A few more days passed by in a blur. Most days were like this. The local-spun rumours of Zora fighting brood nests at every turn on every road he stepped upon simply weren’t true. They were making shit up. He spent most of his time foraging for food in the forests, picking his shelters for the night, and marching blindly onwards—he’d have to dismantle hordes of bugs and soldiers standing in his way occasionally, sure, but those days were rather few and far between. Those days just made for better stories and rumours to spread across the Attini Empire like wildfire.

  Hah.

  ‘Warlord of the Northeast’.

  He marched and fed from all things. Bark. Bugs. Random mushrooms in the colossal fungi forests. He wasn’t much of a picky eater. Days and months where he stopped in towns and villages to feast on normal human food were nice, but the days and months where he was just rummaging through the forest looking for anything edible were experiences in and of themselves. Now that would make for an interesting story for his students back in the academy.

  Fortunately—or unfortunately—those days of marching alone through the fungi forests were coming to an end.

  It was dusk again. Nearing nightfall. At some point, he exited the fungi forest and found the barren dirt road a few hundred metres in front of him expanding into a massive city. Space and sound shifted around him. There were no fortified walls, watchtowers, or anything of the sort. This was the Salaqa Region ruled by the Salaqa Lord—a few ten-kilometres stretch of developed land right outside the giant earthen walls that guarded the Capital at the very southern end of the empire. He couldn’t hear sounds from one end of the city to another, but he was still a bit too far away. He had to get a little closer.

  As he threw up his hood and trudged forward with his hands behind his back, he listened, deeply, slipping into the giant ant caravans and lines of people treading along the many roads curving into the city. The closer he got, the more details he picked out: the terracotta streets were wide and well-maintained, and the clumped buildings rose tall and square, built from heavy volcanic stone. Thin but tall mushrooms grew on the sidewalks, the mushroom caps giving off heat, giving off ‘light’—not that he could see it, anyways—and the deeper he marched into the bustling city, the prettier the architecture became.

  A wealthy place. Nothing like the towns and villages on the outskirts of the empire.

  Bridges arched gracefully between buildings, over streets, connecting roofs and terraces. Most store walls were crept with mosses and singing fungal growths, cultivated specifically to form murals depicting the Salaqa Lord’s coat of arms. He continued through the main street, noticing alcoves and niches tucked into the walls, filled with idols and offerings: small stone carvings of ants, leafcutters, and spore-like symbols that looked like they’d feel cool to the touch. Dozens of hundreds of people would pass by and drop offerings of petals, coins, and small pouches of earth, murmuring their quiet prayers—oh, and the people. Hundreds of them, thousands of them just on this one street. He couldn’t hope to keep track of them all.

  All Ant Classes, he mused. I guess it’s not called the ‘Attini Empire Front’ for nothing.

  Merchants with reinforced mandibles and thick, chitin-covered arms lifted heavy crates with ease, while artisans with four arms worked swiftly on their streetside crafts. Feathered dancers with elongated, ant-like legs leapt and balanced gracefully, drawing crowds with their chittering songs. Scholars and scribes with small, glassy compound eyes absorbed every detail around them, listening intently to the market’s conversations. Guards with serrated jaws and obsidian-edged blades stood watch by manor entrances. Couriers with slender, stilted limbs darted through the streets, moving with speed and precision that let them slip through even the densest crowds.

  He was grateful there were so many people with strange mutations around him; it made him appear that much meeker and insignificant, and he was trying really, really hard to suppress his aura. Thank the Great Makers he could suppress it enough to camouflage it within the aura of the crowd.

  It’s been a while since I had a good night’s rest in a tavern.

  Maybe I should rest here for a few days before continuing towards the Capital?

  Tilting his head backwards, he listened, filtering through a hundred different tongues all at once. Chatter all around him. Two merchants played easy seller, tough seller to a traveller, promising the rare glow of a firefly pearl necklace. Four separate young couples whispered in nearby alleys and alcoves, asking each other out to the same garden fountain. On the upper floor of a first-floor bank, traders shared rumours of the shattered northwestern railways, raising concerns for their next import of Swarmsteel weapons, and he heard the ‘Warlord of the Northwest’ referred to again; he’d been hearing that name for a while now, but he had no interests dealing with an actual warlord.

  The moment he heard ‘tavern for cheap’, ‘local food’, ‘information broker’, and ‘no questions asked’ was when he set off, following the signboards down into Red Plaza Street.

  As he stepped onto the empty street, shoes clicking softly against the smooth stone, the usual hum of the city faded. Muted. No voices, no chatter, no merchants calling out. His ears strained, but there was nothing—only the distant rustling of wind against the stone buildings. Every window was barred, the shutters tightly closed, blocking out any scents of life inside. The air smelled stale like a place forgotten.

  He stopped right in front of the so-called ‘Zocala Tavern’.

  …

  Three storeys, slanted roof, simply designed. The door was heavy, its wooden frame creaking faintly, shifted on its hinges. The faint scrape of metal on metal told him the sign above was rusted, swinging slowly in the breeze. The bars on the windows rattled just a little. He pursed his lips, listening to the spaces around the door—no scuffling feet, no voices coming from inside. No sounds of life either. By all means, he could chalk it up to being a quiet place, but quiet here? Now?

  Just a minute ago, he’d been getting pushed around by crowds of people, and a few turns later he was suddenly given a reprieve from all the noise?

  Sighing, he marched forward and put his hand around the doorknob, turning it halfway—and he stopped when he heard a faint click behind the door, as though an anvil would fall on his head the moment he pushed through.

  Or it could be an axe.

  Or it could be a harmless bucket of water.

  It could even be nothing for all he knew, but the point was, he wasn’t sure, and that made all the difference.

  “... You’re not the first assassin the empire has sent to kill me,” he said, keeping his hand on the doorknob as he glanced behind him, smiling softly, “and you will not be the last.”

  Silence. Eerie silence. He gave them a few seconds to panic, ponder, and come to a decision—then, all of a sudden, noise returned to the street. Merchants shouted in the street over, caravan wheels turned and clacked against the cobbled streets. Banners of Salaqa Lord’s coat of arms flapped in the distance, but he had the real deal surrounding him. Not mere banners. A small battalion of forty armed soldiers peeled off their camouflaging armour, revealing themselves across the street, behind the barred windows, beneath every closed door as they pointed their rifles at his back.

  So this was how they managed to vacate every man on the street, by throwing the Salaqa Lord’s authority around just to lure him into a trap.

  In hindsight, ‘cheap’, ‘information broker’, and ‘no questions’ are too ideal to be true for a tavern so close to the Capital.

  Maybe you’d find taverns like that aplenty in the outskirt regions, but here? Not a chance.

  ‘Local food’ sucked me in, though.

  He was hungry, and he had always wanted to try the Salaqa Region’s infamous ‘Pok Chuc’ dish: grilled pork marinated in sour orange juice and seasoned with chilli spices. The cafeteria ladies in Amadeus Academy never served it, and the towns and villages he’d visited during his long march down here never had any oranges in stock.

  I will have my Pok Chuc, he grumbled, taking out his wand, but first, assassins—

  “You must be Zora Fabre.”

  He paused, ears perking at the girl’s smooth voice. It was nothing like War Commander Tolani’s gruff and scarred voice—this was someone who drank honeyed tea once in the morning, once at night, and didn’t have to harvest mushrooms from giant fungi forests until her lungs were full of spores. A noble-blooded.

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  And he really didn’t have to turn around to know she was standing on the slanted roof of the building right across the street, but he did so anyways.

  Arms crossed, looking quite stern, was a young girl in the Royal Ayapacha Military Academy’s uniform. Short, tied back hair. A scar over her right eye, a proud, sharp, angular face. Her cloak was plated with ant chitin and trimmed to fall just below the waist, and beneath it, she wore a close-fitting tunic embroidered with angular shapes and patterns. Armoured bracers and greaves covered her limbs, and twin sawtooth blades were stabbed into the roof next to her boots. Her right hand was gloved, but her left hand was rough, bruised, and calloused, like she’d spent her entire life working a rice mill—if he didn’t recognise the uniform or heard her voice, he could’ve mistaken her for a run-of-the-mill assassin sent to do the empire’s dirty work.

  But the fact was, she was here with her own battalion, and there was no mistaking the tens of thousands of other tiny sounds close to her: floods of ants made of reddish-brown blood crawling on the underside of her cloak, awaiting her command.

  Oh, he knew very well who she was, and better yet, who she represented.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the energy to entertain yet another contingent here to capture me,” he said, pressing his wand to his lips and making every soldier in the vicinity shiver. “It’s nothing personal, but if you’ll excuse me, there is a bed waiting with my name on it—”

  The girl suddenly snapped to attention, arms crossing behind her back, legs parting. “I am Kita Salaqa, eldest daughter of the Salaqa Household,” she said, clear and sharp. “On behalf of my father and the lords of the Salaqa Region, I am here to extend a formal invitation to Zora Fabre, the Thousand Tongue Warlord of the Northeast, for dinner at the Salaqa Manor.”

  He would blink if his eyes weren’t already closed.

  “No,” he said, turning around to grab the doorknob again. “Leave me alone.”

  Kita twitched an eye. “What did you say?”

  “Are you here to capture me?”

  “No. As I said, I—”

  “Will you kill me if I don’t comply?”

  “Also… no. I—”

  “Then leave me alone. I’m tired. I’ll just wait here until the tavernkeep comes back—”

  He frowned when he heard the twin sawtooth blades being yanked out of the roof, and he whipped his wand into a sword instinctively, swinging backwards without looking. He made it barely in time to block Kita’s crossing blades, but the impact kicked up a gust of wind, cracking the window on the door in front of him.

  Whoa.

  Didn’t even have time to cast a spell.

  Sighing, he swung her back and sent her screeching across the street, her metal soles cleaving through the cobbled ground as she slammed into the wall. None of the other soldiers moved to interrupt, but that was probably at their master’s orders—the folks in the outer region towns and villages called noble girls like her ‘sky princesses’ for how high and mighty they acted towards commoners, so she probably wanted to fight him one-on-one just like Tolani.

  Now, he could entertain her a little, but he wasn’t lying when he told her he was tired. He made sure he was right out of her range as he studied her blades, and then he spoke “swirling fire” onto his own, making flames swirl around his spiral-patterned blade like a drill—

  Only for her to suddenly jerk forward like she hadn’t just slammed into a wall at incredible speed, eyes narrowing. The explosive force gave her momentum. Gave her speed. She leapt into his range in a single breath and slashed in a cross, two blades going straight for his throat.

  He had no other option but to raise his fiery blade for a parry, and embers sparked between them as they locked blades, a small drop of sweat beading down his brows.

  “... You’re strong,” he said, his lips thinning into a line as she pushed forward. “I’d heard the Noble-Bloods of the Salaqa Household had the Swarmblood Art to transmute your blood in bioarcanic army ants that can stitch and regenerate your wounds, but I didn’t actually think it was true. With your household around, it’s no wonder the people in this city look so relatively healthy. Your household must distribute your army ants to most every family—”

  “Stop talking for a second,” she whispered, leaning forward as their blades pushed against each other, sparks flying harsher, louder than ever. “The Capital really has it out for you right now. Between you and the Warlord of the Northwest wrecking the outskirts of the empire the past few years, the Empress and Her Four Families want you dead, so unless you have the backing of a noble household—even a lesser one—you won’t make it ten minutes into the Capital, let alone find whatever you’re looking for.”

  He forced a strained smile onto his face. “I didn’t become a teacher at a hidden mountain academy so I have to deal with bureaucracy as a ‘proper adult’. I’m not interested in the internal conflicts within the empire—”

  “I’m well aware of your background,” she interrupted, eyes narrowing. “You’re Zora Fabre, twenty-four this year, and you were infamous even before you slayed the Magicicada Witch. You were the man of a thousand tongues—”

  “—still am—”

  “And I’m telling you, the Empress and Her Four Families aren’t to be trifled with. They’re talking about sending the Spore Knights on you and the Warlord of the Northwest, so unless you’re keen on fighting the empire’s most elite of the elite on their turf, where you are at every disadvantage, you’ll listen to me and consider my proposal.”

  He joined her in furrowing his brows, arm straining as he struggled to push her blades back. He knew the Spore Knights. Of the Spore Knights. They were the Attini Empire’s special bug-extermination unit stationed at the southern wall of the Capital, and they were the ones who fought at the foremost frontline against the Swarm. Suffice it to say, they were less commanders adept at leading battalions and armies than they were each living weapons wielded by the Empress and Her Four Families, occasionally sent across the empire to deal with enemies that required a more… personal, unconventional touch.

  Last he heard, there were about a hundred of them in reserve—the other two hundred were constantly slaughtering the Swarm on the southern frontline—so if the Empress would really deign to send a few his way, he could be in a bit of trouble.

  “So?” he said, smiling through gritted teeth. “What’s the Salaqa Lord’s proposal?”

  “The Salaqa Household may be an outskirt noble household, but it is the most powerful household outside the Capital,” she said quickly, grimacing as his swirling fire blade started to burn through her blades, charring the sharpened obsidian edges. “My father, a disgraced noble he may be, is still a well-respected man with wealth, influence, and connections—even the Empress and Her Four Families would be hesitant to barge into this region looking for you as long as you’re taking shelter here. We can hide you. We can support your cause—”

  “And pray tell, what does the Salaqa Lord stand to gain by siding with an enemy of the empire?” he countered, regaining his stride, pushing her back slowly. “You do realise you are sharing words with an enemy of the empire, yes? That is grounds for ‘divination’ for both you and the battalion of men you’ve brought with you—”

  “Every noble household in the outskirts knows what you’re trying to do in the empire, even if the Capital refuses to acknowledge it,” she hissed. “You’re not looking for something. You’re looking for someone.”

  “Who?”

  “A Magicicada Witch. Rooted in the Capital.”

  He scoffed, feigning ignorance. “Preposterous. A noble of the empire dare suggests an Insect God is lurking within the almighty Divine Capital?”

  “Don’t take that tone with me. We all know who you’re looking for. Just because we don’t say it out loud doesn’t mean we don’t know,” she grumbled. “Now, I’m saying the Salaqa Household would like to support you in your endeavours. You’re strong, but you’re only one man, and… how long has it been since you got a good rest on a warm, fluffy bed?”

  “Five days ago. Not that long.”

  She pursed her lips, looking disappointed. He grinned down at her. He was half a head taller, and she was probably expecting a longer time for an answer, but–

  “I don’t want to do this, either, but the Attini Empire values bloodline, nobility, and connection to ancestry more than any other front in the world,” she breathed, taking slow, steady steps back as he started pushing her away. The soldiers around them tensed up, fingers curling around their rifle triggers. “We’re an ant-based empire led by an Empress who has absolute, divine control over every noble household, and while this governance lends efficiency to our military forces, we’re slow to adapt to changes if the Empress doesn’t want to adapt. The upper noble households make all the important decisions, and lower noble households like ours must follow in their footsteps. The commoners don’t get a seat at the table whatsoever. We’re bleeding from the inside-out, Thousand Tongue, and the Empress won’t do anything about it… but you already know all this, don’t you?”

  He tilted his head, smiling coyly.

  “You’re not trying to fight the empire,” she continued.” You’re not destroying strongholds and hijacking armament convoys just for the fun of it. You only want to kill ‘Reverberator’ Decima, second of the Magicicada Witches, so trust me when I say this,” she said, teeth gritted, arms quivering, “the Salaqa Household wants her dead just as much as you.”

  …

  So he listened.

  He pondered.

  And upon hearing the beating, pounding ‘fire’ in her heart, he made the decision to slip backwards and fall on his spine. He still held his blade, but he dispelled the flames with an “extinguish” and let her practically fall on him, dual blades crossing over his neck to keep him pinned against the ground.

  For her part, she was blinking and utterly confused, but he sighed and made a big show of his defeat.

  “Ah, what a powerful noble-blood. I have been thoroughly defeated,” he said, monotone, snapping his sword back into a wand. “I am no match for Kita Salaqa, eldest daughter of the Salaqa Household. I will follow and serve you wherever you go. I am not powerful enough to resist you.”

  Kita blinked again. Before she could grab him by the collar and pull him up, the soldiers around them lowered their rifles and started cheering, clapping, shouting praise for their master—and while she looked around in a panic, he mouthed a few words at her face, careful not to actually make a sound.

  “Can I trust you?” was what he mouthed.

  “... Yes,” she whispered back, hesitating only slightly. “You can trust me.”

  “And you look no older than eighteen of age. Why should I trust a child like you?”

  She stiffened, clenching her jaw. “Because we’re not helping you only because you need it. As I said, we want Decima dead, too, and we need your help getting to the point where we can corner her once and for all.” Then she backed away from him and offered him a helping hand, dual blades stabbed into the ground. “Let’s not talk here. Come with me to the Salaqa Manor, and my father will be more than glad to receive you over dinner.”

  “Okay, then.”

  He shrugged, accepting her hand. He was curious what the lord of a relatively high-ranking noble household had to say about Decima, and at the very least, he felt he wasn’t listening to the voice of a liar.

  She gave him a distasteful look as she pulled him up, though. Maybe she didn’t like how he gave himself up, but if she asked why he did what he did, he’d just say it was an old habit.

  … Salaqa Lord, Salaqa Lord.

  Is this a trap, or is this a test?

  Whether or not he was walking into a trap didn’t really matter. He was confident he could break out of it anyways, so if there was any place in the city that served Pok Chuc, it was going to be the Salaqa Manor.

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