Operation Riverbrick

The morning sun spilled gold over Riverbrick, bathing its terraced fields in warm light. Rows of green stalks swayed to the rhythm of the wind, whispering prosperity. This land cradled between gentle hills and the glimmering River, had fed generations. Grain from Riverbrick was prized across the region. Merchants often joked that even the rice here bowed with pride.

At the heart of this bounty was a thriving village, cobbled roads weaving between timber-framed homes and busy stalls. Ox carts rumbled past crates of salted fish, silks, and earthenware pots. Barges coming closer as they docked at the port, where the river's current carried goods north to Brickvia and beyond.

And above all this, from a modest building on the edge of the port, Rendo Karibata watched.

"Manifest from Loma district arrived this morning," called out an assistant, dropping a leather scroll onto his desk.

Ren, nineteen, lean, and sharper than most gave him credit for, took the scroll with a nod. “Was it weighed?”

“Twice. They're short by two sacks again.”

“Of course they are,” Ren muttered, scratching a note on his ledger. “Remind Loma’s quartermaster that I know the difference between clever trade and outright theft.”

His voice carried no anger, only weary certainty. His desk was cluttered, ink smudges staining the wood. Maps, records, and manifests layered the space like scales on a dragon.

Outside, a bell rang once—signaling a successful inspection at the southern gate. Ren’s mother always said that bell meant the village breathed well.

“Ren! Come home early today, will you?” his mother’s voice echoed faintly from the doorway. She stood with a basket of vegetables, her graying hair tied beneath a sky blue scarf.

Ren turned with a rare smile. “If the west dock doesn’t collapse under that caravan, I’ll be there before dusk.”

His father, taller and broad-chested, approached from behind her. “Or we’ll come drag you out ourselves. Even the cargo needs rest.”

They laughed. Ren’s smile softened. In this village, everything made sense. Paperwork had rhythm. Trade had rules. Life, though simple, was whole.

He returned to his desk, flipping the next manifest open.

Weight discrepancy. Docks under repair. West caravan two days early.

He scribbled corrections with precise strokes, unaware that within hours, the land he cherished would ignite in screams and flame.

Then, it began with a rumble beneath the soil—so faint at first, it could have been thunder over the eastern cliffs. Ren barely looked up from his parchment.

But then came the second rumble. Louder. Heavier. Followed by a low, unnatural hum that did not belong to weather or wagon.

A scream tore through the air.

Ren froze.

Another scream—closer now. And then the bell rang.

Not once.

Not twice.

Four times.

The emergency signal.

He shot to his feet. Outside, villagers scattered like startled birds. Children clutched their mothers, merchants abandoned carts mid-bargain, and crates of dried goods spilled into the mud as panicked feet trampled them.

“Ren! What’s happening?!” his mother’s voice came again—but this time from somewhere beyond the street, cracked with fear.

Then he saw it.

Over the southern ridge, flags black as dried blood rose above columns of armored figures. The Suragato Kingdom.

Their soldiers marched in perfect discipline—shields locked, spears raised, blackened steel flashing in the light. Their war machines rolled like beasts: siege wagons with iron jaws, ballistae mounted on wheels. No banners of warning. No declarations. Only advance.

Ren’s mind struggled to catch up. “No… no, no, not here. Not Riverbrick.”

Explosions erupted near the north granaries. Pillars of fire bloomed. The scent of ash reached him—followed by the metallic stench of blood.

“Father! Mother!” he bolted from the port office.

The streets had turned into mazes of fire and smoke. Flaming debris fell from rooftops. Screams layered over one another. Soldiers in Suragato black stormed through gates, cutting down anyone who resisted.

Ren ducked into an alley, clutching the wall for balance as a group of villagers were herded like cattle past him. A child stared at him—eyes wide, mouth open—but was dragged along before a word could be exchanged.

He pushed forward, weaving through chaos. His lungs burned with smoke. His eyes stung. He turned a corner—only to stop dead.

His home was gone.

Not burning.

Gone.

The wooden frame had collapsed under a flaming siege stone. He staggered toward it, calling out. “Mother? Father?!”

No answer.

Only the groan of wood and the crackle of flames.

He saw part of a hand—his mother’s sky blue scarf wrapped around it, fingers limp beneath rubble.

Though frayed and dust-covered, it still carried her scent. Without a word, he wrapped it around his neck. From that day on, it became his silent vow, his reason to endure, his symbol of resistance.

His world, so full of order and purpose, had unraveled in a single hour.

Riverbrick had fallen.

And Ren had nothing left but ash.

Ren stumbled back through the scorched alley, half-running, half-dragging his body forward. His ears rang. His chest felt hollow. The scream he tried to release wouldn’t come out.

He turned toward the port—toward the last place that still held shape in his mind.

The trade office.

His office.

The building stood at the water’s edge, just barely outside the main street, its tiled roof dusted in ash, its wooden walls cracked but upright. The harbor beyond was a vision of hell—barges capsized and burning, cargo crates floating like corpses. Thick smoke coiled from the water.

Ren pushed through the warped front door. The hinges groaned.

The inside was chaos.

Scrolls littered the floor. Ink bottles had shattered, smearing manifests into meaningless black stains. A beam had fallen across the desk—his desk—crushing it under charred splinters and soot.

His hand trembled as he picked up a half-burned ledger, its pages curling in his grip.

Kaishin River shipment log. Loma District. North dock, 3:17 p.m.

He let it fall.

Footsteps pounded outside. Foreign voices barked commands. The enemy was sweeping the village now, killing resistance, securing supply routes. No mercy. No pause.

Ren crawled to a crawlspace beneath the rear floorboards, where he kept emergency trade papers and maps. He shoved the hatch open.

Inside—nothing but ash and twisted parchment.

He sat in the wreckage, back against the broken beam, the fire's light flickering through the smoke-choked windows. No father. No mother. No home. No office. No future.

Just a nineteen-year-old boy with ink-stained hands and too many memories of balance sheets and cargo lists.

Tears finally came, hot and bitter. But not loud.

He didn’t want the soldiers to hear.

By nightfall, Riverbrick was a broken skeleton of its former self.

Shops—pillaged. Homes—reduced to ash. The port—silent. The once-bustling village lay under a blanket of smoke, lit by burning roofs and dying torches. Bodies lined the streets, some still clutching tools, others with hands raised in surrender that were never accepted.

But in the shadow of ruin, a few voices still whispered.

The survivors—farmers, tradesmen, elders—had gathered in the old prayer hall beneath the remains of the bell tower. There were only a few dozen. Their faces were streaked with soot and grief. Some were bandaged, others trembling. And amidst them sat Ren, silent, hollow-eyed, holding a sky blue scarf around his neck tightly.

An old man stood, his voice thin but determined.

“We can’t fight them. Not with hoes and fishing spears.”

“We’ll die like the others!” shouted a younger man, his hands shaking.

“We’ll all die if we stay quiet,” came another voice—a woman, blood staining the edge of her sleeve. “Brickvia must know. King Hikusa must be told what’s happened here.”

The old man nodded slowly. “We need to send someone. A rider. No—two. They must ride tonight. Cut through the marshes. Avoid the road.”

“Who?” someone asked. “Who’s fast enough? Brave enough?”

Ren raised his head.

“I know the eastern paths,” he said hoarsely. “I marked them myself for supply routes. I can guide them as far as I can.”

The room fell quiet. They stared at him—not just as a boy, not just as the trade clerk. But as someone who had lost everything and still had something left to give.

Two men stepped forward—young, but hardened by what they’d seen today.

“We’ll ride,” one said. “We’ll make it to Brickvia. Even if it kills us.”

The old man gripped their shoulders. “Then go. Before the night gets darker.”

No prayers. No ceremony. Just hurried maps, pieces of bread, and stolen horses.

Ren watched them disappear into the mist-covered eastern trail.

He didn’t know if they’d make it.

He didn’t know if Brickvia would care.

But it was the first step. The first ember of hope in the wreckage of Riverbrick.

And he swore, as the fires burned behind him:

This will not be how it ends.

In the heart of the kingdom, Brickvia castle breathed with an anxious rhythm. Word had reached the royal court—Riverbrick had fallen. The first sparks of war had ignited.

King Hikusa stood in the heart of the War Council Chamber, surrounded by his most trusted minds. The chamber, a circle of stone and firelight, echoed with tension. Long banners bearing the Brickvian sigil hung from the walls like watchful sentinels.

“Reports confirm the Suragato flag now flies above Riverbrick,” said Lt General Futaba Watari, the tall and sharp-eyed overseer of military affairs. “Their forces landed without warning. Civilians massacred. Fields torched.”

A heavy silence fell.

King Hikusa, dressed in his ceremonial black and gold armor, tightened his jaw. He was not a man prone to anger. But this—this was different.

Yamada Masahiro, the kingdom’s chief strategist, leaned forward across the council table. “They didn’t strike Riverbrick for glory. They want the infrastructure—the fertile land, the river routes, the port. This is the first stone in a larger invasion.”

“How large?” asked the king.

Masahiro’s eyes narrowed. “If we don’t respond, they’ll reach Brickvia’s borders in a week. Maybe less.”

Murmurs broke out. One of the court advisors shook his head. “Our troops are spread thin. The west is already guarding the Kuchiwara border.”

“That’s why we need decisive leadership at the front,” Masahiro said.

The king turned slowly. “Who do you propose?”

Masahiro’s answer was instant. “Lieutenant General Inoue Kobayashi.”

A few eyebrows rose.

“Old,” muttered one general.

“Experienced,” Masahiro shot back. “Calm under fire. Knows how to win with fewer men.”

“And who will assist him?” King Hikusa asked.

“Colonel Koizumi Kotaro,” Masahiro said. “Master of military engineering. He understands siege patterns, terrain, choke points. We’ll need all of that.”

The king gave a slow nod, considering.

Then his voice rang clear, royal and final:

“Summon Kobayashi. Summon Koizumi. Brickvia does not abandon its people. We will reclaim Riverbrick. Not for pride, but for the land that feeds us all.”

The guards saluted.

Orders were signed. Seals pressed to wax. Messengers galloped before the council adjourned.

And in the east wing of the castle, two veterans began gathering their armor, blades, and battle maps.

The war to reclaim Riverbrick had begun.

On the otherside in the fallen Riverbrick, the commanding officer of the Suragato Kingdom, he was “Genzou the Iron Beast.” Standing still on the ruins.

To the terrified villagers of Riverbrick, he had no name—only a silhouette burned into memory: tall, armored in jagged black plating, his cape dragging the mud like the wings of death itself.

General Dazai Genzou stood atop the scorched clocktower ruins, overlooking the captured village with impassive eyes. The wind tugged at his crimson banner, an unmistakable symbol of conquest.

A captain approached, saluting stiffly. “The last pockets of resistance have been silenced, sir. Crops are being surveyed for immediate harvest transport.”

Genzou didn’t answer immediately. He simply adjusted his leather gloves and scanned the far horizon—where distant hills hinted at Brickvia’s border.

“Any word of reinforcements from the north?” he asked, his voice like gravel under steel.

“None yet,” the captain said. “But we intercepted two riders heading east. Likely messengers.”

Genzou turned, finally looking the captain in the eyes.

“Were they killed?”

The captain hesitated. “No, sir. They escaped into the marshland. We lost them in the fog.”

Then—crack!—Genzou’s gloved fist slammed against the crumbling brick, leaving a dent.

“If those riders reach Brickvia,” he growled, “we’ll be facing counter-mobilization within a week.”

“We can prepare, sir.”

“No. We dig in. Fortify the northern roads. Post archers along the rice field dikes. Cut the river lines.” He paused, then turned his full attention on the captain. “And burn the remaining granaries. If we can’t harvest them, Brickvia won’t either.”

The captain hesitated. “But, sir—the villagers…”

“They are insects. Their screams don’t echo beyond the trees.”

The orders were given.

Soldiers moved like a swarm, digging trenches, driving stakes, and pouring oil across barns not yet turned to ash. Genzou watched them all—unfeeling, unhurried.

He hadn’t earned his reputation through chaos.

He had earned it by turning every piece of stolen land into a fortress before the enemy could blink.

And now, Riverbrick was his.

The sun had barely touched the horizon when Lt. General Inoue Kobayashi stood on the ramparts of Brickvia Castle, his gaze fixed southward.

Before him stretched the sprawling plains that separated the capital from the fallen Riverbrick — fertile fields now scarred by war. Somewhere beyond, the enemy waited.

Kobayashi adjusted the straps of his worn leather armor and flexed his fingers over the hilt of his sword, silent but ready.

Around him, the soldiers assembled in tight ranks. The air was thick with tension, the low murmur of whispered prayers mixing with the clinking of armor and the soft shuffle of boots on stone.

Colonel Koizumi Kotaro approached, carrying a rolled map case, his expression grim but steady.

“Lieutenant General,” Koizumi said, nodding in respect. “The engineers have secured the river crossing at south gate. Supply lines are established, but the enemy’s defenses near Riverbrick are stronger than we expected.”

Kobayashi’s eyes darkened. “Dazai Genzou is no ordinary commander. He will not yield without a fight.”

A trumpet sounded sharply, cutting through the morning stillness. It was the signal to advance.

Kobayashi raised his hand, and his voice, steady and commanding, rose above the noise:

“Men of Brickvia! Today we march not just for land, but for our homes, for our families, and for justice! We will not let the flames of Riverbrick consume us all. Hold fast, fight hard, and bring our people home!”

The soldiers answered with a unified shout, steel ringing and hearts pounding.

As the first column surged forward, Kobayashi rode at their head, every muscle taut, every sense alert.

The road ahead was uncertain, blood-soaked, and brutal.

But there was no turning back.

The sun was a fading ember behind dark clouds when the two armies finally faced off on the broken fields outside Riverbrick. The earth beneath was scarred—trenches gouged into the soil, trees shattered and stripped bare, and the riverbank slick with mud and blood.

Lt. General Inoue Kobayashi stood atop a low rise, his breath visible in the cold air, eyes fixed on the mass of black-armored Suragato troops. At their center loomed the figure of General Dazai Genzou, a living fortress of steel and cruelty.

A deafening warhorn shattered the tension.

Kobayashi raised his sword high. “Advance!”

The Brickvian soldiers surged forward with a thunderous roar, war cries slicing through the thick haze of smoke and dust.

The first clash was bone-jarring.

Spears jabbed, swords swung in deadly arcs, and shields splintered under relentless blows. Arrows rained from Suragato archers hidden behind crude barricades, some soldiers dropping where they stood.

Kobayashi’s cavalry thundered on the flank, blades flashing, but were met by Suragato lancers who pinned them back with precise, brutal thrusts.

Every attempt to break the Suragato line was met with an iron wall of discipline and skill.

The Suragato infantry shifted seamlessly, closing gaps and reinforcing weak points with machine-like efficiency. Dazai’s voice, a low growl, echoed above the chaos, directing the defense with ruthless precision.

Brickvian men fell in droves.

Amidst the frenzy, Kobayashi barked orders, his voice hoarse but unwavering. “Hold! Reform! Push again on my signal!”

Yet, no matter how many waves they threw against the enemy, the Suragato held firm—never wavering, never breaking.

Kobayashi’s eyes scanned the battlefield, noting the exhaustion etched deep on his men’s faces, their armor battered and bloodied.

Explosions of firepots flared where siege engineers attempted to weaken the enemy’s fortifications, but each effort was met with countermeasures—traps sprung, barricades rebuilt under cover of archers.

As dusk approached, the sky darkened with smoke and the smell of charred wood.

The battle ground was a twisted mess of fallen soldiers and shattered weapons.

Kobayashi’s voice dropped to a grim murmur: “This defense… is unbreakable.”

The weight of failure pressed heavy on him, but he refused to give ground.

A new tactic would be necessary.

Far from the two clashing sides, smoke still lingered like a curse over the broken village of Riverbrick. The once-vibrant streets—where merchants had haggled and children had played barefoot among crates of spices and rice—were now eerily silent. The only sounds were the creak of scorched wood, the occasional snap of a dying ember, and the heavy, deliberate boots of the occupying Suragato forces.

Ren crouched in the cellar of the destroyed granary, his breath shallow, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat. A Suragato patrol passed above, boots crunching glass and ash. One wrong move. One cough. One breath too loud—and he’d be dragged out and executed like the others.

He closed his eyes and waited, heart thudding like a war drum in his ears.

You’ve mapped every alley, every route. You know this village better than they ever will.

When the last bootstep faded, he moved.

Quick. Silent. Precise.

He emerged from the cellar and darted into the alley behind the old pottery shop, hugging the wall as torchlight swept past. Suragato soldiers were posted at every crossroad—faces obscured beneath steel helmets, swords ready at their sides.

Ren’s advantage was not strength or weapons.

It was memory. Familiarity. And desperation.

He slithered behind collapsed carts, ducked beneath hanging laundry stiff with smoke, and crawled through narrow drainage tunnels he’d once cleaned during flood season. The mud sucked at his boots, and rats skittered ahead of him. He didn’t flinch. The smell of death was thick in the air, but he pressed forward.

A sudden clang of armor. Voices—close.

Ren ducked behind a broken chimney as two Suragato soldiers passed just meters away.

“…still no word from General Genzou,” one muttered.

“The villagers that didn’t run are dead or hiding. Doesn’t matter. We hold until resupply tomorrow.”

Resupply.

Ren’s ears perked.

That might be useful… later.

He waited until their voices faded into the night.

His path took him dangerously close to the central square, now a makeshift garrison. Soldiers lounged near braziers. A merchant’s wagon—once filled with textiles—had been overturned and turned into a checkpoint.

He couldn’t go around. He’d have to cross.

Ren’s muscles tensed. He studied the torch rotation, the sentries’ pacing, the dark spots where the firelight didn’t reach. He counted his heartbeat to time their patterns.

Then—he ran.

Low and fast, his breath held tight in his chest. He darted between two crates, rolled beneath a wagon axle, and froze as a soldier turned.

Torchlight brushed just inches from his face.

A drop of sweat slid down his cheek.

A shout—but not for him. One soldier yelled at another for falling asleep. Laughter. A distraction.

Ren slid into the shadow of a garden wall and vaulted over it, landing in a heap behind a collapsed rice barn.

He didn’t wait. He kept moving—past the edge of the village, through the overgrown rice terraces, into the forest that marked the border of Riverbrick’s reach. The stars above were smeared behind clouds. He used the shape of the hills and the bend of the river to orient himself.

His legs burned. His breath rasped. He hadn’t eaten in over a day.

But he didn’t stop.

By the time dusk painted the treetops in pale orange, Ren emerged from the treeline—mud-streaked, exhausted, and barely upright. Ahead, a Brickvian watchtower stood silent and stoic at the edge of the eastern ridge.

Two guards atop the rampart spotted movement.

“Halt!” one of them shouted, leveling a spear.

Ren raised his hands, swaying on his feet. “Don’t shoot… please…”

The second guard squinted. “Who are you? State your name and business!”

“I’m… I’m Rendo Karibata,” he gasped, voice raw. “From Riverbrick. I’m the trade administrator… or I was…” His knees buckled, but he stayed upright, clutching his satchel. “My village was taken. The Suragato have occupied it. I’m the only one who made it out.”

Ren catch his breath.

“I need to see Lt. General Kobayashi,” Ren said, eyes wild with urgency. “I have information—something that can turn the tide.”

The guards exchanged glances—then one descended to open the gate.

The command tent smelled of oil and sweat, canvas walls rustling in the night breeze. Flickering lanterns threw uneven shadows across battle-worn faces gathered around a central war map. Lieutenant General Kobayashi stood at its edge, arms folded, his sharp eyes fixed on the young man before him.

Ren—clothes scorched and face dirt-smeared—stood with quiet urgency. The weariness in his body was outmatched only by the fire in his words.

“You say you’ve observed the enemy’s movements firsthand,” Kobayashi said. “Be specific.”

Ren nodded, stepping forward to the edge of the map. “I stayed hidden near the west ridges. From the hills above Pinecliff Ravine. For three days straight.”

He pointed to a curve on the map—an old trade trail skirting the ravine edge.

“Every every morning, just before dawn, groups of Suragato soldiers break from the front line and head west. Same direction, same routine. They’re not retreating or deserting. They’re collecting supplies.”

“Supplies?” asked a skeptical officer.

Ren nodded. “Yes. They’ve built a supply station tucked in a dried-up riverbed beneath the cliff line—barely visible unless you’re right on top of it. Wagons with food, ammunition, medical crates. Tarp-covered. Minimal security. They think it’s safe.”

“And you followed them,” Kobayashi said, watching him closely.

“I kept a high vantage,” Ren replied. “Shadow to tree, tree to brush. Their path is narrow—cliff to one side, thick woods to the other. No chance of cavalry escort. They rely on speed and habit. But if we strike the collection team on that trail—cut them off—”

“They lose access to their supplies,” murmured Colonel Koizumi, stepping forward, intrigued.

Ren nodded again. “Exactly. Disrupt the flow. Hit them there, they panic. They’ll think we’ve gotten behind their lines. And if you coordinate pressure at the front while they’re reeling from the back—”

“A pincer,” Kobayashi said, the edges of his mouth tight. “Classic maneuver. But dependent on timing. Precision.”

Ren pointed again at the trail. “This section here is the chokepoint. When they load their carts, they slow down. It’s too narrow to turn around, too exposed to defend properly. That’s where we ambush.”

The tent went silent.

“Could you lead us there?” asked a younger officer.

“I can guide a small unit,” Ren said. “But it shouldn’t be led by high command. If they see Lt. general Kobayashi or Colonel Koizumi riding out, they’ll get suspicious.”

Kobayashi turned to his men. “Then we send a smaller strike group—experienced, quiet. And we time a push at the front to follow shortly after.”

He then gave Ren a look—a mix of appraisal and something else more personal.

“You were a trade administrator, weren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Ren said quietly.

“You’ve just turned your grief into strategy. That’s what war needs.”

Ren didn’t shake his hand. He simply stared at the map—at the point where lives would change.

“I just want to give them doubt,” he said. “That’s all. Just enough to make them second-guess their next conquest.”

Kobayashi nodded. “Then let’s make them doubt.”

Outside the command tent, the camp was alive with the quiet stir of urgency. Lanterns swayed, casting stretched shadows of soldiers making ready. Orders passed in whispers. Steel slid into sheaths. Horses exhaled through flared nostrils.

Inside, Lieutenant General Kobayashi turned to his aide-de-camp, a wiry veteran named Sudo.

“Prepare an emissary for immediate dispatch to Eastern Border Outpost,” he ordered. “Destination: Lt. Colonel Inoue Kiyoshi.”

Sudo saluted. “Message, sir?”

Kobayashi grabbed a piece of parchment and scribbled swiftly with a brush pen, the strokes decisive. Then he rolled it and sealed it with the mark of Brickvia’s Southern Command.

“Message is this,” Kobayashi said. “Suragato troops are drawing supplies through the Pinecliff route. We need Lt. Colonel Kiyoshi to form a disguised merchant team with elite scouts. They’re to await visual confirmation of our ambush, then block the enemy’s southward retreat. Stealth and timing are critical. No banners. No sounds. Make them believe they’ve walked into empty terrain—until the blade is drawn.”

Sudo took the scroll and bowed.

“Roger.” He said. “Fastest horseman we have. Knows the back trails, avoids detection.”

“Good,” Kobayashi muttered. “Kiyoshi will know what to do. We don’t need a siege. We need their nerves to collapse.”

Ren stood to the side, watching everything unfold. The weight of command was unlike anything he’d known from his quiet days in Riverbrick. In the trading office, a mistake meant delayed cargo or bruised reputations. Here, a misstep buried lives.

Colonel Koizumi approached him quietly.

“You’ve just opened a gate, Ren,” he said. “Kiyoshi’s presence on the board changes everything. He’s a viper. Silent but lethal.”

Ren nodded. “I just want to make sure it works. If this fails—”

“It won’t,” Koizumi said firmly. “Not now. You gave us the opening. It’s time we drive the blade through it.”

Outside, hooves thundered faintly into the distance as the emissary rider vanished down the starlit trail—carrying not just a scroll, but the first strike of retaliation.

Across the ridge, the wind cut like glass over the craggy cliffs of Eastern Outpost. Nestled against a bleak mountain pass, the Brickvian garrison looked more like a cluster of dark stone shadows than a military post. Snow had begun to crust the pine branches; the cold arrived earlier here than in Riverbrick.

Lt. Colonel Inoue Kiyoshi stood motionless atop the outer wall, wrapped in a worn cloak. His presence was like a blade—silent, cold, but honed. Where his older brother Inoue Kobayashi wore his age with the honor of scars, Kiyoshi bore no wasted movement, no indulgent words.

The thundering hooves echoed down the southern pass. The watchmen shifted to alert, raising crossbows.

“Hold,” Kiyoshi said, eyes narrowing.

A lone rider came into view, galloping fast, his cloak streaked with mud. The Brickvian insignia was visible against his breastplate. He dismounted before the outpost gate even fully opened, bowing low and offering a scroll sealed with crimson wax.

“Dispatch from Lieutenant General Kobayashi, sir. For your eyes only.”

Kiyoshi took the scroll in gloved hands and stepped aside, breaking the seal as the gate closed behind them. His eyes darted over the parchment.

Pinecliff route. Supply detachment. Weak rear guard. Ambush window. Merchant disguise required. Execute silently. Signal will be crimson flare over West Ridge.

Kiyoshi exhaled softly through his nose, a cold mist trailing from his lips.

“So,” he muttered, “my brother trades swords for shadows.”

He folded the scroll and turned on his heel. “Adjutant Mibara.”

A stocky man with a face like chiseled stone snapped to attention beside him.

“Sir.”

“I want the Shadow Cells ready in two hours. Ten of them. Pick the ones who can walk through a camp without leaving footprints.”

“Understood. Merchant guise?”

“Yes. I want two wagons fitted to look like salt caravans. Take crates from the failed silk run last month—fill them with sand and wrap them with ledgers from the warehouse archives. We’ll make it look like Riverbrick trade trying to survive the chaos.”

Mibara nodded. “Drivers?”

“Veterans with merchant experience. Civilian faces, but hands that can wield a dagger in silence.”

Mibara smirked. “Sounds like I’ll need to dig through the Black Market list.”

“Do it,” Kiyoshi replied without pause. “And the horses—switch to hill mares. Thin, underfed looking. Perfect for a caravan no one wants to raid.”

“Flankers?”

“Shadow Cells on foot. Two per side. Two trailing. I want the enemy to think they’ve caught a prize with no teeth.”

He paused, eyes scanning the horizon.

“When we see the crimson flare from West Ridge, we seal the canyon. No trumpets. No rallying cries. Just cut their retreat off—and watch them choke.”

Mibara saluted and moved like a man carrying lightning.

Kiyoshi remained at the overlook, the parchment still in his hand.

“Brother,” he murmured, the wind catching his voice.

He turned toward the inner camp, where shadows already gathered.

“Let’s remind the Suragato Kingdom what silence sounds like.”

The night grew late as a dim lantern flickered inside the command tent. Lt. General Inoue Kobayashi, his face weary but his eyes sharp, stood with arms crossed. The cold wind howled outside, making the tent’s canvas flap like the wings of a restless bird.

Ren stood beside him, hair still dusted with dried earth from his escape. A fresh change of fatigues hung awkwardly on his lean frame—he wasn’t a soldier, not yet. But the intelligence he’d brought had earned him space in this room of war-hardened tacticians.

He pointed at the charcoal marks on the map with a steady finger. “Their supply wagons take this route every days. I counted six guards per cart—no heavy armor, light formation. They cross at dawn.”

Colonel Koizumi leaned over the map. “You’re sure?”

“They think no one’s watching,” Ren said. “They’re too focused on holding the frontline here.” He tapped the red marked along the forward trench. “They don't expect someone to circle behind them.”

Kobayashi gave a slow nod. “And we strike from both sides—once Kiyoshi intercepts their supplies…”

Ren finished for him, “…they’ll panic and pull forces back from the trench line to recover their rear. That’s when your men hit from the front.”

Kotaro frowned. “What if they don’t break formation?”

“They will,” Ren said firmly. “I’ve watched them. Their commander—General Dazai—he doesn’t trust his captains. They operate on strict orders, no improvisation. Disrupt the rhythm and their ranks scramble.”

Kobayashi turned to his adjutant. “Prepare a strike team. Not under my banner—use Captain Maru’s unit. They’ll move under merchant disguise and rendezvous with Kiyoshi’s cells at Pinecliff. No banners, no war drums.”

“And us?” Kotaro asked.

“We hold position for now,” Kobayashi replied. “No sign we’re moving. Let Genzou believe Riverbrick has already bled us dry.”

He looked back at Ren.

“You’ve done more than most officers would. You still want to be part of this?”

Ren straightened. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ve seen what they did to your home. Your family.”

Ren’s jaw clenched. “That’s why I’m here.”

Kobayashi studied him, then placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Then when the flare rises… stay low. This war is not won in one night—but it can begin with one clean cut.”

Darkness thickened in the forest, broken only by the faint shimmer of moonlight filtering through the treetops. Each step Ren took was deliberate. His body low, knees bent, arms slightly extended for balance—he moved like a shadow cast across the forest floor.

Behind him, twelve elite Brickvian soldiers mimicked his every motion. They said nothing, but their silence was not empty—it was tense, disciplined. Their breaths were controlled, their gear tightly bound to avoid any clink of metal. They were killers in the quiet, and Ren was their guide.

The moss-covered path beneath their feet absorbed their movement. No one spoke. Not even the night insects dared to buzz. The only sound was the faint rustling of wind in the high branches.

Ren held up a fist. They halted.

He crouched beside a twisted tree and scanned the landscape ahead.

There—a narrow trail cutting through the lower woodland. Ruts carved deep into the soil from days of heavy wagon travel. That was the route. He had memorized it from days of covert observation, noting when Suragato’s supply wagons left the fort and returned with provisions. Every morning, before the sun breached the hills, they passed this exact bend.

He turned back, his voice low. “This is the drop zone. Two guards on foot usually lead. Wagons come next. Six, maybe seven soldiers escort them. We move the moment the signal goes up.”

The grizzled sergeant, Ginto, moved beside him. “You sure they’ll be here?”

Ren didn’t blink. “I’ve watched them every day since they took Riverbrick. Same time. Same routine. They’re too confident.”

Ginto grunted approval and gestured to split the team. Six troopers peeled off with him, vanishing into the tree line to flank the trail from above. The others melted into the lower thicket, spears and short swords drawn.

Ren exhaled slowly and looked toward the dimming stars.

This is it.

Every step he had taken since fleeing Riverbrick led to this moment.

He crouched beside a rock, flare in hand, and waited—his heart steady, his senses razor-sharp.

Finally, a faint rumble drifted through the trees—wooden wheels creaking under the weight of cargo, muffled hooves pressing into the earth. Ren narrowed his eyes, tracking the sound before he could even see them.

Then, shapes emerged.

A pair of Suragato scouts came first, their silhouettes outlined in gray against the rising dawn. They scanned the trees lazily, crossbows slung over their shoulders. No discipline. No suspicion. Just another routine trip.

Behind them, two supply wagons rolled forward, each pulled by horses cloaked in rough cloth to muffle sound. Soldiers walked alongside the wheels, yawning, bored—eight of them, just as Ren had calculated. One carried a lantern dimmed with soot. Another gnawed on a strip of jerky. They were alert only in posture, not in spirit.

Ren’s hand closed around the flare.

He waited.

Waited…

The second wagon passed the marked tree with a broken branch.

Now.

He rose from cover just high enough for the motion to be seen, and snapped the flare to life.

A sudden hiss of fire. A column of red light screamed skyward, painting the forest in crimson streaks.

The Suragato soldiers jolted, hands flying to weapons, heads turning wildly.

Then came the roar.

Lt. Colonel Kiyoshi’s ambush force erupted from the tree line to the west. Arrows flew in waves, piercing the morning air. The elite Brickvian soldiers who had flanked the caravan leapt from both sides, weapons drawn.

Chaos.

A Suragato scout shouted, “We’re surrounded!” just before a spear struck his chest and threw him backward into the dirt.

Horses neighed and bolted. One wagon tipped, spilling sacks of grain and crates of tools. Ren surged forward with the lower team, his footwork swift, evading the flailing of blades and trampling hooves. He ducked under a slash, then jabbed the pommel of his dagger into a soldier’s ribs, dropping him with a choked grunt.

Brickvian arrows rained down from the high ridge as Kiyoshi’s unit pressed in with military precision. They didn’t need to kill them all—just shatter the supply line.

And it worked.

Within minutes, Suragato’s escort unit lay scattered—some dead, some fleeing, others captured. The supply wagons were seized intact.

Ren stood in the clearing, chest rising with breath, blade still in hand. The flare’s smoke drifted above him, curling like a flag of rebellion.

The trap had been set.

And it had sprung flawlessly.

The signal flare still lingered faintly in the sky when the thunder of war began.

From the eastern ridge, Lt. General Inoue Kobayashi raised his hand and bellowed, “Advance!”

His troops surged forward like a tide of steel. Shields locked, spears aimed forward, and battle cries filled the once-silent hills. The disciplined columns of Brickvian infantry closed the distance with grim determination.

Kobayashi led from the center, sword gleaming in the early sun, cutting down the first wave of panicked Suragato scouts. “Press them! No mercy for tyrants!”

The sound of hooves came from the west. Colonel Koizumi Kotaro, mounted atop his black warhorse, led a flanking cavalry unit. “Strike through their exposed side! Circle wide and break their morale!”

His cavalry crashed into Suragato’s left flank with bone-rattling force. Lances pierced leather and steel, horses trampled the unready. The enemy line buckled.

Then, from behind the Suragato force—just as they scrambled to form ranks—came the final blow.

Lt. Colonel Inoue Kiyoshi, battle-hardened and fast-moving, stormed in with his special unit. Flanked by Ren and the elite ambush troops, they tore into the rear guard with vicious precision.

Caught on three sides, the Suragato soldiers were thrown into chaos.

Their commander, General Dazai Genzou, stood on a ruined stone platform in the center of the village, trying to rally his men. “Hold your ground! Hold—damn it, reform the center line!”

But no one was listening.

Brickvian arrows rained from the ridges. Kotaro’s cavalry drove deeper into enemy ranks, splitting the formation. Kiyoshi’s squad carved a path to the rear tents, setting fire to supply caches.

Kobayashi, aged but unyielding, reached the center square. His blade clashed against a Suragato officer. Sparks flew. He parried, stepped in, and ended it with a clean strike through the chest.

“The town is ours!” he roared. “Push them out!”

Across the battlefield, the rhythm shifted—Brickvia’s forces were no longer fighting uphill. They were dominating. Suragato troops broke formation. Some fled west. Others dropped weapons and surrendered, realizing they had been outwitted, outflanked, and overpowered.

Ren, his cloak torn and boots muddy, stood atop a wagon and watched the final moments. The banner of Brickvia was raised once again over the smoldering ruins of Riverbrick’s port.

A hush fell.

Then cheers erupted.

The village was free.

Kobayashi approached the townspeople who had emerged from hiding—elderly farmers, frightened children, and wounded defenders. “Riverbrick is safe,” he said, raising his blade in salute. “We stand with you now and forever.”

Ren looked toward the sky, heart pounding—not from exhaustion, but from something deeper.

Hope.

The place where he’d lost everything had become the place where everything began.

The fires of battle had quieted, leaving Riverbrick draped in the smell of smoke, blood, and wet earth. The cries of the wounded were being tended to. Broken homes still stood smoldering under the pale sun, and the silence that followed victory was not peace—it was mourning.

Ren walked through the ruins of his village, his boots crunching over shattered pottery and blackened wood. The old trade office—his office—was nothing more than a shell. The port, once bustling with crates and shouting dockhands, was quiet, its waters reflecting the grey sky like a mirror of grief.

He knelt beside the remnants of his family’s home, ash drifting in the breeze.

From his inner tunic, he pulled out a length of soft, sky-blue fabric—his mother’s scarf.

She had always worn it in the mornings, when she packed his lunch or waved him off with a smile. Now, it smelled faintly of woodsmoke and time. He wrapped it tightly around his neck, its ends fluttering gently in the wind.

“I’ll carry you with me,” he whispered, voice dry. “Both of you.”

He stood tall, back straight, eyes sharp.

Ren wasn’t just a trade clerk anymore.

He was a survivor. A strategist. A fighter.

And whatever the future held—he would face it not with revenge, but with resolve.