Lo Quen stayed in Crown Town for only a day and a night before hastily returning to the Central Highlands with Wildfire and a group of pyromancers.
The darkness before dawn was at its thickest, shrouding both opposing camps in the Central Highlands with a deathly chill. The highland fortress crouched atop the ridge, its stone walls glimmering cold and hard beneath the sparse starlight. Only a few scattered campfires flickered atop the towers, where sentries moved sluggishly behind the battlements.
Behind the curtain wall, the sellsword camp was filled with the sound of snoring. By day, their nerves were stretched taut, fearing Lo Quen might lead his forces to storm the castle. Only at night could these weary warriors find a moment's respite. Across the entire hilltop, the only sounds were the rustle of wind through dry grass and the occasional distant howl of wolves.
At Lo Quen's rammed-earth fortress, however, the atmosphere was entirely different. No campfires, no clamor—only a cold, oppressive stillness charged with anticipation. Three specially modified giant catapults loomed in the dark, their outlines grim and menacing.
Their throwing arms had been thickened and reinforced, wrapped with grease-soaked ropes. The winch systems were strengthened as well, capable of bearing loads far heavier than ordinary stone projectiles. Most crucially, the launch ends had been equipped with special attachments—no longer simple leather pouches, but multi-layered nets woven from tough vines and thick canvas, lined with moss and cork shavings to cushion the wildfire clay pots.
Pyromancers murmured final instructions beside the catapults. Squadrons of carefully selected soldiers, responding to their officers' low commands, worked in pairs to slowly and steadily unload each specially crafted clay pot from the transport racks. Every pot was thickly wrapped in straw and damp cloth. As each was placed into the net pouch, those nearby instinctively stepped back.
Lo Quen stood atop the fortress's highest watchtower, draped in a dark cloak, his gaze piercing the blackness as he locked onto the highland fortress's silhouette. Chai Yiq stood quietly beside him, her breathing deliberately soft.
"Loading complete, Your Grace!"
The pyromancer's report came softly through the messenger. Lo Quen did not turn. He simply raised his right hand.
"Target the inner curtain wall of the highland fortress."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly to every commander.
The catapult crews, after months of practice, had mastered every angle and distance.
"Elevation forty-five degrees, range… calibrate!"
"Calibrate!"
The command was passed down swiftly. The winches creaked as the thick ropes tightened, lifting the massive counterweights inch by inch toward their limit. The huge arms, like fully drawn bows, trembled under the strain, the wood groaning from the pressure.
Sweat rolled down the operators' faces, yet their eyes stayed locked on the calibration markers, not daring to waver. Time stretched on, second by second.
A faint pale light began to seep into the eastern horizon, outlining the fortress more clearly. On one of the towers, a yawning Myr sentry stirred. He had noticed the eerie silence across the way and the faint mechanical whine. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he leaned forward to peer into the darkness, trying to see the rammed-earth position.
At that very moment—
"Fire!"
Lo Quen's right hand sliced through the air.
Three thunderous cracks tore apart the stillness of dawn. The massive arms of the catapults sprang upward with violent force, hurling the clay pots encased in their woven nets high into the sky.
The heavy pots arced through the air, tracing three sharp parabolas as they hurtled toward the fortress.
"Wh-what is that?!"
The sentry atop the tower finally made out the fast-approaching black dots. His terrified scream shattered the fragile peace.
"Enemy attack! Catapult!!"
The shrill alarms rang out through the fortress.
The sleeping sellswords and slave troops jolted awake at once. Shouts, curses, the clash of metal, and the thud of hurried footsteps erupted in chaos. Yet the sellswords—veterans hardened by countless battles—reacted swiftly. Many didn't even bother putting on armor; they simply grabbed their weapons, instinctively seeking cover or rushing for the battlements.
Still, confusion and a touch of scorn lingered among them.
Catapults again? Had that Easterner still not given up?
For the past two months, the projectiles had done little more than make noise and scatter debris, utterly incapable of damaging the fortress. To prevent stones from striking inside the curtain walls and injuring soldiers, they had even strung up several layers of netting above the courtyard to absorb the impact. Their camps were also set up directly beside the walls to avoid being hit.
Captain Kov of the Bright Banners Company bellowed at the chaos as he roughly tightened the straps on his breastplate.
"What's the panic for! They're just worthless rocks! Shields ready! Archers to the walls! If those Eastern rats dare come—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Because the three "boulders" were already soaring overhead.
"No... this isn't right..."
Daario Naharis of the Stormcrows was nimbly climbing the wooden watchtower when his sharp instincts screamed of mortal danger. Those things flying through the air weren't stones. His pupils shrank as the eerie green glow from countless clay jars reflected in them.
"Get down! Find solid cover!"
His shout was instantly swallowed by the rising chaos.
The first clay jar crashed hard onto the watchtower atop the main keep. The sound wasn't of stone breaking, but a heavy crack followed by the dull splash of liquid bursting free.
A wave of viscous, jade-green fluid splattered across the tower's summit, spraying out in a violent, radiating pattern. The thick green substance clung to the cold stone walls, the wooden beams, and the startled soldiers, slowly oozing and spreading as it shimmered with an ominous light.
For an instant, the entire battlefield fell into a chilling silence.
The soldiers doused in the liquid stared at their glowing, sticky arms in horror. Thinking it some deadly poison, they panicked, frantically trying to wipe it away—only for the green slime to smear further with every motion, their terrified screams piercing the still air.
Soon, however, they realized it wasn't poisonous. Aside from its cold, slimy touch and foul stench, the liquid seemed harmless.
Below, the confusion rippled through the sellsword camp.
"Ha... Ha!"
Goghor, captain of the Iron Shields, froze for a moment before bursting into a loud, rough laugh of relief.
"Look at you cowards! Those Easterners are just putting on a show!"
Mero of the Second Sons exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow before curling his lips into a sneer. "Told you—those Eastern sorcerers love their little tricks."
Their laughter spread through the ranks as they looked down on the green liquid, convinced that Lo Quen was merely trying to scare them.
Daario of the Stormcrows approached, dipped a finger into the strange fluid, and brought it to his nose. The stench was awful.
He frowned. The smell was strangely familiar—like something he had seen before.
...
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