The oil lamp cast a feeble, nervous light, struggling against the pervasive gloom of the inner Citadel. Hye was entirely alone, sitting cross-legged on a worn reed mat in a small, damp chamber. He had purposefully isolated himself from the fear and stench that permeated the city and the other soldiers. His face was tightly covered by a linen strip wrapped across his nose and mouth, ensuring he did not inhale the sweet, powerful odor of the crushed Ndoto leaves.
The only sound in the room was the rhythmic, purposeful thud-thud-thud of a small wooden pestle impacting a stone mortar. Inside, Hye was steadily pulverizing a handful of Ndoto leaves—a rare, sweet-scented herb gifted to him by Femi, the personal doctor of the great Prince Mandla of Umusa Kingdom.
He ground the leaves into a fine, greenish powder and carefully transferred the contents into an empty wine jar. He covered the top of the jar with a piece of cloth and tied it securely with a strip.
Hye washed his hands, slowly removed the cloth covering his mouth and nose, picked up the wine jar filled with the crushed Ndoto leaves.
Hye emerged from his small, damp chamber, his eyes possessing an intense, unsettling clarity from the remnants of the Ndoto leaf paste. He walked directly into a central hall where General Xue, General Chong, and five of the remaining captains were gathered.
The atmosphere was grim. They were seated around a battered wooden table, engaged in a meal that offered no comfort: a simple bowl of plain congee—watery rice gruel, the last of the city's easily cooked stores. Their weary faces were set in resignation, the bland aroma of their meal utterly defeated by the distant scent of the Razaasia's barbecue.
Hye walked up to the men and, with a heavy thud, placed a ceramic wine jar on the table. He looked at the circle of desperate leaders and smiled—a brief, grim curve of the lips that held no warmth.
"This," he announced, his voice carrying the new sharpness of the Ndoto focus, "will help you solve your soldiers' hunger. I hope they like horsemeat."
A wave of stunned silence rippled around the table, followed by a stir of strained murmurs. The captains looked from the mysterious jar to General Chong, waiting for the devastating implications of the proposal to sink in.
"Horsemeat?" Chong looked up at Hye in a daze, the idea almost unthinkable, given the cultural reverence for horses.
"At this time," Xang interjected, speaking the grim truth of the moment, "I will eat anything that is edible." He paused, scraping the last of his bowl. "Though I have never tried horsemeat, anything would be better than this watery congee."
Hye's smile was fleeting, almost predatory. "Well, Captains and Generals, we will find out tonight." His tone instantly shifted to command. "Are the corn ready?"
Konn spoke up, stepping forward with pride. "We gathered all the corn we could find in the city, and the kernels are already being shelled, as you instructed."
Hye liked what he heard; the logistics were falling into place. He happily picked up the wine jar that held the crushed Ndoto leaves and left the conference hall, heading toward the back of the Citadel.
As on the many nights before, the Razaasia sat, eating, laughing, and dancing around massive, open fires, with roasting pork turning slowly on spits. Their behavior was a calculated show of supreme confidence; they paid almost no attention to the Ginmiao people. All the Ginmiao soldiers could do was watch from the ruins and desperately swallow their saliva as the rich, savory aroma of roasting pork rushed past them on the night wind.
The enemy's celebration reached its peak precisely at one in the morning, the hour of deepest sleep and lowest morale. This was the moment Hye had calculated.
With a sudden, grating screech, the northern gate of Zaoging—which had been tenuously secured by debris—was swung violently open. Captain Konn, Captain Xang, Captain Mao, and Captain Xao each led ten hand-picked soldiers. Forty men total rushed out of the city and onto the devastated open ground. Because the Razaasia soldiers were only three hundred yards from the defenders, the Ginmiao immediately began firing a sudden, concentrated barrage of arrows at the exposed, gathered Razaasia soldiers.
The volley of arrows, fueled by desperation and rage, slammed into the unsuspecting Razaasia encampment. Dozens of shafts found flesh, instantly replacing the sounds of laughter and music with screams of shock and pain.
The effect was immediate and overwhelming. The Razaasia soldiers, elite though they were, were caught in a moment of supreme vulnerability. Their disciplined formation instantly dissolved into chaos as they scattered, snatching up their swords and shields in a frantic rush to find cover and identify the source of the attack. Spits of roasting pork flew, instruments were dropped, and the celebratory fires were stomped out as the troops scrambled to transition from feasting revelers to prepared soldiers.
For the Ginmiao, watching the panicked scramble was a morale boost more effective than any meal. They had struck a nerve.
The Razaasia soldiers were still in disarray, scrambling for shields and weapons amidst the overturned feasting tables. But the forty Ginmiao men had achieved their primary objective: end the waiting and shatter the enemy's composure.
With their arrows spent and their goal accomplished, the Ginmiao riders sought no further engagement. They reined their horses and immediately turned, galloping straight back toward the open gate. They did not retreat in a predictable single-file line; instead, they quickly spread across the field in a loose, scattered formation, maximizing the space between each horse.
When they were halfway back to the city wall, with a single, synchronized motion, each of the forty riders plunged their knives into the two canvas bags of corn secured on the back of their horses.
As they raced for safety, the pierced bags swung wildly. A steady, rhythmic stream of dry corn kernels poured out onto the ground, tracing a series of crisscrossing, unpredictable lines across the dark battlefield, leading directly back to the open gates of Zoaging.
The Razaasia soldiers, finally roused from their drunken stupor, surged toward the breach in a chaotic rush, their frustration boiling over. But they were too slow.
The Razaasia soldiers finally managed to ready their horses and mount a pursuit, but they were already too late. All they could see was the final Ginmiao rider galloping into the darkness just as the northern gate of Zaoging slammed shut with a loud, thunderous sound that echoed across the dark, ruined landscape.
The Razaasia soldiers were left with a disheveled encampment, angry, wounded men, and a deep strategic confusion. They had been attacked, insulted, and forced to scatter by a tiny force they believed to be utterly broken.
Located in the middle of the Razaasia camp, surrounded by the remnants of the overturned feast, Koorush and Payam sat, still holding court. Koorush surveyed the scene of disarray, his lips curled in a mixture of anger and contempt.
"So, they are desperate enough to launch a small surprise attack on us. How pathetic?" he said with a dismissive smile. He sighed, picked up his wine cup, and drained it, attempting to regain his composure. "Get ready; tomorrow, let us throw them a surprise attack of our own, but we will do it in the open, unlike those losers who can only sneak at us in the dark."
"I will get everyone ready, General," the lead captain said, bowing slightly.
"Captain, how many men did we lose tonight?" Payam asked, his tone cold and calculating.
"None, sir," the captain replied, his voice strained. "But there are many who are severely wounded."
"None?" Koorush repeated, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face. They had been embarrassed by a handful of starving men but had achieved no tactical victory.
Payam waved away the lead captain, dismissing him. Only Koorush and Payam remained amidst the camp's disarray. Payam looked at Koorush, his expression unreadable.
"This may be a small victory for them, but tomorrow, ensure you only teach them a lesson, my Lord," Payam warned, his voice low and serious. "We are still waiting for our big fish."
The mention of the "big fish"—the true strategic prize they were waiting for—instantly fueled Koorush's suppressed rage. He furiously crushed the ceramic wine cup in his hand, the sharp shards cutting into his palm. He stared angrily at the flickering candlelight, the shame of being ambushed by a handful of starving men momentarily forgotten, replaced by a deep, personal hatred.
"If she dares to come," Koorush hissed, his voice venomous, "this will be the last battle she sees."
Hours later, the endless night of terror and starvation finally bled into a cold, desolate dawn.
A thick, chilling mist lay low over the devastated North Quarter, hugging the ground and weaving silently through the colossal chunks of pulverized masonry and the charred foundations of homes. The air, though crisp with the morning chill, still carried the sterile, burnt scent of rotting flesh, only occasionally and faintly mixed now with the ghost of the Razaasia's roasted pork.
The sun was a weak, brassy disc just clearing the jagged, distant mountain peaks, struggling to penetrate the heavy shroud of smoke that perpetually hung over the ruined city. The sky above the shattered wall was a dramatic, foreboding wash of sickly yellow and bruised purple, bleeding into a blood-red glow along the horizon—a color that seemed to stain the smoke cloud and promise violence.
The Razaasia moved with terrifying, renewed discipline. Driven by the stinging embarrassment of the midnight raid and the explicit fury of General Koorush, the lead captain marched at the head of two thousand soldiers. They advanced as a vast, metallic block of power, their formation perfect, their footing silent as they stepped over the battlefield. They were not feasting, nor were they laughing. They were moving with the calm, lethal intent of a force about to exact a crushing retribution for a perceived insult.