Nira: Picking up where we left off—heard the news, right? Last night’s plan was General Medith’s, sharp as a blade in moonlight. When the rebels paused to swap arrows, our lionhearted lady general kicked open the disguised wall like it was rotten wood. And those dumb pigs? They froze like hogs caught in winter frost.

They went blank—rooted to the ground like stakes in frozen earth. At her command, our ranks loosed as one, arrows humming like rain on tiles. Rank faced rank, captain faced captain. Ever heard of the Piercing Army Arrow?

It hits like a battering ram straight out of a thunderstorm. The Mountain Bandits died ugly, like weeds under a flood. Man and horse flew yards like leaves in a gale, then slammed into their own beasts. Bones turned to gravel, brittle as kiln-fired clay. You know how they died? Like this—folded like a snapped reed. Nira twisted her slim waist, bending herself into a curve.

A chorus of mock pity rose like crows over a field. Wow, so tragic.

They said it, but there was no mercy in it, sharp as a hawk’s beak. If anything, they wished the deaths messier, like ashes scattered in wind.

Nira: Those iron horses as big as bulls, impressive, right? Before, our soldiers couldn’t stop a herd even with blood in their mouths, like rocks against a tide. But our Sprite girl drew once—just once—and crushed their horses and chariots like clay toys. I wish you’d seen it, the way dawn spills over mountains.

The iron horses got their muzzles slashed by chariot shrapnel, foaming like mad boars. Friend or foe vanished in the dust; they stampeded and trampled their own, hooves falling like hammers on drums. One stomp, and their “unbreakable” armor tore like paper screens in rain. In the end they were forced to hack their own hooves, a butcher’s work at twilight. The horses toppled and crushed more, and the dead were so ruined they barely looked human, like smashed gourds.

Man B: Livestock trampling beasts—fits like a lid on a pot.

Laughter burst like a bonfire, applause popping like kindling.

After that, Nira couldn’t resist gilding the scene. Bandits scared into wetting their pants, hot steam on cold stone. Erig raging till smoke poured from seven orifices, a furnace in night wind. The moment Medith’s name came up, the rebels froze like rabbits in a hawk’s shadow.

Those present drank if they found a seat, and grinned if they didn’t, lantern-warm. Those too far to hear had kind souls retell it, like ripples spreading on a lake. The air grew lively and bright, like spring market bells.

...

Didn’t expect it, Nira—you’re pretty gifted at talking people dizzy. General Medith half joked, voice light as wind through bamboo. Nira, draped over the table, stretched lazily like a cat in sun. Oh—aaah~ don’t tease me. I only polished it a little, just a little.

Oh? I “only” shot through a hundred horses with one arrow? Sais pinched her soft cheek, fingers leaving dimples like pebbles in sand.

Hee-hee! I didn’t even know I could crush five hundred with one shot! Phiby fluttered her little ears, like moth wings at dusk.

Medith spread her hands, a wave smoothing sand. Before, I’d have scolded you for that. Polishing the army is fine, but turning us into myth spins silk into a cocoon, and we’d trap ourselves like silkworms. In the end, we’d be the ones strangled. But given how the wind blows now, I’d rather you did mythologize us. Honestly, telling you all this was for that very purpose, like planting seeds before rain.

Didn’t expect you to do it too well. The people’s faith is overflowing, like a river after snowmelt. The army’s morale sits on a peak, hawks wheeling in a clear sky. They’d go to war this instant if we let them, spears like a forest. Pity the poor staff—tonight we still have to plan, lanterns burning till dawn.

What’s there to fear? General Medith holds a pass like a single pine on a cliff—ten thousand can’t force it. Thirty against ten thousand, a thousand killed, and she walked out whole—just that record leaves me eating dust, Delaia said, rare humor glinting like sunlight on steel.

What are you all doing? The decisive battle is tonight. Can we be serious for a breath? Honestly... Medith sighed, but the lift at her lips shone like a crescent moon.

In their hearts, light pooled like morning. Not a flicker of fear toward the night’s wall-breaking...

...

[Outside Lachesis]

Erig and Sinis stood full-armed, one in black and one in white, like two blades crossing in frost. They faced the mustered host. The Sage Soldiers’ faces were ugly, dark as drowned ink. No one slept a wink, hours long as winter nights. Their own men got beaten by thirty, arrows lost like seeds in a storm. Over twenty warhorses, trained for years, lay dead, and many by their own blades. Hearing the cheers inside the walls, their faces sank like stones into a well.

The Mountain Bandits fared no better. Last night, they were the first to be hunted, greed blown away like ash in a gale. After witnessing Medith’s ruthlessness and chessboard mind, their hearts turned to flight. All they wanted was to grab gold and women and run like rats under rain.

Too bad—word came that three chiefs “slipped” off the wall and smashed like pots. Everyone knew what that meant, like a knife hidden in a sleeve. Now they could neither advance nor retreat, feet stuck like mud. Skaro stood as sole chief, driving the remaining fourteen thousand plus Mountain Bandits like a straggling herd.

Erig knew the hinge of things, and he began to speak, voice ringing like a bell at dawn. My brave warriors! I know last night struck you hard, like hail on crops. This was my own immaturity; I’ll shoulder it alone, like a man carrying a millstone.

At once the Sage Soldiers answered by reflex, voices rough as rope. No, Commander bears no fault. The fault is ours.

Erig raised a hand for quiet, palm flat as a lake. I get how you feel. Every one of you is irreplaceable, an iron nail in a ship. You all heard Delaia’s words. Demons, beasts, lawless rebels—that’s what they call us now, names like stones. Delaia wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. Truly—besides us, who in this world understands us? We are our own fire in the snow.

This war isn’t over. Tonight, this high wall will vanish like mist at sunrise. And we will carry out our justice, like a sword cutting bamboo. We’ll string Delaia’s head on a spear and send it back to Ostos, a warning like thunder.

Delaia can’t stop us. Medith can’t stop us. This wall can’t stop us. We’ll grind to dust every house in the city, stones under a cartwheel. We’ll kill every Royal Capital soldier, and with their blood honor our kin, crimson as sunset. Segireneto, long live! Empire’s Radiance—eternal and undying!

Empire’s Radiance—eternal and undying! The Sage Soldiers’ morale crawled back like fire to kindling. Who else could understand them but themselves? So they thought, eyes lighting like embers.

But the bandits’ hearts never returned, scattered like birds.

...

[Prisoner Camp]

To the east outside the wall, an open field caged a crowd from Sia City, like fish netted in shallows. The men were forced to pick up weapons and aim them at their own, hands shaking like poplar leaves. The women were forced to wash and cook, and serve “amusements,” faces pale as paper.

When night fell, their nightmares began, heavy as rain on a thatch roof. Stubborn women, women of faith—under those reeking bodies pressing down like mud—they clenched their teeth and gripped the sheets like lifelines. They prayed for it to end quickly, while cursing them in their hearts like knives wrapped in silk.

Devils! Lady Medith will kill you to the last, like she wiped out the bandits who invaded her home! A woman, eyes brimming like a well, held her remaining dignity with both hands, a fragile cup.

So the soldiers grew worse, pounding with angry weight, like rams battering a gate. They vented their discontent in blind fury, storm without sense. But afterward, what rose in them was only deep fear, cold as river water at midnight.

Powell was sent to manage the prisoner camp, his status fitting like a key to a lock.

Traitor!

Damn beast! How could the Empire let a maggot like you garrison Sia City?

I was blind! Couldn’t see through a fat, ugly mongrel like you!

Insults and filth buzzed low in the wooden cages like flies. Powell’s face didn’t change, calm as a shut door. He’d expected this, like rain in a wet season.

Shout, shout—this is all you’re good for, voices like sick dogs. You’ll never grasp His Majesty of Segireneto’s greatness. Powell’s eyes were flat as slate.

Sure, our Ogathas can’t compare to your majesty—after all, he gave a medal to a beast. A man gripped the wooden bars, knuckles bone-white, eyes bloodshot like cracked glaze.

Powell leaned in, a crooked look like a bent blade. Oh? Your majesty is so great, isn’t he? Can he save you? Wipe your dog eyes clean and look at where you stand—mud and splinters. He can’t save you; no one can. If you’ve got guts, burrow out from underground, like moles with steel claws. Hahaha. Powell’s laughter rolled like a drum, and many guards joined in with a roar.

Makes sense—if you’ve got the guts, dig your way out! they crowed, then tucked in to eat, jaws working like wolves.

Damn them! Men and women cursed, words spitting like sparks, trying to quench a fire in their chests.

But a few sharp people caught something in that mockery, like a glint in dust. Hidden among the crowd, they quietly started on something, hands moving like mice in the dark.