The pounding of the young bandit's heart raced against the thunder of hooves in the distance, a frantic drum beating in time with the approaching doom. His eyes were unblinking, fixed on the dirt pass below; every trembling stone on the path rattled in place, vibrating to the rhythm of his fear.
Sweat stung as it rolled from his forehead into the corner of his eye, but the salt could not force him to blink. He waited. He breathed. Then,the moment the lead rider's shadow crossed the mark, his hands snapped back, pulling the release rope he had white-knuckled for an eternity.
With a deafening crack of timber and earth, the hillside gave way. A cascade of boulders and jagged stone tore down the slope, a mountain of debris slamming into the Paayasian vanguard.
Before the dust could even settle, the bandit grabbed his bow from the cave wall. He loosed his first arrow. It cut through the air like a hunting hawk, burying itself deep into the chest of a lead rider. The soldier was thrown from his saddle, disappearing instantly beneath a sea of churning hooves.
But the Paayasian were a machine of red steel. They did not swerve. They did not slow. The riders behind simply trampled the fallen, their horses' hooves crushing the armor and bone of their own brothers to keep the charge moving.
From the rear of the column, the Paayasian commanders watched the slaughter with eyes as cold as the mountain stones. Seeing their own men crushed by debris or pierced by arrows didn't soften their hearts; to them, the first wave was merely a way to find the enemy's position.
"Over there," Daiji said, his armored finger pointing toward a high ledge on the sheer mountain face where the bandit archers were tucked into the shadows.
A predatory smirk touched Leej's lips. He didn't order a retreat; he ordered a counterstrike. "Aim straight into the side of that mountain pass!" he roared, his voice bouncing off the granite walls.
From the heart of the column, a heavy, gold-trimmed catapult inched forward. The Paayasian engineers worked with mechanical precision, cranking the torsion winches until the wood groaned. Without a second's hesitation, the machine loosed its payload. A massive boulder screamed through the air, slamming not into the path, but directly into the cliffside. The impact shattered the ledge into a million shards of shale and bone. The screams of the bandits were swallowed by the roar of the collapsing stone as they tumbled into the abyss.
However, the victory was short-lived. A secondary trap triggered, and three massive boulders tumbled from both sides of the ridge, slamming into the center of the pass with a ground-shaking thud. The path was completely blocked, a wall of stone halting the Red Tide in its tracks.
"Break those boulders down!" Leej commanded, his eyes flashing with fury.
The Paayasian discipline was terrifying to behold. They didn't panic. Instead, they formed a testudo—a "turtle" shell of overlapping shields. Protected from the rain of bandit arrows above, a team of soldiers rushed forward to the blockage. Under the safety of the steel canopy, they began to chip and heave at the boulders, turning a battlefield into a construction site while the air whistled with incoming death.
Under the iron canopy of the shield wall, the sound was deafening. Every few seconds, the thwack of a bandit arrow hitting wood and steel echoed through the pass, but the Paayasian soldiers beneath didn't flinch.
From the supply wagons, they brought forward the specialized tools of their trade: heavy iron sledgehammers and long, serrated steel chisels. These weren't improvised tools; they were the high-quality instruments of a wealthy nation prepared for a mountain campaign. The soldiers worked in shifts, driving the sharp chisels into the natural fault lines of the three massive boulders. The rhythmic clinking of the hammers began to compete with the screams of the dying in the valley below.
Leej watched from his horse, his eyes narrowed as he saw the center boulder begin to shift. The constant hammering had vibrated the stone, making the pile "less firm." The structural integrity of the bandit's trap was failing.
"The center is soft!" Leej shouted. "Bring in the ram!"
From the rear, a group of thirty men wheeled forward a massive battering ram. It was a masterpiece of Paayasian engineering—a heavy timber beam tipped with a solid bronze head shaped like a snarling wolf. It was suspended by thick chains within a portable wooden frame, covered in wet hides to protect it from the bandits' fire.
"Heave!" the Leej shouted.
The ram swung back and slammed into the weakened center boulder with a bone-jarring CRACK. Dust and rock fragments exploded outward. The bandits above watched in horror as their "impassable" wall began to crumble under the relentless pressure of Payapasian wealth and iron.
Inside the mountain tunnel, the air was a thick soup of dust and panic. An older bandit gripped the young scout's arm, his fingers digging into his skin. "Tell the chief! Warn the villagers that the Paayasians are—"
He never finished. A rock projectile, launched with the terrifying force of the Paayasian catapults, screamed through the tunnel mouth and slammed the man into the cave wall. The sound of bone meeting stone was lost in the roar of the cave-in.
The young bandit didn't look back. He bolted. The tunnel was a living nightmare; the mountain groaned under the mechanical assault, showering him with dirt and debris that choked his lungs and stung his eyes. He ran until his legs gave out, then crawled over jagged shale, his fingers bleeding as he triggered the secondary tunnel traps behind him.
The tremors grew more violent, the explosions of rock closer apart. For a heartbeat, the weight of the mountain felt like it was already burying him. But then, a sliver of light appeared in the distance—pale, cold, and beautiful.
His heart surged. He wasn't just running for his life; he was running for Pojin.
With a final, desperate leap, he burst from the tunnel's mouth. He slammed his weight against a hidden lever on the cave wall. From the dirt floor, hundreds of razor-sharp bamboo spikes hissed upward, their tips glistening with poison. Simultaneously, a heavy metal grate slid into place, sealing the exit with a screech of iron.
He didn't stop to catch his breath. He scrambled up a steep, hidden path toward a lonely hut perched on a cliff overlooking the valley. Below, the village of Pojin sat in the morning mist, peaceful and unaware.
He reached the Great Gong. His hands shook as he fumbled with the old, dirty knots that held the massive swinging log in place. The rope bit into his palms as he untied the final hitch. He hauled the log back, his muscles screaming, and then let go.
The log swung with the weight of a falling tree, slamming into the bronze gong. A deep, shivering boom erupted, a wall of sound that rolled across the valley and shook the windows of Pojin.
Down in the valley, the morning was a masterpiece of golden light and drifting mist. The sunlight had finally pierced through the heavy fog, sending long, warm rays across the rooftops of Pojin. As the earth warmed, the silver condensation of the night began to vanish, rising like a ghost to join the woodsmoke curling from the kitchen chimneys.
The village was alive with the gentle rhythms of a new day. Young adults moved through the dissipating mist, calling out to their livestock. The air was filled with the low lowing of cows, the impatient grunting of pigs, and the cheerful clucking of chickens as they were led to breakfast. In the distance, the soft whistling of a folk song drifted through the fields as farmers slung their tools over their shoulders, heading out for the day's labor. In the quietest rooms of the houses, the elders and children remained tucked away in sleep, safe in the illusion of a world at peace.
In front of Naksh and Jeet's home, Maral, Naksh's second wife, was feeding the chickens. She froze, her hand still deep in the bowl of grain, as her head snapped toward Salran Hill. Then, the second toll of the gong rolled over the valley, followed by the third.
She dropped the bowl. Corn scattered across the dirt, and the chickens rushed forward in a mindless flutter, but Maral didn't see them. Sarnai, Naksh's first wife, stepped out of the house holding young Odsar's hand. The two women shared a single, sharp look of understanding before rushing back inside.
"Tömör! Khürel!" Maral shouted. She stripped off her household robe, revealing the determined woman beneath as she reached for the leather armor hanging on the wall. "Wake up now!"
Her voice filled the house with a commander's authority. She tightened the straps of her armor and slung a quiver across her chest. Beside her, Sarnai draped a heavy fur shawl over Odsar and fastened a small emergency bag to her back.
"Remember to follow the two brothers and never lose sight of them," Sarnai said, her voice trembling despite her steady hands. She kissed Odsar's forehead—a lingering, desperate touch—before donning her own leather armor.
Möndör, the eldest son, emerged from the bedroom with his two younger brothers already dressed.
"Tömör, go get Grandfather Anu, Aunt Qinru, and Great-Grandmother Li," Sarni commanded. As Tömör vanished out the door, she saw Khürel already clutching Odsar's hand. She nodded to the children and reached for her second quiver.
Kaj walked into the house then, a bucket in her hand and confusion on her face. She stopped short, seeing her sisters-in-law dressed for a massacre.
"What's going on?" Kaj asked, her voice small.
"We are under attack," Maral said flatly.
Kaj felt the blood drain from her face. The memories of the fire and blood in Nue-Li City were still fresh wounds in her mind. "What?"
"Salran Hill sent the signal," Sarni said. "Remember the bag brother Jeet asked you to keep ready? Now is the time. Take that bag and follow the children to the mountain pass with the other villagers. Please, keep an eye on the three children for us."
Kaj nodded frantically, the sound of the gong vibrating in her teeth. She spun around and rushed back into the small, dim room she shared with Jeet. The air still smelled faintly of him—of cedar and old leather.
She dropped to her knees beside the bed and reached underneath, her fingers brushing against the rough canvas of the emergency bag Jeet had packed for her weeks ago. She hauled it out, but as she stood to leave, her feet felt as if they had turned to stone, rooting her to the floorboards.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She gripped the leather strap of the bag so tightly her knuckles turned a ghostly white. Jeet had sat her down on this very bed before he left for the capital, his eyes grave as he made her promise to be ready. She had smiled for him, she had promised, but in her heart, she had prayed to the ancestors that the "dry food" inside this bag would stay buried and forgotten forever.
Now, with the gong screaming outside like a wounded beast, she realized the truth. The war hadn't just followed her from the ashes of Nue-Li—it had arrived to finish what it started.
She took one shuddering breath, closed her eyes for a heartbeat to find Jeet's strength, and then forced her legs to move. She rushed out of the bedroom and back into the family room, ready to do whatever it takes to protect the family that her husband loves.
"Khürel, listen to your older brother and Aunt Kaj. Take care of your sister. Wait for us," Maral said, looking her son in the eye.
"I got it, mother," Khürel said firmly, his small hand tightening on Odsar's.
They stepped out into the chaotic morning air. The nods exchanged between the mothers and sons were silent as the wind, a wordless pact of survival. There were no tears; there was no time for them.
"Möndör, don't look back," Sarni said to her eldest as they reached the riverbank. "The only way to always remember your way back home is to look forward."
"I understand, mother," the teenager replied.
With bows slung and weapons drawn, the mothers and the teenager joined the surge of village women and youths heading toward the heights of Salran Hill, while the elders and young children disappeared into the safety of the shadows.