Before midnight, under a sky veiled by thick clouds that obscured the moon, the leaders of Xiaxo gathered their forces. Zakop, Pupi, and Hwehwe moved among their troops, their presence steady and commanding. The soldiers adjusted their armor, tightened the straps of their leather , and checked the edges of their blades with quiet determination. The faint glow of their totems pulsed in the dim light, casting eerie shadows across the hardened faces of the warriors.
The night air clung to their armor like a second skin, heavy with the musk of pine resin and the iron tang of sharpened blades. A young archer near the rear ranks traced the faded tattoo on her wrist—a spiraling vine her mother had inked before the first conscription raid. It throbbed now in time with the totems' pulse, as if the earth itself counted down to the storm. Around her, veterans spat onto whetstones in unison, the rhythmic scrape of steel on stone echoing the cicadas' dying chorus.
The air was thick with unspoken tension. Each soldier knew the odds they faced—the empire they challenged was vast, its resources seemingly endless, its war machines towering and relentless. Yet, none faltered. They had trained for this moment, had bled for it, and now they stood ready to give everything.
Zakop walked among his troops, his gaze sweeping over them with a mix of sternness and pride. His voice, rough but steady, cut through the silence. "You better not die out there," he said, his tone almost casual, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the possibility of their end. But the weight of his words settled deep. The soldiers straightened, their jaws set.
Pupi and Hwehwe stood beside him, their expressions unreadable but their resolve clear. Larin, ever watchful, lingered at the edge of the group, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings as if expecting an ambush even now. They had been briefed thoroughly-each leader knew their target, each squad their role. There was no room for error.
Then, in a moment that seemed to suspend time itself, Zakop raised his dao, the blade catching the flickering light of the nearby fire stands. "For Xiaxo," he declared, his voice carrying across the gathered warriors. "For Sinlung."
And then he began to dance.
It was not a dance of celebration, nor one of joy-it was a ritual, slow and deliberate, every movement weighted with meaning. His feet pressed into the earth as if anchoring himself to the land they fought for. His dao sliced through the air in measured arcs, the steel humming softly. The fire-stands around him seemed to respond, their flames swaying in time with his movements, casting long, dancing shadows against the assembled warriors.
Pupi was the next to join, his own blade flashing as he mirrored Zakop's steps. Then Hwehwe, her movements fluid and precise, her totem glowing brighter with each motion. Finally, Larin stepped forward, his dance sharper, more controlled, as if he were already envisioning the battle to come. And then everyone joined in.
The sight was mesmerizing- Every soldier dancing, as if possessed by a guardian beast or something else entirely, their totems blazing with energy, their weapons cutting through the night. Their exhaustion momentarily forgotten, their spirits reignited. The long, drooping faces of men and women who had marched for days now hardened with renewed purpose. Their eyes, once dull with fatigue, now burned with conviction. Their finesse being sharpened by the dance like blades on whetstone.
For half an hour, the dance continued, a silent oath sworn in motion. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, Zakop stopped. He turned to face his warriors, his chest rising and falling steadily despite the exertion.
"May Sinlung watch over us," he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of a vow.
With a sudden, decisive motion, he struck his heavy totem into the ground. A shockwave of golden and blue mana erupted from the impact, swirling outward like a living tide. The energy wrapped around every soldier, every leader, binding them in its glow. Zakop's hands moved swiftly through the air, weaving the spell as if tying an invisible knot, sealing their fates together.
The mana settled into their skin, their armor, their weapons-a final blessing before the storm.
Zakop's target was the township fort, a massive structure that commanded the trade routes of the region. Its fall would cripple the empire's supply lines, buying Xiaxo precious time. Pupi's force moved toward the river fort, the key to controlling the Tlawng River, the lifeblood of their homeland. Hwehwe's mission was the most dangerous-the intelligence center, a nexus of information linking the frontier to Monarek, the imperial capital.
Zakop was not alone. Larin moved beside him, his presence a silent reassurance. An elite squad of twenty-five warriors followed, each handpicked for their skill and loyalty. They did not take the open road-instead, they slipped through the shadows, cutting down sentries and dismantling checkpoints with ruthless efficiency.
The fort loomed ahead, its walls towering and imposing. But Zakop had no intention of storming the gates. With a silent signal, he and three others activated their totems, the energy lifting them into the air. They glided soundlessly toward the roof, where a handful of guards lounged, their vigilance dulled by complacency. The scent of smoke lingered in the air as the imperial soldiers passed a pipe between them, oblivious to death descending upon them.
The takedown was swift. Zakop's blade found its mark before the guards could raise an alarm. The imperial soldier's last breath misted in the cold air, condensing on Zakop's cheek like a tear the old warrior would never shed. The others moved with equal precision, securing the rooftop in minutes. Below, the fort was still unaware, its corridors bustling with activity, its soldiers unprepared for what was coming.
Larin remained outside, his eyes scanning the perimeter. He waited, his fingers twitching near the hilt of his weapon. Then-chaos.
The alarms blared, a shrill, panicked wail that echoed across the fort. Shouts erupted, boots pounded against stone, orders were barked in confusion. Inside, Zakop and his squad moved like shadows, cutting down resistance before it could form. The element of surprise was their greatest weapon, and they wielded it mercilessly.
It took twenty minutes to secure the fort. Twenty minutes of blood, of steel meeting flesh, of spells flaring in the darkness. Then, as the last of the imperial soldiers fell, one of Zakop's warriors fired a flare into the sky-a signal to the waiting reinforcements.
Ten minutes later, answering flares burst over the horizon-Pupi and Hwehwe had succeeded as well.
Larin entered the fort, his boots stepping over the bodies of the fallen. The evidence of battle was everywhere-splatters of blood streaked the walls, the acrid scent of spent mana hung in the air, and the groans of the wounded were a grim reminder of the cost.
Zakop stood at the command post, his expression unreadable. "Man the stations," he ordered, his voice cutting through the aftermath. "The anti-mana cannons must be ready. Raise the barriers. The empire will not take this lying down."
Larin moved to obey, his mind already calculating their next move. The fort was theirs, but holding it would be another matter entirely.
A team of 100 more added to each taken position - Zakop's, Pupi's and Hwehwe's. As they reached the outskirts of each of the positions, they encircled the places and activated their totems, their totems around 5 feet in height dug into the ground and radiated a golden glow, atop of each totem a magic circle formed- with practiced precision each soldier activated their spell, forming a golden dome onto the position that they have captured. Each soldier stood guard of their totems getting ready for the battle to come.
Then-the ground trembled. A deep, resonant thrum shook the walls, vibrating through the bones of every warrior present. In the distance, the sky darkened with the approach of massive shapes-warships, one for each of their positions, descending like birds of prey.
The lead warship's hull groaned like a wounded titan, its armored plates scarred with glyphs that hurt the eyes to follow. Farmers in distant fields would later swear the shadows it cast didn't match its shape—stretched claws where there were none, a maw that swallowed stars. Larin's Sinlung-touched blood quickened, not with fear, but recognition: these were not mere engines of war. They were living blasphemies, their very existence a rebuttal to Sinlung's natural order.
The real battle was about to begin.