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In the Garden of Blood

Ze_Spy
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: Plan

The square of Eclipia was drenched in dust, smoke, and silence.

Five men knelt before the firing squad, blindfolded and bound. They were teachers, farmers, and poets. accused of rebellion against the Asterian Empire.

The soldiers loaded their rifles with clockwork precision.

The red and gold flag of Asteria fluttered proudly behind them, gleaming in the burning sunlight like a blade.

Among the watching crowd stood a boy, thin, barefoot, no more than ten.

His name was Marcus Fox Smith.

He should have looked away.

He did not.

The Asterian officer lifted his hand.

"By order of His Majesty's will… fire!'

The volley rang out.

Five bodies fell.

The echoes of gunfire rolled across the hills, fading into the distance, but they never faded from Marcus's mind.

He stood motionless as others screamed or wept. The smell of gunpowder filled his lungs. The wind carried the cries of mothers and children.

Still, he didn't move.

Only when the soldiers marched away did Marcus take a step forward. His small feet pressed into the dirt, into the puddles of blood that glistened like red glass beneath the sun.

He knelt beside one of the bodies, a man whose hand still clutched a small, torn flag of Eclipia. Marcus reached out and closed the man's eyes.

"Sleep now…" he whispered, his voice trembling. "Someday, we'll wake you."

The words meant nothing then.

But they would one day become the vow of a general.

That night, the empire set the village ablaze.

Flames devoured the houses, and the air turned to smoke and screams. Marcus ran through the alleys, clutching the pendant his mother gave him a small silver leaf, symbol of their old freedom.

He turned once more toward the square.

The same flowerbeds that had once bloomed with color now burned crimson petals curling in the heat, roots drinking blood instead of rain.

He would remember that image forever.

The garden of blood.

The place where peace died, and vengeance began.

Years had passed since the fires of his childhood.

Now, he was no longer the trembling boy who fled through smoke and ashes.

Marcus Fox Smith stood tall in the dim morning light — a fine and formidable man, the First General of Eclipia, known across nations as the Ghost of the Garden. To his enemies, he was a nightmare wrapped in iron. To his soldiers, he was a symbol of strength and unbroken resolve.

The war tents were set upon the plains of Feoapian He Gar, where the earth was dry and cracked, and the air smelled faintly of gunpowder and steel. Around him, soldiers moved in silence, sharpening blades, preparing muskets, whispering prayers.

Marcus's men gathered near his tent, their armor dulled by dust and battle scars.

They spoke freely in his presence — he allowed that much.

"His Majesty ordered you to take the northern front, sir," one of his officers said, removing his helmet. "Asteria's border stronghold is holding fast. We're to take it by dusk."

Marcus nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the distant hills. "Then we'll take it before sunset."

He turned to mount his horse, a black stallion whose mane gleamed like obsidian in the sun. His red cloak fluttered behind him as he rode toward the forward camp. The lieutenant officer from the North-Northeast Division awaited him there — a man named Lieutenant Eriar Vance, sharp-eyed and steady-handed.

"General," the lieutenant saluted as Marcus approached. "Scouts have returned. Enemy position confirmed: seven magic users, twenty-eight line infantry, and fifteen sappers. They've built up barricades inside the fortress."

Marcus dismounted and studied the map laid across a wooden table. His gloved finger traced the enemy's formation.

"And our own forces?"

"Three infantry divisions ready, sir," replied Third Officer of Infantry, Colonel Davin Rowe. "But the main gate is fortified with iron plating. We'll lose too many men in a direct assault."

Marcus was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke, calm but commanding:

"Then we won't attack from the front."

He took the quill from the table and marked a spot south of the fortress.

"We'll build a tunnel. Our Sappers will start immediately. While the enemy focuses on the northern line, our men will dig beneath the walls and enter from below."

The lieutenant frowned. "And the distraction?"

Marcus smirked slightly, his eyes cold as steel.

"I'll lead it myself. Once our men breach the fortress, the magic units will unleash fire spells on the towers. Burn them until nothing stands."

The officers exchanged glances — the kind that carried both respect and unease. Marcus's plans were always precise, but they were ruthless. Every victory under his command came with a heavy cost — and he bore every loss like another scar upon his soul.

"Prepare the men," he ordered finally. "At dawn, we strike."

As the officers hurried away, Marcus looked out toward the horizon — the distant walls of the Asterian fortress glimmering under the sun. His reflection in his sword caught his eye: a face hardened by years of war, but beneath it, the faint ghost of the boy who once wept in a burning garden.

"Peace," he whispered under his breath, almost mockingly. "Still just a word…"

The wind carried the scent of ash again.

And once more, the garden of blood would bloom.