Perched atop the city wall, Yanga stood as still as a statue, frozen not by fear but by the flood of emotions surging through him.
It was his very first Battle. Though he understood why it had to happen, he couldn't stop the wave of feelings that kept him rooted in place, staring out at the battlefield now swept clean, as if nothing had ever occurred.
Emotion surged through his heart, flooding him with feelings he couldn't quite grasp. Yanga had seen battles in movies, watched heroes rise and fall, but living it himself was an entirely different thing.
Standing there in the middle, atop the city wall, he felt just a little lost, caught in the realization that this was only the first of many moments like it.
In that moment, Yanga realized something deep within his heart, something that went against everything he thought he knew about Battle.
On TV and in movies, there was always the spectacle: the tactics, the formations, the clash of armies, the courage, the honor. All the things Yanga once found impressive suddenly faded away, replaced by an unsettling truth: battles are unnecessary.
Of course, conflicts are bound to happen because people don't always get along, but that doesn't make them necessary.
That was Yanga's decision never to encourage war. If there was even the slightest chance to avoid it, he was willing to take it, even if it meant doing something risky or morally questionable to prevent it.
In that moment, Yanga realized that those in power started wars, but the powerless paid the price. It was the soldiers who died, their families who grieved, and loved ones who lost breadwinners and pillars of support.
If there were a way to prevent this from happening again, Yanga would do whatever he could, though deep down he knew that wars and battles were an inevitable part of life a truly sad part of life.
While Yanga was caught up in his emotions, events unfolded atop the city hall without him noticing.
The Battle had ended, and the battlefield was already cleared. The cultivators who had been fighting should have left to heal and recover, but none of them did. Instead, they stood along the wall like Yanga, each lost in their own quiet moment, attuned to your emotions.
By the time Yanga realized something strange was going on, a group of medians had already reached the top of the wall, each holding a lamp. There were ten in all, each with a unique lamp whose flame glowed a brilliant, deep, and somehow sorrowful blue.
When Yanga gazed at the blue, a wave of nostalgia washed over him, and he sensed that if he kept staring, tears would begin to fall without him even knowing why. Something about those blue flame lamps felt oddly funny.
The medians began singing a deep, haunting song, and the moment they did, Yanga sensed something was terribly wrong.
There was just too much emotion in it, raw and intense. It felt like someone had reached into their heart and pulled out everything that made them who they were.
As they continued singing, the flames grew brighter and brighter until they filled the entire field. When the light finally faded, Yanga saw clusters of blue fire drifting toward distant places.
The flames burned softly, untouched by the wind or their surroundings, simply floating, flowing and flickering.
As Yanga gazed at the blue flames, an instinct stirred within him. Something deep inside recognized them, and the longer he watched, the clearer it became.
These weren't flames at all, but the souls of the departed the spirits of those who had fallen in Battle.
He stared at the soft, glowing blue flames, completely lost in their allure. They were simply irresistible, and Yanga was certain he wasn't the only one mesmerized by their dance.
So entranced was he that he didn't notice someone standing beside him until a gentle touch broke his trance. Only then did Yanga turn to see who it was.
Another woman stood beside Yanga, though she seemed unimportant then. She was very tall, her loose clothing hiding most of her shape, but one could easily imagine a striking figure beneath that would turn heads.
Her long, silky hair flowed gracefully, framing a face so stunning it could topple kingdoms the kind of beauty wars might be fought over.
But when Yanga looked at her, she seemed insignificant, as all his attention was fixed on the clay calabash in her hands; when she spoke, her voice was so sweet that every man who heard it would lose his sanity.
"Let the warrior's funeral begin," her voice sparked, stirring something hidden. The air shifted from the blue glow of the flames to a weighty stillness, like the final moments of a battlefield when one surveys the wreckage, the ruin left behind, and grief begins to take hold.
He thought of his actions, of what he had done to bring about such loss, and knew there was nothing he could do to undo the countless lives his choices had claimed.
The shift in the atmosphere atop the city wall brought a change to the song the medians sang. It transformed into something Yanga didn't recognize, yet somehow did.
It was both present and absent at once. This time, the melody carried a steadier, beat-like rhythm, almost like a drum heralding an approaching despair.
As the song played on, Yanga felt like he was stepping into a dreamlike world, standing atop the city wall, hearing the drumbeat echo a warning of an approaching disaster one that no one could escape.
Standing on the city wall, Yanga peered over a hedge and saw an army so vast it was impossible to count.
The soldiers were marching straight toward the city, and he knew there was nothing he could do to stop them.
They were intent on destroying them. Running wasn't an option they could never outrun them. Fighting was all that remained, though it would only delay the inevitable
As Yanga drifted in the illusory world, a gentle touch pulled him back to reality.
Turning to his side, he saw the stunning holy maiden beside him, holding out a calabash in her hands for him.
When Yanga first laid eyes on the calabash, he knew it wasn't that something was wrong with it it just demanded attention, refusing to be ignored.
At the time, Yanga couldn't figure out why it had such a powerful effect, but now, cradling it in his arms, he understood.
This was the work of the elder who is in charge of the village's defenses. After the battles, when the fighting ceased, the elder did something magical, and it cleared the field of all the blood and gore.
Now Yanga realized where it had all gone into the calabash. Strangely, it weighed nothing, light as a feather in his hands, yet the knowledge of what it held made it feel unbearably heavy, so much so that Yanga nearly dropped it.
A voice came from the Holy Maiden standing beside Yanga. "You shone the brightest during the Battle.
Your courage inspired others. That's why you must lead the fallen to their resting place.
To do that, you need to do two things: pour your qi into the calabash and say a few words to the departed soul."
Yanga followed the instructions, pouring as much spirit qi as he could into the calabash.
The atmosphere above the city wall shifted again, falling quiet, as though every living thing were listening.
He searched his mind for the right words to honor the fallen brothers and sisters who had died defending the wall, but nothing came.
Acting on instinct, Yanga began to sing a song he had long forgotten a song his mother used to sing to him when he was a child.
It was the lullaby that spoke of terrible things. A lullaby that spoke of understanding. A lullaby that spoke of moving on. It seemed like a perfect song to sing at the moment.
The terrible things that happened and the departed understood why they fought and died, and people who departed needed to be understood to let go and move on to what comes next.