The ground trembled with a low, distant thunder, a shuddering beat that announced the relentless advance of Chinua and her cavalry army. Astride his horse, Haitao watched the oncoming tide of bodies, his expression as cold and practiced as the gears of a siege engine. The faint thrum of the battering ram against the city gates was a grim metronome, counting down the city's final moments. Without a word, he lifted a gloved hand, and a profound stillness fell over the ranks behind him. Then, with a quiet command of "Release," the silence was shattered by a deafening groan of rope and twisting wood. Massive trebuchet arms sprang forward, launching their immense stone payloads into the heavens. They arced in a slow, deadly trajectory, whistling with the sound of a thousand rushing winds as they began their final descent. Haitao did not flinch, his gaze fixed on the battlefield with a merciless clarity. He understood the terrible equation of war: an overwhelming consequence for every charge.
A deafening symphony of destruction rained down upon Neu-Li City. Arrows, loosed in a constant, hissing stream, became a grim curtain of death. They fell with the force of thrown spears, punching through thatched roofs, embedding themselves in wooden doors, and finding their final, sickening rest in the bodies of those caught in the open. But the arrows were only the prelude. The true horror came from the sky: the colossal, stone-weighted objects that the Magoli siege engines hurled over the walls. They descended with the roar of a hundred thunderstorms, each one a harbinger of utter ruin. The stones did not just land; they obliterated. Houses were not merely damaged, they were instantly smashed into piles of kindling and rubble, their foundations cracking like eggshells under the immense weight. The city became a graveyard of broken homes and shattered lives, the very air thick with the dust of collapse and the silent screams of the fallen.
"Escalades forward!" Haitao's voice, a command as sharp as a lightning strike, cut like thunder through the chaos of the battlefield. At the sound of his words, a new wave of Magoli infantry emerged from the ranks, their hands gripping the sides of five massive escalades. With a single, fluid motion, they began their relentless march toward the city walls, the wooden ladders held high like a forest of menacing spears. Their advance was steady and disciplined, a grim and silent promise that the battle was now entering its final, brutal phase.
Chinua, astride her horse, led the charge, her cavalry army fanning out into a deadly crescent. They rode at a controlled gallop, a torrent of horseflesh and steel, not toward the gate but along the base of the city wall. As they rode, the archers in her ranks drew their bows and let loose a constant barrage of arrows. This was no wild volley, but a precise and calculated storm of death, aimed with chilling accuracy at the Ginmiao soldiers manning the battlements. Each arrow was a distraction, a terror, and a grim promise. The Ginmiao soldiers, now forced to duck and take cover from the relentless fire, could no longer pour their own arrows down upon the Magoli infantry below. The cavalry's thunderous presence was a diversion, a tactical dance that opened a window of opportunity. The six escalades, now unimpeded by the city's defenders, surged forward with a newfound speed, their wooden frames grinding against the earth as they raced toward the city walls.
From the top of Neu-Li City's walls, the Ginmiao soldiers, weary and bloodied, had tried their best to hold back the relentless Magoli advance. But when the five massive escalades slowly began to advance toward them, a collective, heavy certainty settled over the ranks. In their hearts, they knew the battle would soon be over, and they would not come out victorious this time. And yet, with every ounce of determination remaining inside them, their fighting spirit had not drained. They had lost the battle, but they would not surrender their will to fight.
Chinua's cavalry, which had been a moving crescent of death, suddenly shifted. With a single, fluid command, they turned from the city's walls and reformed into a tight wedge, their horses galloping in unison toward a new, singular objective: the city gate. The thunder of their hooves was a deafening roar, a relentless, final sound in the brutal symphony of war. They did not slow, even as the gate remained unbroken, their charge an act of absolute faith in the battering ram's strength. Chinua led them with a terrifying, unflinching purpose, every rider's eyes fixed on the point where they knew, at any second, the wood would splinter, and the iron would give way. They would be the first to breach the city's heart.
"General!" a Ginmiao soldier shouted, his voice a frantic cry. "The gate will be breached any moment now!"
On the rampart, Nta grabbed onto Chong's arm, his grip desperate. "Get out of here, General! We must move towards the northern gate and escape that way!"
Chong resisted, his jaw set in a hard line. "I will not run," he said, his voice as unyielding as stone.
The grim reality of their situation had settled on Nta's face. "There will always be a time we can reclaim the city," he pleaded, the words raw with a painful truth. "But if you die here, who will come back to reclaim this city? Go now!"
Nta grabbed Chong's arm and, with a final, desperate shove, pushed him forward down the stone stairwell. Chong stumbled, but his training took over, and he landed gracefully on the back of a waiting horse. He looked down at Nta, his lips trembling, a terrible wave of sorrow washing over him. In that gut-wrenching moment, he knew he was leaving his soldiers behind to die, a commander escaping a lost battle. He was a survivor, but the price of his life was the lives of his men, and the knowledge of that sacrifice was a burden heavier than any wound.
"Go, I will hold them back," Nta said, his voice now a grim order. He slapped the buttock of the horse, and it took off with a sudden, powerful surge, heading toward the northern city gate. Nta then turned to his soldiers, his expression hardening, his voice harsh and commanding. "Set up a perimeter line," he ordered, his gaze sweeping over each man. "For the next half an hour—no Magoli gets through here!"
The Ginmiao soldiers quickly lined themselves up across the south gate of Neu-Li City, their formation a last, desperate barrier. Wooden spikes had been placed across the ground, and archers stood ready behind the barricade, arrows nocked on their bows. Nta and his infantry soldiers were a wall of steel, their swords and spears held high, prepared for the inevitable rush.
Overhead, two soldiers stood on a beam, their swords drawn and already resting on the taut ropes that held the trap spike poised on the ceiling of the city gate tunnel. A small group of archers on the city wall had also shifted their target to the tunnel, their bows drawn and ready to shoot any enemy who came out of the gate's narrow entrance. The trap was set, a final, brutal surprise for the approaching Magoli army.
Nta and the Ginmiao soldiers waited, their hearts a frantic drum against their ribs. With each deep, resonating thud from the battering ram, their hearts skipped a beat, their breath catching in their throats. They looked at the massive iron-bound gate, the deep dents from previous impacts a grim constellation of destruction. Each new crater that appeared on the surface was a stark, brutal reminder that the end was near, and that their final, desperate plan was all that stood between the city and its fall.
Chong rode his horse at a gallop through the streets of Neu-Li City, a living testament to the chaos of the Magoli assault. Along his desperate ride toward the northern gate, he saw a landscape of utter destruction. Buildings had been reduced to splintered wood and scattered stone by the relentless fall of projectiles. Houses had gaping holes torn through their roofs, and shattered windows littered the streets like jagged teeth. But it wasn't just the structures; the ground was littered with the bodies of men, women, and children, caught too close to the city walls as the stones and arrows had descended.
Yet, amid the carnage, a strange, stark sight stood out: white pieces of cloth tied to the front doors of some houses, a silent, desperate flag of surrender. As he raced past Dae's home, Chong's breath caught in his throat. There, too, a piece of white cloth hung from the door. A chill of dawning horror ran through him, a terrible and profound realization that in desperate times, people would do desperate things to stay alive. The white cloths were not just a sign of surrender; they were a collective cry of a city that had abandoned all hope and all loyalty in favor of a fragile, terrifying promise of survival. For them, a piece of cloth was not a betrayal but a prayer. As he rode, Chong saw not a cowardice he could despise, but a primal, animalistic need to live, a truth so simple and so brutal that it shattered his every notion of duty and honor.