The capital of Seop glitters in the distance, its alabaster spires clawing at the clouds like gilded talons. But here, in the shadow of Bo'anen's wealth, the air reeks of salt-rot and desperation. Ramshackle huts cobbled from bamboo, clay, and the ghosts of better days huddle together, their walls patched with seaweed nets and rusted fishhooks. The sea hisses just beyond the ragged horizon, its breeze carrying the tang of brine and the metallic whisper of impending rain.
In a dirt clearing, children wage war.
"The villainous barbarians approach!" shrieks a boy with a stick-sword, his tunic more hole than cloth. He jabs at a battalion of whittled wooden soldiers, their faces smudged with charcoal grins. "Form ranks, brave warriors of Seop, or we'll all be eaten by their pet wolves! Wolves with three heads!"
A girl crouches nearby, her fingers darting like spiders as she maneuvers a toy horse—a splintered plank with straw for a mane—through the battlefield. "Not if the heroes of Mokop trample their bones first!" she crows, voice sharp with glee. "We'll ride through their camp and steal their ghost chickens!"
"Ghost chickens ain't real," mutters a smaller boy clutching a lumpy wooden dragon. Its jaws gape in a permanent roar, one eye chipped away. "But my dragon's gonna burn their stupid wolves. Burn 'em till they're extra dead." He spits for emphasis, the glob landing near the girl's horse.
She swats his head. "Your dragon's got fleas."
"Does not!"
"Does too! Fleas and boils!"
Their laughter spirals into the damp air, raw and bright, as the first drops of rain kiss the dust. A shadow falls across the toy soldiers.
"What," says Saya, "is this?"
The children freeze. Saya stands over them, her braid fraying at the edges, a basket of mackerel dripping oily tears onto her patched sandals. Her eyes—the same burnt umber as her siblings'—narrow at the battlefield.
The boy with the stick-sword gulps. "We're… uh… liberating the sacred turnip fields from the northern hordes?"
"Liar," Saya snaps. She crouches, her calloused fingers snatching a wooden figure from the dirt. It's no soldier. Carved into its clutched hands is a crude tube, its tip blackened with soot. A fuse, frayed and singed, dangles like a worm.
"Ohhhh," coos the girl, oblivious. "That's Sen's special cannon! It's for when the barbarians bring their giant war elephants. You light the stringy bit, and BANG—"
"—and your eyebrows fly to the moon," Saya finishes flatly. She turns the toy over. The craftsmanship is unsettlingly precise. Tiny gears. A hollow chamber. "Where did you get gunpowder?"
The smaller boy puffs his chest. "Sen mixed it! She said it's mostly safe if you don't lick it—"
"Mostly?" Saya's voice cracks like a whip. The children flinch. "Sen's a fool. A waste of good charcoal. You think war's a game? That it's all"—she mocks their squeaky battle cries—"'Charge! Glory! Ghost chickens!'?"
The girl scowls. "But Sen said the empire's scared of her inventions! She's gonna be famous—"
"Famous? For what? Blowing up outhouses?" Saya hurls the cannon into the dirt. It cracks open, spilling grainy black powder. "Real war isn't wooden dragons. It's farmers with their guts in their hands. It's babies crying 'cause their mama's got a face full of shrapnel. You want to play with fire? Go lick a stove."
The smaller boy's lip quivers. "But… but Sen's smart—"
"Sen's a menace." Saya straightens, her jaw tight. "And if you don't bury these toys by sundown, I'll feed 'em to the crabs. Alive."
Suddenly, the world splits open with a roar. The earth bucks like a spooked horse, sending the boy with the stick-sword face-first into a puddle. A plume of smoke erupts from the mouth of a nearby cave, its tendrils clawing at the sky as if the gods themselves had burned dinner. Chickens scatter, squawking prophecies of doom.
"Hah!" A voice cackles from the chaos. "Finally!"
Sen stumbles out of the smoke, her hair a nest of singed curls, glasses askew and smeared with soot. Her robes—once a respectable indigo—now resemble a squid's funeral shroud. She clutches a smoldering notebook to her chest, its pages fluttering like panicked moths. "Do you see that?" she wheezes, gesturing to the cave with a blackened hand. "The thrust-to-combustion ratio was off by a hair, but the trajectory—!"
Saya shoves the younger boy behind her, her face pale beneath its usual sun-warm bronze. "Are you mad?" she hisses. "You could've buried the children!"
Sen blinks, tilting her head as if the concept is a riddle. "But I didn't," she says brightly. "And now I've data!" She brandishes the notebook, its margins crammed with equations that look like drunk spiders staggered through ink. "Next time, I'll halve the sulfur and add a dash of crushed oyster shells—for stability, you understand—"
"Next time?" Saya snatches the notebook and hurls it into a puddle. Sen gasps, as though her firstborn child has been sacrificed. "You'll kill someone! Or worse—get us fined by the magistrate!"
The children gawk, torn between awe and terror. The girl inches toward the cave, eyes gleaming. "Did… did you make lightning in there, Sen?"
"Better!" Sen croons, plucking a charred mushroom from her hair and popping it into her mouth. "Controlled chaos, my little turnip. The foundation of progress!"
Saya drags the girl back by her collar. "Inside. Now."
The hut reeks of smoke and unresolved fury. Sen sprawls on the floor, her charcoal scribbling frenetic arcs across the clay tiles. "If I recalculate the stoichiometric balance…" she mutters, licking soot off her thumb. "Yes, yes—a catalytic agent, perhaps ground seagull bone—"
Saya slams a pot of rice onto the hearth. "You're a joke, Sen. A walking tavern tale. 'The girl who blew up her shoes!' 'The lunatic who married a mortar!'"
Sen pauses, tilting her head. "Mortars are loyal. And they don't complain about burnt fish."
"People talk." Saya's voice sharpens. "They say you're unfit for market, let alone marriage. That you'll die alone, smothered by your own nonsense."
Sen shrugs, her grin a crescent moon in a soot-smeared sky. "Better than dying at a loom, weaving napkins for some magistrate's snot-nosed heir." She taps her temple. "I serve posterity."
"Posterity doesn't feed us." Saya stabs a finger at the children huddled in the corner, their faces still streaked with ash. "They need a sister, not a… a crackpot philosopher!"
Sen's laughter is a windchime in a hurricane. "Oh, Saya. You cling to this life like a barnacle to a sinking ship. What's the point of surviving if we don't transcend?" She flips her notebook open, revealing a sketch of a winged contraption with cannons for talons. "Imagine! Dragons of steel, raining fire and knowledge—"
"Dragons eat people," Saya snaps. "And fire kills them. You're not a genius—you're a hazard."
For a heartbeat, Sen's smile falters. Then she plucks a half-melted gear from her pocket, holding it up like a sacred relic. "Hazard today. Hero tomorrow."
The children hold their breath. Somewhere outside, the sea whispers secrets to the shore.
Saya turns back to the hearth, her shoulders stiff. "Heroes don't stink of burnt hair."
Sen pops the gear into her mouth, sucking the soot off it. "Innovation," she declares, "is an acquired taste."
Sen perches on a wobbly stool, her soot-stained fingers sketching arcs in the air as if conducting an invisible orchestra. The children huddle near the hearth, wide-eyed, while Saya grinds dried seaweed into powder, her knuckles whitening with every word Sen spews.
"Gunpowder!" Sen declares, her voice soaring like a firework. "A symphony of sulfur, saltpeter, and sin! Do you know what happens when a man's femur meets a cannonball?" She pauses, savoring the question like a connoisseur of fine wine. "Splinters. Delightful, geometric splinters! His leg becomes a pincushion for shrapnel roses!"
The youngest boy giggles nervously. Sen leans forward, her glasses slipping down her nose. "Oh, it's fascinating! The concussive force—poof!—turns eardrums into jelly. And the burns!" She wiggles her fingers, mimicking flames. "Skin peels like overcooked duck, and beneath it… marbled meat."
Saya slams the mortar onto the table. "Enough."
Sen ignores her, twirling a lock of singed hair around a rusted screwdriver. "But here's the true genius! Those same burns? Medical marvels. Boil willow bark, mix it with crushed ants, and—presto!—a poultice to rot the infection clean off! Progress, dear sister, is a dance on a blade's edge. One misstep…" She pantomimes an explosion with her hands, complete with sound effects. "Boom! Tragedy. But nail the landing?" Her eyes glint. "Immortality."
Saya's seaweed powder trembles in its bowl. "You talk of burns and bones like they're… recipes."
"Aren't they?" Sen plucks a preserved lizard from her pocket, waving it like a lecture prop. "Life's a cauldron! Toss in pain, add a dash of ingenuity, and voilà—a cure for the very misery you've cooked up!"
The girl in the corner hugs her knees. "Did… did the lizard die from gunpowder?"
"From science," Sen corrects cheerfully. "Now, imagine a world where we harness that power! Bridges that vault oceans! Printing presses that churn out knowledge like rice cakes! And yes, yes—weapons that could flatten the emperor's palace into a very expensive pancake."
Saya's voice drops to a whisper. "You're sick."
Sen blinks. "That's what they say to those who are ahead of their time?"
A sudden quiet falls. Sen tilts her head, as though hearing a distant bell. Her grin softens, almost human.
"…Brother will be home soon," she murmurs, stroking the lizard's desiccated tail. "None of this empire's squeamishness about, say, skull goblets or explosive diplomacy."
Saya freezes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Sen hums, evasive, and rummages through a pile of scrap metal. "He'll bring gifts, of course. Furs! Herbs! Perhaps a recipe or two." She holds up a twisted copper coil, squinting through it like a telescope. "The north knows things, Saya. Ancient things. How to brew poison from ice. How to make a flame that bites through iron."
"You're talking nonsense," Saya snaps, but her hands fumble with the mortar.
"Am I?" Sen's tone lilts, teasing. "Remember the stories? How their shamans carve engines from elephant bones? How their children play within volcano hearts?" She leans close. "Brother's been gone six months. Imagine what toys he's found…"
Outside, the wind shifts. The sea's murmur sharpens into a howl.
The youngest boy tugs Saya's sleeve. "Will brother bring a real dragon?"
Sen answers before Saya can. "Possibly." She tosses the copper coil into the air, catching it with a flourish. "A terrifying, fire-breathing dragon."
Saya stares into the middle distance, her face a mask. The hearth fire gutters, casting shadows that writhe like serpents on the walls.
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 Lin Sui Zi Mong, 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.
END OF PART 1