Chapter 753 (Patreon)

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The day Dastan Zhandos swore his slave Oaths was, without a doubt, the worst day of his life.

Though only three years had passed since Magistrate Chu TongZu made Dastan choose between slavery or death, it felt like that fateful day took place a lifetime ago. Perhaps it was because it happened prior to Forming his Natal Palace, whereupon he learned how to perfectly preserve his memories within, or maybe because failure and exhaustion had taken a toll on his mind and he’d done everything he could to distance himself from the moment, but the details of that day were hazy and indistinct.

It started with him sitting in his cell, one he shared with his comrades and subordinates who survived the battle. Exactly sixty-two of them in total, including himself, Warriors one and all who gathered under Dastan’s banner for various differing reasons, and at the time, most of them no doubt wished they’d died fighting instead of allowing themselves to be captured. The guards were not kind to them, and not without reason, for The Golden Highland’s Coalition had betrayed Sanshu and the Empire both by consorting with Defiled. Though Dastan’s retinue had all proven their innocence by displaying Purity, that only made them even more reviled, for traitors were held in more contempt than the Enemy. At least the latter had reason to turn against the light, poor souls led astray by the Father’s foul lies, but Dastan’s retinue lacked even that paltry excuse.

The majority of his Warriors shared a similar background with Dastan himself, the children of men and women working for the Coalition who’d been provided food, training, and education in return for a set term of service. While most were there because their parents couldn’t afford to feed them, Dastan’s father had signed the contract on his behalf just after he turned twelve in a misguided sense of loyalty to the Coalition, a gesture meant to tie the Zhandos family to the merchant faction which went wholly unappreciated. There were also a select few Warriors who’d joined for the pay offered by the Golden Highlands Coalition. It was slightly less than what most regular soldiers were paid, but service under a Warrant Officer was more desirable since they were free to pick and choose their assignments. Since most Warrant Officers were fops with more money than sense who wanted the rank for show, it usually meant a cushy posting playing honour guard for some uppity guppy.

Not so with Dastan, who’d earned his rank through blood, sweat, and effort. Well, technically the Coalition purchased his rank, but only because he’d proven his worth to them after years of gruelling training and dedicated service. When the poorly named Immortals attacked the convoy Dastan was guarding, he’d played a pivotal role in defeating the bandits by first rallying the guards to form an effective defence, and then killing their leader, the Highlander Headsman, in single combat. This earned Dastan the attention of Major XiaoGong, the highest ranked Warrior serving under the Coalition and Dastan’s childhood hero, for he was the most feared duellist in all of Sanshu and the second highest ranking member of the Golden Highland Coalition, standing second only to his brother, the Chief Councilman XiaoBo.

It was quite the success story, two siblings of a middling house rising through the ranks of the Coalition only to snatch the reins of control away from the more established merchant families, but most members of the Coalition cared only about profits, which the brothers brought in spades. Not through any prodigious talents, it turned out, but rather because both had been working with none other than the Butcher Yo Ling himself, fencing his plundered goods and providing the bandits with information and equipment aplenty. Both brothers also turned out to be Defiled just like their backer, and while XiaoBo was a disgusting cretin of a man with a sordid reputation even by Sanshu’s standards, XiaoGong had always held himself up as a model soldier, albeit one with a dark temper when the mood set upon him. Perhaps that was due to the Father’s influence on his thoughts, or maybe XiaoGong had always had that darkness within him and the Father merely brought it to the forefront, but either way, Dastan had refused to believe those lies and slander right up until he saw proof even he could not deny.

Now there was a memory he would remember until the day he died, no matter how much he’d like to forget. The guards had brought him and every other prisoner out to the central square, wrists and ankles shackled to a chain that ran alongside the stage. There, they were beaten and flogged lightly for hours as the sun rose while the audience gathered to hurl stones and worse at them from the stands, but all this was merely the opening act. Oh how they screamed and jeered when XiaoBo appeared, the former Chief Councilman looking like a shadow of the wealthy merchant he once was, a gibbering mess of a man whose gelatinous frame quivered and quaked without pause. Next came Dastan’s hero, the man he’d hoped to one day succeed, and he remembered looking up at the stage with a mixture of dread and anticipation, for he thought surely the Major would meet his death with dignity. Instead, he was greeted with the sight of a raving madman straining at his bonds as eight soldiers struggled to drag him on stage, screaming hate-filled obscenities and blasphemies with his Chi-enhanced voice, the likes of which Dastan would never dare repeat. He made threats and promises of death and suffering, describing what the minions of the Father would do to the ‘placid sheep’ of the ‘dog Emperor’ with language foul enough to make a seasoned sailor flinch, and for long, agonizing seconds, Dastan thought the man would never stop.

Then, the moment the guards secured XiaoGong to the central pillar on stage, Fung’s half-weasel manservant Fu Zhu Li stepped forward with his box of tools in hand, and the Defiled prisoner recoiled in palpable terror as the torturer set to bloody work. Though Fu Zhu Li said nothing from start to finish, XiaoGong’s screams still haunted Dastan’s nightmares to this day. Much as he liked Fung and tried to get along with the man, it was difficult to put much faith or trust in someone who kept someone like Fu Zhu Li on hand.

XiaoGong turned into a Demon before noon arrived, and despite closing his eyes for most of the ordeal, Dastan remembered every single second of the journey from start to finish. For a brief moment, there were two monsters on stage, then the Peak Expert observers killed the Demon and left Fu Zhu Li as he cleaned up. The entire event was so traumatizing, the guards didn’t even beat Dastan on the trip back to his cell, where they left him to stew in the horrors he’d just witnessed. A few hours later, Chu Tongzu called him into his office and offered him a choice between slavery or death, and Dastan had all but begged for death before the pitiless Magistrate reminded him of the family he still had left. If Dastan refused, his parents, aunts, uncles, siblings, cousins, and everyone else he loved and cherished would die alongside him, as well as all of the soldiers of his retinue, which was no choice at all. All he could do was request that he serve under the only person he... not trusted, not then, but... respected, admired even. Falling Rain, the Warrant Officer who stood in opposition of the suffering demanded by the Purge, a man who risked his career and his life all so he could spare a few dozen peasants another minute of suffering.

A fool, but a righteous fool, one who empathized with others and stood up for his beliefs, the same way Dastan dreamed of one day doing.

Those dreams died with XiaoGong, but Dastan still clung to his old ideals even now, when all else seemed lost. The public Oath giving ceremony took place a few hours later, which drew far less of a crowd than the torment and torture the day prior. Even though the Magistrate had declared that most of the Golden Highlands were merely patsies ignorant of the truth rather than Defiled sympathizers who’d turned against humanity, they were still criminals who were universally reviled by the entire city of Sanshu. In their eyes, a slave Oath was far too light a punishment for an agent of the Enemy, even an unwitting one like Dastan and his comrades, so few cared to come watch them say their Oaths. In total, forty-eight members of his retinue followed his example and gave their Oaths alongside him, while those who refused to speak the words were killed on the spot.

At the time, as he had still yet to adjust the metaphysical weight of his Oaths, Dastan had envied those twelve dead soldiers for their freedom, for they had nothing keeping them here in this life and could quickly move onto the next. It was something he’d never heard anyone speak of, the ponderous, oppressive burden of an Oath constraining your body, mind, and soul. Though the guards were quick to release Dastan from his shackles, he found himself bound by fetters ten times heavier than steel and a hundred times more cumbersome, for he found himself unable to even think of freedom without the Heavens dispensing punishment down from on high. Despite being almost dead on his feet from sheer exhaustion, he didn’t dare even blink in those first few seconds after swearing his Oaths for fear of missing some subtle, non-verbal cue from his new master. At first, it was Magistrate Chu TongZu who held the token that denoted who Dastan would obey, then the token was placed in a box and handed off to a guard. For long, agonizing seconds, he fought the urge to approach the guard and inquire if he had any orders to give, because while the rational part of his mind understood he was supposed to obey the Magistrate’s orders to return to his cell, the less than complete certainty of the situation left him frozen in place, unable to obey his given orders from one master for fear or disobeying forthcoming ones from the next.

That was how he spent the rest of the day and night, struggling to acclimate to his new, unseen chains. There was a time when Dastan thought little of Oaths, because he believed that so long as you held true to them, then what harm was there in making one? Granted, the Oath he gave to the Shrike binding him to never speak of how he followed in Rain’s footsteps to defy her authority during the Purge irked him somewhat, but that never grew into an issue because he spent the next few days surrounded by people who were there. These slave Oaths, however, were so extensive and comprehensive Dastan was left reeling in their wake, because there were so many uncertainties left unanswered. He was sworn to defend his master no matter the cost, yet Chu TongZu had ordered him back to his cell, leaving him unable to uphold his Oath should danger present itself, a dilemma which drove him to near madness and panic. Though unable to rest easy due to his concerns for the Magistrate’s safety, Dastan’s Oaths rendered him unable to even sit still, desperate to leave and ensure that his master was safe yet anchored in place by his orders. There was also the matter of what wasn’t said, for though the Magistrate told him to await further orders in his cell, Dastan wasn’t sure if he was allowed to rest while he waited, or do much of anything else besides stand ready. Sleep was most certainly out of the question, because even if he was allowed, he was physically unable to still his mind and rest, but was he allowed to sit or close his eyes? If there’d been a bathroom outside the cell, would Dastan have been allowed to use it? What of food brought to his cell? If no one gave him permission, was he allowed to eat it?

All in all, Dastan’s Oaths triggered hundreds upon hundreds of times in those first few hours, and only then did he realize how dark and insidious Oaths could truly be. Truly a misappropriation of Heavenly Energy to demand so heinous an Oath, but he would find few sympathizers if any among the free people of the Empire.

That was the worst day of Dastan’s life, which he spent envying his dead comrades who’d been brave enough to leave everything behind, but in time, their deaths became one of his greatest regrets, for the next day proved to be a new beginning. From then on, he was no longer Dastan Zhandos, Warrant Officer and promising young Talent, and instead, he became Dastan Zhandos, Oath-bound slave of Falling Rain, which in the long run, proved to be more boon than burden. Though he found it difficult to trust the ‘tribal savage’ at first, it wasn’t long before Dastan realized just how fortunate he was to be fighting alongside Falling Rain, and not just because of his success. Today, you would be hard pressed to find a single soul in all the Empire who didn’t know his name, the brilliant young dragon who rose up from obscurity to become the undisputed number one young Talent of the Empire and eventually Legate of the Outer Provinces. Honour, nobility, intelligence, and cunning, these were the traits most associated with Falling Rain, but what most never realized was how compassionate a man he truly was. This was a man who pouted every time he saw chickens in cages or goats being led to the slaughter, and frowned if he came across a child begging in the streets, and Dastan counted it as his greatest honour to fight alongside a friend like him.

Being Falling Rain’s slave was no punishment at all, but rather a chance to serve a great man and help see his vision through to completion. For this reason alone, Dastan refused to go through with shattering his Core even though he knew it would free him from his Oaths. Rain would never lie to him, not about something like this, but even though there was a time when Dastan was willing to give anything to be free of his constraints, he’d come to find that they were not so restricting after all. Outside of military orders, Rain only rarely ever gave Dastan a direct command, and usually only because he didn’t word his request carefully enough. In spite of his Oaths, Dastan had more freedom than ever before, because there was almost nothing Rain would deny him. Even as a Warrant Officer and the rising star of the Coalition, they still demanded more from Dastan than Rain ever did. If he were awake and present here in the heart of Pan Si Xing, and Dastan expressed a desire to return home to see his parents back in the North, Rain would make it happen as quickly as he could. Not because he felt guilty for being a slavemaster, or because he pitied Dastan’s circumstances, both of which were true, but because that was the sort of man Rain was, always willing to put in that extra effort to ensure that no one was fighting against their will. So much had changed in the last three years, and Dastan hardly even noticed the weight of his Oaths anymore, because he knew down to the very core of his being that Rain would never use those Oaths to restrict him, which in turn meant Dastan never had to worry about failing to uphold them.

In light of all this, he saw no point in divesting himself of his Oaths, not at the steep cost of his Spiritual Weapon and Martial progress. The rest of his retinue felt the same, and not a single one of them accepted Rain’s offer to free them. There were only seven of them left from the original forty-nine who swore their slave Oaths in Sanshu, but none of them harboured any regrets. There was trustworthy Sahb, Dastan’s good friend since they met on their first day of training and someone who made up for his lacking talent with hard work and dedication. The hulking giant Balta, whose massive size belied his gentle and protective temperament, a man who never enjoyed killing and always put others first on the field of battle, for which he bore more than his fair share of scars to show for it. Fiery, cantankerous Saida, the prickly flower of his retinue with admirers aplenty, except she enjoyed chasing skirts more than most men. That didn’t make her any less stalwart or loyal than a man however, and Dastan knew that if she wasn’t the last person standing in a fight, it was only because she was too injured to keep standing. Then there was Camsul, a thin, wiry man who reminded Dastan of a whip, long, slender, and deceptively dangerous in the right situation. Though there were better fighters and duellists aplenty, Camsul still held the retinue record for most Chieftains slain in a single battle, a record he never spoke of yet bristled with pride whenever someone else brought it up. Last, but not least, were Rithy and Khin, twin brothers and orphans who once thought themselves lucky for securing a place in the Coalition’s training program, and now knew they were blessed by the Heavens because fate brought them to serve under Falling Rain. They were a quiet pair, and never were the best or brightest of the bunch, but they were loyal, steadfast, and hardworking to a fault, so Dastan could hardly ask for more.

All six of his comrades stood at his side as they waited in the dark tunnels beneath Pan Si Xing, and like Dastan, they were all eager for the fighting to begin. This was the only way they could ever repay Rain for all that he’d done for them, even if he would be the first person to claim they owed him nothing. As if the Heavens had heard his appeal, shouts sounded from the other side of the wall followed by the unmistakable din of combat, so Dastan secured his shield and hefted his axe in preparation of a bloody fight. Extensive as the underground network of tunnels might be, there were only a select few locations suitable to deploy more than a handful of soldiers at a time, but the last thing the Imperials wanted was to get stuck fighting in the tunnels below. It would be far too easy for the Defiled to bring the roof down on them from above, or worse, find their way down through a different entrance to attack the Imperials from the rear, so to this end, Hongji had assigned each retinue a group of forward scouts who were meant to infiltrate the city from a less obvious tunnel entrance and help secure the selected deployment zones. Clearly the scouts attached to Jorani’s retinue had been discovered before they could secure this particular deployment zone, and Dastan knew there was only one move to make from here.

“Welp,” Jorani said, his voice startlingly loud in the dark confines of the tunnel below. “Guess we’re doin’ things the hard way. Ral, smash us a hole in the wall, will ye? The one right in front of ye. No, not to the right, right in front, the direction I’m pushin’ ye towards. Stop turning, and just swing, will ye?”

“Sorry Jor.” The bashful apology would have been laughable if not for the earth-shaking blow that followed, one that brought down the wall and flooded the tunnels with dust and flickering lantern-light which illuminated the Runic-Armoured behemoth of a half-dog as he wound up for his second swing. The staff hummed and rocks crumbled as the weapon demolished everything in its path, and Dastan didn’t wait for his orders before charging out to support his allies, for the light and dust brought with it the metallic scent of blood in the air, which meant there was no time to waste. Though he moved without uttering a word, he did so in full confidence knowing that his comrades would be right there beside him, moving as if directed by one mind. Inside the cellar proper was Ravil and his scouts, standing over the corpses of three Defiled who’d managed to raise the alarm, but Dastan paid them no attention. Instead, he rushed up the stairs and into the building proper to secure the front door, which he arrived at just as the first band of curious tribesmen arrived to see what all the fuss was about. His axe swept through the throat of the first Defiled through, but rather than charge out into the streets, Dastan stepped back to give his foes just enough room to come into the barracks proper where he’d have more room to swing his axe without fear of getting swarmed from all sides. While he did this, his people moved to block the other exits and even the staircase up in case there were more threats lingering above, but for now, Dastan was all on his own.

Hardly an issue for a Domain-Capable Expert like himself, and he dispatched the next two tribesmen who tried to push through with laughable ease. Then, the weight of numbers became too much to hold back as two became five, then seven and more as tribesmen pushed their way into the room to meet their bloody end. There was no need for guile or finesse here, and Dastan treated his work like chopping logs as they rolled downhill towards him, hardly a logical way to procure firewood, but a challenge he relished nonetheless. Despite giving ground with each passing second, he wasted no movements as he fought the good fight and killed the Enemy as they came. As his left foot stepped back, his right foot scythed across to catch the ankle of tribeman in midstep. Though not enough to topple his assailant, Dastan’s efforts bought him a half second of reprieve as his foe struggled to remain upright, a half second he used to pivot about on his back foot and safely bring his axe around in a wide, scything arc which caught the struggling tribesman in the throat and two of his closest allies in the shoulder and ribs respectively.

Three dead in one swing, but in the time it took to make his attack, five more Defiled had made their way into the room. Despite the present danger, Dastan couldn’t help but swell with pride at how cleanly he’d come away, his cheeks straining to contain his gleeful grin at how incredible his new skill proved to be. The steel of his axe hadn’t even touched the third assailant, but he’d long since mastered the Severing strike and recently even modified it to enhance his regular attacks. Rather than dispatch a blade of Honed Chi hurtling from his axe, Dastan could now keep that blade of Chi affixed to the weapon itself, extending out from the top-most point of his axe and adding an extra twelve centimetres of reach to his attacks. One centimetre longer equals one centimetre stronger, or so the saying went, though these days, most people used it in reference to a different type of weapon instead, the one every man carried in his trousers at all times. Mother knows Dastan himself had made the joke often enough, though Saida was always quick to point out that skill beat size ten times out of ten, which usually led to her challenging the men to a contest of amorous skill which few cared to take her up on, not after she emerged victorious against poor Tarsov and crippled his bedroom confidence.

Still grinning in spite of the odds stacked against him, Dastan relished the thrill of the fight and the privilege of going into battle with such stalwart allies beside him, and not just his comrades from the Coalition either. Just as the Enemy numbers grew too great for him to handle, Ral arrived in a ponderous fury as he cleared half the room with a single swing of his staff. There was nothing fancy about the half-dog’s attack, no clever use of Honing or well-timed Amplification, not even a basic push-pull hand movement to maximize the amount of force applied. No, for Ral, this one-handed swipe of his weapon represented the pinnacle of his skills, a well-telegraphed attack the Enemy should have easily blocked. Did block, in fact, as the first tribesman in line had his sword raised and braced to do just that, but Ral put so much raw power into the swing that even the fifth and final Defiled in line had died on impact despite having four relatively soft bodies absorbing most of the blow.

And then Ral wound up his staff and unleashed a second, similar sweeping strike, clearing the rest of the room of every tribesman that’d made their way in thus far.

“Good job Ral,” Dastan called, flashing a feral grin as the next tribesman at the door hesitated to push in. “Hang back a bit until more of them come in, got it?”

It was always best to pose commands as a question when speaking to Ral, because if you didn’t, he wouldn’t ask for clarification if he didn’t understand. This time however, Ral simply responded with a cheery, “Yass ser Mister Dastan ser, you gots it.” There was no convincing the simple man to drop the ‘sirs’ or ‘misters’, as he’d gotten it into his head that Dastan was someone to be respected, which was odd because Ral was far more casual and comfortable with Rain. Yet another miracle the Chosen Son of the Mother had mysteriously managed to pull off, but Dastan was determined to make friends with the big guy, because he was a friend worth having.

Holding his shield up in front of him, Dastan gathered his strength and unleashed it in a single bound aimed at the tribesman standing in the door. Unable to back away due to the press of bodies behind him, Dastan’s target tried to bat him away in a desperate effort to preserve his life, but the Runic Shield activated and Deflected the reckless swing on impact. Metal rang and bones crunched as he slammed shield first into his foe and the second Runic effect of his shield activated to halt him in his tracks. Some form of Reverberation that served to dampen the force of an attack, but only for him. The tribesman still suffered the full weight of Dastan’s charge, dying before he crashed into the Defiled behind him and bowling them over as they struggled to push their way through. Cackling in pure delight, Dastan held his ground for all of three seconds during which he killed five more assailants trying to pass through, but then he had no choice but to retreat because while the Defiled were many things, stupid was not one of them.

While many were too blood-crazed to think straight and were more than happy to die two or three at a time in a vain attempt to push through the doorway, there were other, cagier and cannier defiled who noticed that the sandstone walls of the building were rather easy to carve through. You didn’t even need a Spirtual Weapon to hack it apart, and the Defiled were nothing if not eager to kill, so they set to chopping away at the walls without a care for silly concerns like gravity and structural support. Pleasant as it might be to watch the building topple over onto the gathered Defiled outside, there was a better than good chance that the building would simply crumble under its own weight instead and come crashing down on Dastan’s head, a concern he quickly Sent to Jorani.

“Back off and let them in,” came the half-rat’s reply. “I’ll be up in a sec.”

There was a time when Dastan would have pressed him for a more definite answer, he’d come to trust the man Rain chose to take command of his retinue. Trust which was well rewarded as Jorani appeared with Wang Bao’s burliest bastards at his side, filing out of the cellar staircase in pairs with a cadenced discipline the Death Corps would envy. Then, without pausing to take in the surroundings, Jorani led his strike force upstairs to the next level as the Defiled swarmed in from the now undefended doorway and the enlarged windows they’d chopped through in their haste to get in. Some determined Defiled were still hacking away at the walls, just not as many as before, but the tradeoff was that even Ral’s big swings weren’t powerful enough to clear the room anymore. He still killed the Defiled quick enough, while Dastan and Camsul darted to and fro picking off the stragglers he’d missed, but it wouldn’t be long before the three of them were overwhelmed by the sheer weight of numbers alone.

A crash sounded from upstairs, and through the press of bodies, Dastan saw something large and heavy smash into the crowd outside. Furniture would have been his first guess if he hadn’t already known what it was, because who would’ve expected Jorani to order his men to carry loose stones and barrels of sand down into the tunnels below? Dastan had assumed it was so they could barricade a street, but Jorani was nothing if not flexible. That being said, amusing as it was to see the Defiled crushed by projectiles from above, it didn’t do much to help thin the crowd in the building below, but rather encouraged them to get safely inside instead. Just as Dastan feared they’d reached the tipping point inside the main room, another Warrior threw herself into the fray and the pressure eased significantly.

One might think that two staff users was one too many in these close confines indoors, but where Ral relied on pure brawn to deliver his grand, sweeping attacks, his wife Chey had gone in a more traditional direction along the Martial Path. With hands positioned along the mid-section of her staff, leaving a third of the weapon on each side, Chey’s range and power both were sorely lacking in comparison to Rals, but she more than made up for it with speed and precision. The staff came to life in her hands as if possessed with a mind of its own, a marvel to see as always. Dastan had seen a number of Martial Warriors wield their staves with consummate skill, but their movements almost always reminded him of a man with a long-handled axe or hammer, utilizing heavy, powerful Movements from the Bull or Bear Forms. In Chey’s hands, the staff was more akin to a two-headed snake, with Darting Fangs, Twisting Grasps, and Shaking Branches aplenty. Short, vicious thrusts were her killing tool of choice, delivered with a deadly flick of the wrist that rotated her staff about as if trying to drill the dull head into her opponent’s flesh. Add in a healthy mix of perfect timing and prodigious application of Amplification, and each one of Chey’s speedy thrusts pulped flesh and crushed bone upon impact.

It was almost unfair how easy the woman made it look, as if she were merely lightly jabbing her opponents to make them explode. Not only were her attacks deadly, but Chey had the timing down pat and could unleash a flurry of strikes against multiple foes in quick succession. In one on one combat, even if Dastan hunkered down to block her thrusts with his Runic Shield, he wasn’t sure if his arm would go numb or if he’d run out of Chi first, but either way, he only saw defeat. Of course, this was assuming he let her take the initiative in the exchange, but denying her an opportunity to attack was easier said than done. Against Chey, you either dodged or died, that was the simple truth, and here on this battlefield, the Defiled had no room to dodge.

Even more impressive was how seamlessly her attacks slipped in between Ral’s grand, sweeping strikes, which he now angled perfectly to avoid getting in her way. Why the big guy couldn’t do the same with Dastan or Camsul was a question he intended to ask, but he doubted Ral would have a proper answer for him. Probably because he never thought to avoid hitting them, since they never asked him to try, which was a perfectly reasonable excuse in his simple mind. Still, it was all but impossible to resent Ral, especially when he went to such great efforts to body-block attacks meant for the others. Not that Dastan, Chey, or Camsul really needed the help most of the time, but he did so anyways because he thought it was better to be safe than sorry. Already, Ral had saved Camsul’s life once today, a figure which would no doubt go up and include many others before the battle was done. On the bright side, his Runic Armour kept him safe and uninjured from most of the Defiled attacks, but the downside was that Ral would be down and out for the count the second a Defiled strong enough to overcome the armour’s defences arrived.

For long minutes, Dastan fought alongside Camsul, Chey, and Ral to hold the main floor, but even though they encountered no real Experts of note, their stamina was not without limit. To this end, Dastan and Camsul soon switched out with Balta and Saida, which was a sight to warm his heart. Strange to see big Balta dwarfed by Ral beside him, but the gentle giant found his legs quickly enough as he used his Runic Shield to herd the Enemy into position for Ral to smash, while Saida took a more active approach to vie with her partner for kills. The flower-eating, grass-trampling woman was more than a little in love with Chey, and she seemed to believe that the way to win her affection was by showing her up in battle, but Chey was about as competitive as they come. She had to be in order to survive so long as a bandit, but a part of it was simply her nature, and the Defiled suffered all the more for it.

The corpses inside the main floor were quickly piling up to the point where the Defiled were tripping over them coming in, but outside, the crowds had somewhat thinned thanks to the barrage of barrels and stones from above. A dark object fell just as Dastan was scanning the crowd, but to his surprise, no heavy crash sounded to accompany it. Then more objects dropped with a similar lack of sound, followed by a bellowing howl that he could only describe as feral and panic inducing. “Come, ye bleedin’ bastards,” Wang Bao roared, his practised, dignified articulation slipping in the heat of the moment. “Me axe hungers for the blood of braves and cowards both!”

While the former bandit uttered his challenge, Jorani finished clearing the area with a few sweeps of his rope. “Into the streets,” he commanded, hollering loudly for everyone inside to hear. “Hold the intersections and let no one pass!”

Taking a moment to pass the orders back down into the cellar below, Dastan strode out with axe and shield, ready to fight once more. The battle had only just begun, and already their plan was falling apart as Jorani scrambled to take control, but Dastan knew in his heart of hearts what needed to be done. While they were busy making a fuss here, the other retinues would be quietly moving into position, but even if Jorani could hold the street for hours without end, it would cost them dear. More to the point, there was no guarantee that this admittedly small force would be enough to tempt Bai Qi out of hiding, because surely he already realized that their goal was his head. Difficult to kill a man lurking in Concealment, but aside from issuing a direct challenge, no one had any idea how to lure him out into the open. Though Lieutenant General Baatar was confident he would emerge victorious if pitted against the Lord of Martial Peace, Dastan was less confident of the man’s chances, and absolutely certain the Enemy forces wouldn’t just idly stand by and watch their Commander General fall.

Which meant they needed a situation so dire, Bai Qi would have no choice but to show himself to take charge, giving the Imperial forces the first shot at taking his head.

“People of the Empire,” Dastan called, infusing Chi into his voice and ignoring the barrage of strange looks and insistent Sendings telling him to keep quiet. “Liberation has come to Pang Si Xing, and you need only reach out and grasp it. Strike off the shackles of fear and oppression to take up arms against the Enemy, for today, we are all the Chosen Sons and Daughters of the Mother Above. Today, we fulfill our holy duty to scour the Father’s foul minions from these lands we hold so dear. Today, the Empire will strike a blow at the Defiled that will mark the first victory of many to come, for the Legate Falling Rain will not rest until the West stands free once more.”

An avalanche of Sendings arrived to condemn him for his actions, and Jorani’s cutting glare spoke volumes to his displeasure, but they were all too far removed to understand what the people of Pan Si Xing were going through. Though Dastan was a Martial Warrior just like the rest of them, he was the only one who remembered what it was like to live and endure under an oppressor’s thumb. It was a slow death by centimetres in which you gave up more and more with each passing day, until there was nothing left for you to give, but still the oppressors howled for more, so you held your tongue and dug deeper into your own flesh to meet their demands once more. It was one thing to reject society and run out into the wilds to play bandit, and another all-together to watch the city you loved and grew up in transform into something wretched and unrecognizable before your very eyes. This was their home, their hearth, the place they raised their families and laid their heads to rest, a sanctuary the Enemy profaned with their very presence alone, and the people of Pan Si Xing would not stand for it.

They said it themselves, over and over again like a catechism or prayer. “The West resists.” A statement spoken on a million tongues, an oil-well waiting to explode, and their response to his words were telling indeed. All across the city, chaos broke loose as the people of the Empire threw themselves upon the Enemy like crazed wolves descending on dragons. Many of them would die, but they cared not for their lives if it meant they could bring down their oppressors. Once news of the fighting spread, the civilians would have risen up to fight even if Dastan said nothing at all, so at least this way, they would all rise up and fight together. Even though he knew Rain would be displeased by what he’d done, Dastan never swore an Oath to please his new master, only obey his orders. The Legate wanted the province conquered, and this was the way they’d do it, by showing every man, woman, and child of the West that they had the strength to tip the scales of balance in the Empire’s favour.

For the greatest force in the world was not strength of arms, but strength of spirit instead. Hope would win them this war, and hope Dastan would give them, even if it cost him everything, including the trust of the man he admired most.

Chapter Meme