The eastern wind howled across the jagged spine of the mountain range, carrying the sharp, fresh scent of pine needles and ancient stone. To anyone else, it was a peaceful morning, but to the men standing on the high watchtower, the wind carried the phantom smell of blood and iron.
General Leej of the Payapasa Kingdom stood at the edge of the tower, a figure of striking opulence. His armor was a deep, lacquered red, polished so finely that it caught the morning sun like a ruby. Beside him, the Golden Banners of Payapasa snapped violently in the wind, their heavy silk embroidered with threads of real gold that shimmered against the backdrop of the Whitefang Peaks.
His three most trusted captains—Daiji, Kulu, and Mingli—stood like iron statues, their own red plate armor gleaming. Their hearts hammered against their ribs, a volatile mixture of warrior's anger and cold determination. They were the elite of a kingdom known for its vast wealth, and they felt like vultures dressed in silk.
Their orders were clear: wait for the "objects" to arrive as per the secret agreement between Payapasa and the three other nations. Yet, the inaction felt like a slow poison. Below them lay Salran Hill and Pojin Village, weak and ripe for the taking. To Leej, the Wasteland of Hmagol looked like a wounded beast, and every instinct told him to strike now while the finest warriors of Hmagol were fluttering in their cage days away.
"General, how much longer are we to wait?" Mingli asked, his voice sharp with impatience as he paced the stone floor.
Leej stared into the distance, his eyes squinting against the harsh mountain light until the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes formed deep, weathered lines. "We wait until our guests arrive, or the order of His Highness reaches us. Not a moment before."
"General, what do you think the chances are that we will take Salran Hill?" Daiji pressed, leaning against the rampart. "Do you think His Highness will refrain from attacking because of the Hmagol Eastern General's threats?"
Leej scoffed, the corners of his lips curving into a dry, knowing smile. "Don't think like children," he said, turning and walking across the narrow rope bridge that swayed precariously between the two watchtowers. "His Majesty will not fall for such childish bluster. A threat is only a shadow; we deal in sunlight and steel."
Kulu, who was the same age as Leej and the senior among the captains, cut in with a mocking chuckle. "'Taking a hundred steps back for every step we take beyond the borderline,'" he quoted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Now that is children's talk. Anyone who takes such a boast seriously must be a fool."
The four men shared a dark laugh, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the Whitefang Peaks. They didn't see a formidable enemy in the West; they saw a neighbor whose house was on fire, and they were simply waiting for the roof to collapse before they claimed the land.
"General!" A voice cut through the mountain wind from the ground far below.
Leej stepped to the edge of the watchtower, looking down. A lone scout sat atop a panting horse, his neck craned upward to meet the eyes of his commanders.
"General! General Jietang and his three captains will arrive within the hour!" the soldier reported, his voice echoing off the granite cliffs and into the vast, empty distance.
Leej's smile widened, a cold glint appearing in his eyes. He turned to his captains, the golden thread on his banners shimmering as they snapped in the breeze. "It seems our patience has been rewarded. Let's go see what good news General Jietang brings us from the capital."
Without waiting for a reply, he began the long descent down the stone stairs, his red lacquered armor clanking rhythmically.
Kulu stayed behind for a moment, glancing at Mingli with a mocking glint in his eyes. "You see?" he said, gesturing toward the horizon where the Hmagol smoke still rose. "His Majesty doesn't fall for cheap, childish threats—especially when the one making them is currently bleeding out against her own countrymen days away."
He let out a short, dry laugh. "She warns us not to take a step, while she herself burns down the very floor she stands on. Only a fool would honor the words of a house on fire."
When Leej and his captains arrived at the center of the West Military Camp, the air was thick with the dust of ten thousand hooves. General Jietang and his three captains—Suex, Bliang, and Nhia—had just reached the camp's edge, their red armor layered in the fine gray silt of the mountain roads. Behind them, a seemingly endless column of soldiers trailed into the distance, a serpent of steel winding through the peaks.
Leej looked up at Jietang, who sat motionless atop his massive warhorse, the golden embroidery of his cloak fluttering. Leej's smile was wide and sharp. "So, since General Jietang is here, does this mean his Majesty will go forward with the plan?"
Jietang did not reply with words. He simply inclined his head in a slow, deliberate nod. The silence spoke louder than any shout; the invasion of Hmagol was no longer a possibility—it was a command.
"Let us discuss the details inside," Leej said, gesturing toward the command center.
He led Jietang and the newcomers away from the noise of the arriving army and into the largest structure in the camp. Though Payapasa was a kingdom of immense wealth, the harsh, shifting terrain of the Whitefang borders made stone palaces impossible. Instead, the camp consisted of sturdy, low-slung wooden structures designed to withstand the biting mountain winters and the humid summers.
Inside the sprawling war room, the atmosphere was clinical and cold. A massive table dominated the center of the space. On one half lay a meticulously detailed parchment map of the Wasteland of Hmagol and Salran Hill. On the other half sat a sprawling sand model of the region. Every ridge of the mountain ranges separating Hmagol Wasteland from the burning city of Ntsua-Ntu was sculpted in perfect detail. The Hmagol Empire's defenses were laid bare, reduced to grains of sand waiting to be swept away.
Jietang and his captains remained silent, their eyes tracking Leej's hand as it moved over the sand model. They deferred to him; Leej had lived in the shadow of these peaks for years. He knew the wind, the hidden paths, and most importantly, he knew the savagery of Behrouz and the Salran Hill bandits.
"Here," Leej said, his index finger carving a sharp line in the sand just before the jagged extension of Whitefang Peak. "Three hundred yards this way is our border," he pointed back toward their own camp. Then, he pushed his finger forward into the neutral territory. "And three hundred yards from there is Salran Hill. To take the Wasteland, we must first break Behrouz."
He paused, ensuring Jietang's captains—Suex, Bliang, and Nhia—were absorbing the geography.
"Salran Hill is a fortress of nature. Ordinarily, taking it would be a long, bloody affair," Leej continued, a predatory glint in his eyes. "But the Hmagol Eastern General and her elite are currently locked in a life-and-death struggle against their own blood. They are distracted. This is our window. If we take Salran Hill, its defensive slope becomes our shield. Hmagol Wasteland will fall shortly after, and from there... the road to Ntsua-Ntu lies open."
Jietang finally shifted, the leather of his armor creaking.
"His Majesty's orders are for a swift strike," Jietang's voice was low, like grinding stones. "He expects the Wasteland to be under our banner within seventy-two hours. We must assume Prince Dzhambul can hold his palace for three days. If he fails, and the Eastern General secures the capital before we secure the Wasteland, we have lost our advantage."
Leej nodded grimly. "And if we see the banners of Lixin and the Prince Dzhambul approaching Pojin before we have the keys to the city, the deal is dead. We retreat. But," Leej's smile turned cruel, "His Majesty has made it clear: if we must leave, we leave nothing behind in Pojin Village. Salran Hill must be burned to the ground, and Behrouz's head must return with us to Payapasa."
Meanwhile, three yards from the neutral zone, life on Salran Hill was deceptively quiet. A small group of bandits sat along a jagged cliffside ledge, the smell of a simmering vegetable pottage rising from a soot-stained iron pot.
One young scout reached out to add a handful of greens to the pot, but his hand froze. The surface of the boiling water began to ripple with a rhythmic, violent frequency that had nothing to do with the heat. Then came the vibration—a low, teeth-rattling hum that vibrated through the very soles of his boots.
He snapped his head toward the border. A colossal wall of dust was churning into the sky, swirling like a desert sandstorm and moving with predatory speed straight toward their position.
"Soldiers!" he gasped, the word catching in his throat.
He scrambled backward, dropping the vegetables into the dirt. He lunged for the thick hemp rope hanging from a nearby post and yanked the bell string with every ounce of his strength. The frantic clang-clang-clang echoed across the ravine, met seconds later by the answering jingles of distant bells further up the hill.
The alarm had been raised.
The scout gripped his sword and bolted down a narrow, dug-out path toward the "Choke Point." His heart raced in sync with the thundering hooves approaching below. He reached the heavy wooden lever that held back a massive cache of boulders and jagged rocks. He wiped the sweat from his palms; his eyes locked on the dust cloud.
He knew the stakes. If he pulled the trap too early, the vanguard would stop and find another way. If he pulled it too late, the red-armored tide would sweep over them. And if they broke through, the villagers of Pojin—the families they were sworn to protect in their own lawless way—would be the first to bleed.
As the thundering grew into a deafening roar, the dust parted just enough for the young scout to see them. Through the haze, the red armor gleamed like spilled blood, and the golden banners of Payapasa flickered like dying stars in the distance. They were no longer a rumor; they were a reality of steel and gold.
He turned to the man stationed at the next post, his lungs burning as he screamed with everything he had.
"The Payapasians are approaching!"
His voice was a spark. The man beside him took up the cry, and then the next, and the next. The message leaped from the cliffside to the dug-out paths, carried by the very eastern wind that Leej had felt on the watchtower. The young scout stood still for a heartbeat, hearing his own words echoing back to him from the higher ridges—a ghostly chain of voices carrying the news of invasion across the slopes and down toward the unsuspecting houses of Pojin.