In the 28th year of Emperor Wu Gao Rong's reign over the Nokrang Dynasty, the Western Xia Dynastyunleashed a formidable force of 200,000 soldiers in an ambitious campaign of territorial expansion.
For the Xia Dynasty, it was a quest for dominion — but for the Nokrang people, defeat meant more than lost land — it meant lost homes, lost lives, and the end of their way of life.
Bordering the indomitable Xia Empire lay the region of Enka — a land of lush fields and blooming flowers, their beauty tempting the bloodthirsty armies who would soon come to stain the soil crimson. It was a land made for war.
The mighty Han River carved through the Nokrang Empire, severing this region from the heart of the kingdom. Isolated from the main empire, Enka held no grand cities, only scattered peasant villages dotting its quiet expanse.
Yet Enka was rich — its forests thick and its fields fertile — a land brimming with life. But the Han River was merciless. Its raging floods swept through the region repeatedly, drowning the earth in violent waters.
Xia had to secure the plains of Enka first to conquer Nokrang. And the Nokrang had to defend this land, for if Enka fell, the heart of Nokrang would soon bleed beneath the wretched blades of Xia.
The southern walls of Enka stood old and cracked, yet unyielding. Upon them, forty thousand men held their breath. Not boys with trembling hands, but seasoned blades sharpened by years of blood and bone.
They had seen brothers buried in the floodplains. Heard the screams of burning villages carried on storm winds. Their armor was worn, their eyes hollow, but their hearts — unshaken.
They were not fighting for coin. Not for kings.
They fought for soil.
For the old mother weaving at dusk, awaiting the enchanting night sky.
For the children who played by the ever so mighty river.
For the graves that could not speak, yet emitted the stories of their ancestors.
Xia came like a curse, two hundred thousand strong. But the men on those walls did not tremble. For they had long made peace with death. They did not pray. They adjusted their swords.
And when the sky turned grey, and the winds stilled, they waited in silence, ready beneath the eye of a man who had led them through every storm.
General Ryu stood above them, cloak heavy with rain and memory.
And behind his cold eyes, the war had already begun.
He was the commander in charge of these 40,000 men. He had witnessed countless battles against Xia itself.
"It has been a while since we fought them, sire."
A soldier pouring wine to General Ryu remarked, they both smirked in a sense of shared nostalgia.
General Ryu took a sip, his vessel plain—an unglazed cup with a coarse surface, no finer than the ones used by the peasants and farmers of Enka.
The wine inside was cheap — sharp and biting — yet it was warm, and that was enough. Ryu took another slow sip, feeling the liquid scorch his throat before settling like a stone in his gut.
"Yes, Adjutant Li," Ryu went on. "It's a shame the Xian Civil War ended. At least it kept them too busy to invade us." He let out a dry smirk. "Those bastards stopped tearing each other apart, and now they're back to waging war on us."
General Ryu's expression changed,
"Although it seems General Zhao will be leading the Xia forces." Ryu's eyes darkened at the name.
His gaze drifted for a moment, lost in memory. "I still remember the war of unification in Xianyang. He wasn't even a general back then, yet..."
"I know," Ryu interrupted. "I remember, too."
"That man… there's something about him. Something unsettling."
Ryu took another sip of wine, his expression unreadable. "It was a solid strategy on our part. After nine grueling months of battle, we finally had them trapped, the wet dream of a military leader—an encirclement, flawless in execution. Victory was all but certain. And yet, some no-name officer, a mere commander of a thousand men, rallied his troops and tore through our lines without regard for their own lives. A reckless, suicidal charge… but in the end, they succeeded. They cut down our commander-in-chief."
Adjutant Li's voice was quieter now.
"I heard he never took part in the Xian civil war. No heirs, no ties to politics, no interest in power. He even refused court positions."
"You meet all kinds of men on the battlefield," Ryu murmured. "But him... he's different."
The adjutant clenched his jaw. He understood. They all did.
General Ryu knew he was no match for the man feared by all Eleven Empires under Heaven. General Zhao — the one the heavens rejected, too afraid to claim him. Against such a monster, there was no strategy, no heroism, only will. This war would be fought with nothing but blood and morale — for nothing else could hope to stand against him, or maybe there was?
Ryu spoke, the chill in his voice now threaded with something else — something almost pleased.
"Adjutant Li. I heard the ambush was a success."
He took a slow sip, letting the moment hang.
"Xia forces wiped clean. Every rat chased into the mud — hunted to the end, huh?"
His eyes drifted north, narrowed — as if savoring something only he could see.
The approaching Xia armies had camped roughly 70 weis away from the southern Nokrang walls — less than a full day's march. The land they occupied was bare and wind-swept, surrounded by low, broken hills that stretched like the back of a sleeping beast. Dust hung in the air, kicked up by the endless shuffling of boots and the restless hooves of horses. Makeshift banners fluttered weakly in the dry wind, their once-vivid colors dulled by the sun and stained with the grime of long travel.
This was the first campaign launched by Xia since the end of their savage civil war. Their first war under a new king. The army, though large, was raw. Most were drawn from the peasantry: gaunt young men who had never held a sword before conscription, fathers who once tilled soil now sharpening blades with calloused hands. Their armor, if they had any, was scavenged and ill-fit, their formations still awkward. These men had never seen the enthralled fields where generals hurled tens of thousands after dreams. They knew nothing of the scarlet plains where gods fed on men, and yet they stood with a quiet, burning resolve — the kind that only hardship could forge.
Within a sprawling tent near the center of the camp, the officer's meeting was underway. Raised voices occasionally pierced the canvas, followed by long silences. Outside, lower-ranking commanders lingered by their units, waiting for orders. Some sat on overturned crates, others leaned against spears driven into the ground, smoking bitter reeds, whispering prayers to nameless gods while looking up, at the cloudless sky.
Tension clung to the air. These men had survived civil strife only to be thrust into a foreign war. The hills watched in silence, the wind carried whispers of battles yet to come, and every soldier knew — the earth would open its mouth for blood.
"Still no signs of them?"
The sudden voice cut through the still air, startling the young man who had been resting against a strange, jagged rock. He looked up, his eyes narrowing toward the source of the voice — sharp, elegant, almost mistaken for a girl's.
"…Not yet, Sir Kojun," he replied after a pause. His gaze drifted away, unfocused. "I'm in no place to doubt the moves of Commander Zhao, but I still don't understand why we sent the units eastward before we even reached the southern walls, We could've scouted the forest after reaching the walls." He didn't bother to rise from the oddly shaped rock beneath him, the tone in his voice low, tired.
Kojun studied him for a moment, then gave a faint smile.
"You always outmaneuver me in war simulations, Yoku. Yet you ask something so simple?"
The smile faded as quickly as it came.
"Commander Zhao's decisions aren't for us to question, not in most cases. And sending a few hundred-man units east was a sound move, considering the terrain of Enka—"
He was cut off. Yoku's voice came sharper now, laced with irritation.
"Don't patronize me, Kojun. I know Enka as well as you. There's a wall to the south, and a thick marsh forest to the east — nearly impossible for even a light cavalry unit to pass through cleanly. Beyond that, there's a bridge. But that forest's a mess of muck and roots. We're fielding four armies — fifty thousand each — and you think that path matters? The Nokrangs wouldn't even bother guarding that bridge—"
"And that," Kojun interjected, his voice calm but edged, "is why we don't question General Zhao."
He stepped closer, his shadow overlapping Yoku's.
"It's been over five days since we saw them off. Not a single report, no returning scouts. They can't just vanish into the marsh. And while the forest may be too dense for a full march… someone, somewhere, might still find a way to make use of it."
For a moment, there was only silence.
Yoku stared at him, frustration simmering in his eyes — until something shifted. A thought. A click. The edges of his scowl softened as realization dawned.
His eyes lit up — the kind of quiet, sharp spark only a strategist could carry when all the pieces suddenly fell into place.
"Deceive the heavens to cross the sea…" Yoku murmured, eyes still fixed on Kojun.
Kojun let out a quiet chuckle, shrugging slightly as a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Who's to say?" he replied. "Our commander isn't one for grand riddles. He feels something off—and he acts. For him, the war isn't coming... it's already here."
Yoku's lips curled into a knowing smile, the weight of realization settling between them like the wind in the grass.
"Well...Of course he used the normal hundred-man units instead of proper scouts, they were a sacrifice..!"
Yoku muttered, eyes narrowed. His mind still chewing on the shape of the plan, trying to trace the outline of what Zhao saw.
Kojun cut through, quiet but clear.
"Remember the girl?"
Yoku blinked. "What?"
"The female commander. Hundred-man unit. She was sent east too."
The wind came then — hard and sharp, like the land itself was coughing. It dragged dust across the earth in long, violent streaks. Banners snapped sideways, strained at their poles. The officer's tent shuddered and hissed, its ropes stretched taut, canvas flapping like the wings of something trying to flee. The sky turned the color of old bone.
Kojun's hair thrashed in the wind. He didn't blink. Just watched the east.
"Yue," Yoku said. Not asking. Just naming. "Hmm, her? She will survive." He said it like a fact. Like noting the weather, his facial expression remained still.
Kojun didn't respond. Just followed his gaze toward the marshes.
The wind kept blowing. The dust kept moving.
Deep beyond the Enka borders, someone had begun to piece together the intent behind General Zhao's strange maneuver—sending mere hundreds into the thick, marsh-laced forest. It was unorthodox, seemingly senseless. In nearly every case, such a move would yield nothing. And yet… Zhao had felt something.
Far to the southeast, wrapped in the deceptive comfort of a firelit hut, Yue jolted awake with a gasp, the scent of herbs and smoke thick in the air. Her body was broken—bandaged shoulder, torn thigh, cracked lips, ribs that ached with every breath. She lay on a straw mat in a dim hut, lit only by a dying hearth. The walls were patched wood, the warmth unsettling in contrast to the chaos she remembered. Her limbs trembled with exhaustion, pain pulsing through every nerve. Yet in her eyes, beneath the fever and fatigue, a flicker of rage burned. She had survived—and that meant something. She tried standing up, gasping for air, she failed, she tried again, barely succeeding, she dragged herself to the out to understand what happened.
"I must've hit my head on a rock," Yue thought, the memory hazy and fractured. "I should've died... unless—Liang. He must have saved me."
Her chest tightened with worry. Dragging her weak body upright, she stepped out of the creaking hut. The sunlight stabbed at her still-dim eyes, and she squinted as the world sharpened into view. A humble village stretched before her—wooden homes, drying herbs, distant chatter. Human settlement.
She blinked slowly, analyzing her surroundings.
[This is... a Nokrang village.]
She looked down at herself—bandages, torn clothes, dirt-covered skin. Her wounds seemed more accidental than battle-earned.
[They probably haven't figured out I'm a soldier.]
Then she remembered the deeper scars—the ones swords and flame had carved in her flesh.
[...Or maybe they have.]
"What do you think you're doing?" came a voice, sharp as a whip. Yue turned to see an old woman stomping toward her. "Back inside, now! Your body's barely holding together. You need rest!"
Yue steadied herself and asked carefully, "Where am I?" Her voice held a subtle edge—she needed answers, fast. She had to get back to Xia's camp. They had no idea what lay hidden in the eastern woods.
"Where?" The old woman seemed confused at first. "You were found on the banks of the Han. We thought you were dead—your body looked done for—but you were still breathing, still... pushing." She softened slightly. "You're lucky to be alive, girl. This is a village near Seila Castle."
Yue froze.
[Seila Castle... That means I'm not in Enka. I was swept down the Han River... all the way to the Nokrang heartlands.]
Her stomach sank. She was stranded—wounded, alone, and hundreds of weis behind the frontlines. Her unit had been decimated in that ambush, and now the weight of survival—and of warning her people—rested on her broken shoulders.