The cold wind whispered along the cliffside, brushing through the scorched pine trees like a ghost. Below, tucked into the jagged throat of the mountains, the rebel outpost sat unaware, cloaked in the false safety of night.
Darius crouched in the underbrush, eyes sharp beneath his dark hood. He studied the east wall — the weakest point, barely watched. Just two guards paced lazily along the rampart, their movements loose, unsteady. One carried a bottle.
"Drunk," Darius muttered.
He turned his head to the two one-star commanders beside him, both already adjusting their straps and tightening their gloves. Silent, professional.
"Get up there. Take them out — quiet. Then signal. The rest of us will move once the fire is lit."
The pair nodded and slipped away, moving low and fast across the rocks. They reached the wall quickly, scaling it with practiced ease. The rebel guards didn't even notice until it was far too late.
A muffled thud. A gasp cut short.
Then stillness.
One of the commanders leaned over the wall and waved a slow hand.
Darius exhaled. "Let's go."
He motioned forward, and his remaining twenty-three followed him toward the wall. They moved like wolves in the dark — silent, deadly, disciplined.
Inside the outpost, the two scouts had already set the fire — dry oil-soaked hay stuffed under a decayed timber tower. A small spark bloomed into orange flame, licking upward hungrily. Moments later, the structure caught fully. Fire roared to life, curling into the sky.
Then came the shouting.
And chaos.
Rebel soldiers screamed. Some rushed to the blaze with buckets, others stood dumbfounded. Orders clashed with panic.
At the center of it all, the rebel two-star commander stormed from the barracks, eyes wide. His cloak billowed behind him, and a long axe was strapped to his back.
"Get water! Get sand! Where are the eastern patrols?! Who was on that tower?!"
No one answered.
He shoved a soldier aside and roared again, "What incompetent fools let this—"
"Your mistake," said a voice.
Darius stepped from the shadows, sword gleaming faintly in the firelight. His armor bore no insignia, but his presence filled the air like a storm.
The rebel commander's face contorted. "You're not—"
Five one-star commanders surged past Darius in a flash of motion. Their blades descended like a pack of hawks. The rebel raised his axe, parrying desperately. Metal sang. Sparks danced.
Darius didn't wait. He gestured to his ten-men squads behind him. "Push in! Clear the courtyard!"
His soldiers surged forward, cutting down panicked rebels who had no time to regroup. Smoke thickened. Blood sprayed across the cobbled ground. The fire cast everything in a surreal orange-red glow, like some hellish painting brought to life.
The battle had begun.
On the north side of the wall, Torvin moved with silent purpose.
The chaos was perfect. Everyone was looking east. He climbed the cracked wall quickly, hands finding the gaps where time had worn the stone thin. At the top, two more guards watched the fire dumbly, their weapons still sheathed.
Torvin dropped silently between them. His daggers flashed once. Twice. Both men crumpled without a sound.
He pulled the old chain that unlocked the interior gate. It groaned but moved.
Below, the main force waited — seventy-five hardened men.
The gate creaked open… and the flood came.
Kealus ran with blade drawn, the five remaining one-star commanders forming a wedge around him as they entered the blood-soaked courtyard. Screams rang from every side. Rebels scattered. Some fought. Others fled, only to be cut down by steel or fire.
But Kealus didn't slow. He moved toward the command building, eyes locked.
The final test lay within.
They kicked down the heavy door.
Inside, the chamber was calmer — quiet, almost eerily so. A single candle burned on the central table, maps scattered around it. Two figures turned to face them.
The three-star rebel commander. Tall, built like a statue, his hair peppered with gray. He wore deep red armor, scorched in places but still strong. His qi was heavy in the air — oppressive.
Beside him stood a woman. Younger. Lean. Eyes like sharpened glass. Her blade was already drawn.
Kealus didn't speak. He lunged.
The rebel commander met his strike with a roar, his blade arcing in a vicious counter. Steel clashed. But Kealus's first strike landed shallowly — across the man's side.
A hiss. A pause.
The rebel's qi rippled—then stuttered.
He staggered back. "What…?"
Kealus stepped forward, eyes cold. "My blade was bathed in qi-dispersing poison. That strike didn't need to kill. It just needed to be enough."
"You—" the man gasped. "You used poison?"
"You used rebellion," Kealus replied.
The woman screamed and charged, but the five one-stars blocked her path. She moved with fury, but they had coordination. Training. Purpose. She couldn't hold out.
Kealus pressed his advantage. The three-star tried to draw on qi again, but it slipped through his fingers like water.
The boy's strikes became brutal. Efficient. He didn't duel — he hunted.
Steel met bone. Blood flew. The rebel commander cried out one final time.
And dropped.
The woman died moments later, run through by the five blades of vengeance.
Kealus stood over the rebel's body, his breathing steady, though his eyes were hard. The man looked up at him, bloody and broken.
"She was all I had left…" the man whispered. "We… we fought for our people. My king died… We just wanted our home. We—"
Kealus watched him bleed, impassive.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"In this world of blood and conquest, your plea is wasted breath," he said coldly. "The men who followed you screamed the same… and still died."
The man's eyes widened, pain and disbelief mingling with finality.
"To cry now is to dishonor them," Kealus continued. "You chose war. And war doesn't listen."
He stepped back, turning away as the man's eyes dimmed.
Outside, the fire was dying. The walls were quiet.
The outpost was taken.
But Kealus felt no triumph.
Only clarity.