In the shadow of Bo'anen's gleaming spires, the outskirts of the capital of Seop unfold into a tapestry of stark contrasts. Here, in a poor district that feels worlds apart from the city's opulent heart, the narrow, winding streets are lined with humble dwellings made of bamboo and clay. These homes, patched together with whatever materials their inhabitants could scrounge, cluster tightly, as if seeking comfort in their shared struggle against the encroaching city. The air carries the scent of salt from the nearby sea, mingling with the earthy aroma of rain on dry soil—a rare respite from the usual dust.
Children, their clothes a patchwork of mended tears and faded colors, play in a clearing amidst the cramped houses. They have transformed the dirt into their battlefield, with crafted wooden toys serving as their warriors and steeds. Their laughter and shouts fill the air, a vibrant testament to the resilience of youth amid hardship.
A boy, his hair tousled and eyes alight with the fire of imagination, holds a stick carved to resemble a sword. He directs his wooden soldiers with grand gestures, proclaiming, "The villainous barbarians from the north approach! Form ranks, brave warriors of Seop!"
Another child, a girl with nimble fingers, maneuvers a toy horse through the dirt, weaving between the scattered figures. "Not if the legendary heroes of Mokop have anything to say about it!" she retorts, her voice tinged with the thrill of the game.
Nearby, a younger boy, clutching a crudely shaped wooden dragon, pipes up, "And I'll call upon the dragon of the East Sea to scorch our enemies!".
As the shadows lengthen, merging into the early hues of evening, the children's game grows more fervent, their shouts and laughter a beacon of mirth in the somber outskirts. Their world of make-believe is so absorbing that they barely notice the approach of Saya, their older sister, until she stands over them, a silhouette framed by the fading light.
Saya, barely into her teenage years, carries the weight of adulthood on her slender shoulders. Her long hair, pulled back into a practical braid, sways with the briskness of her movements. The lines of her simple, worn clothing speak of frequent mending, a testament to her role as the makeshift guardian of her siblings. Her face, usually gentle, now carries a stern expression as she sets down a basket heavy with fish, the result of her day's labor in the bustling markets of Bo'anen.
"Enough of this," Saya chides, her voice laced with weariness and concern. "You're playing at stupid games you don't understand. War isn't a game; it isn't fun. People suffer, people like us."
The children, momentarily chastened, quickly return to their laughter and play, the gravity of Saya's words lost in the joy of their imaginations. They weave around her, caught up in their own world, where the harsh realities she speaks of cannot touch them.
Saya watches them, a soft smile playing on her lips, despite her earlier admonishment. She understands the need for escape, the desire to find beauty and heroism in a world that often showed little of either. But as her gaze falls on the toys with which they play, her expression shifts from bemusement to alarm.
"Is that—?" she starts, her voice rising in panic as she dashes forward, scattering the children with her sudden movement. In their hands are not just wooden swords and toy horses but replicas of fire weapons, crudely fashioned yet unmistakably dangerous in their implication.
"These are not toys!" Saya exclaims, her earlier patience giving way to outright fear. "Playing with things like this... it's not just dangerous, it's disrespectful to those who've suffered because of them. War isn't a game. These," she gestures to the makeshift fire weapons, "bring only pain and destruction."
The children's defiance surfaces with the mention of their oldest sister, Sen, their eyes glistening with the onset of tears. "But Sister Sen made them for us!" they protest, their voices a chorus of confusion and hurt. "She said they were special. Why can't we play with them?"
Saya feels a surge of frustration, the weight of her responsibilities pressing down on her. Sen, the enigmatic sibling whose pursuits often skirt the fringes of safety, now becomes the focal point of Saya's ire. "Sen is a good for nothing," she snaps, her patience frayed by the day's toil. "Don't follow in her footsteps. She—"
Her rebuke is cut short by the children's renewed crying, their sobs a tangible manifestation of their bewilderment and distress. They clutch the toys closer, as if the wooden figures could shield them from Saya's harsh words and the complexities they can't comprehend.
Exhausted by the confrontation and the endless cycle of care and caution she must enforce, Saya commands, "Enough! Go inside. Stay there for the rest of the day, and keep quiet while I make dinner." She turns to the house, her resolve to impose some semblance of order undiminished by the turmoil.
However, as her hand reaches for the door, a deafening explosion shatters the fragile calm. The ground trembles beneath their feet, and for a moment, time seems to suspend, the echoes of the blast reverberating through the air. A plume of dark smoke billows from the direction of the cave.
Saya and the children, momentarily frozen by the shock, turn their eyes toward the source of the disturbance. From the heart of the smoke, a figure emerges, its form obscured by the soot and ash that cloak it. The figure stumbles forward, a silhouette carved out of the chaos.
The children's cries fall silent, their earlier disputes forgotten in the wake of this new, alarming development. They cling to each other, seeking comfort in the presence of their sister, Saya, whose own emotions are a whirlwind of confusion and concern.
Saya's heart races, fear and concern warring within her as she realizes the figure is Sen, her older sister, the architect of their current predicament.
The figure—Sen—coughs loudly, the sound tearing through the tense air. Then, unexpectedly, she bursts into hysterical laughter, a reaction so at odds with the gravity of the situation that it leaves Saya momentarily dumbfounded. The laughter, devoid of any real humor, sounds more like the release of tension after narrowly escaping disaster.
Reassessing the danger, Saya quickly decides the outdoors is safer for the children, at least until the smoke clears. "Stay out here," she instructs firmly, her voice brooking no argument. "Don't move until I tell you it's safe." Her words are a lifeline in the chaos, offering the semblance of security amidst the uncertainty.
Turning back to the house, Saya faces the daunting task of clearing the smoke that has begun to seep into their living space. She flings open windows and doors, her movements brisk and efficient, an attempt to purge the remnants of Sen's latest mishap. The air slowly begins to clear, but the tension remains thick, a palpable force that Saya battles with every open window.
Meanwhile, Sen, still cloaked in soot and oblivious to the disruption she's caused, ignores Saya's scolding. She's lost in her own world, mumbling to herself as she scribbles furiously on the floor with a piece of charcoal. Her focus is singular, consumed by the need to understand the chemical misjudgment that led to the explosion. Her laughter has faded, replaced by a fervent muttering as she traces diagrams and equations, a mad scientist in the aftermath of her experiment gone awry.
Saya's frustration mounts as she watches her sister, her attempts to instill some sense of responsibility in Sen falling on deaf ears. "Do you have any idea what you could have caused?" she yells, her voice sharp with worry and anger. But Sen is unreachable, ensnared in her obsession with the volatile alchemy that fuels her experiments.
Amid the dissipating smoke and the chaos of Sen's latest experiment, Saya's patience snaps like a brittle twig underfoot. Sen, in stark contrast to her sister's practicality, is an image of eccentricity. Her glasses, large and round, act as a barrier between her and the world, hiding her eyes and adding an air of mystery—or cluelessness, depending on whom you ask. Her hair, a cascade of curls that tumbles down to her knees, seems almost a creature of its own, wild and untamed, much like Sen herself. In Seop, she's labeled a "deviant," a term she wears with a peculiar mix of pride and indifference. She moves through life on a path of her own making, unconcerned with societal expectations of work or marriage.
"Sister, look at me when I'm talking to you!" Saya exclaims, though it's a lost cause with those glasses.
As Saya's scolding continues, Sen's attention wavers between her sister's words and the intricate scribbles before her. "You're living in a fantasy!" Saya exclaims, exasperated. "Crafting tools and items nobody needs. What good is following this path?"
Sen, unfazed, retorts with her usual blend of optimism and defiance. "No good in doing it now, that’s for sure. Not in this shithole anyway. But wait 10 or 20 years, and they will be prided by many rich collectors in the whole world!" she claims, her voice tinged with a certainty that only she seems to possess.
Saya snorts, unable to suppress a cynical chuckle. "Scrap collectors, more like," she mutters under her breath.
Sen's reaction to Saya's sarcasm is not one of irritation but of exuberant enthusiasm. Her smile, unnaturally bright and seemingly etched onto her face, betrays no hint of offense. Instead, it radiates a kind of purity, a guilelessness that speaks of her unwavering belief in her own pursuits. With a flourish that seems almost theatrical, she spreads her arms wide, as if to embrace the entire scope of her argument.
"You see, dear sister," Sen begins, her voice bubbling with excitement, her tone a peculiar mix of comedic flair and a disturbing lack of empathy for the potential dangers her inventions pose. "The invention of gunpowder—oh, what a splendid concoction!—is not merely for the art of war, though it has indeed revolutionized that dreary field."
She prances around the remnants of her experiment, gesturing wildly to invisible audiences, her curly hair bouncing with each exaggerated step. "No, no, it's far more than that. It's a catalyst for change in medicine, can you believe it? And engineering! The possibilities are endless, like a never-ending rabbit hole of wonder!"
Sen pauses, striking a pose that might have been intended to convey deep thought, if not for the comical seriousness with which she regards a charred piece of wood on the ground. "All this knowledge, all these awe-inspiring advancements, thanks to some geniuses from the west. Imagine that! And the empire, too proud and too ashamed to invite them. What folly!"
Her laughter, devoid of any real humor, fills the air, a surreal soundtrack to her monologue. "We could be leading the charge, transforming the world with explosive innovations—quite literally!" she exclaims, oblivious to the irony of her words.
Saya watches, a mix of bewilderment and concern etched on her face. Sen's passion is undeniable yet there's a disconcerting disconnect in her sister's inability to grasp the potential consequences of her actions. It's as if Sen exists in a parallel universe where danger is an abstract concept, and her inventions are the keys to unlocking a utopian future.
As Sen's monologue barrels forward, her excitement over the subject matter takes a darker turn. Her eyes, hidden behind the thick lenses of her glasses, shine with an unsettling zeal as she delves into the grisly details of gunpowder's effects on the human body. Her hands animate her words, miming the devastating impact with a disturbingly cheerful flourish.
"Ah, but let's not forget the pièce de résistance of gunpowder's legacy—the injuries!" Sen exclaims, her voice almost sing-song in its delivery. "Grievous wounds, my dear sister, the likes of which you've never seen. Limbs lost, bodies maimed, a veritable feast for the crows!"
She pirouettes, her long hair swirling, as if she were a macabre ballerina dancing on the grave of reason. "Imagine, if you will, the heat—so intense it chars flesh, leaving scars that tell tales more vivid than any bard could conjure. And the infections that follow, oh, the drama of it all!"
Sen's hands mimic an explosion, fingers splaying outward dramatically. "The concussive force, it's like a lover's embrace if that lover were a giant keen on crushing your very soul. Eardrums burst, organs rupture—a symphony of internal chaos!"
With a theatrical cough, she feigns inhaling smoke, waving her hand in front of her face with exaggerated disgust. "And my favorite part—inhaling those intoxicating fumes. A respiratory delight, if one has a penchant for poison."
Saya stands aghast, her stomach churning not just from the residual smoke but from the vivid and unsettling descriptions pouring from Sen's lips. The contrast between Sen's animated gestures and the horrific images she conjures is jarring. It's as if Sen is utterly disconnected from the gravity of her words, her empathy buried beneath layers of fascination and a peculiar sense of humor that finds light in the darkest of subjects.
The more Sen speaks, the more Saya feels a profound disquiet, a mix of horror and disbelief at her sister's cavalier attitude toward such devastation.
As Sen's unsettling exposition on the consequences of gunpowder comes to a close, her demeanor shifts once more, the dark clouds of her previous words parting to reveal a glimpse of childlike anticipation. The mention of their brother, absent on a journey to the northern tribes, injects a sudden spark of excitement into her voice, a stark contrast to the grim subject matter that preceded it.
"Ahhh," she sighs, the sound more a dreamy exhalation than a word, her eyes, obscured by the thick glasses, somehow managing to convey a twinkle of eagerness. "I can't wait for brother to be back from his trip to the northern tribes..." Her hands clasp together, not in prayer but in a gesture of eager anticipation, reminiscent of a child on the eve of a festival.
Her smile, wide and genuine, seems to erase the macabre fascination of moments before. "I'm certain he comes with new toys for me..."
The merchant, Goeghon, gazes at the Khan, his expression a blend of astonishment and contemplation. The shimmering firelight dances across his features, casting shadows that seem to flicker with his wavering thoughts. The cool night air of Tepr carries the distant sounds of celebration and competition, a stark contrast to the gravity of the conversation at hand.
"Thank you for your generous offer," Goeghon finally says, his voice unsteady, betraying the influence of the foreign alcohol still coursing through his veins. "However, I find myself under the spell of your hospitality, and not in the clearest state to weigh such matters." He gestures vaguely with a hand, as if trying to grasp the essence of sobriety itself. "Might we discuss this further on the morrow?"
Naci's smile, in response, is enigmatic. It's a smile that speaks of patience, of a predator assured of its prey, yet there's a warmth there too.
"Of course, we shall speak when the sun graces the sky," Naci agrees. With a grace that belies her martial prowess, she turns, her cloak catching the breeze like a sail.
She strides back toward her family's tent, where the next round of the game awaits. The air around her is alive with the sounds of Tepr's beating heart—the laughter, the cheers, the neighing of horses.
Goeghon watches the game unfold from his position at the edge of the gathering, the raucous laughter and spirited calls of the players forming a lively backdrop to his contemplative silence. Within the depths of his thoughts, he wrestles with the implications of Naci's request, aware of a potent secret hidden amongst his belongings—saltpeter, the ghostly white powder that whispers of fire and thunder.
As the game of tag spirals into a blur of motion and strategy, Goeghon's mind drifts to the arduous journey that brought the saltpeter into his possession. It was a quest that had taken him from the bustling markets of Seop, across the treacherous waters of the eastern sea, and into the heart of the Moukopl Empire—a journey fraught with dangers both seen and unseen.
To acquire saltpeter, one must venture deep into the empire's guarded mines, where the air is thick with dust and the scent of earth hangs heavy. These mines are not places for the faint-hearted. They are cavernous labyrinths, overseen by watchful guards and greedy overseers, where the slightest misstep can lead to disaster. The workers, their faces ghostly under the layers of grime, move silently, extracting the precious mineral from the bowels of the earth with hands that tell tales of toil and despair.
Goeghon had to rely on his wits and a network of trusted contacts, moving in secrecy, often under the cover of darkness. There were bribes to be paid, alliances to be forged, and countless nights spent under the open sky, where the only sound was the beating of his own heart. The fear of discovery was a constant companion, for the possession of saltpeter without the empire's sanction was a crime punishable by death.
Yet, for Goeghon, the risks were outweighed by the promise he had made to his sister, a master of fire weapons whose skills in crafting them are unmatched within the empire. Her work, a blend of art and science, demanded the purest ingredients, and Goeghon would stop at nothing to procure them for her.
Now, as the laughter of the Tepr tribes fills the night, Goeghon holds the key to a power that could alter the course of their history. The weight of the saltpeter in his bags feels heavier now, burdened with the gravity of Naci's ambitions and the potential consequences of his decision.
The game of tag under the evening sky of Tepr becomes the stage for a thrilling duel between two of its finest horsemen: Horohan and Fol. Their mounts, one as dark as the night and the other gleaming like the moon, circle each other with an intensity that draws the eyes of all spectators.
Horohan, astride Naci’s white horse Liara, moves with a grace that belies the power beneath her. Liara, her coat a stark contrast against the darkness, seems to glide over the ground. Horohan's posture is relaxed yet alert, her eyes locked on Fol, waiting for the slightest hint of an opening.
Fol, on his newly acquired mount Kafem, counters with a keen strategic mind. Kafem, though less striking in appearance, moves with a surprising agility, darting and weaving like a shadow. Fol's eyes sparkle with determination, his every maneuver designed to outwit and outlast his opponent.
The dance between the two horsemen is a battle of wit and will. Horohan makes the first move, urging Liara forward in a burst of speed that seems to catch the wind itself.
But Fol is ready. With a subtle shift of weight, he guides Kafem in a sharp turn, evading Horohan's reach by mere inches. The crowd gasps, their excitement palpable in the air, as Fol launches his counterattack, pushing Kafem to his limits in a daring attempt to circle behind Horohan.
The game continues, each attempt to tag the other met with a countermove of equal cunning. Horohan and Fol, through their dance of chase and evade, display a mastery of horsemanship that leaves the onlookers in awe. Their mounts, too, are participants in this ballet, their intelligence and training as evident as that of their riders.
Amidst the audience, Goeghon watches intently, his decision to bet on the white horse, now intertwined with his fate in Tepr. In Liara's gleaming coat, he sees the reflection of saltpeter, the substance that has brought him to this crossroads. "If the white horse prevails," he muses, "it shall be a sign to put my trust in you."
The climax of their duel approaches as Horohan and Fol, understanding that the end is near, push their mounts for one final, breathtaking maneuver. With the crowd holding its breath, Horohan and Liara make a bold, unexpected move, one that seems to defy the very laws of motion.
Goeghon's heart beats in sync with the pounding hooves, knowing that whatever the outcome, this moment, under the vast expanse of the Tepr sky, will forever shape his path forward.
From the seclusion of a hilltop, removed from the fervent excitement of the game below, Meicong observes the spectacle with detached interest.
Konir, his gaze fixed on the competition, can't help but be drawn into the spirit of the event. "So, who's your favorite? Which one should we sabotage?" he asks, his voice tinged with a mischievous undertone, as if imagining the chaos their intervention could wreak.
Meicong, however, remains unmoved, her posture rigid and her eyes cold. "Neither of them are worth losing your time," she responds, her voice a firm rebuke to Konir's lighthearted approach.
Konir, undeterred, clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. "Aren't you a party pooper. This game is actually pretty fun," he retorts, attempting to coax a semblance of enjoyment from his companion.
Meicong's response is sharp, cutting through Konir's amusement with the precision of a blade. "That's not what we came for, watching games all day. Did you forget? This girl is going too far.".
Konir, unfazed, simply shakes his head, his confidence unshaken. "I told you the plan so many times already, they form their rebel nation and we crush all of it at once. How is that complicated?" His tone is patronizing, the words of a strategist confident in his designs. "I still don't get why a bodyguard like you can speak back. I'm the brain here, so be quiet and enjoy the show I offer you, Meicong. That's something Yile will never give you." Konir's words are a blend of command and condescension, attempting to assert his dominance over the situation and Meicong herself.
Yet, Meicong's silence in the face of Konir's arrogance is not submission but a contemplation, a measured calm before the storm. Her loyalty, her purpose, is not swayed by the whims of those who would underestimate her or the challenge Naci represents.
The tension between Konir and Meicong thickens, the air charged with unspoken accusations and strategies left hanging in the balance. "Why are you bringing him up all the time?" Meicong's inquiry slices through the night, her tone laced with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.
Konir's annoyance flares instantly, his reply sharp as a whip. "It's none of your business." His words are a fortress, guarding motives he deems unworthy of explanation.
The conversation halts, Meicong's silence a stark contrast to Konir's irritation. "Why did you get mute?" he probes, unable to leave the quiet undisturbed.
"They said to accelerate the plot," Meicong finally speaks, her voice a mirror to the cryptic forces that drive their mission forward.
Konir, unable to mask his frustration, shrugs off the suggestion. "I can't go any faster than that, unless they ask us to assassinate the young Khan in her sleep. Though, I don't think that would stop anything now." His words hang between them, a hypothetical plan that even he recognizes as futile against the tide Naci has set in motion.
Meicong's response comes with a chuckle, a sound that seems out of place in the gravity of their discourse. "No, that won't be necessary." Her gaze shifts, directing Konir's attention to a revelation unfolding behind her.
Turning, Konir's expression morphs from irritation to sheer bewilderment. Mere leaps away, the silhouette of a small Moukopl army advance toward them, an ominous procession under the cloak of darkness. Their presence, unexpected and formidable, casts a shadow that stretches far beyond the immediate threat of swords and spears.
The atmosphere between Konir and Meicong shifts, the air crackling with tension as the distant march of the Moukopl army serves as a grim soundtrack to their confrontation. Konir's turn back to Meicong is deliberate, his movement slow but charged with a brewing storm. "Meicong, what have you done, you fucking piece of shit?" he seethes, his voice a mixture of betrayal and disbelief.
Meicong's response is a smirk, a curve of her lips that belies the gravity of their situation. "Don't be afraid, Kuan, they aren't coming for you yet. And don't you think they are far too small to attempt anything against the whole tribes? Where is your brain gone?" Her words are like daggers, each one aimed with precision to challenge and provoke.
Without warning, Konir's anger materializes into action. A knife, previously concealed, appears in his hand, its blade catching the moonlight as he places it under Meicong's throat. "Shut up! I need to fuck off and you're coming with me as a guarantee," he snarls, the threat palpable in the cold metal pressed against her skin.
Yet Meicong's smirk remains unshaken, her confidence undiminished by the knife at her throat. "Think you can beat me with such a small blade? But I promised to follow you anyway, dear Kuan. I promised it to Yile after all," she taunts.
"You fucking traitor!" Konir explodes, the label a venomous accusation meant to wound.
Meicong's retort is swift, her smirk turning into a grin that holds both mockery and truth. "Aren't you the traitor here, though?" she counters, her question a mirror reflecting Konir's own duplicity back at him.
As the game reaches its climax, with Horohan's triumphant grasp of Fol's flag marking a victory that resonates through the heart of every spectator, the air is suddenly pierced by the haunting sound of a horn. Its echo, a harbinger of change, turns every head, drawing eyes toward the horizon where the small Moukopl army emerges, an unexpected silhouette against the fading light.
The tribes, moments ago united in the thrill of competition, now stand together in a different kind of unity—a collective anticipation mixed with a wary tension. As the army approaches, the rhythm of their march a steady beat against the earth, a figure detaches from the formation, stepping forward with the authority of one who speaks for an empire.
The official, adorned in the regalia of the Moukopl Empire, raises a hand for silence, a gesture that ripples through the crowd, quelling murmurs and drawing every gaze upon him. When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of empires, echoing with the power vested in him.
"People of Tepr, sons and daughters of the land that stretches from the whispering steppes to the towering Tengr, hear the decree of the ever benevolent Emperor Mong Sui Zi , sovereign of the Moukopl Empire, the unbroken chain that binds the heavens to the earth.
Today, under the watchful eyes of our ancestors and the endless sky, a summons is issued from the heart of our empire, from the throne that oversees the vast expanse of our dominion. Naci of Jabliu, who has risen as the vassal of this mighty empire, is hereby convoked to present herself before the Emperor, to pledge allegiance in the name of the unity and prosperity that binds our fates together.
Let it be known that this convocation is not merely a formality but a reaffirmation of the bonds that have long united the tribes of Tepr under the protective embrace of the Moukopl Empire..
The Emperor Mong Sui Zi extends his benevolence to the people of Tepr, recognizing the valor and the spirit that define your lands. In turn, he seeks the assurance of your fealty, a pledge that shall secure the prosperity of our shared future, a commitment to the peace and stability that only unity can afford.
Naci of Jabliu, your presence is requested at the imperial court, to stand before the Emperor and the assembled witnesses of the empire, to declare your allegiance and to embrace the honor and the duty that accompany your role as a vassal of the Moukopl Empire.
Let this day mark the beginning of a new chapter in the history of our peoples, a chapter that shall be written with the ink of loyalty and the resolve to forge a legacy that shall endure for generations to come."
The official's speech, a blend of formality and veiled threats, hangs in the air, leaving a silence that speaks volumes. The people of Tepr, their faces a mosaic of emotions, turn to Naci, awaiting her response to this unexpected summons. The unity they had celebrated moments before is now tested by the specter of imperial demands, casting a long shadow over the festivities and the future they had envisioned.
In the shadow of Bo'anen's gleaming spires, the outskirts of the capital of Seop unfold into a tapestry of stark contrasts. Here, in a poor district that feels worlds apart from the city's opulent heart, the narrow, winding streets are lined with humble dwellings made of bamboo and clay. These homes, patched together with whatever materials their inhabitants could scrounge, cluster tightly, as if seeking comfort in their shared struggle against the encroaching city. The air carries the scent of salt from the nearby sea, mingling with the earthy aroma of rain on dry soil—a rare respite from the usual dust.
Children, their clothes a patchwork of mended tears and faded colors, play in a clearing amidst the cramped houses. They have transformed the dirt into their battlefield, with crafted wooden toys serving as their warriors and steeds. Their laughter and shouts fill the air, a vibrant testament to the resilience of youth amid hardship.
A boy, his hair tousled and eyes alight with the fire of imagination, holds a stick carved to resemble a sword. He directs his wooden soldiers with grand gestures, proclaiming, "The villainous barbarians from the north approach! Form ranks, brave warriors of Seop!"
Another child, a girl with nimble fingers, maneuvers a toy horse through the dirt, weaving between the scattered figures. "Not if the legendary heroes of Mokop have anything to say about it!" she retorts, her voice tinged with the thrill of the game.
Nearby, a younger boy, clutching a crudely shaped wooden dragon, pipes up, "And I'll call upon the dragon of the East Sea to scorch our enemies!".
As the shadows lengthen, merging into the early hues of evening, the children's game grows more fervent, their shouts and laughter a beacon of mirth in the somber outskirts. Their world of make-believe is so absorbing that they barely notice the approach of Saya, their older sister, until she stands over them, a silhouette framed by the fading light.
Saya, barely into her teenage years, carries the weight of adulthood on her slender shoulders. Her long hair, pulled back into a practical braid, sways with the briskness of her movements. The lines of her simple, worn clothing speak of frequent mending, a testament to her role as the makeshift guardian of her siblings. Her face, usually gentle, now carries a stern expression as she sets down a basket heavy with fish, the result of her day's labor in the bustling markets of Bo'anen.
"Enough of this," Saya chides, her voice laced with weariness and concern. "You're playing at stupid games you don't understand. War isn't a game; it isn't fun. People suffer, people like us."
The children, momentarily chastened, quickly return to their laughter and play, the gravity of Saya's words lost in the joy of their imaginations. They weave around her, caught up in their own world, where the harsh realities she speaks of cannot touch them.
Saya watches them, a soft smile playing on her lips, despite her earlier admonishment. She understands the need for escape, the desire to find beauty and heroism in a world that often showed little of either. But as her gaze falls on the toys with which they play, her expression shifts from bemusement to alarm.
"Is that—?" she starts, her voice rising in panic as she dashes forward, scattering the children with her sudden movement. In their hands are not just wooden swords and toy horses but replicas of fire weapons, crudely fashioned yet unmistakably dangerous in their implication.
"These are not toys!" Saya exclaims, her earlier patience giving way to outright fear. "Playing with things like this... it's not just dangerous, it's disrespectful to those who've suffered because of them. War isn't a game. These," she gestures to the makeshift fire weapons, "bring only pain and destruction."
The children's defiance surfaces with the mention of their oldest sister, Sen, their eyes glistening with the onset of tears. "But Sister Sen made them for us!" they protest, their voices a chorus of confusion and hurt. "She said they were special. Why can't we play with them?"
Saya feels a surge of frustration, the weight of her responsibilities pressing down on her. Sen, the enigmatic sibling whose pursuits often skirt the fringes of safety, now becomes the focal point of Saya's ire. "Sen is a good for nothing," she snaps, her patience frayed by the day's toil. "Don't follow in her footsteps. She—"
Her rebuke is cut short by the children's renewed crying, their sobs a tangible manifestation of their bewilderment and distress. They clutch the toys closer, as if the wooden figures could shield them from Saya's harsh words and the complexities they can't comprehend.
Exhausted by the confrontation and the endless cycle of care and caution she must enforce, Saya commands, "Enough! Go inside. Stay there for the rest of the day, and keep quiet while I make dinner." She turns to the house, her resolve to impose some semblance of order undiminished by the turmoil.
However, as her hand reaches for the door, a deafening explosion shatters the fragile calm. The ground trembles beneath their feet, and for a moment, time seems to suspend, the echoes of the blast reverberating through the air. A plume of dark smoke billows from the direction of the cave.
Saya and the children, momentarily frozen by the shock, turn their eyes toward the source of the disturbance. From the heart of the smoke, a figure emerges, its form obscured by the soot and ash that cloak it. The figure stumbles forward, a silhouette carved out of the chaos.
The children's cries fall silent, their earlier disputes forgotten in the wake of this new, alarming development. They cling to each other, seeking comfort in the presence of their sister, Saya, whose own emotions are a whirlwind of confusion and concern.
Saya's heart races, fear and concern warring within her as she realizes the figure is Sen, her older sister, the architect of their current predicament.
The figure—Sen—coughs loudly, the sound tearing through the tense air. Then, unexpectedly, she bursts into hysterical laughter, a reaction so at odds with the gravity of the situation that it leaves Saya momentarily dumbfounded. The laughter, devoid of any real humor, sounds more like the release of tension after narrowly escaping disaster.
Reassessing the danger, Saya quickly decides the outdoors is safer for the children, at least until the smoke clears. "Stay out here," she instructs firmly, her voice brooking no argument. "Don't move until I tell you it's safe." Her words are a lifeline in the chaos, offering the semblance of security amidst the uncertainty.
Turning back to the house, Saya faces the daunting task of clearing the smoke that has begun to seep into their living space. She flings open windows and doors, her movements brisk and efficient, an attempt to purge the remnants of Sen's latest mishap. The air slowly begins to clear, but the tension remains thick, a palpable force that Saya battles with every open window.
Meanwhile, Sen, still cloaked in soot and oblivious to the disruption she's caused, ignores Saya's scolding. She's lost in her own world, mumbling to herself as she scribbles furiously on the floor with a piece of charcoal. Her focus is singular, consumed by the need to understand the chemical misjudgment that led to the explosion. Her laughter has faded, replaced by a fervent muttering as she traces diagrams and equations, a mad scientist in the aftermath of her experiment gone awry.
Saya's frustration mounts as she watches her sister, her attempts to instill some sense of responsibility in Sen falling on deaf ears. "Do you have any idea what you could have caused?" she yells, her voice sharp with worry and anger. But Sen is unreachable, ensnared in her obsession with the volatile alchemy that fuels her experiments.
Amid the dissipating smoke and the chaos of Sen's latest experiment, Saya's patience snaps like a brittle twig underfoot. Sen, in stark contrast to her sister's practicality, is an image of eccentricity. Her glasses, large and round, act as a barrier between her and the world, hiding her eyes and adding an air of mystery—or cluelessness, depending on whom you ask. Her hair, a cascade of curls that tumbles down to her knees, seems almost a creature of its own, wild and untamed, much like Sen herself. In Seop, she's labeled a "deviant," a term she wears with a peculiar mix of pride and indifference. She moves through life on a path of her own making, unconcerned with societal expectations of work or marriage.
"Sister, look at me when I'm talking to you!" Saya exclaims, though it's a lost cause with those glasses.
As Saya's scolding continues, Sen's attention wavers between her sister's words and the intricate scribbles before her. "You're living in a fantasy!" Saya exclaims, exasperated. "Crafting tools and items nobody needs. What good is following this path?"
Sen, unfazed, retorts with her usual blend of optimism and defiance. "No good in doing it now, that’s for sure. Not in this shithole anyway. But wait 10 or 20 years, and they will be prided by many rich collectors in the whole world!" she claims, her voice tinged with a certainty that only she seems to possess.
Saya snorts, unable to suppress a cynical chuckle. "Scrap collectors, more like," she mutters under her breath.
Sen's reaction to Saya's sarcasm is not one of irritation but of exuberant enthusiasm. Her smile, unnaturally bright and seemingly etched onto her face, betrays no hint of offense. Instead, it radiates a kind of purity, a guilelessness that speaks of her unwavering belief in her own pursuits. With a flourish that seems almost theatrical, she spreads her arms wide, as if to embrace the entire scope of her argument.
"You see, dear sister," Sen begins, her voice bubbling with excitement, her tone a peculiar mix of comedic flair and a disturbing lack of empathy for the potential dangers her inventions pose. "The invention of gunpowder—oh, what a splendid concoction!—is not merely for the art of war, though it has indeed revolutionized that dreary field."
She prances around the remnants of her experiment, gesturing wildly to invisible audiences, her curly hair bouncing with each exaggerated step. "No, no, it's far more than that. It's a catalyst for change in medicine, can you believe it? And engineering! The possibilities are endless, like a never-ending rabbit hole of wonder!"
Sen pauses, striking a pose that might have been intended to convey deep thought, if not for the comical seriousness with which she regards a charred piece of wood on the ground. "All this knowledge, all these awe-inspiring advancements, thanks to some geniuses from the west. Imagine that! And the empire, too proud and too ashamed to invite them. What folly!"
Her laughter, devoid of any real humor, fills the air, a surreal soundtrack to her monologue. "We could be leading the charge, transforming the world with explosive innovations—quite literally!" she exclaims, oblivious to the irony of her words.
Saya watches, a mix of bewilderment and concern etched on her face. Sen's passion is undeniable yet there's a disconcerting disconnect in her sister's inability to grasp the potential consequences of her actions. It's as if Sen exists in a parallel universe where danger is an abstract concept, and her inventions are the keys to unlocking a utopian future.
As Sen's monologue barrels forward, her excitement over the subject matter takes a darker turn. Her eyes, hidden behind the thick lenses of her glasses, shine with an unsettling zeal as she delves into the grisly details of gunpowder's effects on the human body. Her hands animate her words, miming the devastating impact with a disturbingly cheerful flourish.
"Ah, but let's not forget the pièce de résistance of gunpowder's legacy—the injuries!" Sen exclaims, her voice almost sing-song in its delivery. "Grievous wounds, my dear sister, the likes of which you've never seen. Limbs lost, bodies maimed, a veritable feast for the crows!"
She pirouettes, her long hair swirling, as if she were a macabre ballerina dancing on the grave of reason. "Imagine, if you will, the heat—so intense it chars flesh, leaving scars that tell tales more vivid than any bard could conjure. And the infections that follow, oh, the drama of it all!"
Sen's hands mimic an explosion, fingers splaying outward dramatically. "The concussive force, it's like a lover's embrace if that lover were a giant keen on crushing your very soul. Eardrums burst, organs rupture—a symphony of internal chaos!"
With a theatrical cough, she feigns inhaling smoke, waving her hand in front of her face with exaggerated disgust. "And my favorite part—inhaling those intoxicating fumes. A respiratory delight, if one has a penchant for poison."
Saya stands aghast, her stomach churning not just from the residual smoke but from the vivid and unsettling descriptions pouring from Sen's lips. The contrast between Sen's animated gestures and the horrific images she conjures is jarring. It's as if Sen is utterly disconnected from the gravity of her words, her empathy buried beneath layers of fascination and a peculiar sense of humor that finds light in the darkest of subjects.
The more Sen speaks, the more Saya feels a profound disquiet, a mix of horror and disbelief at her sister's cavalier attitude toward such devastation.
As Sen's unsettling exposition on the consequences of gunpowder comes to a close, her demeanor shifts once more, the dark clouds of her previous words parting to reveal a glimpse of childlike anticipation. The mention of their brother, absent on a journey to the northern tribes, injects a sudden spark of excitement into her voice, a stark contrast to the grim subject matter that preceded it.
"Ahhh," she sighs, the sound more a dreamy exhalation than a word, her eyes, obscured by the thick glasses, somehow managing to convey a twinkle of eagerness. "I can't wait for brother to be back from his trip to the northern tribes..." Her hands clasp together, not in prayer but in a gesture of eager anticipation, reminiscent of a child on the eve of a festival.
Her smile, wide and genuine, seems to erase the macabre fascination of moments before. "I'm certain he comes with new toys for me..."
The merchant, Goeghon, gazes at the Khan, his expression a blend of astonishment and contemplation. The shimmering firelight dances across his features, casting shadows that seem to flicker with his wavering thoughts. The cool night air of Tepr carries the distant sounds of celebration and competition, a stark contrast to the gravity of the conversation at hand.
"Thank you for your generous offer," Goeghon finally says, his voice unsteady, betraying the influence of the foreign alcohol still coursing through his veins. "However, I find myself under the spell of your hospitality, and not in the clearest state to weigh such matters." He gestures vaguely with a hand, as if trying to grasp the essence of sobriety itself. "Might we discuss this further on the morrow?"
Naci's smile, in response, is enigmatic. It's a smile that speaks of patience, of a predator assured of its prey, yet there's a warmth there too.
"Of course, we shall speak when the sun graces the sky," Naci agrees. With a grace that belies her martial prowess, she turns, her cloak catching the breeze like a sail.
She strides back toward her family's tent, where the next round of the game awaits. The air around her is alive with the sounds of Tepr's beating heart—the laughter, the cheers, the neighing of horses.
Goeghon watches the game unfold from his position at the edge of the gathering, the raucous laughter and spirited calls of the players forming a lively backdrop to his contemplative silence. Within the depths of his thoughts, he wrestles with the implications of Naci's request, aware of a potent secret hidden amongst his belongings—saltpeter, the ghostly white powder that whispers of fire and thunder.
As the game of tag spirals into a blur of motion and strategy, Goeghon's mind drifts to the arduous journey that brought the saltpeter into his possession. It was a quest that had taken him from the bustling markets of Seop, across the treacherous waters of the eastern sea, and into the heart of the Moukopl Empire—a journey fraught with dangers both seen and unseen.
To acquire saltpeter, one must venture deep into the empire's guarded mines, where the air is thick with dust and the scent of earth hangs heavy. These mines are not places for the faint-hearted. They are cavernous labyrinths, overseen by watchful guards and greedy overseers, where the slightest misstep can lead to disaster. The workers, their faces ghostly under the layers of grime, move silently, extracting the precious mineral from the bowels of the earth with hands that tell tales of toil and despair.
Goeghon had to rely on his wits and a network of trusted contacts, moving in secrecy, often under the cover of darkness. There were bribes to be paid, alliances to be forged, and countless nights spent under the open sky, where the only sound was the beating of his own heart. The fear of discovery was a constant companion, for the possession of saltpeter without the empire's sanction was a crime punishable by death.
Yet, for Goeghon, the risks were outweighed by the promise he had made to his sister, a master of fire weapons whose skills in crafting them are unmatched within the empire. Her work, a blend of art and science, demanded the purest ingredients, and Goeghon would stop at nothing to procure them for her.
Now, as the laughter of the Tepr tribes fills the night, Goeghon holds the key to a power that could alter the course of their history. The weight of the saltpeter in his bags feels heavier now, burdened with the gravity of Naci's ambitions and the potential consequences of his decision.
The game of tag under the evening sky of Tepr becomes the stage for a thrilling duel between two of its finest horsemen: Horohan and Fol. Their mounts, one as dark as the night and the other gleaming like the moon, circle each other with an intensity that draws the eyes of all spectators.
Horohan, astride Naci’s white horse Liara, moves with a grace that belies the power beneath her. Liara, her coat a stark contrast against the darkness, seems to glide over the ground. Horohan's posture is relaxed yet alert, her eyes locked on Fol, waiting for the slightest hint of an opening.
Fol, on his newly acquired mount Kafem, counters with a keen strategic mind. Kafem, though less striking in appearance, moves with a surprising agility, darting and weaving like a shadow. Fol's eyes sparkle with determination, his every maneuver designed to outwit and outlast his opponent.
The dance between the two horsemen is a battle of wit and will. Horohan makes the first move, urging Liara forward in a burst of speed that seems to catch the wind itself.
But Fol is ready. With a subtle shift of weight, he guides Kafem in a sharp turn, evading Horohan's reach by mere inches. The crowd gasps, their excitement palpable in the air, as Fol launches his counterattack, pushing Kafem to his limits in a daring attempt to circle behind Horohan.
The game continues, each attempt to tag the other met with a countermove of equal cunning. Horohan and Fol, through their dance of chase and evade, display a mastery of horsemanship that leaves the onlookers in awe. Their mounts, too, are participants in this ballet, their intelligence and training as evident as that of their riders.
Amidst the audience, Goeghon watches intently, his decision to bet on the white horse, now intertwined with his fate in Tepr. In Liara's gleaming coat, he sees the reflection of saltpeter, the substance that has brought him to this crossroads. "If the white horse prevails," he muses, "it shall be a sign to put my trust in you."
The climax of their duel approaches as Horohan and Fol, understanding that the end is near, push their mounts for one final, breathtaking maneuver. With the crowd holding its breath, Horohan and Liara make a bold, unexpected move, one that seems to defy the very laws of motion.
Goeghon's heart beats in sync with the pounding hooves, knowing that whatever the outcome, this moment, under the vast expanse of the Tepr sky, will forever shape his path forward.
From the seclusion of a hilltop, removed from the fervent excitement of the game below, Meicong observes the spectacle with detached interest.
Konir, his gaze fixed on the competition, can't help but be drawn into the spirit of the event. "So, who's your favorite? Which one should we sabotage?" he asks, his voice tinged with a mischievous undertone, as if imagining the chaos their intervention could wreak.
Meicong, however, remains unmoved, her posture rigid and her eyes cold. "Neither of them are worth losing your time," she responds, her voice a firm rebuke to Konir's lighthearted approach.
Konir, undeterred, clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. "Aren't you a party pooper. This game is actually pretty fun," he retorts, attempting to coax a semblance of enjoyment from his companion.
Meicong's response is sharp, cutting through Konir's amusement with the precision of a blade. "That's not what we came for, watching games all day. Did you forget? This girl is going too far.".
Konir, unfazed, simply shakes his head, his confidence unshaken. "I told you the plan so many times already, they form their rebel nation and we crush all of it at once. How is that complicated?" His tone is patronizing, the words of a strategist confident in his designs. "I still don't get why a bodyguard like you can speak back. I'm the brain here, so be quiet and enjoy the show I offer you, Meicong. That's something Yile will never give you." Konir's words are a blend of command and condescension, attempting to assert his dominance over the situation and Meicong herself.
Yet, Meicong's silence in the face of Konir's arrogance is not submission but a contemplation, a measured calm before the storm. Her loyalty, her purpose, is not swayed by the whims of those who would underestimate her or the challenge Naci represents.
The tension between Konir and Meicong thickens, the air charged with unspoken accusations and strategies left hanging in the balance. "Why are you bringing him up all the time?" Meicong's inquiry slices through the night, her tone laced with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.
Konir's annoyance flares instantly, his reply sharp as a whip. "It's none of your business." His words are a fortress, guarding motives he deems unworthy of explanation.
The conversation halts, Meicong's silence a stark contrast to Konir's irritation. "Why did you get mute?" he probes, unable to leave the quiet undisturbed.
"They said to accelerate the plot," Meicong finally speaks, her voice a mirror to the cryptic forces that drive their mission forward.
Konir, unable to mask his frustration, shrugs off the suggestion. "I can't go any faster than that, unless they ask us to assassinate the young Khan in her sleep. Though, I don't think that would stop anything now." His words hang between them, a hypothetical plan that even he recognizes as futile against the tide Naci has set in motion.
Meicong's response comes with a chuckle, a sound that seems out of place in the gravity of their discourse. "No, that won't be necessary." Her gaze shifts, directing Konir's attention to a revelation unfolding behind her.
Turning, Konir's expression morphs from irritation to sheer bewilderment. Mere leaps away, the silhouette of a small Moukopl army advance toward them, an ominous procession under the cloak of darkness. Their presence, unexpected and formidable, casts a shadow that stretches far beyond the immediate threat of swords and spears.
The atmosphere between Konir and Meicong shifts, the air crackling with tension as the distant march of the Moukopl army serves as a grim soundtrack to their confrontation. Konir's turn back to Meicong is deliberate, his movement slow but charged with a brewing storm. "Meicong, what have you done, you fucking piece of shit?" he seethes, his voice a mixture of betrayal and disbelief.
Meicong's response is a smirk, a curve of her lips that belies the gravity of their situation. "Don't be afraid, Kuan, they aren't coming for you yet. And don't you think they are far too small to attempt anything against the whole tribes? Where is your brain gone?" Her words are like daggers, each one aimed with precision to challenge and provoke.
Without warning, Konir's anger materializes into action. A knife, previously concealed, appears in his hand, its blade catching the moonlight as he places it under Meicong's throat. "Shut up! I need to fuck off and you're coming with me as a guarantee," he snarls, the threat palpable in the cold metal pressed against her skin.
Yet Meicong's smirk remains unshaken, her confidence undiminished by the knife at her throat. "Think you can beat me with such a small blade? But I promised to follow you anyway, dear Kuan. I promised it to Yile after all," she taunts.
"You fucking traitor!" Konir explodes, the label a venomous accusation meant to wound.
Meicong's retort is swift, her smirk turning into a grin that holds both mockery and truth. "Aren't you the traitor here, though?" she counters, her question a mirror reflecting Konir's own duplicity back at him.
As the game reaches its climax, with Horohan's triumphant grasp of Fol's flag marking a victory that resonates through the heart of every spectator, the air is suddenly pierced by the haunting sound of a horn. Its echo, a harbinger of change, turns every head, drawing eyes toward the horizon where the small Moukopl army emerges, an unexpected silhouette against the fading light.
The tribes, moments ago united in the thrill of competition, now stand together in a different kind of unity—a collective anticipation mixed with a wary tension. As the army approaches, the rhythm of their march a steady beat against the earth, a figure detaches from the formation, stepping forward with the authority of one who speaks for an empire.
The official, adorned in the regalia of the Moukopl Empire, raises a hand for silence, a gesture that ripples through the crowd, quelling murmurs and drawing every gaze upon him. When he speaks, his voice carries the weight of empires, echoing with the power vested in him.
"People of Tepr, sons and daughters of the land that stretches from the whispering steppes to the towering Tengr, hear the decree of the ever benevolent Emperor Mong Sui Zi , sovereign of the Moukopl Empire, the unbroken chain that binds the heavens to the earth.
Today, under the watchful eyes of our ancestors and the endless sky, a summons is issued from the heart of our empire, from the throne that oversees the vast expanse of our dominion. Naci of Jabliu, who has risen as the vassal of this mighty empire, is hereby convoked to present herself before the Emperor, to pledge allegiance in the name of the unity and prosperity that binds our fates together.
Let it be known that this convocation is not merely a formality but a reaffirmation of the bonds that have long united the tribes of Tepr under the protective embrace of the Moukopl Empire..
The Emperor Mong Sui Zi extends his benevolence to the people of Tepr, recognizing the valor and the spirit that define your lands. In turn, he seeks the assurance of your fealty, a pledge that shall secure the prosperity of our shared future, a commitment to the peace and stability that only unity can afford.
Naci of Jabliu, your presence is requested at the imperial court, to stand before the Emperor and the assembled witnesses of the empire, to declare your allegiance and to embrace the honor and the duty that accompany your role as a vassal of the Moukopl Empire.
Let this day mark the beginning of a new chapter in the history of our peoples, a chapter that shall be written with the ink of loyalty and the resolve to forge a legacy that shall endure for generations to come."
The official's speech, a blend of formality and veiled threats, hangs in the air, leaving a silence that speaks volumes. The people of Tepr, their faces a mosaic of emotions, turn to Naci, awaiting her response to this unexpected summons. The unity they had celebrated moments before is now tested by the specter of imperial demands, casting a long shadow over the festivities and the future they had envisioned.
