Misaki stood among the corpses, his breathing finally beginning to slow from combat rhythm back to something approaching normal. Six bodies. Six dead soldiers wearing the king's colors. Evidence of rebellion. Proof of treason.
The crowd was fragmenting into panic.
"What do we do with them?" someone asked, voice shrill with fear.
"Hide them? Bury them?"
"Burn them, but the smoke will be visible for miles—"
"They came on those beasts, their unit will expect them back—"
"We're all going to die—"
Misaki walked to the nearest body—the one he'd killed with a blade through the eye socket. The soldier's face was frozen in an expression of shocked agony, blood still seeping from the orbital wound. On Earth, Misaki had been an engineer. A problem-solver who worked with equations and materials and safe, predictable physics.
On Earth, he'd been powerless when systems failed people. When bureaucracy crushed the vulnerable. When those with power abused those without it.
But he wasn't on Earth anymore.
He closed his eyes and reached for his Manipura chakra. The fire element responded immediately, that familiar warmth in his solar plexus suddenly becoming an inferno. But he didn't manifest visible flames this time. Instead, he focused the heat into something far more concentrated. Far more destructive.
When he opened his eyes, they glowed with inner fire.
Misaki pressed his palm against the dead soldier's chest armor.
The body didn't burn—it disintegrated. Flesh, bone, armor, leather—everything molecular structure touched by his superheated chakra simply ceased to exist as organized matter. In less than two seconds, the entire corpse had been reduced to fine grey ash that the morning wind immediately began dispersing.
The crowd gasped. Several people took involuntary steps backward.
Misaki moved to the next body. Palm to chest. Two seconds. Ash.
Third body. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. Captain Drevith's headless corpse took slightly longer—Misaki had to touch both the body and the severed head separately—but within thirty seconds, all physical evidence of the soldiers had been erased.
Only the six-legged Kresh'mora mounts remained, and those could be explained as captured beasts or strays.
Misaki stood in the center of where six men had been, ash coating his hands and forearms, his Manipura chakra still burning hot in his chest. When he spoke, his voice carried across the silent square with unexpected strength.
"I will fight for this. For justice. For protecting people who can't protect themselves." He looked at the crowd—at the terrified faces, the shocked expressions, the four small bodies still draped over saddles as horrific reminders of what was coming. "On Earth, I was powerless. Systems killed people and I could only watch. Bureaucracy crushed the weak and I couldn't stop it. Those with power abused everyone else and I had no way to fight back."
He clenched his ash-covered fists.
"But I'm not powerless here. None of us are. They want to murder children for being born different? They want to purge entire villages because a tyrant decided to create scapegoats?" His voice rose, passion and rage mixing into something that made people lean forward rather than away. "Then we show them what happens when you push peaceful people past their breaking point. We show them that power doesn't just flow from crowns and armies. It flows from communities willing to defend each other."
Shy'yao studied Misaki with ancient eyes that had seen countless wars and revolutions. After a long moment, the old chief nodded slowly. "Well said, Haruto. Well said."
"MISAKI!"
The shout came from the eastern road. Lyria sprinted into the village center with Feya close behind her, both women carrying herb-gathering baskets that bounced against their backs. They must have been in the forest during the confrontation, completely unaware—
Lyria skidded to a halt when she saw Misaki and Riyeak covered in blood. Her healer's eyes went wide, immediately scanning for injuries, cataloging wounds. "What happened? Are you hurt? Whose blood—"
Then she saw the children's bodies.
The color drained from her face. Feya, the timid fifteen-year-old apprentice mage, made a small sound of horror and pressed her hands over her mouth.
"Lyria," Misaki said gently, aware that his blood-soaked appearance was probably terrifying. "I'm fine. The blood isn't mine. There was... an incident. King's soldiers came. They brought those." He gestured to the small corpses. "From Del'marxo village. They were going to kill more people here. We stopped them."
"Stopped them," Lyria repeated, her voice hollow. She was still staring at the dead children. "Those are babies. Those are babies."
"They cut their ears off," Riyeak said quietly. The big man was wiping blood from his axe with mechanical efficiency, but his hands shook. "While they were alive. For bounty money. One silver per pair."
Feya turned and vomited into the bushes. Lyria's face had gone from pale to a dangerous shade of red—not embarrassment, but pure rage.
"The king ordered this?" she asked, and her voice carried an edge Misaki had never heard before.
"Royal proclamation," Uyr'chev confirmed. "Mana users declared enemies of the kingdom. Purge begins in twenty-seven days. But it seems the army decided to start early."
"Then there's going to be war," Lyria said flatly. "M'lod is declaring war on Ul'varh'mir."
"Already declared," Shy'yao said. "The moment Riyeak and Misaki killed those soldiers, we crossed into open rebellion. There's no diplomacy that fixes this."
Misaki's mind had already moved past the immediate crisis into tactical analysis. "How big will the army be? The one they send to... to cleanse us?"
Deylos stepped forward, his lean face grim. "I served five years in the border forces before I became an adventurer. I know how the kingdom operates." He gestured to the crowd. "For village pacification? They'll send a company. Maybe two if they're being thorough. That's two hundred to four hundred soldiers. Infantry, cavalry, maybe a siege weapon or two if they expect fortifications."
"Two hundred soldiers," someone whispered. "We have maybe sixty people in M'lod capable of fighting."
"Seventy if you count the elderly," Torran added. "Eighty if you count teenagers with minimal training."
"We're not alone," Uyr'chev interjected forcefully. "Seven villages are involved now. Seven. That's..." he calculated quickly, "roughly five hundred people total, maybe two hundred capable fighters if we include everyone willing to hold a weapon."
"Still outnumbered," Deylos noted. "And out-equipped. Kingdom soldiers have standardized armor, professional training, supply chains. We have farmers with pitchforks and adventurers with dungeon gear."
The chiefs from the neighboring villages gathered in a tight circle, speaking urgently in low voices. After a moment of heated discussion, one of them—the woman with the missing arm—raised her voice.
"I'm sending runners back to our villages immediately. Everyone capable of traveling needs to relocate to M'lod within three days. We consolidate our population, our resources, our fighters. Make this place the center of resistance." She looked at Shy'yao. "If you'll have us."
"M'lod's doors are open," Shy'yao confirmed. "Bring everyone. We'll make room."
Misaki's throat had gone dry during the discussion. He walked to the communal well, drawing water with the simple bucket mechanism and drinking deeply. The cool liquid helped clear his head, helped him think past the adrenaline crash that was beginning to set in.
"Vellin."
The small hobbit scout appeared at his elbow like a ghost. She'd been so quiet during the aftermath that Misaki had almost forgotten she was present.
"I need your expertise," Misaki said. "The army will come from the south, right? Through the lowland passage? The mountain routes are too slow and difficult for moving troops."
Vellin nodded. "South-southwest, specifically. There's a main trade road about ten kilometers from here. Any military force would use that route for speed and supply wagon access."
"Show me. I want to see the terrain, make a rough map. Survey potential ambush points." He lowered his voice. "And I need you to scout ahead. Find out if there are any advance forces or staging camps nearby. We can't wait for them to come to us. We need to hit them when and where they least expect it."
Vellin's eyes gleamed with predatory interest. "Guerrilla tactics. Hit and run. Traps and ambushes." She grinned, showing teeth. "You think like a proper bastard. I approve."
They departed through M'lod's southern gate within minutes, moving at the quick pace of people with purpose. The terrain beyond the village was scrubland transitioning to light forest—Tra'ji'xu thornbushes mixed with scattered Tra'tze'the trees. Defensive terrain if used correctly. Dangerous terrain if you knew how to weaponize it.
Misaki pulled out a piece of parchment and began sketching as they walked. Rough topography. Elevation changes. Sight lines. Chokepoints. His engineering training merged with video game tactical thinking and desperate innovation born from knowing that hundreds of lives depended on getting this right.
"Here," Vellin said, pointing to a narrow passage between two rock formations about three kilometers south. "This is where I'd position my first trap. The road narrows to maybe four meters wide. Can't avoid it without adding two hours to the march time. They'll have to come through single file or tight formation."
"Pitfall traps?" Misaki suggested.
"Too slow to dig and too easy to spot. Better to rig a deadfall. Stack boulders on the cliff edges, trigger them to fall when the column passes underneath." Vellin studied the area with professional assessment. "Kill maybe twenty soldiers in the initial collapse. Panic spreads. Then you hit them from elevated positions while they're disorganized."
They spent two hours surveying and mapping, marking potential locations for traps, ambush points, fallback positions. Misaki's rough map grew increasingly detailed, annotated with notes about visibility, approach vectors, escape routes.
"I'll scout ahead starting tomorrow," Vellin said as they prepared to return to M'lod. "Move fast, stay hidden, map any military camps or patrol patterns. Give us advance warning of when they're coming and how many."
"Be careful," Misaki said. "If they catch you—"
"They won't catch me," Vellin interrupted with absolute confidence. "I'm a scout. Being uncatchable is literally what I do."
Eldrion returned to M'lod as Ulth'rk began its descent toward evening. The old mage looked tired from travel, his robes dusty from road travel, but his eyes were clear and alert. At three hundred twenty years old, he'd made the pilgrimage to the sacred temple in Rez'ax'tu countless times. It was tradition for powerful mages. Renewal of spiritual commitment.
He noticed the tension immediately. The unusual number of people crowding the village. The weapons being distributed. The children's bodies—now covered with cloth—lying respectfully near the temple steps.
Shy'yao found him before Eldrion could ask questions.
"We need to talk," the chief said quietly. "Privately."
In Eldrion's dwelling—a modest structure larger than most due to his need for spellwork space—Shy'yao laid out everything. The royal proclamation. The mana user purge. The soldiers' attack. The declaration of war. Twenty-seven days until the army arrived.
Eldrion listened without interruption, his ancient face growing more grave with each detail. When Shy'yao finished, silence stretched between them.
"You've committed us to war with the kingdom," Eldrion finally said.
"Yes."
"There will be no mercy. No negotiation. They will come with fire and steel to erase M'lod from existence."
"Yes."
"And you did this knowing the cost."
Shy'yao met his friend's eyes. "They brought dead children to our village and threatened to kill more. What choice did we have? What choice does anyone have when facing evil?"
Eldrion stood and walked to his window, looking out at the village that had been his home for two centuries. "No choice at all," he agreed softly. "No choice at all."
He turned back to Shy'yao, and power flickered in his eyes—the accumulated strength of three hundred twenty years of magical study.
"Then we prepare. And when they come, we show the king that some villages are not easily erased."