Dawa stood on Whitefang Peak's unforgiving cliff face, the deceptive brilliance of the sun mocking the brutal assault of the wind. It wasn't just a breeze; it was a furious, unseen entity, clawing at his white coat, trying to rip him from the mountain itself. With every savage gust, the fur collar, once a comfort, became a chilling, persistent torment against his neck, a stark, icy reminder of the exposed heights and the peril of their perch.
After a final, focused scan through the telescope at the first checkpoint, less than two hundred yards away, Dawa felt a grim satisfaction. He handed the cold metal to the soldier beside him, his voice clipped and precise. "We have what we need." He pulled his hood forward, a shadow falling over his face, before turning to descend the treacherous slope of Whitefang Peak towards the military checkpoint below.
At the foot of the mountain, two more soldiers waited, their forms etched against the harsh landscape. The air still crackled with an unseen tension. Dawa and the scout swiftly mounted their horses, the animals snorting plumes of frosty breath into the frigid air, and spurred them towards the Northeast military camp, nestled in Namsu Village – a mere three hundred yards from the volatile border of the Hmagol and Gimsong Kingdoms.
Inside the Hmagol Northeast military camp, the air in the military conference tent was thick with unspoken frustrations. Batzorig sat, a weary leader among his four captains, the flickering lamplight casting long, dancing shadows on their faces.
Jochi's voice was a low growl, laced with bitterness. "Over the years we've stubbornly avoided Nue-Li City, the Ginmiao have only tightened their iron grip. They've swelled its ranks with more soldiers, heavier guards, and weapons that could level mountains. They even have the loathsome support of Yija of Kosanz Kingdom."
Arban's brow furrowed into a deep chasm of concern. "Why, for the gods' sake, does Prince Dzhambul suddenly crave Nue-Li City? Now? It's madness! We've barely washed the blood of the Zasra Kingdom war from our hands." His voice held a tremor of exhausted protest.
Chenghiz exhaled slowly, a sound like deflating hope. "I believe His Highness craves this attack because of the whispers, the triumphant rumors that the Eastern Hmagol Army crushed the Razaasia Army in Hosha City."
Bolor nodded, a grim resignation in his eyes. "He likely sees it as a cheap way to inflate our soldiers' morale."
Batzorig held up a hand, a weary attempt at calm. "Let's not jump to conclusions, captains. His Highness merely wants a survey, to gauge if the Ginmiao intend to strike first. He hasn't uttered a single word about openly reclaiming Nue-Li City." His words lacked conviction, even to his own ears.
Jochi's jaw clenched, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury. "General, we've been rotting here for four months, surveying every last soldier, every predictable routine of the Ginmiao army! This is no survey; this is a blatant declaration that Prince Dzhambul intends to seize Nue-Li City!"
Arban spoke through gritted teeth, each word a blade. "His Highness's intention is as clear as a cloudless sky; even a blind man could see through his deceitful intentions. He wants us to shed our blood first, pave the way with our corpses, before he deigns to walk into battle. My guess? He'll order us to attack Nue-Li City, then swoop in with his pristine soldiers to claim the glory once we've bled for it." His voice dripped with contempt.
"Captain, watch your tongue," Batzorig warned, his own patience fraying.
"I am not speaking wrongly!" Arban retorted, his voice rising, charged with bitter memory. "This is the same betrayal as last time! He threw us into the maw of battle, then deliberately withheld reinforcements, leading to our defeat, and you, General, almost died! If not for Haitao's quick thinking... you would have remained in Nue-Li City, a corpse among countless others."
Chenghiz leaned forward, his hands clenching into fists. "Without your guidance, General, Prince Dzhambul would be nothing! Yet, instead of gratitude for all you've taught him, he stabbed you in the back, recruiting those very bastards you nurtured into captains, turning them to his side!" He inhaled sharply, battling the rising tide of his own rage.
Jochi's words were a low, dangerous rumble. "General, look around you. Those who hold allegiance to Prince Dzhambul are nowhere near this military camp. He has strategically placed his loyalists back in the Northern Military camp. We, his inconvenient shadows, are marooned here in the northeast, on the very edge of Hmagol, guarding a border from Ginmiao sneak attacks that rarely materialize!"
"I know, captain. I know your worries," Batzorig admitted, his voice heavy with a profound weariness. "But we must remember our true allegiance: not to Prince Dzhambul, but to His Majesty and the people of Hmagol. Wherever we are stationed, our duty remains paramount, fulfilling His Majesty's orders." He sighed, a sound of profound resignation. "And over the years, I've seen Prince Dzhambul's unmistakable bias against you five. Two lions cannot share the same cave; this truth rings louder than ever. Prince Dzhambul is slowly, meticulously, establishing himself in the Northern Military Camp, grooming his own captains to stand equal to me." He was about to speak again when the tent flap rustled, and Dawa stepped in.
"General," Dawa said, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere, as he strode purposefully towards Batzorig.
"Any new developments at the border?" Batzorig asked, his expression guarded.
"For the past two days, the Gimsong side has seemed... restless," Dawa reported, his gaze fixed on the map. "More soldiers patrolling. We snuck past the neutral zone this time, and I noticed the border is now heavily fortified with crossbow machineries." He pointed a precise finger at the map. "They're strategically placed every twenty yards across the entire narrow mountain pass between north and south Whitefang Peak."
Batzorig sighed, the weight of the information settling on his shoulders. "Our greatest obstacle isn't those crossbow machineries, Dawa," he said, his voice tinged with a familiar frustration. "It's the impenetrable, well-fortified wall of Nue-Li City. Whoever fortified those walls understood how to twist Whitefang Peak into its ultimate defense. We've attempted to reclaim it five times since we lost it, and failed every single time."
"General!" a soldier's urgent voice called from outside, piercing the quiet.
Batzorig nodded curtly to Dawa. "Come in!" Dawa yelled, his voice echoing the command.
The soldier burst in, dropping to one knee before Batzorig, his breath ragged. "General! A group of villagers are outside the camp, asking if they could bring us their extra harvest." He looked to Batzorig, his eyes wide. "The guards didn't know what to do; they're asking if the General would accept the vegetables and rice."
"We're low on food supplies," Arban interjected, a pragmatic edge to his voice. "And if we're to be sent to war with the Ginmiao, a few extra sacks of rice would be a blessing."
Batzorig's expression softened slightly. "Tell the guards to accept them. Have the villagers leave the supply at the gate, and thank them profoundly on my behalf." A thought struck him, a rare moment of introspection. For the past three years, since his posting here, the local villagers had been unfailingly kind, always bringing food before the New Year. He hadn't once gone out to thank them in person, a lapse that now felt deeply rude. This year, he decided, would be different. He would offer his gratitude himself.
He rose, his gaze sweeping over his five captains. "I should go thank the locals in person for their generosity."
Batzorig led his five captains and the soldiers out of the meeting tent, their footsteps crunching on the gravel path towards the military camp entrance. A sizable crowd of villagers stood waiting, their faces etched with a mixture of hope and apprehension.
Batzorig walked to the entrance, a genuine smile gracing his features. "Thank you," he said, his voice warm with sincerity. "Thank you for bringing us your harvest. I couldn't be more appreciative."
An elder man stepped forward, his eyes crinkling. "General, since you have been stationed here, we feel a peace we haven't known in years. This is merely what we nearby villagers can do for you."
Batzorig's smile deepened. "I am truly moved that every year, the local villagers gather to bring us your extra harvest. On behalf of my soldiers, I thank you all for your unwavering support and immense generosity."
"General!" A pregnant woman, her face flushed with effort, walked forward and extended a basket of sun-ripened fruits. "We should be thanking you. Since you and your soldiers arrived, we feel safe enough to sleep soundly, without the constant terror of the Ginmiao invading our homes in the night."
Batzorig took the basket from her, his touch gentle. "It is simply our duty to protect the people of Hmagol."
A sudden, sharp grunt of pain tore from the woman's throat. She dropped to her knees, clutching her belly. Batzorig, closest to her, instinctively bent forward to help, his concern immediate.
But as he bent, the elder man who had stood behind him suddenly dropped his own basket of fruit. With a chilling speed that defied his age, he lunged forward, plunging a knife deep into Batzorig's left shoulder.
Dawa's sword shrieked from its sheath, the blade flashing as he pressed it to the elder man's throat. Simultaneously, Arban's boot connected with a brutal thud, sending the old man crashing into the scattered vegetable baskets behind him.
Jochi, a blur of motion by Batzorig's left, seized the pregnant woman's hand. With a ruthless shove, he pushed her forward, his own sword hissing from its scabbard. Without a flicker of hesitation, he chopped off her hand and then, with a sickeningly precise movement, stabbed her in the neck. The pregnant woman crumpled to the ground, a lifeless heap.
"General!" Arban roared, his voice laced with horror, as he desperately tried to support the rapidly weakening Batzorig.
The innocent villagers, caught in the sudden, savage maelstrom, were utterly lost, their faces a mask of confusion and terror as the soldiers swiftly surrounded them.
"Let them go... don't hurt them..." Batzorig gasped, a rasping whisper. He coughed, a terrible, wet sound, and then slumped unconscious into Arban's frantic arms.
"General! General!" Arban shouted, his voice a desperate plea.
The elder man, blood bubbling from his mouth, stretched out a trembling hand. "Gen... general... please... save... sav..." His words dissolved into a final, choked gasp as life fled his eyes.
In a small, unassuming house on the outskirts of Namsu village, far from the escalating chaos of the Hmagol Northeast military camp, Lixin sat calmly, sipping tea. His gaze, devoid of emotion, drifted to the two young boys bound and gagged on the bed, their small forms trembling.
He rose, walking slowly to the bed, a predatory gentleness in his movements. He wiped the boys' tears with a seemingly tender hand, a chilling smile playing on his lips. "Little brothers, you don't have to be afraid of anything. I will not hurt you," he purred, his voice a soft, deceptive lullaby. "Not as long as your mother and grandfather successfully injured Batzorig." His smile widened. "So many tears from such tiny eyes. Let this big brother wipe your tears for you." He produced a crisp handkerchief from his sleeve, meticulously wiping away their fear-filled tears.
The door swung open, and a man entered, his expression grim. "How was it?"
"Mission successful," the man stated, his voice flat. "Batzorig is injured as planned."
Lixin's smile deepened as he looked back at the terrified boys. "You, see?" he murmured, a cold triumph in his eyes. "Your mother and grandfather have successfully completed the mission I entrusted them with." He rose from the bed and walked towards the door, pausing. He turned, his gaze lingering on the two young, helpless boys, then shifted to the man standing behind them. He gave a sharp, decisive nod.
"Finish here. I will meet you at the Northern Camp."
He stepped out of the small stone house, into the vast, open field. He took a deep, invigorating breath, the cool air filling his lungs. "Every chess piece I remove from the board, I am one step closer to checkmate. Your deaths today will not be in vain."
The man inside closed the door, the click echoing in the small room. He turned, his eyes fixed on the two bound boys, and slowly, deliberately, pulled his dagger from his belt, its blade glinting in the dim light as he advanced.