Savage Divinity

As Old Bulat stared out at the army of Defiled falling neatly into formation around Meng Sha, he idly wished the Mother Above had seen fit to bless him with just a little more time and talent before sending this particular tribulation his way.

There were those who say war was a time for heroes to emerge and rise up to the challenge, but it was also a time for heroes to falter and fall. Some were remembered by all, like the formidable Sword King Ryo Dae Jung, who died in a duel against the traitorous Mataram Patriarch YuGan, whose massive banner flapped in the wind to herald his arrival. Other dead heroes were quickly forgotten except by the handful of people who held them dear, like good old Cham who died in Sanshu because he’d been too addled with drink to fight properly. That never sat right with the little Legate, which was why he went to such great lengths to ensure his people were well cared for. Coin was good, but now he was having the names of the fallen engraved on a stele so that everyone would know the names of the heroes who died defending them. Similar markers were going up all across the new Western Wall to honour those who died to defend it, but noble as the little Legate’s ideals might be, people were always slow to change.

Falling Rain meant well, but it only showed Bulat how little value a soldier’s life truly had. Even the bare minimum of a name and acknowledgement seemed like going above and beyond, and that was the Mother’s own truth.

Then again, not many were in the business of soldiering for fame and honour. The majority of those dead heroes didn’t fight for noble ideals or glory and duty, but for the daily meals and monthly pay. Food and coin, a poor pittance to die for, but basic infantry fought and died for it each and every day without getting the respect they rightly deserved. It wasn’t easy being a footslogging grunt in the Imperial Army. In war or in peace, the infantry were always the first in and last out, and it was a thankless job indeed. Fighting was the least of it, as there was always work to be done in an army camp, whether it be sentry duty or digging latrines, to say nothing of how unpleasant cleaning up the aftermath of battle could be. Hauling corpses wasn’t so bad since it needed to be done, but Bulat hated having to study the half-mangled remains of something that was once human while trying to figure out if it was Defiled or Imperial. Then when it came time to fight, the infantry was expected to pay the lion’s share of the butcher’s bill, which again, was to be expected since they were the biggest group by far. Still, with all this and more, he felt like they deserved at least some modicum of respect, but the Experts and Peak Experts of the Empire were liable to treat the infantry as little better than base commoners.

To be fair, most of them were born commoners, or so low-born that it hardly even mattered. Though other commoners saw these base Martial Warriors as carps who jumped through the dragon’s gate to ascend into the Heavens, Bulat knew first-hand how untrue that really was. Difficult for a young farmboy to keep up with his wealthier noble peers when he had to take precious time away from training to till the fields and harvest the crops. Then there was the matter of food, as most peasant families barely had enough to survive and couldn’t spare extra to feed a growing Martial Warrior with a healthy appetite, though Bulat had it better than most thanks to his skill in the grift. For most base-born Martial Warriors, joining the Army was freedom from farm-work and food issues, but while you spent your days marching and nights setting up camp, those same wealthy nobles could simply purchase a Junior Officer’s rank and meditate from horseback all the while, so how were lowly, untalented rank and file supposed to keep up?

The cold hard truth of the matter was that most couldn’t, because no matter how brilliant you might be, the Martial Path was not an easy path to take. Course, there were exceptions to the rule like those rare geniuses such as Siyar and Wang Bao who just naturally progressed along the Path without training day in and day out, able to pick up on key concepts their first time through. Then there were those masochistic maniacs who devoted every spare second to the Martial Dao, like Ravil whose first love had always been bloodshed and Lang Yi who had nothing else to live for. Neither one could be considered a genius and were a ways away from becoming Demon Slayers themselves, but they stood out from the rest of the pack even if by only a handful of extra steps. Lastly, there were those who were a combination of the two, both brilliant and hardworking to boot. The little Legate was the most obvious example, for his perseverance and determination were unmatched, but Bulat would put Ral, Chey, and Sai Chou all in that same category as well. Granted, their talents were no match for the little Legate’s, but they worked hard and progressed quicker than either of the first two groups, for they’d been blessed by the Mother Above with the twin traits of diligence and discernment. The latter was more important than most knew, for hard work only paid off if you knew what you were working for. There was no point chopping wood if you had enough coal to keep warm all winter but your pantry sat empty. Sure, you could trade the wood for food instead, so it wasn’t a complete loss, but your time would’ve been better spent hunting or farming instead.

As for Bulat? Well... if he was being honest, and he should because there was no point lying to himself, he was no genius, that much was clear, and he wasn’t all that hard working either. Technically, he was also a higher ranked grunt now, being second-in-command of the Legate’s retinue and whatnot, but unlike the silk-pant’s commanders who bought their way into the chain of command, he didn’t have no overqualified nanny to do all his work for him. As such, he had precious little time or drive to train after spending all day playing nursemaid to a bunch of soldiers, who by and large were fully grown, murderous children with nothing better to do than to make life miserable of Old Bulat. How was he supposed to progress along the Martial Path with so much already on his plate? These last few years, he’d gotten stronger by leaps and bounds, but at the end of it all, he was still just a footslogging grunt, just one face in a crowd of millions ready to lay down their lives for meals and a salary.

Granted, Old Bulat wasn’t no common grunt, as you’d be hard pressed to find one as well-equipped as he, seeing how he had both Spiritual Weapon and Runic Shield. He was also a little further along than most, having Condensed his Aura with help from Lady Zheng Luo’s sublime musical performance, but the sentiment still held true. His Aura, Spiritual Axe-Rifle, and Runic Shield were hardly enough to make him stand out from the crowd, and history had proved him of limited use in any role besides meat-shield. Something he’d always known since his first week of Army training, but the conflict in Pan Si Xing had opened his eyes and forced him to accept this truth.

Oh what a battle it’d been, with some of the bloodiest fighting Old Bulat had ever seen in all his years of fighting. In a field battle, there was a rhythm to the fighting that you could easily fall into as naturally as breathing. Two sides line up, do a bit of posturing about, then close in for bloody work with edge and point. Every hour or so, the shift changes and you step back to let some other poor, broke Warriors fill in the gap, while you head off for water, food and a nap. Then, depending on how many soldiers you had and how hot the fighting got, you either went right back at it a few hours later, or woke up to a battle done and dusted.

There was none of that in Pan Si Xing, no room to breathe whatsoever. That was the Mother’s own truth it was, for once Ral burst through the cellar wall and Jorani led his troops out into the streets, there was no place to fall back to any more. The Enemy surged in from all sides, hollering and hooting up a storm as they charged in piecemeal to die in droves, like waves in a storm crashing against the side of a boat. Cept the storm just kept getting worse and each passing wave hit harder and faster, threatening to overturn the whole retinue in one fell swoop, before any Demons or Peak Experts even showed their faces. From the moment they all saw sunlight, it was a mad dash for cover, with Defiled coming out of the woodwork from all angles as they fought and killed without rest.

Now there was a battle where heroes emerged, and not just the Peak Expert variety. Keen to make up for his blunder which got them all into this mess, Ravil put aside his bow and took up his sword to stand firm on the front lines, a rare show of courage and leadership from a scoundrel with a heart blacker than his ebony skin. It’d been a long time since Old Bulat saw his old friend give it his all, and it’d been an eye opening experience to be sure, for gone was the sneak-thief of memory and in his place was a Warrior in truth. With sword in hand, he seemed like a force unto himself as he jumped into the thick of things time and time again. He was still a devious, down-right dirty scoundrel, stomping feet, stabbing backs, and kicking dicks wherever he so pleased, but he did so in a domineering fashion that struck fear into the hearts of ally and enemy alike. One second, he’d be bashing away with his sword against some luckless bastard’s raised guard, and the next he’d melt away and drive that same blade clean through a Defiled heart. On several occasions, Old Bulat could only watch in amazement as Ravil refrained from dealing a deadly blow just so he could throw one wounded foe at another, healthier one. The Defiled weren’t none too keen on preserving their own hides much less the hides of their allies, unless it was to tan and wear them, so every time, the healthier Defiled would cut down the wounded, flailing one, giving Ravil the precious seconds he needed to turn and face his new foe.

It wasn’t strength of arm or spirit that made Ravil stand out, but the sheer devilish manner in which he fought, so full of anger and spite. While Old Bulat was always on the lookout for a new grift, Ravil’s gaze was firmly locked on the throats and hearts of his foes, forever scheming and planning how to best kill a man even when deep in his drink. There was a time when some thought Ravil near Defiled himself, though those were mere rumours whispered by men too afraid of him to fight, but Old Bulat had to admit that he would’ve thought so too if they’d been standing on different sides. If ever there were a man to match the Father in sheer magnitude of hatred contained within, that man would be Ravil, true as true, so it was good thing he reserved that hatred for the Enemy.

Ravil was one reason why they made it out alive in Pan Si Xing, for he fought harder than ten men that day. A surprise to be sure, considering he was usually the first to get going when the going got tough, but then again, that was the Ravil of old, the street-wise street rat who earned himself a reputation as someone to talk to when you needed someone killed quick and quiet. Now, he was the sergeant you didn’t want to piss off, except Ravil was always angry, and the soldiers hopped right quick whenever he flashed his pearly white grin that lacked any and all humour.

There were plenty of other lowly soldiers who stepped up in Pan Si Xing. Some were only performing as expected, like the talents Old Bulat mentioned earlier, while others displayed levels of courage, grit, and strength which surprised them all. The city’s name held true for many a good Warrior that day, a death sentence for so many heroes who were now ashes in the wind, but the entire retinue might have died that day if the new bossman Jorani hadn’t risen to the occasion. Not to say it was wholly unexpected from him, but the half-rat wasn’t a leader whose appearance inspired confidence. Just like Rain himself, Jorani was a scrawny one, all thin and wiry with a habit of slouching and avoiding eye-contact, mannerisms he adopted to avoid conflict in his years as a street-rat and bandit. Old Bulat had seen plenty just like him, faint-hearted fence-sitters who went whichever way the tide drew them. Not to say Jorani was cowardly, but he was a man who hedged his bets, and Old Bulat never liked that type much. Too gutless to risk losing what they could afford to gamble, but too greedy to keep away from the games. They were the type to blame others for their losses, and Old Bulat had long since grown tired of dealing with that sort.

So to say Jorani’s bold gambit to push out from the safety of the tunnels was unexpected would be a massive understatement, but the man made up his mind in an instant when time was at a premium. A good thing too, because the place he’d been eyeing turned into a near perfect kill-box once they got the soldiers situated inside the roomy plaza. It’d been a ritzy neighbourhood at one point, all full of high-walled courtyard manors that funnelled the Enemy through one of eight streets, and it was child’s play to block off five of them for some time. Even then, they’d have never made it there without Jorani clearing the way, his Spiritual Rope sweeping the streets clean of Defiled filth as easily as turning his hand. Once inside the plaza proper, it was just a matter of holding the line as the Defiled rushed headlong into the open ground while archers and crossbows rained down death from the rooftops until their ammunition ran out, and then it was bitter blade to blade fighting for them all.

The whole effort sounded simple enough when Old Bulat told the tale, with plenty of drunken embellishment to play up the heroes of the day. Some of those heroes hoisted a drink alongside him, while others had to have their drinks poured out for them, as they had long since left the red dust behind for the safety and comfort of the Mother’s warm embrace. The ugly truth of the ordeal was that Old Bulat didn’t think he would make it out of Pan Si Xing alive, and he, alongside every other Warrior in the little Legate’s retinue, had been ready to sell their lives dearly just to draw the traitor Bai Qi out. His hundred-thousand elites, that’s what Lieutenant General Baatar called them when detailing the plans, yet he’d been ready to trade each and every one of their lives just to take Bai Qi’s head. Tactically, that would have been a win for the Empire, but the cold logical calculation didn’t sit right with Old Bulat.

That was the difference really. Old Bulat fought to live, so that he would have food and coin to spend.

Like him, the vast majority of soldiers didn’t sign on to be heroes or martyrs, but because soldiering was one of the only jobs an untrained Martial Warrior could do. There were mercenary troupes that sometimes took on fresh recruits, and every now and then the noble houses of the city might take in a self-taught prodigy, but for most, the Army was the only answer available.

And if Pan Si Xing had taught Old Bulat one thing, it was that he should’ve stayed retired and kept his wife company as the fat mayor of his district.

He was no hero, but the powers that be would happily force him to become one, indifferent to whether he survived or not. Not without good reason, as the Defiled needed killing and the borders defending, but Old Bulat preferred gambling with coin, not lives. This posting in Meng Sha was supposed to give them time to lick their wounds and recover from the ordeal in Pan Si Xing, but they’d been in the fortress for less than a week before the Enemy came calling, and from the looks of things, they weren’t playing around. The Mataram Patriarch’s banner was the largest and most eye-catching one in the crowd, long as a train of wagons and held up by no less than eight banner bearers, but as Old Bulat watched the armoured Defiled coordinate and encircle Meng Sha in thunderous lockstep, he scanned all the other unfurled banners and tried his best to puzzle out what those embroidered characters were supposed to mean.

Most started with the same three characters, Ma-Ta-Ram, which ironically was supposed to mean ‘I praise thee, Mother’ in some old, dead language. The second largest banner belonged to Mataram YuChun of the Ten-Thousand Spears, which was a silly title considering there was no way one man could hold so many weapons at once. There were three more banners that were only slightly smaller than his, Mataram clansmen whose names bore characters Bulat didn’t know how to read. Names were a finicky sort of thing since so many people liked to make up characters just to look unique. The titles were easier to recognize, since Bulat could usually identify enough of the characters to put together what they meant. An odd bunch, these Western Traitors, as they picked the strangest titles. There was the Spinning Hermit, Dark Death, and Red Shadow to name a few, after which Old Bulat decided there was no need to read any of the smaller banners. None of those were titles he recognized, which meant it was likely a scare tactic meant to inflate the reputation of otherwise nameless Defiled killers, rather than heralding the arrival of some big-name Peak Experts.

“Ain’t nothing to worry about,” Old Bulat declared, giving a big-bellied chuckle for the sake of the troops, many of whom were illiterate. “Bunch of nothings and nobodies waving banners their mother’s sewed up fer ‘em to make ‘em look all big and bad. ‘Oh no, the Spinning Hermit is here to claim our heads, whatever will we do?’. Ha.”

Standing so still and silent he almost forgot the man was there, Dagen clamped his hand down on Old Bulat’s shoulder and Sent, “When we return, you will need to take your reading lessons more seriously.” A rebuke which had Old Bulat bristling with indignation, because marrying Ma didn’t make Dagen his Pa. “That is not read ‘Spinning Hermit’,” Dagen continued, looking serious as the grave, “But the title of the feared and renowned Peak Expert Mataram Minzhe.” Seeing Bulat’s lack of understanding, the older Bekkie stifled a sigh that did not go unnoticed. “For decades, he served in complete obscurity as Mataram YuChun’s bodyguard and second-in-command, until the battle of Serenity Oasis, where he made himself known as the Whirling Dervish.”

Now there was a name Old Bulat recognized, and he paled as he looked back at the otherwise unremarkable man standing beneath the banner once again, a clean-shaven, salt-and-peppered senior with a face so stiff it looked like he’d never smiled before in his life. The Blackwind Bandits had been using the oasis as their camp and launching deadly attacks on merchant and military convoys passing nearby. They were famed for leaving no witnesses alive, but Mataram YuChun was able to track them through the sandstorms back to their base. When he marched in with an army at his back, he quickly discovered that the Blackwind Bandits weren’t the only group residing in the area, for more than five major gangs had made the oasis into their base of operations, and each one was led by an infamous Peak Expert. Having kicked an iron plate, YuChun’s men fought valiantly against the odds stacked against them, but ultimately failed to break out before the bandits slaughtered them to the last.

Well, almost the last, for Mataram Minzhe cut a swathe through the bandits with his twin khopeshes, a sickle-sword of Western design that handled a little like an axe. Though Mataram YuChun lost most of his retinue that day, all five bandit leaders also lost their heads to the Whirling Dervish, named so for his peculiar dance of death that was rumoured to never stop until there were no more enemies left. Some whispered that he’d been trained alongside the Patriarch himself, while others claimed Minzhe’s skills might well be strong enough to threaten Bai Qi himself, though nothing ever came of it. Realistically however, the Imperial higher-ups reckoned Mataram Minzhe’s skills were equal to that of a Lieutenant General, which meant he was only a hair’s breadth away from becoming a Living Legend himself.

With Dagen’s help, Old Bulat identified the other notable names stitched into the many banners on the field, such as the previously misinterpreted Ebony Reaper and Crimson Shade, both formidable Brigadiers in their own right. There were plenty of lower ranking traitors as well, with everything from Lieutenant Colonels to mere Senior Captains holding their own banners themselves, but Old Bulat couldn’t be bothered with learning all their names. The important takeaway from all this was the fact that the Mataram Clan had turned out in full force to assault Meng Sha, which the reports stated was a formidable, Imperial-trained military army over three-hundred thousand soldiers strong. That was only the official number, of course, as YuChun and the aforementioned Reaper and Shade were the highest-ranking Officers in the Mataram Clan, but a faction that large most certainly had their own private Imperial Defence Forces to protect their own interests as well, not to mention the fact that the Mataram Clan were rebels and traitors who likely didn’t care to follow the laws all that much.

All in all, as far as Old Bulat could tell, there were close to a million well-disciplined, well-trained, and well-equipped former Imperials out there on the dunes, with maybe five times that in naked, crazed Defiled to bolster their ranks. A formidable force to appear here on their doorstep without warning, but one the soldiers of Meng Sha would have to deal with by themselves. Problem was, even though the higher ups spent an entire month fortifying Meng Sha harbour with twenty metre high walls and towers that loomed overhead, there were maybe half a million soldiers present here today, including a sizable force of Irregulars. This was less than a quarter of the fortresses’ full capacity and not nearly enough to throw back the force arrayed against them, not unless reinforcements set out from SuiHua three days ago to make the four day journey by ship.

And how would they, if Meng Sha didn’t even know about this army until it appeared out of nowhere on their doorstep? What were the odds for Old Bulat to escape death in Pan Si Xing only to have his fate sealed here in Meng Sha today? Then again, if he had to die somewhere, he supposed dying in ‘Sandy Dreams Harbour’ was better than ‘Death Sentence City’.

Now more than ever, he felt entirely out-matched on the battlefield. Not just in numbers, seeing how he’d survived worse odds before, except now he was fighting trained Imperial traitors rather than reckless Defiled chaff. The issue was Old Bulat felt outmatched in terms of quality alone, for there were so many Senior Captain banners dotted all about the battlefield, and he wasn’t sure how he and his would hold out against them. It didn’t seem like much, since a Senior Captain was just one man out of a thousand, but you had to remember the little Legate once held rank equivalent to this for some time, and he was more than capable of tipping the scales of balance all on his own. So too could elites like Situ Jia Zian and Tam Taewoong, and two out of three of the little Legate’s wives, as well as famed talents like Tong Da Fung and Ryo Geom-Chi and other outstanding Warriors. Hell, Old Bulat wouldn’t put even money on himself in a match against a nameless Senior Captain, so he knew full well the fate that awaited him if he should be forced to fight one on the battlements here today.

Which wasn’t as far-fetched as it might once have been, since the retinue only had one man qualified to stand against a Senior Captain. Dastan Zhandos might well have become a comparable talent himself if not for having joined the wrong faction in Sanshu, but there was no denying his skill put him well above the average. Unfortunately, he was the only one capable of inspiring confidence, for there were precious few other options available. Jorani and Ral weren’t great duellists, while Chey and Sai Chou were largely untested, and Ravil had never fought a fair fight before in his life. Ulfsaar, Neera, Wang Bao, and a few others might make the Enemy Officers work for their victory, but ultimately, they could only rely on Dastan to block the incoming deluge of top tier talents.

And incoming they were, for as soon as their soldiers were all in place, the Mataram Army bellowed out a wordless battle-cry and charged the walls without fear or hesitation, unleashing a coordinated, all-out attack that shocked Old Bulat to his core, for he’d never been on the receiving end of an Imperial offensive. Jorani was already snapping out orders, so Old Bulat shook himself out of his funk and started browbeating his troops into following them. “Bows and crossbows fire at will! Front rank, weapons at the ready! Second rank, fall in to support.” Having yet to replenish their fallen numbers, two ranks was all they could form along the section of wall assigned to them, so they were pretty much throwing everything they had into the defence and hoping the commander was smart enough to relieve them early.

A hope which Old Bulat suspected would go unfulfilled, with all the top tier commanders gathered in Shi Bei to hold out against Bai Qi’s overwhelming, but slow-moving forces. Any fool could now see that those actions had been meant to draw strength away from Meng Sha, and the Imperial Commanders had bought right in like a fresh-faced mark at his first game of dice. The commander at Meng Sha was OuYang Min Jun, a Society adherent and ancient relic from Du Min Gyu’s era who languished in obscurity even then, but was assigned here because it was a prestigious posting that even an ailing old fool couldn’t mess up.

Unless of course the Enemy brought an entire army to their doorstep under a massive cloak of Concealment that could only be the work of a Divinity, if not multiple Divinities working in concert.

Matters of Divinities had nothing to do with Old Bulat however, as he was but a mere grunt on the walls, so he turned his focus to holding them. Runic Shield and Axe-Rifle in hand, he watched as the first wave ran headlong into the walls and slowly but surely climbed their way up. Strong and sturdy as concrete might appear on the surface, the insides weren’t entirely solid, as there was no keeping air from getting trapped inside the fast drying liquid, meaning it was far easier to pierce than one might think. The Enemy had figured out as much and brought the bare minimum they needed to scale the walls, a handful of long iron nails which the elite Clansmen drove into the wall as they climbed. Thus, only the foremost climbers had to make do with the natural finger and toe holes, while those who came later might well have a veritable staircase of embedded nails ready and waiting to help them ascend.

No matter though, because if there was one thing Old Bulat was confident in, it was his ability to beat the odds even when they were stacked against him, so he threw himself right into the fray as the first armoured traitor came leaping over the wall. His trusty Axe-Rifle caught the fool square in the jaw, his Honed blade carving through meat and bone with ease, and he relaxed and let his momentum die out as the corpse went sailing back into empty air. A tad too much Reinforcement, so he dialed it back a bit and booted the next face he saw with just enough strength to drop the hapless fool like a sack of rice, and he took great delight in listening to the screams of the climbers below as the senseless Mataram Clansman dragged a few of his comrades to death with him. Not all who fell would die, as most would merely take injury, but Old Bulat knew they’d need every advantage they could get before the real elites started pouring in.

That was one thing he quickly noticed about fighting an opponent that was also trained in Imperial tactics, namely how easily he could read their intent. With traditional Defiled, you never knew what they were doing or when the Champions and Chieftains would show up, but the Mataram Officers were not only kind enough to announce their current location for all to see with the banners flapping along beside them, but their intentions were clear as day. Every Senior Officer and higher was still holding back as they sent their soldiers to scale the walls of Meng Sha. This wasn’t Imperial doctrine, but a tried and true Defiled tactic of overwhelming the foe through sheer weight of numbers, except this time, it was carried out by Defiled who also happened to be trained, disciplined, and coordinated Imperial traitors.

The first two enemies Old Bulat killed were handouts, too eager, confident, or plain foolhardy to wait for their allies beside them. Anyone else like them died quick and easy, but they were but a single hair upon the bull’s back, while the remaining Clansmen were level-headed bastards who knew what they were doing. The next wave came all at once, with dozens of Mataram soldiers pulling themselves up over the parapets in concert, and Old Bulat watched as every second enemy soldier threw themselves at the Imperials like clockwork. Chilling to see such coordination in action, for even as half their comrades sold their lives dearly, the remaining Clansmen drew together to form a bulwark on the wall and create an area from which their allies could ascend in safety. Couldn’t have that, so Old Bulat bellowed a battle-cry and charged into the fray, slaughtering two suicidal Clansmen before barrelling towards the rest. Crashing into their lines shield first, he was gratified to see that his soldiers had kept up, because it would’ve been embarrassing as all hell if he’d gone running to his death on his own. “Give these bastards back to the sands!” he yelled, shrugging off the Clansmen desperately trying to hold him back. That was one thing about him that was different, for he’d long since shed all the fat he put on during his stint as mayor and converted it into muscle, which meant he was now physically stronger than ever before. A solid step forward followed by a sharp bump of his hip was all it took to shove an off-balance Clansman off the parapets and sailing back down to the sands below. At the same time, he bought the blade of his axe down onto the helm of a Clansman, and even though the Runes kept him from splitting the traitor’s head in twain, it did nothing to stop the impact from breaking his neck. Well used to battling Rune-Armoured Chosen by now, Old Bulat went with the rebound and easily regained control of his weapon, only to ride that momentum so that he could hook the arm of yet another Mataram Clansman with his axe-head. Again, the Runic armour kept his blade from biting deep, but that wasn’t his goal else he would’ve Honed the weapon. Instead, he twisted his axe until he locked the traitor’s arm in place, then hefted the soldier armour and all before unceremoniously dumping him over the side.

Oh the look of surprise on that one’s face when he realized there was no ground under his feet... now that would make a fine tale to tell.

Fun as it all was, this was hard work fighting against highly trained troops, and Old Bulat just knew this first wave was full of greenhorns. They’d trained and drilled for this, true, but they’d never been in the thick of things before today, or at the very least had only fought from a position of strength. Too bad for them, but Old Bulat was a bully through and through, to say nothing of how he spent the last few years moulding a bunch of novice recruits just like them into true Elites of the Empire. So many of his soldiers had outpaced him now, but there was still fight in him yet, and at this level of conflict, he was all but unmatched.

Thrice more, the Enemy surged up in a concentrated effort to take the battlements, and thrice more Old Bulat led the charge to throw them back. That was the trick of it, to give them just enough room to take a foothold so they’d have an instant of relief, and then smash them down and turn that momentary sense of accomplishment into complete and total despair. It was the same way you run a grift, give a little before taking them for all their worth, because then they’d be too shocked to think clearly which gave him a fair chance to get away. In battle, that translated into putting your enemy on the back foot as they tried to understand what just happened, which was brainpower they weren’t devoting to staying alive, or even better, killing.

Problem was, there was nowhere for Old Bulat to run this time, for behind him lay the comatose little Legate, to say nothing of the hundreds of thousands of soldiers, Irregulars, and workers as well. With his back against the wall, Old Bulat gave the fight everything he had, but he was fast running low on strength. Still, as a higher ranking grunt, he had to put on appearances, so he took two deep breaths in hopes of minimizing his huffing while waiting for the next group of Clansmen appeared on the walls and said, “How many times we gotta teach these fools the same damn lesson?”

A few chuckles rang out, but Old Bulat was out of strength and patience. Loading his Axe-Rifle with an iron bullet, he felt the spring compress and the power condense until it sat right behind the bullet just waiting to be unleashed. He didn’t take aim just yet, because then he’d have to hold his arm out and keep it still, and he was too damned tired for that. Felt like he was wearing a set of Mister Rustram’s weights all on one arm, probably because he kept lifting fools and throwing them off the wall. Fun as it was, it was a lot easier just to kill them clean, and Old Bulat made a note of that for the future. Throw one or two fools just to make a point, then reel it in and fight like a proper Officer than the thug you left behind.

It happened exactly like he practised with his beloved Dei An, where she’d throw a clay disk and he’d shatter it clean with a flick of his wrist, so natural it was almost second nature now. There was no need to aim down the sight, no need to squint and line up his target like before, because he was the Axe-Rifle, and the Axe-Rifle was him. Shooting was as simple as pointing, moving neither too fast nor too slow as he lowered his weapon and pressed the trigger to unleash a Reinforced, Amplified, Reverberating bullet which took a traitor’s face clean through the nose just as his head poked over the parapets. A young man with an eager, bloodthirsty grin, that’s all Old Bulat saw before it exploded in a cloud of blood, bone, and brain matter. The thunderous crack stopped the rest of the Enemy clean in their tracks as they all turned towards back to see what just transpired, but then the little Legate’s bullies crashed into their ranks and the fighting resumed once again. With less enthusiasm than fitting a man of his rank, Old Bulat joined them, shoving and bumping his way through the Enemy ranks and sending a good number of them crashing to their deaths.

This latest clash felt like it lasted ten times longer than every other scuffle combined, though that might just have been his sore arms and burning lungs dragging the experience out. As he backpedalled away from the cleared battlements, he heard a commotion going on around him and finally cottoned to what the soldiers were cheering. There must have been something wrong with his ears, because it sounded like they were cheering his name, but he hadn’t done anything particularly worthy of note. Only he wasn’t hearing wrong, because all eyes were turned towards him, many of which were positively burning with zeal and excitement.

Knowing better than to voice his lack of understanding out loud, Old Bulat played it off like no big deal and motioned for them to quiet down. “Save yer breath,” he growled, and Mother help him, they all jumped to obey, without losing their smiles or good cheer. “Ain’t nothing worth cheering about just yet.”

“You did not notice, did you?” Dagen’s Sending was rife with amused excitement, so similar to what Old Bulat saw in his soldiers. “The man you shot and killed was Mataram Yu Kong, YuChun’s second son, who supposedly is the most promising Warrior of his generation. A young talent to rival the Legate and his peers, or at least he was until he met Old Bulat.”

Ah. Luck of the draw, or a lack thereof from Mataram Yu Kong’s point of view, but Old Bulat always thought it was better to be lucky than smart. Even if he did everything right and tracked all the odds accordingly, one lucky roll was all it would take to render all that prep work for naught. “That there was Lady Sumila’s kill,” Old Bulat declared, reloading his beloved Axe-Rifle with a tender smile usually reserved for Dei An. “And maybe a little bit of credit goes to the Legate too, fer comin’ up with the idea in the first place. Work hard and maybe Lady Sumila’ll make one of these fer you too, but just you remember to give credit where it’s due.”

The soldiers around him nodded like chickens pecking grains and stared at his weapon with envy and longing, but Old Bulat wasn’t sure if Lady Sumila would ever make another since she seemed to have all but given up on the idea. A shame really, because if they had a hundred Spiritual Rifles like this, then they’d really make a difference, but as things stood, Old Bulat could really only use it to score one easy kill before closing in for a good brawl.

“Good work regardless.” Snapping to attention, Old Bulat turned to salute Jorani as he sauntered over to the front, looking so casual and relaxed as he twirled his weapon about. “You should’ve seen eager Dastan over there, just rarin’ to close in fer a good fight, and how disappointed he was when he saw it was already over.” The man in question wore a wry grin and offered Old Bulat a nod of respect as Jorani continued, “Anywho, after seeing what ye just did, I figured we got our plan all backwards. Me and Dastan will hold the line here fer a bit, give the rest of ye a chance to catch yer breath.” Clapping Old Bulat on the shoulder with a grin, Jorani added, “Don’t get too comfortable though, because we’ll be countin’ on you to deal with any elites that come poppin’ up, Old Bulat. Ain’t that right now?”

“Sure as sure,” Dastan replied, taking on Jorani’s accent in a joking manner, and Old Bulat could only shake his head at the indignity of it all. “Can’t let Old Bulat hog all the glory himself, now can we? Holding the line and killing elites all as easily as turning a hand, he’s making us all look bad, so we gotta earn our keep too.”

“Careful!”

The booming warning came an instant too late as Old Bulat was thrown back into the crowd, tossed aside as easily as he might toss a child. When he regained his bearings, he found Dagen lying on the stones in front of him, bleeding from a massive hole in his shoulder that you could see clean through. Moving more on instinct than anything else, Old Bulat grabbed his medical kit from his hip pouch and set to staunching the bleeding, though it would have little effect on an injury this large, all the while keeping an ear out for what was going on around him.

“How deplorable.” The same voice that warned them sounded again, and Old Bulat placed it as the Immovable Binesi, one of the famed fifty responsible for safeguarding the little Legate. “To think, you were once a respected Major General, and now you are nothing but a traitor launching sneak attacks against a mere sergeant.”

“He killed my son,” came the reply from what could only be Mataram YuChun’s lips, loud and clear without any Chi to broadcast it for all to hear, for this was truly a shameful act. “Not through strength of arm, but through tricks and schemes. I will slaughter that fat oaf and send his soul to serve Yu Kong in the next life.”

“Your son died because he was weak.” Binesi held nothing back, though it hurt a little to have Old Bulat’s accomplishment dismissed out of hand. “I hope you are not similarly disappointing, for I have long since yearned to see if your Ten Thousand Spears can pierce through this Binesi’s defence.”

Confident Dagen’s life was no longer in danger, Old Bulat tied off the bandage and took up his Axe-Rifle once more. The bullet was still in the chamber thanks to Lady Sumila’s foresight, having crafted a little inset for the bullets to sit in, and Old Bulat didn’t even need to think before shooting. The gun cracked and thunder rang as the bullet hurtled towards Mataram YuChun, but Peak Experts were a different sort of beast. Moving so fast he barely even saw it, Old Bulat only pieced together what happened in the aftermath as both the traitor and Binesi disappeared into the skies. The two Peak Experts left only a clattering, flattened bullet behind, chiming as it rattled across the concrete battlements in undeniable proof that Mataram YuChun had not only reacted to the shot, but also blocked the unexpected bullet that should have hit him right in the left eye.

Damn Jorani and Dastan for getting his hopes up. Swallowing his disappointment over not being able to kill a traitor Major General, Old Bulat lifted Dagen up and personally carried him off to the Healers. He didn’t like the man, but he made Ma happy, so that was all that mattered to him. As for the battle, he’d be back soon enough, and there were others there to hold up the Heavens in his absence.

Old Bulat was just too damned insignificant in a battle of these stakes. He’d do his part and ensure his people gave it their all, but ultimately, victory or defeat would not be decided by his hands, no matter how much he wished it were otherwise. No matter though, he was happy with his lot in life, so he kept his ambitions small so as not to tempt fate. All he wanted was to get himself and Dagen home to Dei An and Ma in one piece. Everything else? That was above his pay grade, so whatever will be, will be.

An unpleasant feeling, to understand how little you mattered in the grand scheme of things, but such was life.

Trials and tribulations without end.

Chapter Meme