The air in the settlement of Kuvuna-Sapo-Nyekundu hangs thick, sweet, and heavy with the scent of boiled plant oils, wet ashes, and rendered animal fat.
Under the dappled light filtering through the brilliant canopy of crimson ash trees, the festival of the Kuvuna-Sapo-Nyekundu—the Harvest of the Red Soap—is in full, vibrant swing. Across the open dirt squares and wide earthen terraces, hundreds of local dark-skinned native villagers move in a rhythmic, ancient dance of collective labor. Towering wooden vats steam over open pit fires fueled by dried hardwood logs. Great clouds of white vapor rise toward the red leaves, carrying the pungent aroma of lye and crushing botanical extracts.
Women and young girls, their arms decorated with white clay swirl patterns, carry massive woven baskets heaped high with glistening red ash leaves harvested from the forest. They dump the crimson foliage into broad stone mortars, where heavy wooden pestles, operated by pairs of muscular men, smash the leaves into a thick, bleeding mash. The viscous red juice drains through carved bamboo troughs into the boiling vats below, where it turns the bubbled fat into rich, deep-scarlet cakes of fragrant soap. Laughter and guttural, melodic work songs drift over the town, accompanied by the steady, hypnotic thump-thump-thump of wooden pestles striking stone. Wild hornbills with ivory crests rustle in the high red branches above, swooping down to snatch discarded seeds from the dirt, entirely unbothered by the human bustle below.
Suddenly, the laughter dies. The songs freeze in the throats of the elders. The heavy wooden pestles stop mid-air, dripping thick red pulp onto the soil.
From every dirt road, alleyway, and forest trail leading into Kuvuna-Sapo-Nyekundu, grey-clad men emerge in silent, terrifying precision.
The three hundred and twenty teenage slave-soldiers of the 204th Company and 205th Company the 203rd Company advance in tight, impenetrable columns. Iron bayonets fixed to three hundred long musket barrels glint coldly under the crimson canopy. On the perimeter ridges, heavy Ofliran mercenaries wheel two brass field guns into position, their dark iron snouts pointed directly down into the steaming central square.
Aldo walks down the main road at the center of his guard detail, his black boots stepping evenly over the fallen red leaves. His face is completely devoid of warmth or malice—a clean, impassive slate. His dark eyes sweep across the village square, taking in the boiling vats, the stacked wooden crates of curing soap, and the hundreds of terrified people who now back away from their work, clutching their children against their chests.
A prominent village elder, his dark chest adorned with necklaces of carved boar tusks and polished river stones, steps forward into the dusty road. His knees tremble violently against the earth as he looks at the surrounding wall of steel and iron. Slowly, agonizingly, the old man lowers himself into the dirt, pressing his forehead against Aldo's boots. He extends both hands outward, palms facing upward in the universal gesture of absolute, total surrender.
Around him, the villagers follow suit. Hundreds of men, women, and teenagers sink to their knees in the dust, their heads bowed low beneath the steaming clouds of red soap.
Aldo halts. He does not offer a gesture of reassurance, nor does he draw his sword. He simply looks down at the kneeling elder, his hand resting lightly against the brass pommel of his blade.
From the back of the crowd, near a row of thatched huts, a young native courier—his chest slick with sweat, his breath ragged from a long, desperate run through the forest—raises his head. He glares at Aldo with eyes full of white-hot defiance, his hands clenching into tight fists against the soil. He turns his face toward a group of younger villagers crouching nearby, shouting in a loud, trembling voice that echoes across the silent square.
"!Mfalme-Mshindi, Ki-Bahari-Vamia yetu Mbao-ardhi la-vamia!" the young runner cries out, his voice cracking with emotion as he points a shaking, dark finger at Aldo and his soldiers. "Utawala wetu wao la-taka; sisi la-tawala nia yao. Mweupe wao. Sha-Mupa-Fimbo yao Sha-Mbegu mbali la-rusha. Ki-Askari yetu, Mfalme-Mshindi, la-tuma! Ki-Bahari-Vamia nje la-fukuza!"
Onaga, standing three paces behind Aldo with his open parchment notebook, translates the guttural, frantic speech in a low, rapid whisper for his commander: "Victorious King! The Sea Invaders are invading our homeland! They intend to rule us. They are pale; their bone-sticks shoot nuts from afar. Send our soldiers! Drive the Sea Invaders out!"
As the courier's frantic words echo away, a distant, heavy tremor shakes the dirt beneath their feet.
It is not the sound of human boots. It is a slow, rhythmic, bone-deep thud that makes the water in the soap-boiling vats ripple in concentric rings.
At the far end of the forest clearing, the high brush parts. Emerging from the red wilderness is a disciplined battalion of black-skinned native musketeers, marching in long, organized files. They wear stiffened leather vests reinforced with iron rivets and carry sleek, dark-wood firearms over their shoulders. But at the front of their column ride three massive, armored beasts—gigantic, two-horned rhinoceroses native to the interior plains. The colossal creatures are draped in heavy leather bardings spiked with iron studs, their thick, folded grey hides caked in dried mud. Their small, dark eyes glint with dim rage, and their heavy hooves churn the dark soil into dust with every thundering step. The riders atop the beasts grip long, iron-tipped lances, their faces set in hard, stony scowls as they survey the occupied town.
Comtois steps up beside Aldo, his hand dropping instinctively to his heavy saber, his teeth bare in a tight, cautious snarl as he watches the rhinos stomp at the edge of the woods.
"Look at those beasts..." Comtois mutters under his breath, his eyes wide. "That leather armor on their flanks is thick enough to deflect a pistol shot at twenty paces."
Aldo does not answer immediately. He tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes ignoring the impressive display of the rhino riders entirely. Instead, he scans the crowd of kneeling villagers in the square. His mind works with cold, mathematical precision, counting heads, evaluating space, and comparing the current population against the number of working soap vats.
The ratio is off, Aldo notes internally, his brow contracting by a fraction of a millimeter. There are thirty-four empty stone mortars and seven untended boiling fires. The young men of military age are missing from this harvest. This town was stripped of its garrison before we arrived.
A subtle, dangerous calm settles over Aldo's features. He turns to Adelberd, who stands stiffly at his right flank, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
"Adelberd," Aldo commands softly, his voice barely louder than the hum of the soap vats. "Begin fortifying the town immediately. Dig shallow breastworks along the southern perimeter and mount the swivel guns at the crossroads. Do it quietly."
"Understood, Commander," Adelberd replies, bowing his head with crisp precision.
For the next two hours, under the cover of the lingering steam and the bustling harvest labor, the slave-soldiers quietly transform the edges of Kuvuna-Sapo-Nyekundu into a field fort—the First Fort of Red Ash Forest, Ngome-Kwanza Magharibi-Sapo. Earthen mounds are raised, sharp wooden stakes are driven into the soft dirt at an angle, and musket positions are cleared through the red underbrush.
Once the defensive preparations are complete, Aldo makes a move that defies all conventional military logic.
He orders his main force to pack up their gear, form into long marching columns, and deliberately abandon the town.
With drums beating a slow, retreat cadence, the two hundred and four slave-soldiers and the mercenary detachments march out of Kuvuna-Sapo-Nyekundu, disappearing down the northern trail into the dense red ash forest, leaving the town completely empty of foreign troops.
An hour after the last Ofliran soldier vanishes into the red canopy, the native musketeer battalion marches cautiously into Kuvuna-Sapo-Nyekundu.
The native commander, riding atop a massive grey rhino that snorts loud, wet bursts of air through its horn-crowned snout, raises his hand to halt his column. He scans the silent square with sharp, suspicious eyes. The village elder and the local workers are still there, standing over their steaming vats, stirring the red soap pulp as though nothing had happened. The rhythm of the pestles resumes—thump, thump, thump. The town appears entirely unbothered, returned to its quiet harvest routine.
Relieved, the native commander orders his force to split up. They divide into small, four-man and six-man squads, spreading out through the narrow dirt lanes to secure the crossroads, occupy the main supply roads, and establish watchpoints along the forest boundary.
They do not know that from the high, dense branches of the red ash trees, cold eyes are watching every move they make.
As soon as the native force is fully dispersed and separated across the town's perimeter, the trap snaps shut.
From the thick timber brush surrounding the outer roads, Comtois and Adelberd strike with concentrated, devastating force.
Instead of engaging the entire native battalion at once, the two teenage officers lead compact, heavy strike squads of slave-soldiers and armored mercenaries, pouncing on the isolated four-man native patrols one by one.
In a narrow dirt lane behind the soap-curing sheds, a six-man native squad marches past a stack of hardwood logs. Suddenly, Comtois explodes from the brush like a wild bear. His massive frame slams into the lead native soldier, knocking the man off his feet and pinning him to the earth before he can raise his musket. Behind him, three slave-soldiers rush forward with fixed bayonets, their iron points stopping inches from the throats of the remaining native troops.
"Quiet!" Comtois grunts, his voice a low, terrifying rumble as his iron grip holds the native leader down. "Drop the iron or you bleed!"
Terrified by the sudden, silent ambush, the native soldiers drop their long wooden firearms into the dirt, raising their hands in surrender.
A hundred yards away, along the southern road, Adelberd executes a similar strike with textbook precision. His squad steps out from behind a earthen embankment, their muskets already leveled at a small native patrol at point-blank range.
"Halt! Disarm!" Adelberd barks in crisp, clear tones.
Before the native troops can even turn their heads toward the sound, two dozen iron barrels click into place around them. Trapped in a narrow bottleneck with no room to deploy their firearms, the native musketeers throw down their weapons and drop to their knees.
While Comtois and Adelberd dismantle the dispersed native squads throughout the outlying lanes, Aldo moves his main force with incredible speed.
Like a tight iron ring closing around a throat, the remaining two hundred slave-soldiers swing around the outer flanks of Kuvuna-Sapo-Nyekundu, completely encircling the central square. They block every exit, every dirt alley, and every forest trail leading out of the town.
When the native commander in the square realizes what is happening, it is already too late. He looks around in horror to see iron musket barrels bristling from behind every soap vat, every thatched roof, and every earthen mound. The three armored rhinos shift uncomfortably, their massive hooves stomping the dirt, but they are completely boxed in by a dense wall of pikes and loaded firearms.
The native commander stares at Aldo, who stands on a raised wooden platform near the central vat, his saber still sheathed at his side. The native officer looks down at his scattered, surrounded men, then at the two brass field guns pointed directly at his mount's heavy chest.
Slowly, bitterly, the native commander unbuckles his leather sidearm belt and lets it drop into the red dirt.
Across the square, dozens of native musketeers follow their leader's example, throwing their firearms onto the ground in a clattering pile of wood and iron.
"Seize every single firearm!" Aldo orders, his voice crisp and sharp as he steps down from the platform. "Inspect the locks, the barrels, and the powder quality. I want a full inventory in twenty minutes."
Slave-soldiers immediately sweep through the square, gathering the surrendered native muskets and stacking them into neat rows on a flat stone terrace near the soap vats.
Aldo walks over to the pile, picking up one of the long, dark-wood firearms. He holds it up to the sunlight, his dark eyes carefully inspecting the metal mechanism. The iron lock plate is clean, sturdy, and stamped with a small, distinct maker's mark—a stylized, three-masted galleon enclosed in a shield.
Hano steps up beside him, adjusting his sliding spectacles as he leans down to examine the lock. He runs a ink-stained finger along the iron pan.
"This isn't native craftsmanship," Hano mutters, his brow furrowing as he peers closely at the metal. "Look at the fitting of the cock and the tumbler. The tolerances are too precise. This was forged in a high-capacity Ofliran foundry."
Aldo nods slowly, his face remaining entirely calm, though his mind instantly connects the pieces of the strategic puzzle.
The native forces do not possess their own ironworks or gunfoundries, Aldo analyzes internally, his thumb running over the stamped galleon mark. These firearms were smuggled into Sapocitradansia by sporadic, rogue Ofliran merchants trading along the unregulated southern coast in exchange for red soap, timber, and rare minerals. The enemy is armed with Ofliran technology.
Aldo sets the musket down gently on the stack. He turns to Onaga, who is standing nearby with a clean sheet of parchment, a quill, and a portable ink horn.
"Take a letter to Lourdes," Aldo commands flatly.
Onaga quickly dips his quill into the dark ink, holding the parchment flat against his wooden writing slate.
"To Lourdes Renaud, Temporary Civil Administrator of Red Ash Region," Aldo dictates, his voice measured and dry. "Be advised that the native forces in the interior possess standardized Ofliran firearms and black powder supplied via illegal merchant trade. Adjust your defense protocols and village search parameters accordingly. Secure all local powder hoards immediately."
Aldo pauses, watching Onaga's quill scratch rapidly across the paper, leaving sharp, dark lines of text.
"Furthermore," Aldo continues, "the military occupation of Kuvuna-Sapo-Nyekundu is complete. The town is secured as our forward staging base, designated Ngome-Kwanza Magharibi-Sapo. Send civil personnel to oversee the continued production of red soap to maintain local economic stability."
Onaga finishes the last line with a neat flourish, sands the wet ink, and hands the letter to Aldo. Aldo signs his name at the bottom with a firm, quick stroke, then hands the parchment back.
"Have a mounted courier deliver this to the rear camp immediately," Aldo says.
He turns back toward the main trail leading east, where the dense red ash forest stretches out into the unknown interior of Sapocitradansia.
"Comtois, Adelberd," Aldo barks, his dark eyes fixing on the distant horizon. "Select eight of our best scouts. We push our recon lines five miles further east before nightfall. The war is moving deeper."
The two officers salute crisply, turning to bark orders at their squads as the slave-soldiers begin clearing the road for the next advance.