Holding a brightly lit lantern in his hand, Behrouz purposefully walked towards the Central Camp entrance. Khawn and Azad trailed closely behind, wheeling a wagon heavily loaded with large bamboo barrels.
As Behrouz got closer to the entrance, three young soldiers quickly stepped forward, weapons drawn, forming a barrier.
"Sir," one of the soldiers said, his voice curt. "Commoners are not allowed here. Please turn around and leave."
Behrouz broke into a disarming, benevolent smile. He took two deliberate steps towards the young men, fully adopting the persona of a grief-stricken, superstitious grandfather.
"Soldiers," he said with a bright smile. "You see, my grandson was very sick, and when I went to the temple, the monk told me the reason he is sick is because my dead son's spirit has finally gained enough merit to be reincarnated. To finalize the ritual, I must serve three hundred bowls of food in his name to gain enough final merits."
"There are plenty of people inside the capital city that would be happy for you to serve three hundred bowls of food," another soldier chimed in, clearly suspicious of the camp's late-night visitors.
Behrouz realized his religious excuse alone wouldn't work. He looked pitifully at the soldiers, his face crinkling with manufactured sorrow, and added a layer of emotional appeal.
"I thought of the same too, but... but..." He buried his face in the palm of his hands, pretending to sob slightly, then wiped his dry eyes with the corner of his tunic. "Soldiers, my son was a soldier and died in the battle of... of... Hoshu..." He paused dramatically, struggling to remember the name correctly. "So, if I must do something in his name, I would rather do it for his fellow brothers."
"Your son died in the battle of Hosha City?" the third soldier asked, his guard dropping slightly at the mention of a fellow fallen comrade.
"Yes! Hosha City," Behrouz repeated, seizing the correct name.
"Who's there, soldiers?" Captain Yi said, walking toward the gate, annoyed by the delay.
"Captain," one soldier turned and reported. "This father is bringing chicken soup to us, doing merits in honor of his dead son who had fought in Hosha City."
"Captain, please," Behrouz pleaded, leaning into his final, superstitious pressure point. "I have no ill intention. My grandson Azad is sick because of this. Because of my failure to believe the monk, my chicken coops caught fire at three yesterday morning. Tonight, when the hours are ticking back toward three, I'm afraid that it might happen again."
Feeling sorry for the old grandfather and the story of the fallen comrade, Yi looked at Behrouz pitifully. "We will accept your food, but you cannot go in." He waved his hand, and two soldiers went and took the wagon from Khawn and Azad's hands. "It's getting late now; you should return back to the city."
"Thank you, Captain," Behrouz said, bowing profusely. He turned and smiled subtly at Khawn and Azad as they walked away, having successfully delivered their precious cargo.
Yi walked to the wagon and began opening the lids of all ten barrels. Inside, the barrels were filled not with soup, but with thick, heavy chicken rice porridge. The sheer volume was immense, enough to feed a battalion.
Captain Yi dipped one finger into the thick chicken rice porridge and tasted it. The flavor was ordinary—simple, but carefully made and hearty. He nodded in approval. He wasn't aware that the sheer volume of food being delivered was an impossibility for a single common family.
He looked at the two soldiers who had accepted the delivery. "It's good. Make sure you bring two bowls to the two prisoners," he commanded, remembering his general's orders to treat Chinua and Hye with some measure of dignity.
"Yes, Captain," one soldier replied, and with a shared heave, they wheeled the heavy wagon containing the ten bamboo barrels deeper into the Central Military Camp.
In the isolated room, heavily guarded by twenty ten people, a soldier carrying a tray of food knocked gently and pushed the door open. He found Chinua sitting composedly at the table, while Hye was stretched out on the bed, pretending to rest.
"Your dinner is here, Your Highness," the soldier said politely.
Chinua turned, looking at the steaming rice porridge. She grabbed one of the bowls and brought it to her nose, sniffing it twice. "Huh... this smells very good. If I remember correctly, there is no such dish served in the military mess."
"Oh," the soldier said with a friendly smile. "There is a grandfather who brought the porridge to us. He said he is doing so in the name of his deceased son, who was a fallen soldier in Your Highness's army during the battle of Hosha City."
"Oh," Chinua said simply. She dipped her spoon and tasted the porridge. The flavor was familiar—a sturdy, unpretentious dish—but the mention of "Hosha City" combined with the food sent a flicker of realization through her mind.
"Yes, the grandfather said his grandson, Azad, is sick, and because he failed to do such merits in his son's name, last night at three in the morning his chicken coops were caught on fire."
"Really?" Chinua let out a soft chuckle, masking her sudden, intense interest.
The soldier also chuckled at the ridiculous superstition. He continued, unknowingly delivering a critical, time-sensitive message, "He was afraid that if he didn't deliver the food, tonight at three his chicken coop might catch on fire again."
"Thank you, soldier," Chinua said with a composed smile. She watched the soldier walk to the door and close the heavy panel. She continued to eat the chicken rice porridge, but her chewing had slowed.
"Three in the morning, right?" Hye said, sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed, his earlier relaxation completely gone, a focused smile spreading across his face.
Meanwhile, inside the West Palace, down the corridor, Timicin, Jeet, Drystan and Cong moved swiftly behind the shadows of trees and large ornamental bushes, heading straight toward the Queen Mother's chamber. They were the vanguard of Mönkhbat's Queen Qara rescue team.
As they got closer, they looked at each other awkwardly. The Queen's courtyard, which should have been bustling even in the dead of night, was completely silent. There were no imperial guards patrolling the perimeter, and the usual hustle of eunuchs and maids was absent.
"Something is wrong," Timicin whispered, pulling up short beneath a large willow.
"What's wrong?" Cong asked, clutching his short sword.
"Yeah, this is way too quiet for a queen's palace," Drystan said, his eyes scanning the empty corridors. Not a single soul was in sight.
Timicin nodded grimly. "Normally, this palace will be highly patrolled by imperial guards, eunuchs, and maids," Timicin explained, his eyes narrowed. "But since we got here, I have not seen a single servant or guard. It's too quiet."
"Shh," Jeet signaled, dropping into a crouch. "Listen."
From the depths of the inner chambers, a muffled struggle broke the silence, followed by the sharp, terrified scream of an elderly woman.
"The Queen Mother," Cong whispered, drawing his short sword. "They've already started."
Before they could debate the danger, a frantic scream pierced the stillness:
"What are you doing? Stop! You can't do this!" It was Gan, Queen Qara's personal maid, her voice tight with terror. Gan's screams continued, mixing desperate pleas with fierce protests.
"Let's go," Jeet hissed, recognizing the immediate, dire threat. He rushed forward towards the sound, with Timicin and Cong following him closely behind, their stealth abandoned in favor of speed.
Inside Qara's private chamber, Nugai stood and watched, his face alight with malice, as two imperial guards gripped Queen Qara's arms, dragging her back toward the chillingly prepared length of white cloth that had been looped and secured on a low ceiling beam. A third imperial guard was simultaneously struggling to push Gan away.
"Nugai! You dog!" Gan screamed, her small, aged hands desperately hitting the third imperial guard. "You will not live long! Get your dirty hands away from Her Majesty!" Gan continued to fight, hitting and pulling at the third imperial guard with furious, protective strength.
Running out of patience, Nugai signaled for a fourth imperial guard to pull Gan away, stopping her from interfering further.
The fourth imperial guard, ruthless and efficient, grabbed the back of Gan's hair and yanked her backward. With his left arm, he slammed his forearm straight into Gan's chest, causing the sixty-year-old woman to tumble painfully onto the cold palace floor.
"Gan!" Qara cried out, a cry of helpless sorrow, just as she was lifted by the third imperial guard. The guard swiftly forced her head into the prepared loop of white cloth.
The two imperial guards quickly tied Qara's hands together behind her back as the third imperial guard tightened the fabric hoop around Qara's neck. They then placed her standing precariously on a single wooden stool.
Nugai looked up at Qara, his lips curving gracefully into a sinister smile. "Long live Queen Qara of Hmagol, may your soul ascend to heaven," he mocked, before his right leg swung out and viciously kicked away the stool from beneath Qara's feet.
Nugai watched with satisfaction as Qara was instantly left struggling in mid-air, the fabric tightening around her throat. Her hands were tied, and her feet frantically sought purchase that wasn't there.
Just then, the heavy door to Qara's private chamber burst open.
Jeet reacted with lightning speed. He jumped forward, releasing one of his katar straight at the white cloth. The blade sliced through the fabric, cutting the death loop clean.
In the same fluid motion, Jeet's strong, heavy right arm slammed into the fourth imperial guard standing to his right, knocking the man off balance. Simultaneously, his knee drove sharply into the back of the third imperial guard's back, forcing the guard to crumple, and he immediately extended his arms to catch the falling Queen Qara.
A small axe flew forward, straight at the back of Nugai's head. It was blocked only at the last moment by the second imperial guard, who reacted instinctually, deflecting the projectile with his forearm. The blocking axe flew backward toward the entrance, arcing into the hand of Drystan, who had already charged forward to engage the first and second imperial guards.
At the very same moment, Timicin and Cong rushed the remaining seven guards standing by the door, their weapons drawn and moving in a deadly flurry, turning the Queen's once-quiet chamber into a brutal melee.
Although the imperial guards were highly trained for palace defense and ceremonial duty, their rigid training and predictable formation were no match for the loyalist soldiers who had lived and fought in countless battlefields. For warriors like Jeet, Drystan, and Timicin, who were accustomed to fighting against outnumbered enemies in the chaos of war, facing twenty or even a hundred men alone was as normal as peeling a banana.
The melee was brutally swift.
The imperial guards, although trained, were overwhelmed by the veterans' ferocity. The loyalists fought not with ceremonial flash, but with economical, lethal efficiency, using every shadow and angle to their advantage. In less than five minutes, the Queen's chamber was silent again, as the dead imperial guards lay on the palace floor, soaked in their own blood.
Qara, still reeling from the fabric mark on her neck and the shock of near-death, was carefully set down by Jeet. Gan, wounded but conscious, immediately crawled to the Queen's side.
"Your Highness," Jeet whispered, his eyes scanning the corridor outside the chamber door. "We must move. Now. We have a narrow window before Dzhambul's full guard responds."
Crawling from the corner and stopping at Qara's feet, Nugai pleaded, his voice thick with terror and deceit. "Your Highness, please spare my life. I was only following the order of Concubine Erhi... Please." He cried, trying to invoke sympathy.
Drystan ripped Jeet's katar from the wall with a metallic ring. He walked to where Nugai was still begging, grabbed the back of Nugai's hair, forcing the eunuch's head back, and plunged the katar deep into Nugai's chest. He twisted the blade with a cold, satisfied smile.
"We must leave now," Timicin urged, hearing distant sounds of approaching footsteps. "It's almost time for the next shift change."
They moved quickly and silently through the labyrinthine corridors of the West Palace. Jeet, now carrying the dazed Queen Qara, led the small team, with Timicin and Cong providing immediate cover. Gan, injured from the earlier assault, insisted on keeping pace at the rear.
As they neared the familiar outline of Batsaikhan's courtyard, the team slowed. They were only meters from the courtyard when they were spotted by a small group of imperial guards and a team of ten archers positioned high on the walls.
Due to the distance, the archers released a devastating volley of arrows straight at the group. The loyalists desperately knocked away shafts aimed at their heads, but a single arrow flew straight through the darkness, finding its mark in the left side of Qara's chest. The weaponless Queen cried out and fell backward, crashing into Gan's arms.
"Kill them! No one is to escape alive or all of you will die in their place!" Lixin shouted from behind, leading a larger, rapidly approaching group of imperial guards.
"Run! To the pavilion!" Timicin roared, recognizing the immediate and fatal threat.
They rushed into Batsaikhan's courtyard. Gan, seeing the danger and knowing the Queen, now gravely wounded, would not make it if the archers focused on their small, slow-moving group, made a split-second, selfless decision. Though injured, she moved with surprising speed, veering sharply away from the pavilion toward the opposite, brightly lit corner of the courtyard.
"Your Highness, this way!" Gan shrieked, her voice hoarse but strong, slapping a ceremonial gong hanging near a doorway. The loud CLANG instantly drew the archers' attention, and within moments, the tide of shouting imperial guards who had been patrolling the perimeter began rushing toward her.
"Gan, no!" Qara cried out, struggling in Jeet's arms, weakly protesting her maid's sacrifice.
The loyalists knew Gan's intention. They dragged the wounded Queen toward the left, toward the pavilion, while Gan, their distraction, ran over to the right, continuing to make as much noise as she could to draw the bulk of the chasers and archers away.
Gan stumbled, but kept shouting, drawing the focus of the palace archers and imperial guards in a desperate attempt to distract them. She looked toward the pavilion just as Jeet and the others reached its dark outline, offering them a clear path to the secret exit.
Then a single arrow flew through the night air, lodging in the back of the old maid, but she continued running. Then came another, and another, piercing her small body. Gan slowed, her steps becoming a painful, slow walk, until finally, the sixty-year-old woman dropped dead on the corridor floor.
Lixin, rushing forward and breathless from the chase, snatched the bow from the soldier standing beside him, ready to pursue the main target. He skidded to a stop, his eyes falling on the single, motionless body of the old maid lying in a pool of blood. He realized with a furious curse that it was only Gan they had been chasing. The main targets were gone.
"Search every corner of this courtyard! Find the Queen! Find them!" Lixin roared, his voice shaking with furious anger and disbelief at the cheap trick that had cost them their prize.