Soon, Hiral's desired outcome from the kingdom of Ro would fall into place, which means he had a limited time to accomplish the tasks he was now set on.
And so with that in mind, Hiral rode without rest back to his own nation.
It's now race against time…
The gates of the Eastern capital loomed, their carved dragons glaring down at all who entered.
Hiral walked beneath them not as General, not as strategist, but as a simple scholar—his hair tied modestly, his robes plain, his voice softened to an accent borrowed from southern villages.
His forged identity was impeccable, traced with a background believable enough to pass even the sharpest scrutiny.
I need to hurry…before the Prime Minister sends the delegates…
He took the civil service exam a path he needed to take that was set on the next week with an ink brush steady as steel. The questions—on classic literature, law, and governance—were little challenge to a man who had memorized entire libraries of history, strategy, and philosophy.
Yet Hiral did not merely answer. He crafted each response with elegance and weight, weaving insights that subtly critiqued corruption while extolling duty to the people.
His words were ink, but they struck like arrows.
When results were posted, his name gleamed at the very top.
Applause echoed among common families, scholars, and lower officials.
But among the elite, sons of ministers who had expected their golden names to be crowned with honor, the news burned like poison.
Their pride could not endure being overshadowed by an unknown.
The retaliation was swift, which was what Hiral was aiming for.
At banquets, wine was "accidentally" spilled on his robes.
Essays were mocked and sabotaged. Petty accusations filled the examination office, all intended to mar his reputation.
Hiral endured in silence, carefully documenting each insult, each corruption of protocol, each unlawful attempt to sway officials.
He was not wounded by their blows—he sharpened them into blades for later use.
Within months, the young "scholar" had woven his place into the capital's court.
His identity as top scorer granted him access to inner circles of ministers, where he listened more than he spoke, all while sowing seeds of doubt, ambition, and rivalry.
He had little time to waste—his disguise had to ripen quickly into influence.
From distant villages to the heart of the capital, he tugged on strings of corruption until a vast web stretched invisibly in his hand.
And when the threads were taut, he struck.
Time is slipping way too fast! I need to strike now!
The scholar's sudden "death" was staged with precision: an ambush on a lonely road, assassins never caught, whispers of jealousy from rival families.
But before his passing, he had "left behind" detailed records—proof of bribes, theft of grain meant for villages, tax extortion, abuse of common women.
The documents were impeccable, cross-referenced, impossible to refute.
They spread through the capital like wildfire.
The court reeled.
Ministers turned on each other.
Villagers cried for justice, pounding on the palace gates with proof in hand.
The Empress Shana, cornered, could not ignore it—if she failed to cleanse the rot, she risked losing her throne to the storm of her own people.
And so, with reluctant hands, she cut away her allies—long-trusted officials suddenly executed or imprisoned.
"You useless lot! I have no need for you anymore!" Empress Shana raged.
What remained was a hollowed court, stripped of its most corrupt roots.
In hindsight, the maneuver secured something far greater: the safety of the crown prince.
With the worst of the vultures gone, his right to the throne was no longer threatened by schemers who might seize him as a puppet.
"General Hiral…"
The crown prince whispers as his maid gave him a peach mochi to snack and hearing the news that the court was going through reformation from one of Hiral people planted in the crown palace to secure the crown prince safety.
But…
Victory was not without danger.
When Hiral shed the skin of the scholar and made his way back toward the frontlines, assassins struck.
Not once, not twice—but dozens of times. Blades in alleys, arrows in the night, poison in inns.
The Empress herself had given the order, believing the scholar to have a surviving family member who might possess the same damning documents.
She did not realize she hunted her own general.
Hiral evaded, fought, and endured, his body marked with cuts and bruises.
He then struck down the last assassin and was able to mobilize his own shadow force he rarely call for to eradicate the place where the assassins were from.
Such attack only sharpened his resolve.
He could not die—not yet. Not until the board was ready for the final move.
By the time he reached the Eastern camps, his cloak was torn, his sword bloodied, but his eyes gleamed with the same relentless fire.
The storm he had set in the capital still roared behind him, but ahead lay the battlefield, where his path and Alexis's once more drew toward collision.
****
The tent smelled of blood and herbs.
Bandages were stacked on a low table, a basin of red-stained water at Seran's feet.
Tirin's hands were steady as he threaded a needle, while Seran grumbled under his breath, dabbing ointment on the angry gash along Hiral's side.
"You reckless bastard," Seran muttered, his voice thick with frustration.
"Throwing yourself into every trap as if you want to die. What good is your precious vision if you're six feet under?"
Tirin said nothing at first, only tightening another wrap with efficient precision.
But his silence was heavier than Seran's anger, and Hiral, leaning back against the cot, could feel both their disapproval pressing on him.
He let them finish before speaking, his voice hoarse but steady.
"It was worth the risk. This time, I finally saw it through. The rot is cleaved, in both nations. A crucial step—one I could not ignore."
Seran smacked his uninjured shoulder hard enough to make him wince. Hiral raised an eyebrow, more amused than offended.
"You're taking so many damn risks," Seran said, scowling. "You could just—just focus on the present. On this. On the men who bleed at your side."
A small laugh escaped Hiral, weary yet genuine.
"You're right. The present matters. But if I do not think beyond it… if I do not act… there may be no 'present' left for anyone to enjoy tomorrow. Not for our people. Not for our children."
"Tch." Seran clicked his tongue, leaning back on his heels.
"There he goes again. Hiral, the melodramatic hero, shouldering the whole damn world as if no one else could."
Tirin glanced up from his careful stitching, expression calm, voice quiet but certain.
"Perhaps because, in truth, few could. I can't imagine myself… or you, Seran… forging the same path. Not like him."
Seran's head snapped toward him.
"Oh, so it's only Hiral now, is it? As if there aren't a hundred other capable men out there? The future isn't his responsibility alone."
Tirin tied off the stitch and wiped the blood from his hands before answering.
"Perhaps so. But each man's vision of the future is unique. Hope belongs to those who can imagine it. And Hiral's… his vision stretches further, wider. He sees for all of us. And so the burden falls to him, whether he likes it or not."
The two glared, ready to argue, but Hiral chuckled softly and raised a hand, stopping them.
His smile was faint, almost fragile, but real.
"Enough, the both of you. Your words are wasted on me. Tell me instead—what of the battles? How fare our men?"
Tirin and Seran exchanged a look, and for once their banter faded.
"The clashes grow bloodier," Tirin said first. "Casualties are rising. Each day heavier than the last."
Seran nodded grimly.
"Our men fight with desperation. They want the Ro army broken, gone, so they can go home. But the Ro soldiers… they fight with the same hunger. Both sides clawing to end this war, whatever the cost."
Hiral exhaled slowly, the sound heavy, hollow.
His gaze drifted toward the tent's opening, where the night wind rattled the canvas.
"…Both nations cleansed, both armies desperate. The time has come."
Seran frowned. "The time for what?"
"Send a messenger," Hiral said at last, his voice flat, unyielding. "To the Ro camp. We declare an all-out open battle. One clash. To decide the true victor. To end this war."
The tent fell silent.
Seran's mouth opened, then closed.
Tirin's brows drew together.
They both asked at once, voices tinged with disbelief:
"Why now?"
For a heartbeat, Hiral said nothing.
Then he smiled—a thin, sad smile that held no warmth. Only resignation.
"Because it is time to end this meaningless war. And because I must shape its ending into something greater. A step… that cannot wait. The hour is already slipping away."
Both Tirin and Seran let out long, weary sighs, shoulders sinking with the weight of inevitability.
They knew better than to argue when his eyes carried that look—the one that meant he had already chosen, already bled for the choice.