Chapter 628 unedited unmemed (Patreon)

HOPEFULLLLLLLLYYYYYYYY

Sunday's chapter will maybe be on time.

Hopefully.

Maybe. I dunno. Im tired and hungry.

Here's the chapter.

I may or may not have left something out, so if anything seems weird, please comment.

That is all.


https://docs.google.com/document/d/17x1fcwjsxusgYDYcgwcINs6mR1ltOomHnRr73lvMIIQ/edit?usp=sharing

As the sun rose over the horizon and the Enemy formed up to attack, Dastan stood ready and waiting upon the walls of Castle JiangHu, eager to greet his foes with axe and shield in hand.

There were no tribal chants or macabre exhibits to bolster their morale, no mocking screams or daring displays meant to entice a duel, none of the usual precursors to battle when facing the Defiled, for these were no mere tribal savages. No, the forces arranged against Castle JiangHu were far more insidious than the usual Defiled, heathen outlanders who worshipped the Father through torture and bloodshed, for one simple reason. These faithless foes, the so-called Chosen dressed in their yellow brigandine armour with red-plumed helmets and marching in tight, disciplined formation, were former Imperials themselves, men and women of the Empire who knew enough not to wholly give in to base desire, yet accepted the Father’s lies and willingly fought on His behalf. At least the foreign Defiled had the excuse of not knowing any better, but these Chosen had willingly turned against the Mother’s light and marched against the Empire itself, because they believed their reasoning sound and their cause just.

In another life, one in which the Golden Highlands Coalition’s bid to conquer Sanshu succeeded and the Northern Wall was overrun, Dastan might well have counted himself as one of the Chosen, marching alongside Defiled ‘auxiliaries’ to overthrow the corrupt Emperor. This, more than anything else, terrified him to the extreme. On some levels, he sympathized with their cause, for their plight had been caused by the Empire’s negligence when they abandoned the entire Western Province without a fight as soon as the Enemy broke through the Wall. However, while he understood the desire to rise up in rebellion to depose the Emperor, he couldn’t reconcile this with the depraved acts of torture and torment which were arranged for Castle JiangHu’s benefit. How did one go from a law-abiding, Mother worshipping, Father fearing citizen of the Empire to a Chosen who forced captured Imperial soldiers to torture other prisoners, in the span of a single year? Perhaps less even, as the entire province was not conquered in a day, for surely Imperial Heroes made ready to resist as soon as the Wall fell. Were the morals of humankind so easily perverted? Were their virtuous ideals truly so fragile?

As much as he hated to admit it, the answer was yes, and he hated knowing it could have been him leading the charge against an Imperial fortification if not for Divine Intervention, because what else would one call the actions of the Mother’s Chosen Son?

Pounding drums sounded the advance, and the Defiled Chosen set out across the field, marching at the pace of the percussive rhythm, one which was neither fast nor slow. Once they entered range, Imperial horns raised a clarion call and the catapults creaked and clacked in response, unleashing their deadly payloads which whistled through the air like the piercing screams of the vengeful dead. Landing in an explosive spray of dirt and blood, the catapults drew first blood as they often did, but the zealous Chosen responded by picking up the pace almost before the beating drums could give the order. This was a mark of trust in leadership, with Officer’s anticipating their General’s intentions and preparing to follow through before receiving the order, something Dastan only read about and never saw in action until the Chosen took the field. The Enemy soldiers and Officers had full confidence in their commander, and it showed in their actions as they marched, jogged, and eventually sprinted headlong into the waiting Imperial defences, silent as the grave save for the steady cadence of beating drums and thudding boots.

To make matters worse, the past few days showed that their near fanatical trust was actually justified, for their commander was a formidable foe. Castle JiangHu was superior to Fort Sinuji in every imaginable metric, with taller, thicker outer walls arranged in ways to funnel the Enemy into choke-points and killing fields, and an inner wall festooned with crossbows and catapults overlooking the outer. There were more than three times the number of soldiers in Castle JiangHu than Fort Sinuji, and almost twice that many Peak Experts and Demon Slayers, commanded by Brigadier Hongji who’d proven himself to be one of the most able field-officers in the Empire, and more than worthy of a promotion to General, but even then, the castle was almost overrun at least a dozen times in the last five days. At least twice a day, the Defiled or the Chosen would almost break through, with the Imperials holding on by the skin of their teeth, and while an unexpected assault from a cohort of Peak Experts and powerful Demons was to blame for the latest emergency, prior to this, the Enemy earned their near-victories through sheer numbers, ample training, and tactical acuity.

He still remembered the surprise he felt on his first day in the castle, when the Enemy showed up outside the walls with reinforced ladders, stone palisades, and other makeshift siege equipment in tow. The Enemy was a cagey and dangerous foe, but Defiled tribesmen were more analogous to cunning beasts than devious humans, able to utilize tactics to some degree, but usually forgoing them in favour of raw strength. Even though their siege equipment was shoddy at best, ramshackle devices thrown together from materials salvaged from captured convoys and overrun forts from the front lines, the Chosen used them to great effect and almost took the castle walls that first day, and might well have if not for Hongji’s superlative commands.

Even now, after having seen them in action several times, the Enemy’s teamwork and coordination still took him by surprise. Usually, they attacked with a screen of expendable Defiled out front, mixed bands of Northern, Western, and Southern Defiled who threw themselves at the walls without care or regard for losses, but this time, the vanguard was made up of frenzied Chosen, crazed bastards who were almost no different from your run of the mill Defiled save for their fancy armour and helmets. Behind this thin screen of attackers were the Chosen elites, or the siege-breakers as Dastan and so many others had taken to calling them, holding their iron, bronze, and in some cases even leather shields overhead with one hand and their ladders in the other. Arranged in two neat rows around each device, the Chosen carried their ladders like a battering ram as they ran headlong towards the castle walls, weathering the storm of stones, bolts, and arrows raining down from overhead. Never slowing as they approached, the foremost Chosen, who often wore full sets of Runic Armour, relied on the efforts of their comrades behind them to run up the steep, slick surface of the castle walls, all but flying over the parapets as their momentum died out where they fought like Demons to hold their position. One or two ladders were easily defeated, but repeat this several hundred times along the outer wall, and the Chosen were bound to find success at least once or twice.

Every time the Enemy gained a foothold on the outer walls, the Imperials paid a bloody price to dislodge them, a price they could ill-afford considering the numbers involved. The first day was the hardest, because while it seemed like a simple strategy to counter, the reality of the situation was not easily explained. Given the opportunity, Dastan was sure he and his comrades could replicate the Chosens’ feat, but they were veteran warriors who’d fought side by side for the better part of a year. How many Imperial units and retinues could say the same? Less than half, was Dastan’s best guess, and he’d be surprised if even a tenth of those remaining could execute this tactic with the flawless timing and coordination demonstrated here by the Chosen, with every ladder going up and delivering their warriors within seconds of one another, enabling them to work together to cause mass chaos atop the parapets and keep the Imperials from focusing the ladders down one by one.

This was but one of the many clues indicating the Chosen were better trained and more unified than the Imperials arrayed against them, for Warriors were a prideful bunch more focused on individual strength than anything else. Very few officers bothered training their soldiers to fight as a unit, but unfortunately for the Enemy, Falling Rain was one such officer.

Leaving the Chosen on the left to Sahb, Dastan moved soon as his target came into sight and delivered a Reverberating shield smash into foremost traitor, sending the brave fool sailing out into empty air before his boots even touched the battlement floor. The next Chosen appeared almost immediately, already moving up before the ladder was even locked in place so that two Chosen on the wall might become four, then six, and eight, and so on, but he had the misfortune to face Dastan Zhandos. His battle-axe slammed into the Chosen’s helmet, neatly parting the crimson plumage and glancing off the Rune-reinforced steel, but Dastan expected as much and unleashed his Domain solely along the edge of his weapon. The air buckled and burst as an invisible blade detached from his battle-axe, bursting through the atmosphere and slipping around the Runic helmet to cleave clean through his opponent’s face and skull. As the body dropped like a sack of rocks, a muffled shout of surprise sounded out and Dastan surmised that the plummeting corpse brought the next traitor in line down with it on its journey to earth below.

This was the Severing Cut, his Talent which was far more versatile than he first expected. In fact, he discovered this facet of his technique almost entirely by accident when sparring against Sahb. They wanted to know if his Severing Cut could pierce through a Runic shield, though in retrospect, they should have probably thought up a better way to test it than for Dastan to simply utilize it against his second. It turned out that his Severing Cut could not pierce through a Runic shield as expected, but it could go around it. Unlike a physical attack which would glance off the Runic shield, Dastan’s Severing Cut redirected itself along the surface of Sahb’s shield like a stream of liquid dribbling down. Unlike a liquid, once the way forward was no longer obstructed, the Severing Cut continued forward and almost bisected Sahb at the waist. Luckily, the stony Warrior was made of sterner stuff and an old hand at treating grievous injuries with Panacea, because a lesser man might’ve bled out before being treated by a Healer. As far as Dastan could tell, his Severing Cut was nothing like Lady Yan’s Wind Blades, which behaved like a physical projectile, but rather it was more of an extension of his axe’s Domain, much like Hongji’s Ethereal Palm. His Intent was to Cut, which meant his attack would do whatever it took to carry out his will, even if it meant bending the laws of the physical world to do so

Allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction over his perfect execution, Dastan fell into the rhythm of battle. It was a simple matter of chopping every head that popped up the ladder, while also keeping an eye on his comrades around him in case they were in need of assistance. Technically, he could kick the ladder away after chopping the lock off, a clever hinged device which swung up over the parapets to bite into the stone walls and clamp the ladder in place, but then he’d have no Defiled to kill save for those enterprising few who tried to surmount the wall through sheer effort alone. Better to kill Defiled than to let them mill around at the base of the wall, where any fool with a Spiritual Weapon could cut their way through the stone and steel. It would take some effort of course, because even though most materials offered little resistance to a Honed edge, the walls were thick enough for three men to lay head to foot inside. Add in the possibilities of traps or soldiers waiting within to kill anyone foolish enough to tray, as well as the utter dearth of Spiritual Weapons amongst the Chosen ranks, and few cared to try their luck at tunnelling straight through the wall.

For long minutes, Dastan slaughtered his foes with laughable ease until he noticed someone down the line needed assistance. Calling for Camsul to take his place, Dastan sprinted down eight spots and shouldered Bulat aside, shifting the fat man’s prodigious bulk out of the way just enough so that the blow aimed at his neck landed on Dastan’s shield instead. Swinging his axe low, he took his foe’s leg off at the knee and followed through with a shield slaw to drive him back, which bought him time to kill the Chosen beside him giving another of the bossman’s soldiers a hard time. There weren’t too many encounters which required use of his Talent or even his Domain, because despite their teamwork and training, these Chosen were fairly mediocre as far as soldiers went, and Dastan was a fledgling Demon Slayer of no small renown.

Not that he cared for fame, so Dastan focused on his bloody work and fought like a man possessed, smashing, hacking, booting, and brawling his way across the outer wall and slaughtering every Chosen he came across. There was no challenge here, no battle of skill and wits, just a seemingly endless grind in which Dastan raised and lowered his axe time after time after time, but this did not mean there was no way to progress. During the harrowing withdrawal from Sinuji, he’d joined the rearguard once matters grew desperate enough, and there he fought alongside some of the strongest Warriors in the Empire. Exarch Bralton and Exarch Eriene were awe-inspiring as they took up Dastan’s current role on the battlements, darting about the battlefield to lend support to whoever might need it. The pair defeated their foes through raw power alone, smashing though Demons like dry reeds until they kicked over the steel board that was the Dark Child.

In many ways, the married Exarachs embodied the dreams of so many Warriors across the Empire, Experts who reached the Peak of the Martial Path through sheer diligence alone. They had no Talents, no Blessings, no powerful Mentors or wealthy backers, lacking even a prosperous home city to support them with soldiers and supplies. Bralton and Eriene hailed from rival horse-rearing nomads who made their trade in and around the forests north of Shen Huo, and developed their skills over years of tribal conflict over the best grazing grounds. Since both tribes were so small they couldn’t afford the losses, these conflicts rarely tipped over into bloodshed, and soon it simply became a competition between the two future Exarchs. As news of their prowess spread, they attracted the attention of a travelling Major. After seeing Eriene in person, he became enamoured with her beauty and sought to take as his concubine, but the nomads refused and earned the Major’s ire. This led to a heated exchange in which the Major killed Eriene’s father, only to be wounded by the enraged young woman in return. When the Major returned with loyal soldiers for revenge, Eriene pledged herself to Bralton if he would help her kill the Major, which he did, but only after refusing her hand in marriage.

“I’d be better off bedding your mare than marrying you,” Bralton was reported to say, though Dastan could hardly believe it. Eriene was a rare beauty, with alabaster jade skin and eyes like pools of limpid autumn water, not to mention the fact that they seem happily married to this day, but sometimes, rumours gained traction because the truth was too boring to be believed.

That said, Dastan was not so egotistical to believe he could match the Exarchs accomplishments and rise to the Peak of the Martial Path with only base Insight and the Forms themselves. Instead, he took inspiration from another warrior on the battlefield, the underrated Brigadier Hongji himself, whose fine control over his Domain allowed him to strike his enemies down in mid-air without laying hand or sceptre upon them. The Ethereal Palm, the Brigadier called it, which he later used to pull the husband and wife pair aside and rescue them from what seemed like imminent death. While his strength was nowhere near as overwhelming as what the Exarchs displayed, the juxtaposition between overwhelming power and dexterous control opened up new avenues for Dastan to explore.

Prior to that battle, he believed he needed more Chi and a larger Domain to get the most out of his Talent, both of which would only come with time, but after seeing Brigadier Hongji in action, he realized the raw strength was not the only option available. Utilizing one’s Domain to affect the physical world was nothing out of the ordinary, as most Martial Warriors did so unconsciously to bolster their attacks and defences, but the Brigadier had taken this basic aspect of his Domain and practised it to perfection, even adding in Reinforcement and Deflection to allow him to use his Domain like a set of hands, grappling with foes from a safe distance or dragging wounded allies out of harm’s way. It was akin to growing up in a remote village and thinking everyone in the world lived in some sort of blocky house, then going to Sanshu and seeing all the marvellous architecture for the first time. In this comparison, Dastan was the ignorant villager, Peak Experts were the majestic armoured gate houses, and Hongji was the towering Magistrate’s palace with its curved roof, elegant arches, and stunning zen gardens.

This was a sort of mastery rarely seen in any Chi skill, much less one as basic as Domain deployment, and it was mind-boggling to think that Hongji had been languishing in relative obscurity before the West fell.

To this end, Dastan devoted his efforts to mastering his Talent, which as far as he could tell, was some mystical combination of Honing, Guiding, and Reverberation, as well as a few inscrutable skills he had no name for, because he couldn’t really describe it. However, if he could learn how to be more efficient with these skills and apply that knowledge to his Severing Cut, it might one day become possible to utilize his Talent at all times in place of Honing, allowing him to unleash a barrage of nigh unblockable attacks. If such a day were to ever arrive, then his opponents would have no choice but to dodge his every blow, lest they fall victim to the Severing Cut. Progress would not come quickly, but it was still faster than waiting around for his Core and Chi reserves to naturally grow, and this had the added benefit of leaving him more Chi to utilize in other ways. To this end, he spent long hours in his Natal Palace perfecting his Severing Cut, and here, in the midst of battle, he made sure to utilize Honing, Guiding, and Reverberation as often and efficiently as possible.

How quickly could he Hone the edge of his axe? How much Chi was required for an optimal Reverberation, one which stopped before exiting his target’s body? How sharply could his Guided Axe turn towards a new target? Dastan tested his limits and pushed himself as hard as he dared, because despite his eagerness to progress along the Martial Path, he did not let himself forget that this was a battle of attrition. The army of Chosen was more or less matched with the Imperial Forces, but the Defiled tribesmen were almost too numerous to count, yet Dastan still had plenty of chances for practice as all too many of the Chosen were equipped with Runic armour.

It was truly a mystery how the Enemy could produce so many sets of Runic Armour, as even the greatest Craftsman etching the most simplistic Runes onto perfectly identical pieces of armour would likely fail more often than not, which meant the Enemy either had a multitude of Runic Craftsmen with unlimited resources or, more likely, they’d discovered a means to simply the crafting process and raise the rate of success. Then again, it could be both, considering the Chosen had so much of it, enough to equip one in ten Chosen with a Runic helmet and maybe one in fifty with a breastplate. Considering there were more than a million Chosen in the field here at Castle JiangHu, this meant the Enemy likely possessed more Runic armaments than the three outer provinces combined.

So it was a good thing Dastan now had a method to circumvent the armour besides aiming for an exposed area, especially since his opponents were more liable to trade blows if they thought his attack would be ineffective. Together with his comrades, they held their section of the wall, and the Death Corps on either side of his unit fared just as well, since the slave soldiers were another exception to the rule, as they too trained to coordinate their efforts in battle. So long as the black-armoured Death Corps guarded a section of the wall, not a single Chosen ever set foot upon it, met with coordinated attacks from multiple directions as soon as they showed their faces. Group tactics were frighteningly effective against your run of the mill Warrior, but of limited use against stronger Experts and Peak Experts, so Dastan understood why they were generally ignored by the Warriors of North and Central. However, seeing the Death Corps put them great use here on the outer walls of Castle JiangHu, Dastan wondered why such an arbitrary limit existed, and decided that it most likely didn’t. There had to be a way to pursue this Path as well, one in which you relied on the warriors beside you more than the weapon in your hand, but it had yet to be discovered. All Paths lead to the Dao, so why not a Path of Collaboration?

It was here Dastan realized his mind was wandering, which was a sure sign of exhaustion as any, but when he assessed the situation once more, he realized the Chosen pressure was dwindling in the area. Sending his concerns to his immediate commander, Bulat shouted back in reply. “Hang on,” he hollered, his brow dripping with sweat and voice weak from heaving with effort. “I’ll pass... yer concerns... up the line.” Glancing around for his aide, Bulat stopped and turned back to Dastan and said, “Actually, better if ye Send it.”

There was a part of Dastan which looked down on this overly obese man who had no place being in command, but then he remembered Bulat himself didn’t want to be here, and came only to support the bossman. To be fair, though his physical prowess had deteriorated in the months since his retirement, his commands were as on point as ever, rotating his troops about so no one soldier ever fought to exhaustion and reacting quickly when anyone was wounded or killed. This entire battle, Dastan had kept close watch on his comrades, but he paid little attention to the overall battle, and never once thought to order anyone to rest or get some water. He was simply too focused on his own Martial Path, and he had long since realized that there were many aspects of command which had nothing to do with Martial ability, and he was lacking in all of them, whereas Bulat excelled. A few weeks of fighting and the big man would back in shape, and by then, there were few people Dastan would rather have commanding the warriors around him.

Sending his concerns to Mister Rustram’s aide, he received a reply shortly after. “The Chosen are givin’ up the centre,” Silva Sent, his volume fluctuating between too quiet and too loud. “Mister Rustram ses they’re focusin’ their efforts where the pickin’s look easier. Be ready to support at a moment’s notice, but ‘til then, hold position and enjoy the reprieve.”

Not what Dastan wanted to hear since he needed opponents to test his skills against, but alas, the Chosen were a different breed of Defiled. It was a lot like fighting rebels, or so he’d been told, though rarely was the Imperial army outnumbered and outclassed by rebels in Runic armour. It wasn’t like there were no opponents to face, just less of them since this was just a token effort to keep Dastan and the Death Corps in place. It could also be a gambit to get them to lower their guard, at which point a lightning-quick assault from Peak Experts and Demons could clear all resistance in the blink of an eye. Dastan had luckily not been on the wall when that happened, and most of the bossman’s retinue were either on the inner wall using their crossbows to great effect, or out on the plains hunting down errant bands of Defiled cavalry and promptly running them over. Lady Yan, Zian, and Tam Taewoong had all been in reserve, but Ishin Ken-Shibu’s unit had been hit hard, and rumour had it that his Peak Expert guardian died getting him to safety, an uncle everyone believed was a silk-pants wastrel, but turned out to be a hidden weapon of the Ishin family.

A shame. The bossman had his differences with the Ishin family, but a tiger was bound to come to conflict with a dragon, and no one could argue that the Ishin family was a powerhouse to be reckoned with, even before the reveal of another Peak Expert. How many more might they have hidden away? It could be one, or it could be a dozen, one could never tell when it came to the Martial Path.

“Don’t attack!” As Dastan’s axe was about to claim another life, the panicked plea stayed his hand and he found himself staring into the haunted eyes of a terrified Chosen. “I’m not one of them,” he gibbered, his head just barely peaking over the battlements as he clung fast to his ladder. “I’m no Chosen. I served at Fort Loufang on the front lines, and was captured during the withdrawal.”

The man’s complexion and accent identified him as a Central born citizen, but the Runic helmet and gleaming hooked spear had Dastan on his guard, so he Sent a report to Silva, who told him to delay. “Drop your weapon, then we can talk.”

“I can’t!” Seeing him raise his right hand abruptly, Dastan almost took the man’s wrist off, until he saw what the stranger wanted him to see. “It’s bound tight,” he said, gesturing at the iron clamp fastening his hand to the spear. “They threatened to torture us all if we didn’t assault the castle, but I don’t want to die.”

The stranger’s eyes darted to the side where the Death Corps were slaughtering Chosen without mercy, or possibly disguised prisoners who’d been forced into combat. Last night, the bossman kicked up a hornet’s nest by Orating from the outer wall, and Dastan heard it all from his cot. To be human, is to choose, a novel take on things, and it made sense from Falling Rain’s perspective, since he himself had been stripped of choice as a slave. This revelation made Dastan respect his bossman all the more, and it explained why he was so sympathetic to Dastan’s plight, and if he were here now, Falling Rain would give this man the benefit of the doubt, so who was Dastan Zhandos to deny him the same?

“Come up,” he said, gesturing at the stranger, but keeping his axe at the ready and praying he wasn’t making a grave mistake. “Slowly now.” Signalling for his partner to step back, Dastan waited until the stranger set foot on the wall and said, “You helmet. Take it off and toss it here.”

The stranger hesitated, and this was enough for Dastan, but even then, the stranger’s thrust almost took him through the throat. “Death to the pretenders!” the stranger howled, his sunken gaze burning with fervent devotion as he executed a barrage of rapid-fire Amplified thrusts, each one aimed at a different vital point and forcing Dastan back as he barely defended against each lethal attack. “Death to the servants of the Dog Emperor!”

As Dastan drew back to attack, a Sending arrived from an unexpected source, and once again, Dastan stayed his hand. “Try to take him alive,” Kuang Biao Sent. “By order of the Legate.”

Which meant the bossman. Snarling in frustration, Dastan parried and blocked while maneuvering into place, his Runic shield draining his Chi reserves as he did, for this foe was far stronger than a standard Chosen. In the Army, he might even be a Major, his Aura emanating wildly to the point where Dastan even felt pressured by it, though it was possible this was only imagined. Fortuitously catching a glimpse of Bulat lowering his weapon to fire upon the Chosen, Dastan shouted, “No. We need him alive!”

To which Bulat responded by firing anyways, and blowing out the Chosen Warrior’s kneecap in a spray of blood.

Right. Non-fatal shots. Since the Chosen was bleeding anyways, Dastan lopped off the hand affixed to the spear and shouldered him to ground, pinning him in place with a knee on his chest and the shield wedged against his throat. After some seconds of struggling, he realized there were four unfamiliar Royal Guardians on the wall with him, ready and waiting to take the subdued prisoner into custody. Leaving it to the Experts, Dastan stepped back and discovered he was not the only one who came across a fake prisoner, as Wang Bao had also subdued one by lopping off all four limbs and was busy binding the wounds so the prisoner would not bleed out immediately. Lang Yi had also taken a prisoner, though he was less effective at containing him, just standing over his defeated foe and delivering a stunning blow to the head with the butt of his spear every time the Chosen tried to move. The Death Corps had also subdued a handful of prisoners, no doubt ordered to by the bossman as well, though they were less kind about it than even Wang Bao, breaking multiple bones until the prisoner was rendered helpless before binding them in a painful, contorted position with frightening familiarity.

“Where are you taking them?”

Dastan only asked on whim, not expecting any answer, but one Royal Guardian scowled and replied, “To see the Legate. He has... questions.”

It was clear the Royal Guardians didn’t approve, but Dastan was curious what the bossman would ask, so he excused himself from the outer wall and followed the prisoners not back to the command centre where he expected the boss to be, but just over to the inner wall and up to room on the parapets where Falling Rain stood looked regal and inspiring in his golden armour and jewelled hairpiece, a true hero through and through, yet still humble enough to greet Dastan with a smile. “Good to see you,” he said, clapping Dastan on the shoulder before helping him over to an ornate chair, the only one around and no doubt there for the Legate’s use only. “You look exhausted. I wanted to come see you and the rest of the retinue last night, but I got... distracted.”

Though he wanted to refuse the seat and remain standing, Dastan’s legs gave out as soon as the bossman said he looked exhausted, suddenly aware of all his previously ignored fatigue. “It’s fine,” he said, smiling in spite of the many glares directed his way for sitting in the Legate’s seat. “You’re a busy man, can’t be mingling with the common folk all the time.”

“Indeed, there are standards to be kept, after all.” The bossman’s boyish grin fell away as he glanced at the prisoners, his eyes narrowed in thought, rather than anger. “So which one tried to fake his way onto the battlements?”

“Him.”

Approaching Dastan’s prisoner with the intent to inspect him, Kuang Biao and several other Death Corps moved to bar his path, to which Rain responded with a sigh. “Er, right. All Death Corps and Royal Guardians. Out.” The Death Corps immediately obeyed, but the Royal Guardians hesitated. Seeing this, Rain explained, “Personal secret. I have my Bekhai guards with me.” That he did, with the fierce elder Naaran standing in the corner, and nine others Dastan recognized, but never got the name of. “Now shoo. I can’t do anything with you all crowding around.”

Exchanging curious looks as they left, the Royal Guardians obeyed, and Dastan snickered as soon as they were out the room. “I do believe they suspect you’re about to do something to your prisoners.” Seeing the bossman’s quizzical expression, Dastan elaborated, “Something... sexual.”

“Oh. Oh! Fuck!” Cheeks colouring in embarrassment, he looked at Naaran who nodded in response before daring to give voice to his intentions. “I was just gonna touch them. Not sexually,” he added, not at all helping his cause. “Just yanno... a... chaste touch of the cheek. Or wrist, yea, wrist is much better. Totally innocent, nothing deviant about it, I just wanted to see how Defiled they are..”

Dastan’s mirth died away as he understood the bossman’s intent, as he wanted to see if he could Cleanse the Chosen or if they were wholly Defiled and beyond his help. Though the Death Corps were gone, the Bekhai guards were no less devoted to keeping their charge safe, throwing the prisoner to the ground before devoting six Warriors to pin him in place, including Naaran whose sole purpose was to pin the broken hand in place for the bossman to ‘touch’. No doubt rolling his eyes at what he perceived to be overly cautious behaviour, the bossman leaned over, touched the prisoner’s finger, and held it there for several seconds. “You feel... any different?” he asked, which again, did not help exonerate him in the eyes of the Royal Guardians. “Less... murder rapey and more... remorseful?

“Death to the sheep who follow the wolf into his den!” Came the reply, and Dastan could see the Chosen’s eyes still burning with ire. “Death to the Imperial Clan, false dragons one and all.”

“Aren’t you charming.” Stepping away and wiping his hands on a handkerchief, the bossman turned to Dastan and asked, “I take it he was convincing, else you wouldn’t have bothered reporting it. How believable was he?”

Thinking back on the haunted expression and trembling frame, Dastan replied, “He missed his calling as an actor.”

“Hm.” Turning back to the prisoner, the bossman kept his hands to himself this time and squatted down to speak. “So, I’m guessing there’s a part of you in there that knows what you’re doing is wrong. Maybe the Spectres loosened your bonds, and let the real you slip through a little, just enough to convince Dastan there. Guess it backfired, else you could’ve kept the charade up longer, but what I want to know is: do you regret your choices?”

“The Dog Empire left the west to rot,” the prisoner snarled, spitting as best he could with his face pressed against the ground. “And he would do the same to Central, North, and West if it suited him. Why pledge loyalty to a tyrant who demands everything and gives nothing in return?”

“You didn’t answer the question.” Ignoring the prisoner’s rhetoric, the bossman repeated himself. “Do you regret your choices? Joining the Defiled?”

“Defiled, Pei! We are the Chosen of Heaven, and we will right the wrongs inflicted upon us by the Imperial Clan.”

“You told Dastan you served in Loufang. Unless that was a lie, then you’ve only been with the Defiled for a few days, but no doubt you’ve seen your fair share of atrocities already.” Seeing the prisoner fall silent, the bossman tried a different tack. “You’re Central-born? You have family here? Parents? Siblings? A wife? A husband? Kids? Friends? A pet? You’ll never see any of them again you know. Even if I let you walk out the gates back to the Enemy army, you’ll never see any of your loved ones again. Do you regret your choices?”

“...My only regret is that I cannot rip your heart out and taste your blood as it still beats.”

“Fair enough.” Straightening up, the bossman looked out the open window and said, “The fighting looks like it’s dying down. Put him over there, and when the Enemy retreats out of range, send him back by way of catapult. Alive, please,” he added, causing Naaran to freeze in place. “So he can scream the whole way back. The Imperial prisoners fear the Defiled, so they surrender far too easily, in a matter of days even. We cannot allow this to continue, so it’s time to remind everyone how the Empire treat the Defiled: with utter contempt. Doesn’t matter if they’re all dressed up in fancy armour and spew righteous rhetoric, the only good Defiled, is a dead Defiled.”

With how kind and caring the bossman usually was, it was easy to forget how cold and merciless he could be. The other prisoners raised a ruckus with their howls, but the bossman was unperturbed, going down the line and touching each one in hopes of Cleansing them of Spectres, but either his gift was no longer working due to his shattered Core, or every prisoner present was too far gone to help. In truth, Dastan was glad none of the prisoners could be Cleansed, because then the bossman would insist on saving them all, leaving him in an awkward position when it came time to explain this to the Empire at large. Even knowing he himself almost turned Defiled and was saved by the bossman, Dastan still felt uncomfortable about the secret getting out, not because he valued his pride, but because he feared the response would not be what the bossman expected.

Like he said, the only good Defiled was a dead Defiled, and even Falling Rain’s most devoted admirers might balk if they learned their idol had almost turned Defiled. A former slave was difficult enough for most to respect, but an almost Defiled would be universally reviled.

With the prisoners taken care of, Rain turned back to Dastan with a smile. “Well, my friend,” he said, glancing out the window once more to see how the battle was progressing. “It’s been some time since we talked. How have you been? Also, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but did anything ever happen with Sorya and Anrhi? I know they made a big fuss about cooking you a meal before you left, so... details?”

Smiling as he looked upon his friend’s upright back, Dastan marvelled at how incredible a man Falling Rain was. Even being Legate of the outer provinces hadn’t changed his perspective, still a friendly, empathetic, mildly perverted young man who would hopefully change the world for the better.

Because if even he couldn’t accomplish this, then no one could.