aleeman, breathing heavily, withdrew his sword, its silver now dyed red.
He turned his gaze towards the chaos of battle, his mind pushing away the pain, pushing away the moment.
The war was far from over.
Through the haze of dust and smoke, he saw Tekfur Kekaumenos watching him, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
Beside him, Emperor Weng Jin Shun stood unmoving, his expression unreadable.
And between them—Yannis Jo-Ann, the son of Kekaumenos, gripping his spear tightly, his knuckles turning white.
Their eyes met.
And Aleeman knew—the next challenger had arrived.
He raised his sword, pointing it towards Yannis.
Yannis, snarling, spurred his horse forward, spear levelled.
Aleeman exhaled.
"Let's start."
And the battle raged on.
The battlefield of Pansilar, once a golden expanse untouched by war, now lay drenched in blood and shadow, its earth ruptured by the endless clash of steel and gunfire.
The fallen lay as far as the eye could see, their banners torn and soaked in the crimson price of war. The air reeked of iron and ash, the symphony of dying men mingling with the war cries of those still standing.
And in the midst of it all, Aleeman Hakiman stood unyielding, his blade slick with the lifeblood of kings, his armour dented but defiant.
Across from him, Yannis Jo-Ann, son of Tekfur Kekaumenos, charged forward like a man possessed by the will of vengeance. His spear gleamed under the darkening sky, his steed's hooves pounding against the torn battlefield.
Aleeman exhaled sharply, his grip tightening upon his sword. He knew this duel would not be won with brute strength alone.
As Yannis thrust his spear forward, Aleeman sidestepped with practiced grace, pivoting on his heel, allowing the spear's edge to barely graze his shoulder.
In the same motion, he slashed downward, aiming for Yannis's exposed arm.
The blade bit into flesh.
Yannis roared in agony, his spear slipping from his grasp, but he was not so easily felled.
With a desperate kick, he sent Aleeman stumbling backward, his own dagger appearing in his free hand as he lunged once more.
Aleeman, still regaining balance, parried just in time, their weapons clashing like the final toll of a war drum.
A heartbeat passed.
Then—movement.
Aleeman twisted sharply, his sword cutting through the leather of Yannis's armour, slicing cleanly across his abdomen.
Yannis gasped, his eyes wide with disbelief.
He staggered back, blood pooling beneath him.
With a final choked breath, Yannis Jo-Ann collapsed upon the bloodied fields of Pansilar.
And just like that—the heir of Kumaruchaisan was no more.
Tekfur Kekaumenos, witnessing the fall of his son, remained silent, but his fingers curled tightly around the hilt of his sword, his eyes burning with cold fury.
Beside him, Emperor Weng Jin Shun's expression darkened, his gaze flickering towards the still-mounting casualties of their forces.
Despite their superior numbers, despite their alliance—Abjannas still stood.
And that was when Aleeman turned.
His chest rose and fell with exertion, his face smeared with dirt and blood, yet his presence commanded all who still stood upon that battlefield.
And then, he lifted his head towards the heavens, inhaled deeply—
And roared.
"JANISSARIES!"
The call ripped through the battlefield like the first strike of a storm, echoing across the hills, shaking the very core of the land.
And from the distant horizon—they came.
Like shadows slipping through the dawn, the Janissaries, the elite soldiers of Abjannas, emerged.
Their march was not one of chaos, but of precision, their formation unwavering even as they descended upon the fray.
Clad in dark crimson and silver, their long rifles strapped to their backs, their sabres gleaming in the dying light, they moved as one, an unstoppable force of trained warriors.
The enemy, weary and broken, barely had time to react before the first volley of musket fire ripped through their ranks.
Ji-Gong warriors crumbled beneath the storm of bullets, their formations shattering as the Janissaries advanced.
The knights of Kumaruchaisan, already faltering after Yannis's fall, now faced an enemy that moved like a tide—relentless, disciplined, merciless.
The battle had changed.
Now, it was no longer a fight for survival.
It was a slaughter.
Tekfur Kekaumenos, once confident, now pulled the reins of his steed, his eyes darting across the battlefield.
His forces were being torn apart.
Even Weng Jin Shun, his expression still unreadable, began to see the shifting tide of war.
"We must retreat," one of his generals urged. "If we stay, we will be wiped out!"
Kekaumenos's jaw tightened, his pride warring against reason.
But reason won.
With a final snarl, he turned his horse.
"Fall back!"
The knights of Kumaruchaisan, the Ji-Gong warriors, the battered remnants of the western alliance—all began to pull back, their formations collapsing as the Janissaries pushed forward.
The Battle of Pansilar was over.
And Abjannas had won.
As the dust began to settle, as the last enemy banners disappeared beyond the hills, Aleeman stood atop the bloodied plains, his sword still in hand, his breath steady despite the battle that had raged around him.
Finn Ming Ju-Go, his face smeared with dirt, but his grin still intact, approached. "Well," he breathed, "that was a bit dramatic, wasn't it?"
Wang Ji-Pang, leaning on his poleaxe, scoffed. "Dramatic? That was a massacre."
Aleeman exhaled, sheathing his sword.
He gazed upon the battlefield—the fallen, the broken, the remnants of war.
And he knew.
This was only the beginning.
But for now—
For now, Abjannas stood victorious.
The long road back to Ji-Gong was silent, filled only with the trudging of weary warriors, the clatter of broken weapons, and the muted groans of the wounded.
The once-mighty banners of the Ji-Gong Clan and its western allies, once soaring proudly upon the battlefield, now hung limply, torn by sword and cannon fire.
Their army, once a force of overwhelming strength, had been reduced to a mere fraction of what it had been.
At the head of the broken procession rode Emperor Weng Jin Shun, his face an unreadable mask, his blood-red armour stained not only with the gore of battle, but with the weight of failure.
Behind him, Tekfur Kekaumenos rode in silence, his face pale with suppressed rage, his knuckles white upon the reins of his horse.
And behind them, their remaining men dragged their feet, heads bowed, their shattered pride trailing behind them like ghosts.
They had lost.
And now, there was a price to pay.
The gates of Ji-Gong Castle creaked open, welcoming back its defeated sons with a silence that was heavier than the weight of their own armour.
Weng Jin Shun descended from his steed, his steps measured, controlled, but every fibre of his being burned with rage.
Awaiting him were rows of Ji-Gong soldiers, servants, and the nobles of his court, their faces taut with expectation, with questions unspoken but piercing.
But it was Pan Zhihaou's expression that burned into his back the most.
The monk, standing at the foot of the great stairs, his hands folded within his saffron robes, his bald head glistening under the pale evening light, did not speak.
His lips barely moved, yet his eyes—his eyes held the unspoken condemnation of a thousand accusations.
And then, from the side, another figure emerged.
Lady Mei Lian.
Her robes of deep violet swayed as she stepped forward, her expression schooled into that of a composed empress, but her eyes—her eyes carried a storm.
A storm of anger. A storm of sorrow. A storm of disbelief.
Weng Jin Shun, though weary, lifted his chin.
He had no words for them.
Instead, he turned to his guards, his voice calm but cold.
"Release the prisoners."
The soldiers stiffened but did not question him.
Moments later, from the dungeons of Ji-Gong, the shackled figures of Samiyoshi Hakiman and his men emerged.
They were weakened but unbroken, their eyes still alight with the fire of warriors who had never bent their heads in surrender.
Samiyoshi, his turban loose, his face bruised from captivity, lifted his gaze towards Weng Jin Shun.
And in that moment, despite the difference in power, despite the chains that had once bound him—Samiyoshi looked at the defeated emperor not with fear, nor hatred, but with something far worse.
Pity.
Weng Jin Shun's jaw tensed.
"Go." His voice was sharp, clipped, the word forced through clenched teeth.
Samiyoshi nodded once, then turned, leading his men away from the fortress that had once held them captive.
As the prisoners vanished into the night, free men once more, Weng Jin Shun turned, moving towards the grand staircase of his palace.
But before he could ascend, Lady Mei Lian's voice, laced with quiet fury, cut through the air.
"You have shamed our people."
Weng Jin Shun halted, his fingers curling into fists.
He did not turn to face her.
"You led our warriors to war and returned with nothing but bodies and broken steel."
Still, he did not reply.
Her voice trembled, not with weakness, but with barely restrained rage.
"You killed in the name of vengeance, but it is vengeance that has defeated you."
His breath came slow, steady, but his patience was fraying.
And then—Pan Zhihaou spoke.
"How poetic."
Weng Jin Shun's head snapped towards him.
The monk, ever composed, ever calculating, stepped forward with the grace of a man who had foreseen this moment long before it arrived.
"You ignored my counsel. You let the poison of your own wrath consume you. And now, you return to us not as a conqueror, but as a man stripped of his dominion."
His voice, though soft, was a blade wrapped in silk.
Weng Jin Shun's fingers twitched towards the hilt of his sword.
Pan Zhihaou smiled ever so slightly.
"Tell me, my Emperor," he murmured, tilting his head. "When does your pride break?"
A sharp silence fell upon the courtyard.
The emperor exhaled through his nose, his grip loosening, his rage curling into something else—something far more dangerous.
He turned without another word, ascending the palace stairs, disappearing into the depths of his own self-inflicted humiliation.
Lady Mei Lian, watching his retreating form, exhaled slowly, her nails digging into the silk of her sleeves.
Pan Zhihaou, ever the shadow in the emperor's wake, smirked beneath the moonlight.
"Oh, how the mighty fall."