The suffocating dust slowly drifted away, leaving a clear, stark view of the ruined plaza. Under the watchful eyes of thousands of Magoli and Paayasian soldiers, Phia descended the rope ladder from the battered ramparts.
He walked slowly, stepping over shattered stone and pooling blood. He moved like a cornered beast casting about for an escape route, knowing full well that the only way out was straight through the alpha wolf standing at the center of the square.
Phia tightened his grip on the shaft of his spear. The decision to step forward had cut deep into his soul, for he understood the cruel trap laid before him. This duel held far more weight than met the eye.
If he lost, he would not only forfeit his own life, but seal the execution of every brother-in-arms standing behind him. Yet, if he won... where was the glory?
In his eyes, victory over a young woman whose name was barely known outside Hmagol's eastern border brought no legendary honor to a veteran general. Had he fought and fallen against a titan like the Grand Southern General of Lao-Da Pass, his death would have been a noble, heroic conclusion to the final chapter of his life. But here, trapped in a ruined city abandoned by his own king, winning or losing felt entirely the same—a tragic end stripped of true glory.
Phia stopped ten paces from Chinua. He adjusted his stance, his worn leather boots sinking slightly into the mud and lime dust. He held his long iron spear in a classic Paayasian defensive guard—low, steady, and immovable.
Chinua unslung her heavy steel-tipped spear, stepping into the cleared circle with fluid, lethal grace. Her eyes were cold and calculating, but behind them lay no bloodlust—only the grim determination of a commander who needed this duel to end without further slaughter.
"May your ancestors give you strength, General," Chinua said softly.
Without a word, Phia exploded forward.
Despite his age and old war injuries, his thrust was blindingly fast—a straight, lethal bolt aimed at Chinua's sternum. Chinua didn't block; she pivoted sharply on her heel, letting the cold steel tip whisper past her breastplate by a fraction of an inch.
Using the momentum of her turn, Chinua swept the shaft of her spear upward, striking Phia's lead arm. Phia absorbed the blow with a grunt, spinning his spear behind his back in a fluid defensive arc that deflected Chinua's immediate counter.
Sparks erupted into the dim afternoon air as their weapons collided.
For several heartbeats, the fight became a dizzying blur of polished steel and dark oak. Phia fought with the rigid, seasoned precision of a thirty-year veteran, using his superior reach to keep Chinua at bay with rapid thrust combinations. Chinua matched every blow with predatory instincts, stepping inside his guard only to deflect his strikes with short, explosive parries.
Phia shifted tactics. Stepping deep into the dirt, he feinted high at her face, then suddenly dropped his weight, sweeping his spear low across the ground to take her legs out.
Chinua saw the trap. She leapt cleanly over the sweeping shaft, spinning mid-air and bringing the butt-end of her spear down in a heavy, two-handed chop.
Phia brought his spear shaft up horizontally to catch the blow.
The force of the impact drove Phia down onto one knee, cracking the stone flags beneath his boot. Teeth grit, sweat pouring down his face, Phia looked up into Chinua's unyielding gaze.
"You fight like a storm..." Phia gasped out through his teeth.
"I am the storm your king invited into his house," Chinua replied, her voice firm. "Yield, Phia. You have proven your valor."
"Never!" Phia growled.
With a surge of desperate strength, he shoved her back, breaking the lock. He sprang back to his feet, but his left knee buckled for a split second—his old war injury flaring in agony under the strain.
Chinua caught the dip in his posture instantly. She didn't go for a lethal strike.
Pivoting low, Chinua launched a relentless combination aimed strictly at his weapon and balance.
Her shaft struck his wrists, dulling his grip.
Her shoulder slammed directly into his chest, throwing him off balance. Before Phia could recover his guard, Chinua stepped inside his reach, hooked the curve of her spear blade behind his lead ankle, and yanked upward while sweeping his shaft aside.
Phia went down hard onto his back, his spear flying from his hand and clattering across the cobblestones.
Before he could push himself up, a cold shadow fell over him. Chinua stood directly above him, the sharp iron tip of her spear resting lightly against the hollow of his throat.
Silence swallowed the plaza once more.
Phia lay panting, staring up at the young woman who held his life in her hands. He closed his eyes, exhaling a long, bitter breath. "Strike," he whispered softly. "Give me my warrior's death."
Chinua looked down at the defeated general, her sharp gaze softening into a quiet, heavy respect. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered her spear and stepped back, giving him room to draw breath.
"There is no honor in slaying a brave man who was betrayed by his own sovereign," Chinua said, her voice ringing clear across the square so every surviving Paayasian soldier could hear. "You fought with absolute honor, General Phia. Your weapon is down, and as I promised, your men will live. Your life, too, should be spared—but you took the head of my captain. That blood debt remains. Therefore, either you surrender yourself to Hmagol, or you will die the exact same way my captain died."
Phia lay breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling against the cold cobblestones. He looked up at her, his eyes unblinking and devoid of fear.
"I do not surrender to my enemy," Phia said, his voice firm, cut from stone. "No matter the price of gold."
Chinua stared down at him for a long, suffocating second.
"What a shame," she murmured softly.
She didn't raise her spear. Instead, Chinua stepped aside and gave a silent nod toward the heavy infantry holding the line. Khunbish stepped forward, his heavy iron boots echoing against the quiet square, bringing a chain shackle.
Phia did not resist as they bound his hands behind his back. He stood tall, sweeping a final, lingering look across the battlements and at his surviving soldiers, who watched in heartbroken silence. He had kept his honor, he had bought his men their lives, and now he walked toward the scaffold with the quiet dignity of a general who had given everything to a kingdom that had already forgotten him.
With Phia led away in chains, Chinua turned on her heel. Her cold, piercing gaze swept over the surviving Paayasian captains—Yongyee, Bliang, and Mingle—where they stood surrounded by a wall of Magoli steel.
"Your general just gave up his life so that yours could be spared," Chinua said, her voice dropping into a low, uncompromising command. "I suggest you drop your weapons, surrender, and remain obedient prisoners of war—hoping that your sovereign will have the sense to accept my terms for your ransom."
Without waiting for their answer, she swung her leg cleanly over her saddle and mounted her warhorse. She looked down at Naksh and Jeet.
"Captains!" Chinua called out, her voice cutting through the silent plaza. "If anyone hesitates to drop their weapon, cut them down where they stand."
With a sharp nudge of her heels against her horse's flanks, she turned her mount around. Leaving the bloody streets of Ngabo behind, Chinua rode out through the shattered breach, making her way down toward the quiet tents at the base of Mopia Valley.
Chinua rode slowly through the sea of fallen men—the bodies of her own soldiers and her enemies now lying still together in the mud—and headed straight for Hye's tent.
Reining in her warhorse, she dismounted, pushed the heavy door flap aside, and stepped inside.
The small tent was quiet. Hye was already at his desk, carefully folding the detailed map of Ngabo City and clearing his supplies into a wooden box.
"Is the city you just conquered still intact?" Hye asked, glancing up with a faint, teasing glint in his eye to lighten the heavy air.
"Somewhat," Chinua replied softly, her gaze sweeping the small space. "Drystan?"
"I'm not crazy enough to sit and watch over a dead body," Hye said, closing the wooden lid with a soft thud. He paused, his expression turning solemn. "Chinua—"
Chinua turned on her heel to leave, but Hye's voice halted her in her tracks.
"The sight... it isn't pretty," Hye said quietly. "When you go to him, don't focus on the wounds torn into his skin. Just remember him the way he was when he was alive."
Chinua nodded gently, keeping her back to him, and walked out into the cool air. She made her way directly to her personal tent.
When she pulled back the flap and stepped inside, she found Siqi sitting on the floor beside the straw mat. Despite his own injuries, Siqi had already bathed Drystan and was carefully buttoning a clean white robe over his teacher's chest.
"Chinua..." Siqi whispered, his eyes red and brimming with tears. He sniffled, fighting to swallow down his sobs. "There wasn't much I could do on the battlefield with my arm like this... so I bathed him." He reached down with a trembling hand and picked up a wooden comb. "All that's left is to comb his hair."
He looked up at her, tears spilling down his cheeks. He stretched out his hand, offering her the comb. "Do you... do you want to comb his hair for him?"
Chinua stepped forward. Instead of taking the comb, she gently cupped the back of Siqi's head and pulled him close, softly patting his hair.
A sharp gasp hitched in Siqi's throat as the dam broke.
"I think he would prefer it if you did his hair," Chinua said softly, swallowing the lump in her throat to keep her own voice steady. "After all, when a teacher has no family left to send him off... that duty falls to his student."
Siqi broke completely, burying his face against Chinua's waist as he sobbed, his arms wrapping tightly around her as he wept for his master.