The stone beneath the Paayasian soldiers' boots did not merely shake; it rippled like water. Men lunged forward to grip the smooth granite parapets, but the stone burned hot against their palms from hours of kinetic impact and relentless friction. A low, sub-audible hum vibrated deep within their chests—a terrifying tremor before the final blow even struck.
When the last catapult stone slammed into the bastion thirty feet away, the world went instantly mute as eardrums shock-locked from the sheer acoustic force.
The stone deck beneath their feet tilted violently backward as the solid core of the wall liquefied into running gravel. Men clawed desperately at loosening crenellations, but gravity betrayed them. The entire platform sheared away, plunging dozens of screaming defenders downward into a rising, blinding cloud of white lime dust, dropping them directly onto the jagged rubble below.
Across the muddy expanse, thousands of Magoli helmets tilted upward in unison. The rhythmic, mechanical thud of the siege engines abruptly ceased, replaced by a deep, unnatural, grinding groan that resonated across the entire valley.
The center of the great curtain wall bulged outward like a sail catching a sudden gust of wind. Massive, multi-ton granite blocks ground together with terrifying violence, spraying showers of bright sparks and pulverized white mortar into the dark air. Then, the upper tier caved—a slow-motion avalanche of gray stone that obliterated the defensive ditches and buried the outer trenches.
As the deafening roar subsided and the thick dust slowly drifted away, it revealed a raw, jagged slope of fresh rubble—a wide, open ramp leading directly into the bleeding heart of Ngabo.
The pause lasted only a heartbeat.
With a deafening thunder of hooves, two thousand Magoli cavalrymen surged forward as one, riding up the stone ramp and spilling into the city.
The air was choked with a thick, suffocating cloud of white lime dust, blinding the defenders and stinging Phia's eyes. Though he could barely see past his own outstretched hand, the violent, rhythmic thunder beneath his boots told him everything he needed to know: the Magoli cavalry was charging the breach.
Phia quickly assessed his surroundings through the haze. His surviving men were scattered across the remaining sections of the battlements—some miraculously unhurt, others screaming from horrific wounds. As for the unlucky souls who had been stationed directly above the collapsed section, they had either plunged to their deaths or lay crushed beneath tons of granite debris.
"Paayasians!" Phia bellowed, wiping ash from his eyes. "Nock and draw! Prepare to shoot them down!"
Those defenders who could still hold a weapon scrambled to the broken ledge, drawing their bowstrings taut, waiting for the first enemy horsemen to break through the dust shroud.
Then, plunging through the white cloud, a black cloud of arrows pierced the haze—swift, dark, and silent, like a night coming to swallow them whole.
Charging through the blinding dust, the Magoli cavalry split into three tight, disciplined rows as they galloped up the rubble ramp. The riders on the left and right flanks raised their heavy shields high over their heads, fully aware that the moment they cleared the breach, the surviving wall archers would rain fire down on them. Meanwhile, the riders in the center held their heavy crossbows ready, arrows nocked and drawn at full gallop.
Behind them, the Magoli rear units loosed continuous salvos into the upper battlements—a deadly distraction designed to keep the surviving Paayasian archers pinned behind their crenellations.
Through the swirling dust and obscured vision, the charging riders heard the lethal hiss of incoming steel, followed by the muffled grunts and screams of Paayasian defenders taking hits up on the walls. Just as the lead cavalrymen crested the summit of the breach, the outer flank riders took heavy, rhythmic impacts against their raised shields as the Paayasian archers retaliated.
Peering through the narrow gaps between their comrades' shields, the center row of Magoli cavalry loosed a blind, devastating barrage upward into the parapets.
They didn't stop to trade shots. Their target wasn't the broken wall—it was the ground beyond the gate.
Sweeping down the stone rubble and plunging into the city streets, the cavalry kept their horses at a full gallop. As they thundered past the inner gatehouse, every rider turned in their saddle and loosed a hail of arrows straight toward the main gate plaza—where they knew the Paayasians would be waiting to spring their trap.
Down in the plaza before the inner-city gate, Yongyee and his men were still reeling from the deafening shock of the wall's collapse when the thunder of galloping hooves echoed from both sides of the street. In that terrifying instant, Yongyee felt his stomach sink. Ngabo had already fallen; now, it was merely a matter of time before the last defender took his final breath.
Meanwhile, out on the bloody field below the walls, Chinua, Chaghatai, Och, and an elite escort of twenty cavalrymen rode directly toward the spot where Drystan had fallen.
As they closed in, the twenty riders formed a tight, impenetrable ring, locking their heavy shields high above their heads to build a solid roof of iron that protected their commanders from the lingering rain of Paayasian arrows.
Chinua dismounted into the red dirt. With gentle, trembling hands, she picked up Drystan's severed head, her face a mask of cold, agonizing grief. Beside her, Och hefted Drystan's bound body from the dust, slinging it securely across the front of Chaghatai's saddle. Without a word, Chinua handed Drystan's head to Chaghatai, who wrapped it reverently in a dark cloth.
Och vaulted back onto his mount, and Chaghatai broke away from the unit, galloping hard back toward the safety of the advancing Magoli infantry to deliver their captain's remains.
Chinua did not look back. Turning her warhorse back toward the smoking breach, she drew her spear, leading Och and the remaining riders directly into the burning streets of Ngabo City.
A short distance away from the thundering chaos, sitting on the muddy edge of the battlefield, Hye sat behind a low wooden desk looking at the battlefield in front of him. A detailed map of Ngabo City lay spread out before him. With calm, methodical precision, Hye reached down and moved a carved wooden horse, sliding ten small wooden blocks representing infantry units forward toward the hand-drawn city gate.
The thunder of hooves broke his concentration as Chaghatai reined in his mount in front of the desk.
Hye looked up, his eyes landing on Drystan's severed head cradled in Chaghatai's hand, then shifting to the lifeless body slung across the horse's saddle. He let out a low, breathy scoff.
"So stubborn, even in death," Hye muttered, his voice laced with heavy affection and quiet grief.
Three honor guards stepped forward immediately, reverently receiving Drystan's head and body from Chaghatai.
"Chinua is asking for permission," Chaghatai reported, his voice tight.
"Permission granted," Hye said simply.
Without another word, Chaghatai wheeled his horse around and galloped back into the swirling dust of the battlefield.
Hye turned toward the straw mattress where the guards had laid Drystan's body, placing his severed head beside his neck. Untying his own sash, Hye knelt beside his fallen brother and gently wrapped the cloth around Drystan's neck, securing his head back to his body. Taking a clean handkerchief from his robes, he dampened it with water from a bowl on his desk and began slowly, delicately wiping the crusts of dry blood and dirt from Drystan's face.
A soft, mournful smile touched Hye's lips as he worked.
"For a warrior," Hye whispered softly into the quiet tent, "you stood tall when the world trembled. You fought with absolute honor, shielded your brothers, and gave everything for the person standing beside you. You held onto our shared vision until your very last breath."
"And for a friend," he continued, his voice softening further, "the bonds we forged in the fires of war can never be broken by death. Your laughter, your strength, and your unwavering loyalty are stitched forever into the souls of every brother you leave behind. My dear friend... your death is not the end of the road. It is our solemn vow to carry your memory into every sunrise you were denied. We will speak your name with pride, tell your stories, and guard the family you left behind."
Finishing his work on Drystan's face, Hye gently lifted Drystan's cold, colorless hand, carefully wiping the grime from his knuckles.
"You fought well. Now, rest... until we meet again, brother."
Placing Drystan's hand neatly beside his torso, Hye stood up and smoothed his robes. The grieving friend vanished; the Supreme Strategist returned. He turned his gaze toward Yisü.
"General, take your men to support Captain Zhi and General Khartsaga," Hye commanded, his tone turning to pure steel. "Establish an iron perimeter along the riverbanks. Ensure not a single Paayasian soldier escapes, and no reinforcements reach this valley. This land belongs to Hmagol now."
"Consider it done," Yisü answered grimly. Turning on his heel, he led two thousand heavy cavalrymen riding hard to the west, heading toward the ruined bridges.
Inside the fallen city, steel clattered against steel as war cries, agonized grunts, and the desperate groans of dying men merged beneath the oppressive afternoon sun. The streets of Ngabo ran red with the mingled blood of Magoli and Paayasian soldiers.
Though many civilians had fled before the breach, thousands remained—either refusing to leave their ancestral land or caught in the crossfire. Because none of the houses had been marked with the traditional white cloth of surrender, Magoli squads kicked in doors and dragged those left behind into the open streets. They were herded into tightly guarded lines, positioned directly in front of the gatehouse battlements.
High on the remaining section of the city wall, Phia, Bliang, and Mingle watched helplessly as their ground infantry was systematically slaughtered below. The stairwells leading down had been destroyed, trapping them and their archers atop the ramparts with their quivers running dangerously empty.
They were completely surrounded. Outside the walls stood the thundering Magoli war engines and archers. Inside the city, human shields filled the plaza, while Magoli cavalry and heavy infantry sealed off every avenue of escape.
Down in the gatehouse courtyard, Yongyee and his surviving men were similarly boxed in, pressed tightly against the iron portcullis by a wall of Magoli heavy infantry led by the twin commanders, Khunbish and Khenbish.
The Magoli front line slowly parted. Chinua's warhorse stepped forward, its hooves crunching softly over scattered debris as she faced the cornered Paayasian defenders.
She reined in her mount and looked up, locking her cold gaze onto Phia where he stood atop the shattered rampart.
"You and I both know the truth," Chinua's voice carried clearly across the blood-soaked plaza, amplified by the silent terror of the crowd. "Your king has abandoned you. Even if you fight to your final breath, there will be no glory in your sacrifice. You will receive no honor."
Phia slowly lowered his bow, staring down at her with hollow eyes. "You are named the People's Princess... but what I see standing before me today is a demon. You are not worthy of that title."
Chinua let out a dry, cold scoff, the corner of her lips curving upward into a sharp, cruel smile.
"If these people truly wished to seek Hmagol's mercy, they knew precisely how to yield," Chinua replied coldly. "Yet not a single white banner hung from a single windowsill. Since they refused our customs of surrender, every last soul in this city—including you," she raised her bloody spear, pointing directly at Phia's chest, "is a prisoner of war. The only choice left to you now is whether you die as a martyr for a king who sold you out, or surrender to Hmagol."
She paused, her sharp gaze sweeping across the trembling, bloody ranks of Paayasian soldiers trapped on the battlements and in the courtyard below.
"In Zouis, your sovereign sits on a throne guarded by at least fifty to sixty thousand fresh troops," she said, her calculated words slicing through the air like a blade, striking straight at the defenders' fragile hope. "Had your king dispatched a mere five thousand men to reinforce this valley before the siege, your fate today would be vastly different. It would be us cornered against these stone walls, not you."
She paused again, letting her words sink deep into the hearts of the exhausted, bleeding defenders.
"But no. Your king refused to send a single man to aid you. In his eyes, you were already dead chess pieces on a chessboard. He handed us the exact window we needed to destroy the bridges and cut off your lifelines. As of this very moment, Ngabo no longer belongs to Payapasa. You are standing on Hmagol soil."
A suffocating, agonizing silence settled over the ramparts as the remaining Paayasian soldiers looked at one another, the last embers of hope dying in their eyes.
"Nonsense!" Phia's voice bellowed, echoing off the stone ramparts. He glanced frantically left and right at his shaken men. "Our king would never abandon us!"
Though his shout was fierce, the hollow panic in his eyes betrayed him—he knew Chinua spoke the cold, unvarnished truth.
Chinua's lips curved into a sharp, mocking smile. "Then prove it, General," she challenged, raising an eyebrow at him. "In the name of your warrior's honor, do you dare swear on the graves of your ancestors that my words are false?"
Phia's tongue caught in his throat. Silence hung heavy over the battlements.
Down in the courtyard, a terrified young Paayasian soldier gripped Yongyee's arm, his knuckles turning white. "Cousin... is what she's saying true? Did... did the King really leave us here to die?"
"Be quiet," Yongyee muttered, staring straight ahead. He couldn't bring himself to look his young cousin in the eye, but the hollow despair settling across the courtyard told him everything: every man there knew the enemy spoke the truth.
Chinua shifted her gaze back to the trapped Paayasian lines, her voice hardening like ice.
"I made a sacred promise to a very dear friend," Chinua said, her jaw clenching as her eyes burned with dark promise. "I swore that if this city yielded without bloodshed, no harm would come to its people. But your king dared to behead my captain... and that dishonor can only be washed away in blood."
She thrust her heavy spear forward, pointing the iron blade directly at Phia's chest.
"Face me!" Chinua roared across the square. "If you defeat me, your life is spared, and your men walk free. But if you fall, your head will join my captain's—along with every soldier in this city who still dares to raise a blade against Hmagol!"