A secluded cluster of houses on the far side of the Northeast military camp marked the quarters for high-ranking officers. The largest of them was set apart, its solitude a clear sign of its occupant's status. Inside, a storm of rage tore through the rooms. The crush of objects and the sickening crack of splintering wood echoed out, so loud and violent that they seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. Soldiers patrolling the area gave the house a wide berth, their gazes fixed on the ground. They understood that the man's anger was a physical force, and they had no desire to be caught in its path.
Five northern captains, newly arrived after the fall of Nue-Li City, stood a silent guard. They were no strangers to the sprawling camp, but they were not accustomed to the unbridled fury of the man raging within. Their faces were impassive, but their eyes betrayed their unease, flickering nervously as the sounds of crashing objects echoed from inside. They stood there, motionless, their bodies tense, a strained discipline holding them in place as they were forced to witness a side of their commander that was both terrifying and deeply unsettling.
Dzhambul grabbed the last vase from the table, its cool ceramic weight a final anchor for his fury, and smashed it against the wall. The sound of shattering porcelain was a sharp, violent release, and he stood in the wreckage, breathing heavily as new fragments clattered against the old.
"That's the last piece," Lixin said, his voice as smooth as the tea he was sipping. He watched the destruction as if it were a common occurrence, his expression a mask of detached calm.
Enraged by his casual demeanor, Dzhambul snatched the teacup from Lixin's hand and hurled it against the wall. The clay cup exploded into a spray of sharp fragments. Lixin didn't flinch. He simply looked at Dzhambul and, with a perfectly straight face, said, "You owe me another teapot set."
Dzhambul's eyes blazed with a fury aimed not at Lixin, but at the ghost of Chinua's words. "Do you know what she said to me?" he gritted out.
Lixin sighed, his composure an unshakeable wall. "How would I know? You're the one who chose to face her alone."
"She looked down on my tactics," Dzhambul seethed, slamming his fist on the table. "Called them savage."
Lixin let out a single, humorless chuckle. "She's not wrong," he said, his voice flat. "Only a savage throws a tantrum and lets the words of his enemy shatter his judgment."
Dzhambul's rage slowly subsided, Lixin's brutal honesty cutting through his fury. A chilling realization dawned on him, and the anger in his eyes was replaced by a cold dread. The weight of his own foolishness settled over him.
He looked at Lixin, his voice now a low whisper. "She knows," he said, the words heavy with defeat.
"What?" Lixin asked, his brow furrowed in genuine concern.
"She said... she's tired of sharpening her sword after each failed attempt," Dzhambul confessed, the words a bitter admission of defeat.
Lixin's composure finally shattered. His lips, which had been a thin, calm line, parted as he let out a long, heavy sigh. He shook his head slowly, a silent acknowledgment of a grim truth. "So Gerel was right all along," he said, the words heavy with regret. "When the forest was just a few saplings, we failed to cut them down. Now, that forest has grown to a hundred thousand strong, spreading in all directions. Taking it down will be far more difficult than we ever imagined."
He looked up at Dzhambul, his eyes holding a clear, cold warning. "The decision is yours, but know this: you've already climbed onto the back of a tiger,, and there's no getting off. Sooner or later, she will come for you."
Dzhambul's gaze was fixed on Lixin, but he was seeing something else entirely: a new, brutal reality. He had to face Chinua head on. She was a threat to his claim, an obstacle in his path to the throne that had to be removed. He had tried before, and he had failed.
In the past, those close to him had pressed for more drastic measures, but he had always resisted, seeing it as unnecessary. Now, he saw that restraint as a terrible, naive mistake. He had believed that a mere princess—a girl with no real power or support—could be easily dismissed. He realized now, with a gut-wrenching certainty, how profoundly wrong he had been. The consequences of that misjudgment were now standing at his door.
He had been so soft-hearted, so foolishly confident that anything Chinua achieved would ultimately be in vain. Now, he was looking at the bitter fruit of his folly. Over the years, every one of her triumphs had brought Bastsaikhan one step closer to the throne, and with each one, Dzhambul was pushed one step further away.
He realized with a gut-wrenching certainty that he should have been more decisive. He should have ended her life when she was just a child, a mere girl who had accomplished nothing. His weakness, his inability to bring himself to kill someone who shared the same father, was a mistake he could no longer afford. He had allowed the black swan to grow into a phoenix with golden wings, and now she soared far above any net he could ever hope to cast.
With this thought, a wave of self-hatred washed over him. He loathed his own lack of strength, the naive softness that had clouded his judgment in the past. He hated that Chinua shared a womb with Bastsaikhan and wished, with a burning intensity, that she were his sister instead.
Yet, a final, chilling realization stopped him. To pull his last option would not just be a betrayal of his family or himself. It would be a betrayal of his entire kingdom. If he went through with it, he would be crossing a line from which there was no return. It was a choice that no Magoli would ever forgive him for.
This version heightens the sense of tragedy by emphasizing the silent understanding and the finality of the act.
He knew that this path would demand the lives of anyone who stood in his way, innocent or not. After a long, heavy moment, a look of bleak resolve settled over his features. He reached into his robe, his hand trembling slightly, and pulled out an old map of Nue-Li City, handing it to Lixin.
"You've decided," Lixin whispered, his gaze dropping to the rolled-up parchment. "Are you truly sure?"
Dzhambul didn't speak. He just nodded, the single, definitive motion a tragic and silent admission that the die had been cast.
"You do know that with this move, you must walk this road until the end," Lixin said, his voice low and serious. "There's no going back, and there's no stopping halfway. The only way you survive is to reach the end."
"I am sure," Dzhambul replied, his face a mask of grim determination. "I've already come too far. Stopping now would mean all the past sacrifices were for nothing." He let out a heavy sigh, the sound weary and resigned. "Besides, if Chinua lives and our royal father learns of the attempts on her life, I'm dead either way. My fate is already sealed. So I will do what must be done to ensure the next king of Hmagol is me and not my brother."
Lixin slowly rose from his chair, taking the rolled map into his hands. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around Dzhambul's waist and buried his head into his chest. A profound, crushing guilt settled over him. His mission was to bring Hmagol to its knees, to pave the way for the Tangolian forces to sweep through the Chono gate and take the southern kingdom. But over the years, Dzhambul's unconditional love and care had burrowed deep into his heart, a feeling he never anticipated. He had been using this man, and now, that very love felt like a heavy chain around his own neck.
He knew that falling in love with the enemy was a death sentence, but the affection he had received from Dzhambul over the years was a heart disease that no medicine could cure.
Lixin tightened his arms around Dzhambul's waist, burying his face deeper into his chest. "My lord," he murmured, his voice soft, almost a plea. A deep sorrow was hidden beneath his words, a silent confession of the truth. "No matter what awaits us at the end of this road, I will walk with you every step of the way and help you remove any obstacle in your path." His embrace tightened, as if trying to physically hold Dzhambul in place. "I want you to know," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, "no matter the situation, as long as you're not willing to leave, I will stand with you, even if thousands of arrows rain down on us."
"Alright," Dzhambul murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of Lixin's head. The small, tender act was a jarring, unsettling contrast to the words that followed. "Send a message to Payam; tell him his time has come. If Koorush wants Chinua's head, now is the perfect moment."