The sky stretched endlessly, dotted with white clouds rolling like silver waves over layered hills.
Möngke sat on the battlements, gazing at the vast clouds above. After days of riding, slaughter, and the blood-soaked chaos of war, this rare moment of calm left him momentarily dazed.
Only when he remembered that he had just declined the Red Robe monk Machiro's proposal did his mood suddenly grow heavy.
Heroes of the world—when will they all fall within my grasp? Talent is scarce…
He had to personally oversee Qohor to restrain the Dothraki and maintain order, while Qosoro needed to guard the outer city gates.
Just after a brief rest, the frail old clerk, Olfor, summoned him again; the remaining issues outside the walls after the battle still needed urgent handling. Otherwise, given the scorching weather, the consequences would be obvious.
Currently, no one was managing the city's affairs, so he could only let things be for now.
Had he agreed to Machiro's suggestion to appease the city's residents, it would have been uncertain whether Qohor would still belong to the Dothraki after the war.
"Ah, talent…"
Möngke weakly flicked his whip and leaped down from the battlements.
As he moved, he clearly felt the pain in his wounds lessen and the tingling itch of healing spreading through his body.
Thanks to the physical enhancements from the Twelve Trials, enemy strikes barely left a mark. Wounds that would take ordinary men over ten days to heal could close within hours for him.
With a heavy heart, Möngke descended the walls.
"Khal, a familiar slave wishes to see you," said Olfor at the city gate, still smiling, standing beside a tall, heavily scarred man.
The old man approached slowly and whispered to Möngke:
"We have tallied the casualties. Out of three thousand slave warriors, fewer than four hundred survived. This Ghiscari is the only one to return three enemy heads to you. By our agreement, your debt to him is settled. But he has another request—he wishes to exchange these three heads for the freedom of his wife and children, as you once promised him."
Möngke, of course, did not forget. He nodded and carefully scrutinized the Ghiscari before him.
The man's angular face held sharp, clear black eyes, a broad Ghiscari nose, amber-toned skin, and upright reddish-brown hair. His bloodstained body conveyed the aura of an unyielding fighter.
"My promise still stands," Möngke said, recognizing the Ghiscari from the slave camp. Fixing him with a serious gaze, he repeated:
"One woman, two boys."
The Ghiscari visibly relaxed. Though he could not understand Dothraki, he read everything from Möngke's eyes and mouth movements.
Once Olfor translated into High Valyrian, the Ghiscari smiled broadly with joy.
Möngke turned to Olfor:
"Ask his name and which city-state of Essos he comes from."
The Ghiscari once belonged to the glorious Ghiscari civilization. The Ghiscari Empire was one of the world's oldest, ruling most of Essos. Its symbol was the iconic Harpy.
Thousands of years ago, Valyria discovered dragons and quickly rose to power, later destroying the Ghiscari Empire. Valyrians salted, scorched, and strewn bones across Ghiscari lands to prevent survivors from returning.
Most pure-blood Ghiscari lineages were lost, but mixed Ghiscari still identified as Ghiscari and gradually resettled in remote Slave Bay.
Through rapid bursts of High Valyrian, the Ghiscari spoke, causing Olfor to frown in concentration.
After a moment, he organized his thoughts and translated:
"His name is Bazzak, from the island city-state of New Ghiscari, located south of Slave Bay on a small isle in Sorrow Bay. It is the most symbolic yet smallest and youngest Ghiscari city. Bazzak was once a free citizen and served over twelve years in New Ghiscari's Iron Legion."
Due to his own frailty, Olfor paused, then continued:
"At the height of the Ghiscari Empire, their disciplined legions were renowned as unbeatable. New Ghiscari modeled its Iron Legion after this, with training and equipment akin to the Unsullied."
Möngke's gaze burned intensely upon Bazzak, understanding why he alone had returned three enemy heads.
Seeing Bazzak's anxious expression, Möngke wisely refrained from a long conversation, instead kindly saying:
"A brave warrior. Take him to see his family immediately, and ensure they are well cared for."
He then whispered to Olfor:
"A rare talent. Find a way to keep him in my service."
The blazing sun radiated like the secret language of life, pouring power to cleanse mortal sins.
In the inner city of Qohor, Unsullied guards stopped a tall, serious man with platinum hair and sapphire eyes.
"Please inform Commander Saro Korte that the scribe of the High Council wishes to meet him," the man said politely.
His refined, handsome features were chiseled, his voice clear and flowing like water.
"Aslan McKennen."
At that moment, Commander Saro Potter slowly descended the walls and called the man's name.
Though war had its hardships, seeing this handsome man reminded him to cherish the present.
Aslan McKennen hailed from the noble Rhys family, evident from his strong Valyrian lineage and fair, smooth skin.
Once a famous artist and sculptor, his marble statues in Qohor's noble courtyards were celebrated, earning widespread praise.
Fate, however, played cruelly. The McKennen family lost in political struggles, and Aslan became a low-status slave.
He was purchased by Qohor nobles and, due to his talent and demeanor, quickly became a teacher in a noble household.
During the war with the Dothraki, Aslan served as scribe for the High Council.
Recalling this, Saro Korte's steps lightened, and he smiled as he waved past the Unsullied:
"Aslan, anything important? I still need to inspect the city defenses."
Aslan's clear voice flowed like water:
"Before dusk, the High Council will convene in my master's courtyard. Please attend punctually."