The sun had shifted its course toward the late afternoon, casting long, skeletal shadows of ruined buildings behind the Paayasian soldiers. Here at the North Gate, they remained standing, guarding their positions with grim resolve.
Their fighting spirit was high; they were ready to protect Kark City until their last breath. But that courage began to wither as the fading, rhythmic thud of the battering rams echoed from the distant South Gate. With every muffled boom, the realization set in: they were sitting ducks in a city besieged from both sides. Kark was falling, minute by minute.
Yet, a flicker of hope remained in their hearts. They whispered to one another that their King would not abandon them—that reinforcements would surely reach the gates before the city was completely swallowed by the Magoli tide.
The Magoli army, which had remained in a deceptive retreat, suddenly stirred. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the soldiers rose as one, their movements synchronized and terrifying. At the North Gate, the Paayasian defenders watched in growing dread as the enemy formed into massive, marching blocks.
"Get General Leej now!" Kulu screamed. "Everyone in position! Archers, ready!"
Below the crumbling walls, Chinua sat astride her horse, her gaze locked not on the stone, but on the line of Paayasian archers. She began barking orders with the precision of a master conductor. Dawa was tasked with the battering rams; Haitao was ordered to bury the archers under rubble. Naksh, Azad, and Khartsaga were told to suppress the enemy's return fire.
"Captain Yisü and Baterdene, protect our rear," Chinua commanded, her voice cold and steady. "Chenghiz, Arban, Bilguun—ride with me."
She rode twenty yards ahead of her line, silhouetted against a sky that turned the earth to gold and blood. Kark City stood before them, a dark monolith that seemed to have already stopped breathing.
"Knock it down!"
Her voice was the spark. The snapping ropes of the catapults sang through the air. Twenty massive boulders arched over the Magoli infantry, slamming into the city wall and scattering the Paayasian archers like autumn leaves. A second wave followed, then a third, a relentless rain of stone that gave the defenders no room to breathe.
"Escalades and siege towers!" Chinua roared.
The heavy wheels of the six siege towers rumbled forward and twenty escalades. Four groups of infantries surrounded each escalade, locking their shields together to create "iron steel boxes"—mobile fortresses that protected the pushers from above.
Chinua looked back at her prepared army; the fire of the setting sun reflected in her eyes. "For Behrouz!" she yelled, galloping forward and releasing the first arrow.
"FOR BEHROUZ!"
The chant of thousands—Eastern soldiers and Salran bandits alike—shook the very foundations of the earth. A black cloud of arrows rose to meet the flying boulders, a combined storm of wood and stone crashing into the already broken walls of Kark.
Inside the busy street of Kark, Siqi rushed from the narrow alley into the open street, and the sight that met him was one of pure chaos. The sky above was filled with volleys of arrows—black, fleeing crows against the setting sun—and the roar of the North Gate under siege was deafening. But as he and his "one hundred" tried to follow the Paayasian messenger, they were met by a tide of hundreds of civilians.
Panicked families, carrying children and sacks of food, were rushing toward the South Gate. They were fleeing the boulders of the North, unaware they were heading straight into the "iron gate" that Siqi was about to turn into a slaughterhouse.
Siqi realized with a cold dread that if these civilians reached the gate, they would be caught in the crossfire. Chinua's code of war—absolute victory with minimum casualty—was about to be shattered.
"We have to do something," Siqi hissed as a wagon filled with household goods pushed him toward the wall. "These people are walking into their own deaths."
"What can we do?" Khair shouted over the noise, dodging a heavy wheel. "If they choose to flee, we cannot stop them!"
Siqi's eyes darted around, then landed on Khair. "Quickly—remove your armor."
"What?" Khair was taken aback.
"Hurry up! We don't have time!" Siqi reached over, unbuckling her belt and pushing her toward the crowd. He took a deep breath and projected his voice so the surrounding civilians would stop. "Stay in your homes! Tie a white cloth to your doors and the Magoli will not search them!" Siqi's voice was harsh, playing the role of a desperate soldier. "If you flee, they will come and kill everyone! Lies!"
On the ground, Khair immediately understood the game. She raised her hand high, her voice filled with a fake, desperate hope. "It's true! Their General said so! My cousin saw the houses in Nue-Li left untouched! The Mayor there was left in peace—I saw it with my own eyes!"
"Lies!" Siqi shouted, lunging forward to grab Khair's collar to make the scene look real.
But an elderly woman was faster. She stepped between them, helping Khair to her feet. "Young soldier," the woman said to Siqi, her voice trembling but firm. "This lady does not speak false. The fame of the Magoli Princess's mercy is well known... but—"
"But until we saw it with our own eyes, as enemies, we refused to acknowledge it," a man added, pulling his family to a halt.
"People of Kark!" Khair cried out, her eyes wet with staged tears. "Our front and back doors are blocked by the Magoli. To walk out of those gates is a guarantee of death. But to remain inside—to not interfere with the soldiers' duty—there is a chance we might live! Even if our King has not forgotten us, how quickly can an undug well put out a fire that has already started?"
By now, the crowd had swelled. The argument between Siqi and Khair had become a focal point, drawing in more voices as the debate grew as loud as the distant thunder of the siege. While some civilians ignored the noise and pushed forward, a small group suddenly came rushing back from the direction of the gate, their faces pale with terror.
"What's going on?" a man shouted, grabbing a fleeing neighbor.
"The South Gate is in total chaos!" the neighbor cried, his voice trembling. "Captain Nib and his men... they cannot hold! The gate is being overwhelmed!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd, and true panic began to sink into the hearts of those who had been hoping for an escape. The illusion of safety at the southern exit had vanished.
An elder man stood still for a long moment, looking at his tired children and the heavy packs they carried. He sighed, a sound of heavy, weary resignation. "Well," he said to his family, "my two legs will not outrun a Magoli arrow. Let us go back and leave our fate in the hands of the Hmagol Eastern General."
He turned, his shoulders slumped but his mind made up and began the slow walk back to his home. Following his lead, his children gripped their belongings and fell in line behind him.
This single act of surrender triggered a wave. One by one, families began to turn back toward their houses, their minds racing with thoughts of where they could find a white piece of cloth to tie to their doors. Yet, a few remained stubborn, refusing to turn back; they chose instead to take their chances in the fields, hoping the Magoli arrows would not find them as they ran against the tide of the enemy.
As the tide of civilians receded, Siqi and his team surged toward the South Gate. But as they neared the front line, they found their path blocked by a final, dense knot of panicking citizens trapped between them and the Paayasian soldiers holding the door.
"Siqi, we won't be able to push through this," Nachin said, his eyes scanning the urban landscape. He pointed to three tall buildings that still stood defiantly near the gate. Their walls had become mechanical porcupines; the timber was hidden beneath a dense, shivering coat of arrow fletching. "We have to take the high ground. From those roofs, we can rain death on the defenders."
"Time doesn't wait for us," Siqi agreed, his mind already locking onto a new tactical geometry. "Khair, you and your group come with me. Nachin, you and the rest get ready to burn a hole through this crowd."
"You got it," Nachin said, his face hardening. "Hey, Siqi—make it quick. We're out of time." He signaled twenty men to follow him into the shadows of the right-hand buildings.
The corner of Siqi's lips curved into a dark smile. "You too." He and his twenty soldiers broke left, sprinting toward the arrow-riddled structures.
"Soldier!" the young Paayasian messenger cried out, confused and breathless. "We can't get through! What are we doing? Hey! Why are your men running that way? The Magoli are outside the gate!" He spun around, pointing frantically at the splintering wood as Nachin approached him. "Tell your comrades they're going the wrong wa—"
Nachin didn't let him finish. Without a word, he pulled the dagger hidden at his hip and plunged the blade into the messenger's throat.
The Paayasian boy never saw the strike. He felt no pain, only a cold, paralyzing shock. He looked up, his mouth opening twice to speak, but only a thick torrent of blood spilled from his lips. As the realization of the betrayal finally hit his eyes, Nachin wrenched the blade out and swept it across the boy's throat in a final, jagged arc. The messenger collapsed into the dirt, a silent casualty of a war he never truly understood.
To the left, Siqi and his unit kicked in the door of a central inn. Inside, the air was still, a sharp contrast to the roar of the street. To their right, rows of jars containing the purest Paayasian liquor sat neatly on shelves, organized from the most expensive vintage to the cheapest brew.
"Grab the ones on the higher shelves," Siqi commanded, his voice cold and efficient. "They are the purest. They will burn the brightest."
He snatched a jar and sprinted toward the fourth floor, his twenty men following close behind, their arms laden with the volatile clay pots. They reached a room with a direct line of sight over the city wall and the chaotic mass of humanity below. Siqi and two others focused on the two massive wooden pillars that braced the inner gate structure.
"Assemble within one hundred counts," Siqi ordered.
The soldiers dropped their heavy packs, spilling out carved wooden components that looked like a giant puzzle. With practiced, rhythmic movements, they snapped the pieces together. At the hundredth count, a compact, heavy-duty ballista stood ready.
"The projectile, Siqi," a soldier said, handing Siqi a heavy iron hook trailing a length of smooth, glinting chain.
Siqi aimed the machine out the window, sighting the distant pillar. He squeezed the trigger. The mechanism snapped with a violent crack, sending the hooked bolt flying across the gap. It punched through the wooden pillar and bit deep, locking itself in place.
Four men immediately grabbed the end of the chain, wrapping it around their waists for stability. Then, using their leather waist-belts as glides, the Magoli soldiers jumped from the window. They ziplined through the smoky air, soaring directly over the heads of the Paayasian civilians and soldiers. As they flew, they smashed their jars of oil and liquor into the crowd and against the gate's reinforcements, coating the defenders in a flammable rain.