All The Dead Gods

Annum 378 : 12M/29D

Deep in the forest of Uolia... Where snow plagued the trees.

The black-steel armor gleamed in the lantern light, catching reflections like shards of night sky trapped in iron. General Mbainu stood near the war-table in the center of his quarters, the air around him faintly shimmering with qi. He had the bearing of a carved statue — tall, broad-shouldered, a spear resting against his back as naturally as a hound beside its master. His eyes, sharp and storm-gray, locked onto the scout kneeling before him. 

"So the Thesians retreat again?" Mbainu's voice was calm, quiet. The kind of calm that trembles on the edge of a storm. His rough skin contrasted his flacid green hair, styled to the right. 

The scout nodded quickly. "Yes, General. Their eastern flank crumbles. We have pressed them back across the River Serun. They left supplies behind. They are starving and unable to counter-attack."

Mbainu exhaled, a long, controlled breath. Around him, a trace of wind stirred the edges of the tent, though the air was still.

"Good. Let them starve." He turned, dismissing the scout with a subtle gesture. "It is about time these Thesians learnt their lesson."

The flap of the tent parted as he stepped outside, into the chill dusk of the Uolian camp, plattered with snow. His presence, silent but powerful, drew eyes immediately. Soldiers paused at fires, hands stilled on whetstones, heads turned.

"Fifth stage of qi..." someone whispered. "You can feel the qi in the air bend when he walks by..."

"He took the vow of wind," another murmured, half in awe. 

Mbainu walked on, his armor whispering with the promise of motion. The men bowed their heads as he passed — not from fear, but reverence. Qi at the fifth stage was rare among mortals. Rare, and deadly. Strength in the body was respected, but strength in qi was revered.

He looked over his warriors — men and scarcely women with hands like iron, backs scarred by war, spirits flickering but unbroken. They were winning, yes. But even victory had weight, and it was pressing down on them all.

He stopped near the edge of the camp, staring out at the forest that veiled the Thesian line. The wind stirred again, playful, almost restless.

Captain Mardu approached, dust clinging to his boots. "No sign of the grimoire yet, General."

Mbainu's gaze remained on the trees. "Keep looking. The Blood Grimoire fell from the sky for a reason. As all Grimoires do."

Mardu hesitated. "There's talk it was swallowed by the earth. Are you sure it fell for you?"

"There's always talk," Mbainu replied. "Why else would it fall from the sky? For a commoner? It knew a great man would be here. So it fell for me."

Mardu nodded, already turning to relay the order.

As Mbainu stood alone again, the murmurs of his warriors echoed behind him — tales of the spear he never dropped, the wind that followed him, the qi that he had mastered.

To them he was merely a cruel leader.

They didn't know the whole truth. They didn't know the boy who fought in pit fights for copper to buy bitter medicine. Who listened to his mother cough herself quiet. Who buried her beneath a wind-swept tree.

That boy had died long ago.

Now there was only the wind. And the people he fought to protect.

He turned back toward the heart of the camp, the wind curling around his ankles like a promise.

Tonight, the storm would ride with him.

Mbainu moved through the camp like a shadow cast in iron. No words followed him. He didn't ask for salutes, and none were given — only brief nods from soldiers who knew better than to interrupt their general when he walked the lines.

He passed the barracks tents, sparring pits, and mess lines. Checked gear stacks. Counted mounts. Listened, not for answers, but for weakness. Any crack in readiness would be sealed before the moon rose.

"Rations sufficient?" he asked a quartermaster.

"Yes, General."

"Blades and armor inspected?"

"Twice, sir."

He gave a curt nod and moved on. "If anything goes wrong... Good men will die."

The sun had nearly vanished. The sky was iron-tinged and burning low, and the smell of cooked roots and leather oil drifted on the wind. Lanterns flickered to life along the perimeter. Soldiers cleaned their armor in silence. Some sharpened blades until their fingers bled.

He found his officers gathered by the map spread across a flat stone slab, lit by lanterns fixed into the earth.

"No changes on their flank," one of them muttered.

"They're bracing for a night push," Mbainu said, scanning the crude layout with practiced eyes. "They won't expect us to move so soon. We press just before moonrise."

The officers exchanged glances. No one questioned him.

"Formations are assigned. Wake the second-wave before sundown. Runners are to remain silent unless the perimeter breaks. No fires after dusk."

"Yes, General."

He turned away. Let the map stay behind. The plan was already burned into his mind.

He walked toward the outer line of the camp. His boots struck hard-packed dirt. Torchlight stretched long shadows behind him.

And then — movement.

A scout tower ahead flashed its signal once. A low shout. Boots scrambled. Two guards ran to meet a rider just emerging from the treeline.

Mbainu's steps slowed.

The rider slumped in the saddle, barely holding the reins. Blood smeared his cloak, soaked into his chest, trickled from his brow. His eyes were wide, unfocused — as though he'd seen something his mind couldn't hold.

The guards caught the reins as the horse staggered.

Mbainu approached without a word.

The rider looked up. His face was pale, his jaw trembling. He opened his mouth, tried to speak—

But no sound came.

Only his breath, ragged.

Only his eyes, locked on the general.

Mbainu stopped a few paces away, staring at the bloodied scout.

The wind stirred.

"What happened?" His words came out raspy, he knew what had happened.

The scout opened his mouth, lips quivering. "Th-Thesians..."