The sky stretched wide and unblemished, a crisp autumn breeze sweeping across the land.
Atop the rugged cliffs of Gaoman Mountain.
An eagle messenger with gray-black wings hovered menacingly. His taloned hands gripped a two-meter-long bone spear, and his piercing gaze swept downward with unveiled arrogance.
He scanned the huddled eagle folk of the Gaoman Mountain tribe—a frail, pitiful lot in his eyes. A flicker of scorn crossed his features before he bellowed, voice cutting through the wind.
"Hear this, you of Gaoman Mountain! By order of the royal court, fifty eagle warriors are hereby conscripted! You have three days to march them to the Vast Sea Forest, where they will bow to the will of the God of Thunder!"
The words rang out, a haunting echo bouncing off the cliff face. It was the same tired conscription call, unchanged for decades. Clearly, the royal court didn't bother with the likes of Gaoman Mountain—a speck of a tribe, unworthy of even a revised decree.
Perhaps this was the fate of all the scattered eagle clans across the boundless mountains, those too far-flung to kiss the boots of the kingly court.
But fifty warriors? That was a demand too steep.
The tribe's numbers barely scraped two hundred, counting even the squalling newborns. Among Jarius' peers, the grown males numbered just over thirty—hardly an army.
In that moment, Jarius felt it—the same crushing weight of despair that had once bowed his father's proud wings.
Those quiet words, "My son, you've got to grow up strong and healthy," whispered in his memory. How bleak must the world have been for such a simple hope to feel like a plea?
The eagle folk on the cliff dipped their heads low, submission heavy in their silence.
Jarius stood at the forefront, claws digging into his palms as he wrestled the fury boiling within. He sucked in a breath, steadying himself, and mirrored his father's long-ago humility.
"Great Messenger," he called, voice tight with restraint, "you see our state. Fifty warriors—we can't manage it. I beg a sliver of mercy. Let me lead every able male we have to fight for the God of Thunder and the royal court!"
The messenger's lip curled. "Hmph!" he spat, voice sharp as a blade. "You think the royal court's edicts are up for barter?"
His wings twitched as he sneered.
"A tribe like yours—mere chaff in the wind—owes its every breath to the court's sheltering shadow. That alone is a kindness you don't deserve."
His eyes locked onto Jarius' clenched claws, the defiant spark in the young leader's gaze. A dark urge flickered within the messenger—kill him.
Tribes like this were weeds in the grasslands: one dies, another sprouts. Crushing them would ripple nowhere of note.
It's only a matter of time, he mused.
The court cared nothing for their survival.
That thought ignited a spark, and his eyes narrowed to slits. The air shivered, the faint breeze twisting into restless gusts.
Wind power—supernatural might!
Jarius' heart iced over, a tremor racing through his frame. He dropped his head fast, shouting,
"Lord Messenger, Gaoman Mountain yields to the conscription!"
The world hushed for a heartbeat, only the wind's restless dance breaking the stillness.
Jarius braced himself, every nerve screaming to leap into action if needed.
But after a taut stretch of silence, the messenger stayed his hand.
His face remained a mask of ice as he barked a final threat.
"Fifty warriors. Three days. Mark this—if one is short or a day late, your tribe is ash!" With a snap of his wings, he soared off, vanishing into the horizon.
Jarius' blood roared.
"Damn it all! One day, I'll tear down this rotten eagle court!" he swore silently, fury blazing in his chest.
As the messenger's shadow faded, the tribe's voices rose in a tide of grief.
"When will this war end? When will we know peace again?"
"We're too weak…"
"Our fathers marched off and never came back. We're next in line for that doom."
Their despair clawed at Jarius. He strode forward, voice ringing out.
"Listen to me, my kin! Trust me—this time, I'll bring us all home!"
"And if we can't return, I'll be the first to fall!"
He pressed on, resolute. "To make the fifty, I call on our grown sisters to join us. The young lads stay to guard the tribe."
"Yes, Chief!"
Came the reply as over a dozen women stepped up—every adult female of their age.
And just like that, Gaoman Mountain was stripped to its bones—only the old and frail remained.
Jarius swallowed a sigh, his gaze settling on the eldest of the boys left behind. He flashed a steadying smile.
"Cha, when we're gone, you're the strongest male here. Lead the others—keep everyone safe."
Tears gleamed in Cha's eyes as he nodded gravely.
"Yes, Brother Jarius!"
Jarius dipped his head, then turned to ease his mother's worried heart with a few soft words. That done, he faced the warriors.
"No time to waste! Back to your posts—don your bronze armor, grab your weapons. We fly for the Vast Sea Forest in fifteen minutes!"
A voice piped up, uncertain.
"Chief, don't we have three days? Why the haste?"
Jarius shook his head.
"Our ancestors who went before never returned. This time, we scout the Vast Sea Forest first—prepare properly."
The mad notion of bathing in Titan's blood was too wild to share yet, he thought, cloaking it with a half-truth instead.
But his words weren't wholly a ruse—there was wisdom in them.
"Got it, We'll gear up and be ready in fifteen!"
The warriors chorused, nodding.
Doubt never touched their minds. They'd grown up with Jarius, their faith in him forged through years of shared trials.
And so it went.
Fifteen minutes later.
Fifty eagle warriors stood ready, bronze swords and spears gleaming in their grip. At Jarius' sharp command, they took wing, soaring west toward destiny—while the old and weak watched them go, eyes brimming with unspoken sorrow.