Rong Xu nearly vomited.
He barely managed to turn his head away in time, one hand pressed to his mouth as his shoulders trembled. He wasn't the only one. Even the most seasoned soldiers, men who had seen death in wars and executions, stood frozen, their faces pale beneath layers of armor.
Everyone could smell it.
Blood.
The metallic stench hung heavy in the air, thick enough to cling to the mouth. It seeped into every breath, unmistakable and overwhelming. But my attention was drawn elsewhere.
Figures lay ahead.
Dark shapes scattered across the white snow, far enough that their details blurred into shadows. Yet even from this distance, the smell told the truth.
They had been dead for a while.
That explained it. The silence. The absence of scouts. The missing army that never arrived.
As we drew closer, the scene unfolded in full.
Men.
Dead men in armor.
Their bodies stretched across the horizon, collapsed in unnatural positions, expressions twisted into something restless and unfinished. Some lay face-down in the snow, others stared blankly at the sky, eyes clouded and empty.
But not all of them were dead.
Some still breathed.
Groans slipped from cracked lips, voices hoarse and weak, pleas that barely carried over the wind. Their eyes were dull with exhaustion, fear hollowing them out as they clutched at the ground.
One of our soldiers dropped to his knees and vomited openly.
I understood why.
This wasn't the glory of battle. There were no clashing blades, no final charges, no honor in steel meeting steel. This was helplessness. The realization, dawning too late, that they had been deceived. That there would be no fight, only death.
"Why…?" Renshu's voice broke. "What is all this? Mei—Aryan… is this because of the—"
"I will have to confirm it, sir," I interrupted quietly, already moving forward.
I didn't look back.
I could feel his gaze on me, wide, horrified, searching for answers I wasn't ready to give. His face had gone dark, his eyes swollen as he took in the scene.
For the briefest moment, something tight stirred in my chest.
Shame.
But it passed.
I needed to check the water.
The central command tent. That was where it would be. There had to be a container, something I could examine.
My horse snorted uneasily as we approached the camp, hooves faltering among the bodies. Even the animals sensed it. The wrongness.
Inside the tent, the air was stagnant.
"Finally…" I murmured when I spotted a glass left abandoned on the table.
My gaze flicked briefly to the man sprawled nearby. His clothing was far finer than the others, embroidered, layered. A commander. Perhaps even a general.
Insects crawled freely over his body.
I took the glass.
The water inside had turned a muted violet, with faint yellow foam gathering at the edges.
There it was.
Proof.
Still, I needed to be certain.
I crouched beside the fallen general, gloved fingers wrapping around his hand. His skin was cold, unnaturally so. I turned his palm slightly, examining the fingertips.
Dark purple-blue.
That settled it.
Nux vomica, ingested in such quantities, prevents oxygen from binding properly to the blood. The discoloration was unmistakable.
The poison had worked.
My task was complete.
The soldiers were dead. Their horses lay scattered among them, stiff and unmoving. The river, yes, the river was lost. And there would be cleanup. A great deal of it.
But those matters no longer concerned me.
As I exited the tent, the sounds reached me.
Cries.
Our soldiers were moving through the field, finishing what the poison had started. Mongol men begged in a language I did not understand, but I didn't need to. I knew those sounds.
The scouts hesitated, hands shaking as they raised knives. Their eyes were red, some rimmed with tears as they forced themselves to act. They believed this was mercy.
It wasn't.
This way was slow. Painful. Inefficient.
"Take this," I said, pressing a small vial into a scout's trembling hands. "Make him smell it. He'll pass soon. There will be no pain—his breathing will simply… stop."
The scout stared at the vial as if it weighed more than a sword.
He did as instructed.
As the scent reached the Mongol's nose, the man's frantic movements slowed. His eyes fluttered, then closed. His chest rose once more.
And then… didn't.
"T-thank you," the scout whispered.
I nodded and moved on.
Evil.
That was the word that surfaced unbidden.
I had done this. These men, young, many of them, had families. Homes they would never return to. Children who would wait for fathers that would never come back.
I had changed the nature of war itself.
No battles. No valor. No weapons clashing beneath banners.
Only deception.
Only poison.
I should have been drowning in guilt.
But why wasn't I?
They had come here to kill us. To burn our land, slaughter civilians, claim territory. The only difference was method, steel instead of resin.
And I hadn't acted alone.
I had been asked for a strategy. I had given one. The council had approved it.
If guilt existed, it did not belong solely to me.
After all—
The way of war is the way of deception.
"Quite the empathy you've shown, Aryan."
That cold voice... Wei Fang.
I turned slowly. His presence was cold and unmoving.
"Thank you, sir," I replied evenly.
"A bit ironic," he continued, "considering you are the reason they're dead."
Anger flared.
"If it hadn't been me," I said, my voice controlled, "they would have died by your soldiers' swords."
His smile curved faintly, never touching his eyes.
"Perhaps. But at least then, they might have had a chance to retreat. Here… this is a graveyard. I doubt a single Mongol survived."
A commander speaking of mercy.
The irony was almost laughable.
Victory was always the end. His methods were simply slower.
I ignored him, distributing the remaining vials to the scouts.
---
Later.
"This is derived from black poppy and winter root," I explained to a colonel. "An alchemical compound designed to suspend respiration. It is largely painless."
"You've thought this through," a rough voice said.
Renshu.
"It's almost nightfall, sir," I continued gently. "We should rest. The vial ensures a faster, painless death—"
"Yes, go and sleep while I think of thousands dying in agony!" he snapped, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "I don't know anymore. Was this worth it? Tell me, Meilina—tell me you feel what I feel!"
I didn't.
"These deaths were necessary," I said softly. "If this hadn't happened, it would have been your men lying here instead. Crying. Helpless. Did you want that?"
He said nothing.
Instead, he grabbed a vial from a soldier's hand and used it himself.
His movements were stiff. His expression was filled with loathing, not at the dying man, but at my solution. At the dishonor of it.
I didn't look away.
The guilt never overtook me.
Renshu was safe.
His soldiers were safe.
The cost... was irrelevant.
---