31 Hwayeol, Tsuchihi 1312 Third Age
The bar was no longer a place of idle drinking. Tonight, it was a war council. Jhon Rackham sat at the center, his boots kicked up on the table, a half-drained bottle of bitter ale in one hand and his newly gifted sword resting against his leg. The dim lanterns flickered against the gathering of men and women before him—thieves, killers, outcasts, and rebels. These were not trained soldiers. They were the desperate, the angry, the forgotten. And that made them far more dangerous. Jhon scanned the faces around him, one by one, committing them to memory.
The Fighters of the Desert Rebellion:
Rashid "The Viper" – A thin, wiry man with a scar running down his left eye, once a desert bandit feared for his ability to slit throats before a man even knew he was dead. His curved daggers gleamed in the lantern light. "The King's guards ain't shit. I've slit better throats for a loaf of bread."
Safa "The Phantom" – A woman dressed in a dark, loose shawl, her face mostly hidden but her amber eyes sharp. A former concubine stolen by the Oasis King, she had escaped by poisoning the last noble who tried to claim her. Her expertise? Blades laced with venom. "Let me near him, and the King will be choking on his own tongue before he even draws his sword."
Yusuf "The Anvil" – A hulking blacksmith, muscles carved from years of hammering steel. He wielded a sledgehammer like it was an extension of his arm. "Break their armor, break their bones—same damn thing."
Samir and Fahim "The Twin Rats" – Two street thieves, notorious for their agility and pickpocketing skills. They could climb walls like lizards and slip through locked doors like shadows. Fahim grinned, tossing a stolen coin in the air. "The King's gold belongs to us, and his pride dies tonight."
Nadia "The Firebird" – A tall woman with a cruel smirk and burn scars on her forearm. She had been a servant in the palace before escaping. Now, she handled explosives. "You want fireworks? You'll get fireworks."
Tarek "The Mute" – A quiet, hulking warrior who never spoke a word, but his spear had whispered death to many. He had no home, no family—only revenge. Jhon grinned at them. "Ain't much of an army, but I'd bet on you lot against a hundred of those pampered palace bastards."
They smirked, their spirits high, but now came the real part. The plan.
The Plan to Gut the Oasis King
Jhon unrolled the map given to him by the stranger days ago, flattening it against the wooden table. He tapped a finger on the grand structure at the center—The Oasis Palace, a decadent fortress of stone and gold, built atop the only natural spring for miles.
"The bastard calls himself a king, but he's just a fat leech sucking the life out of this land," Jhon sneered.
The Oasis King—King Harun al-Bashir the Third, the self-proclaimed "Lord of the Burning Sands"—was a bloated tyrant draped in silks, his belly swollen from years of feasting while his people starved. His palace was a monument to greed, its halls lined with marble stolen from across the seas, its fountains overflowing with water while the villagers were left with dust.
The worst?
The tribute. Every month, Harun gifted the Iron Foot Clan gold, food, and women as a peace offering to keep his own skin safe."A king who sells his own people for comfort," Jhon spat. "I can't decide if he's worse than the Iron Foot or just their pathetic little dog."
Nadia cracked her knuckles. "What's the plan, Captain?"
Jhon's grin widened."Simple. We make him watch his kingdom burn before we take his damn head."
The Attack Strategy:
Phase One: The Infiltration
Samir and Fahim would sneak in first, using their skills to disable the outer guards. They'd open the gates for the rest. Safa, with her poison, would take care of the kitchen staff, ensuring that no one could call for help.
Phase Two: The Chaos
Nadia would set fire to the wine storage—once flames rose, panic would break out in the palace. Yusuf would lead the charge, smashing down doors and breaking through defenses. Rashid would hunt the nobles, ensuring that no wealthy rats escaped.
Phase Three: The King's Judgment
Jhon would personally deal with King Harun. No escape. No mercy. Silence hung in the air after Jhon finished.
Then, Rashid chuckled. "You're mad, Captain."
"Damn right I am." Jhon leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Now, are we doing this or not?"
Nadia slammed her dagger into the table. "That fat pig won't see tomorrow."
"For the desert!" Yusuf roared.
"For vengeance!" Safa hissed.
The entire bar erupted, the spirit of rebellion burning brighter than the stars outside. The night was still, but the air was thick with tension. No moonlight graced the desert sands, only the distant glow of torches atop the palace walls. The scent of spice and stagnant water clung to the air—a sickening contrast to the bloodshed about to unfold.Jhon Rackham crouched low on a sand dune, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. The coarse grains of sand shifted beneath his boots, and the warm breeze carried with it the distant sounds of revelry from within the palace. Laughter, music, drunken voices—all of it a mockery.
Behind him, the outcasts, rebels, and vengeance-driven souls he had gathered stood in the dim moonless night, waiting for the moment to strike. Men and women alike, hardened by suffering, clutching their weapons with a mix of fear and anticipation. Some bore scars, reminders of past cruelty suffered at the hands of the Oasis King's men. Others had nothing left but rage.Before them stood Oasis Palace—a fortress of arrogance, its golden domes gleaming like a beacon of excess. The very heart of Sol-Mayora's corruption.
It was built on the backs of the suffering, its wealth stolen from the weak, its marble halls lined with the bones of those who had once resisted. A towering testament to gluttony and greed, untouched by the cruelty of the land that surrounded it.The oasis that fed it, Warm Oasis, was the only true source of life in this scorching hell, and yet its waters were denied to the people. The palace walls—tall, smooth, and made from imported limestone—stood as an insult to the dying villagers outside, those who perished under the desert sun with cracked lips and empty bellies while the nobles inside bathed in wine.
Jhon's gaze burned with hatred as he stared at its towering gates."By sunrise," he whispered, voice barely carried by the wind, "this place will be nothing but a grave."A murmur of approval spread through his people. Some clutched their weapons tighter, others whispered prayers to whatever gods might listen.
Beside him, Rashid The Viper, a former assassin who had long abandoned his creed for vengeance, let out a low chuckle. "I like the sound of that." His dark eyes gleamed under the torchlight, his twin daggers already coated with a thin sheen of venom.
Nadia The Firebird, a woman who had spent years as a concubine before escaping, tightened the cloth around her hands, her expression unreadable. She carried with her a satchel of oil pots, their contents promising a fate more terrible than steel.
Then there was Yusuf The Anvil, a towering brute of a man who once worked the palace forges before his wife was taken as tribute. He hefted his massive hammer onto his shoulder, rolling his neck with an almost eager grin.
Jhon turned his gaze to the outer walls. The guards patrolled lazily, oblivious to the storm brewing beyond the dunes. Arrogance had made them weak. And then, the hunt begin.
Phase One: The Fall of the Outer Walls
The desert night was silent, save for the whispering wind that carried the scent of warm sand and distant spice. Above, the sky stretched dark and vast, its stars blinking down upon the impending massacre with cold indifference. Jhon Rackham crouched at the crest of a dune, his eyes fixed on the imposing walls of the Oasis King's palace—a monument to excess, greed, and cowardice.
"It will be silent."That was the promise Rashid "The Viper" had made. And Jhon trusted him. Beneath him, the assassin and his seven shadows slithered forward, their black robes blending into the dunes like shifting sand. They moved without sound, their feet leaving barely a trace. They were not men anymore. They were whispers of death.The outer walls of the palace stood tall, constructed of polished sandstone, reinforced by thick wooden beams.
Guard towers loomed above, each manned by sentries who had grown lazy under the illusion of safety. From where Jhon sat, he could see them leaning against the parapets, swapping stories, laughing softly in the cool night air. Some chewed on dried dates, others took swigs from their flasks. They had no idea.The first shadow reached the base of the wall. A grappling hook, wrapped in cloth to dull its bite, arced up and latched onto the ledge. A quick tug—secure. One by one, the shadows ascended.
Jhon counted their movements. One… Two… Three…The first guard never even turned his head. A dagger slid under his jaw, silencing him before his mind even understood the cold metal in his throat. He fell backward, caught by careful hands, lowered without a sound.
Four… Five…A second guard turned—his lips parted to call out—but a throwing knife buried itself into the soft space between his ribs. The air left his lungs in a soundless gasp. He collapsed, twitching.
Six… Seven… Another climbed over the parapet, grabbing a third guard by the chin and wrenching his head sharply to the side. The sickening snap of bone was drowned by the wind.Jhon exhaled. The first wave had succeeded. Now, they moved along the walls, their blades singing only in brief flashes of moonlight before biting into flesh. Rashid was the swiftest. His two daggers moved like silver vipers, slicing through throats and ribs, sending men slumping to the cold stone before they could even register the presence of death.
A guard at the western tower leaned forward, peering down at the sand below. He must have heard something—sensed something. His fingers gripped his spear tighter, his body shifting forward.
Rashid was already behind him. A blade slipped between the man's ribs, severing his heart in a single thrust. The guard shuddered, his body stiffening in pain, before Rashid pulled the dagger free and let him drop like a sack of grain.
Blood stained the stones, gleaming black under the starlight. The last of the torches along the wall were extinguished. The palace's outer defenses had been severed like the exposed throat of an animal too fat and slow to escape the hunter's knife.
hon watched from the dunes, silent, waiting. When Rashid raised his gloved hand in a signal, Jhon nodded.
Chapter Two: The Gates of Tyranny
The cold night wind carried the scent of blood and sand as Jhon Rackham descended from the dunes. Behind him, the rest of his force followed—men and women hardened by loss, driven by vengeance. The stars above remained indifferent, watching as they marched toward the palace gates, their torches extinguished, their weapons gripped tight.
The outer walls had fallen. The sentries atop them lay lifeless in pools of their own blood, their corpses already cooling under the desert sky. Rashid and his shadows had done their part, slitting throats and cutting out tongues before screams could escape. Now, it was Jhon's turn.
He exhaled, his breath slow and steady. The palace loomed ahead, its massive iron-bound gates like the maw of a beast waiting to be fed. Beyond those doors lay the Oasis King—a man who ruled through gluttony and greed, who feasted while his people starved, who threw women to the Iron Foot as offerings to save his own miserable skin. Jhon clenched his fists at the thought.
Tonight, that beast would choke on its own blood. Jhon raised his hand, signaling his forces to halt just beyond the palace's torchlight. The sand beneath his boots shifted as he turned to face them—thirty men and women, hardened by the cruelty of this land, each with their own reason for standing here.
Torvan, the axe-wielding giant from the mountain tribes, who had once lost his wife to slavers.
Isla, the one-eyed archer, whose sister had been taken by the Iron Foot and never returned.
Gareth, the former palace guard, who had been whipped and exiled for daring to speak against the Oasis King.
Anara, the twin-bladed dancer, whose grace hid a heart filled with vengeance.
And then, there was Jhon. A stranger in this land. A man who had once commanded his own ship, who had watched his crew—his brothers and sisters—slaughtered like animals on the sand.
This was not their first raid. But it was the most important."Torches stay out," Jhon whispered. "We move in shadows. Keep low. Keep quiet."
The group nodded. They understood. At the front, Rashid moved like a ghost, his cloak blending into the night. He pressed his ear against the massive wooden doors, listening."They're awake," he murmured, barely audible. "Guards inside. Not many. The fools still think the walls are secure."Jhon allowed himself a smirk. "Then let's teach them otherwise."
The palace gates were an ancient thing, reinforced with iron and thick beams of wood, built to withstand the assault of an army. Jhon did not have an army. But he had Torvan.
The mountain warrior rolled his shoulders and stepped forward, gripping his massive axe in both hands. With a deep breath, he raised it high—then swung.
CRACK.
The first strike splintered the wood. A second caved it inward. By the third, the lock gave way with a sickening groan. Jhon pushed through first, sword drawn, his men flooding in behind him like a storm crashing through a broken dam.
The guards inside had barely registered the noise when steel met flesh. A man in golden armor turned just in time to see Jhon's blade flash toward him—then it was buried in his neck. Blood sprayed against the sandstone walls, and the guard collapsed, gurgling.
Another tried to shout, but Rashid was already on him, a dagger silencing his throat before the sound could form. Swords clashed. Steel sang. The air filled with the scent of torn flesh, of oil burning from overturned lamps.
Torvan swung his axe, cleaving a man from shoulder to hip in a single, brutal motion. Isla loosed arrows with deadly precision, each one finding its mark in the unarmored gaps of the guards' defenses. Gareth took up a fallen spear, driving it through a soldier's gut and twisting until the man coughed blood.
Within minutes, the first wave was dead. Jhon wiped his blade clean on a fallen man's tunic and turned to the grand staircase at the back of the hall. It spiraled upward, leading to the Oasis King's personal chambers.
He could hear shouting above. More guards were coming.Jhon smirked."Let them come."
The second wave came rushing down the stairs, drawn by the sound of battle. These were not the lazy, drunken guards of the outer walls—these were the King's elite. Their armor was thicker, their swords sharper.But they bled just the same. Jhon ducked under a wild swing, feeling the blade whistle past his ear.
He turned sharply, driving his sword into the attacker's ribs and twisting until he felt the snap of bone.A second man lunged for him, but Anara was faster—her twin blades flashed like silver lightning, slicing tendons before the soldier could even scream.
Torvan threw a body off the balcony, the sickening crunch of impact echoing through the hall. Isla kept to the shadows, picking off stragglers with well-placed arrows. Rashid danced between enemies like a phantom, his daggers never still, his movements too fluid to follow.
The battle was over before it had even begun. Jhon exhaled, stepping over the corpses as he moved toward the stairs. Above them, in the highest room of the palace, the Oasis King waited.
Coward.
Greedy bastard.
Jhon's grip on his sword tightened. He would carve the fat from that man's bones, strip him of the excess he had stolen, and let him drown in the very wealth he had hoarded.
But first, they had to get to him. Jhon turned to his people, their breath heavy from battle, their weapons slick with blood.
"Forward," he commanded. And they moved. The palace was theirs now. And the King's reckoning had only just begun.
Phase Three: The Fall of the Oasis King
The grand doors to the throne room stood tall before Jhon Rackham, a lavish display of carved ivory and gold—a monument to the Oasis King's insatiable greed. The edges were lined with shimmering silk curtains, swaying gently in the warm breeze that carried the scent of perfumed oils and incense from within.
Jhon could already hear the laughter, the moans, the sickening sounds of indulgence. The bastard wasn't even trying to run. He was feasting, drowning in pleasure, bathing in excess while his people starved and suffered.
Jhon exhaled sharply, his lips curling in disgust. With a silent nod, Torvan lifted his massive axe and swung.
BOOM.
The doors exploded inward, splintering apart as they crashed against the polished marble floor. The force of the impact sent curtains billowing, knocking over golden goblets and trays of half-eaten fruit.
And there he was. The Oasis King, a grotesque mountain of flesh, reclining on his jewel-encrusted throne, his rolls of fat spilling over the armrests, his fingers greasy with the remnants of some exotic meat. His lips glistened with wine, his bloated face flushed red from drunken pleasure.
And surrounding him—dozens of women. Naked, painted in gold and jewels, their bodies glistening with sweat and scented oils. Some sat on his lap, their delicate hands rubbing his thick, hairy chest, their lips trailing over his skin. Others danced before him in slow, hypnotic movements, their hips swaying, their bodies writhing like living flames. A few knelt at his feet, offering him grapes and wine, pressing kisses to his swollen fingers.
The moment the doors burst open, the women froze. Gasps filled the air. A few of them shrieked and scrambled for cover behind silk curtains and overturned cushions.
The Oasis King, however, only let out a long, lazy sigh as if Jhon's arrival was merely a mild inconvenience.
Then, slowly, he laughed. A deep, wet, disgusting sound, as if his own throat struggled to hold the weight of his voice."And what do we have here?" he drawled, his thick, sausage-like fingers tracing the bare thigh of the girl beside him. "Another beggar come to steal from me? Another fool thinking he can take what is mine?"
Jhon stepped forward, his sword dripping blood onto the pristine marble. His boots echoed through the chamber. The Oasis King's small, piggish eyes flicked to the blade, then to the bodies of his slain guards behind Jhon.
But still, he smirked."Look at you," the King chuckled, his belly shaking. "Filthy. Bloodstained. Smelling of sweat and desperation." He took a sip of wine, licking his thick lips. "And you think you can walk into my domain and challenge me?"
said nothing. He simply tilted his head. The silence stretched, pressing against the walls of the chamber like a brewing storm. Then, slowly, Jhon let his gaze wander.
To the half-eaten feasts scattered across golden plates. To the wine-stained pillows where the women had lounged, their bodies nothing more than decorations. To the caged birds in the corners, exotic creatures plucked from distant lands, their wings clipped so they could only flutter in place. And finally, back to the Oasis King himself
.Jhon's lips curled into a mocking smirk."You're disgusting."
The King raised an eyebrow, amused. "Am I?" He took another sip of wine, smacking his lips.
Jhon stepped closer, his sword scraping against the floor.
"You eat while they starve."
"You drink while they wither."
"You fuck while they are taken."
He glanced at the terrified women who still knelt beside the throne. Some of them trembled, their eyes hollow, their bodies covered in fading bruises. And Jhon understood.
These weren't just dancers.
They were prisoners.
Playthings for a king who saw himself as a god. The Oasis King sighed, bored. He waved a chubby hand. "Oh, please. Do spare me the sermon."
He leaned forward, his rolls of flesh shifting. "You think you're a hero? You think these people need saving?"
He gestured to the women."These whores came willingly."
A girl flinched at the word. The King chuckled. "They dance for me, they worship me. And when I grow tired of them?" He smirked, leaning back into his throne. "I give them to my men. Just like I gave the others to the Iron Foot."
Jhon's grip on his sword tightened.
He had heard enough.
The Oasis King smiled, his yellowed teeth gleaming in the torchlight."So, tell me, beggar... are you here to kill me?" He spread his arms wide, as if welcoming the strike. "Go on, then. Cut me down, like an animal."
Jhon stared at him.For a moment, he considered it. Just one swift motion. One clean slice. But no. That would be too merciful. Instead, Jhon turned his gaze to the women still kneeling beside the King. He met the eyes of one of them—a girl with dark, hollowed eyes, a chain around her ankle, and a bruise on her shoulder.
Slowly, he extended his free hand toward her."Come," he said, his voice calm.
The girl hesitated.
The King laughed again."You think she'll go with you?" He snorted. "You think any of them will? They belong to me."
Jhon ignored him."Come," he repeated. "You're free now."
The silence in the chamber was suffocating.Then, the girl moved. She stood—shaky, uncertain, but she stood.
Then another.
And another.
One by one, they stepped away from the throne.The King's smug expression finally cracked.
His eyes widened."Wait," he scoffed. "No. What are you—?" He reached out, grabbing one of the girls by the wrist. She let out a sharp gasp, struggling, but his grip was firm.
Jhon moved. Steel flashed, a wet, meaty sound filled the air. The King screamed. His hand hit the floor first, severed cleanly at the wrist. Blood spurted like a fountain, painting the silk cushions red. He fell back onto his throne, clutching the stump, his screams turning into gurgling sobs. Jhon loomed over him. He knelt down, gripping the King's bloody stump, and whispered into his ear—"You do not die yet."
The King whimpered. Jhon turned to his people."Take him," he ordered. The women were already moving, their chains now broken, their eyes burning with long-suppressed rage.
The King tried to crawl away, but they grabbed him—their delicate hands now claws, their soft voices now filled with fury. Jhon watched as they dragged him from the throne, his screams echoing through the chamber. And for the first time that night—Jhon smiled.