Grand Funeral

Tlangthar carried the weight of the new city. Flags of red and black were draped from every rooftop, their stark colors against the earthy tones of the buildings. The war drums beat out a steady rhythm across the hills, relentless reminder of the battle looming on the horizon. The streets were abuzz with purposeful activity: blacksmiths hammering weapons into shape, soldiers running drills in the courtyards, and civilians delivering supplies to the Barracks. It was not the vibrant hum of everyday life but the orchestrated chaos of a city preparing for war.

Above the drums, a haunting melody rose, carried by voices that seemed to resonate from the land itself. Unlike the rigid choirs of Kirat or other nations, this was raw and untamed, a song of the people:

Ooooooh this is it

This is it

This is it

We are at war

Blood will spill

Glory tainted in blood

Let us not forget to be kind and merciful.

The music was simple, but powerful with the bamboo harps and cymbals' crash. It streamed through each barrack, through every hill, uniting the city in its mournful defiance.

Sat in his room surrounded by scrolls, notes, and scattered diagrams, Larin went through his preparations in silence, the only sound the quiet hum of his breathing. Before him lay old weapons: a machete, a spear, a small ironhide shield, and his rifle, the Whispering Carbine. Each carried memories of battles fought, but none seemed to be enough for what awaited.

The Whispering Carbine caught his attention. It was a beautiful and sleek weapon, with the barrel etched with mana glyphs that glowed dimly in the poor light. It was designed to be silent, with each shot muffled almost to inaudibility, earning it its name. Its stock was ironwood reinforced with obsidian shardstone, strong but light. The rifle had eaten mana with each shot, but with the Sinlung Breathing Technique and the Sinlung Resonance, Larin had learned how to cut down on the cost. He ran his fingers along the barrel, feeling the grooves of the engravings. This weapon had saved him before; he trusted it to do so again.

A sharp knock at the door broke his concentration. Zakop's voice followed, steady and commanding. "It is time, Larin."

Larin stood up, readjusting his gear. He slung the Whispering Carbine over his shoulder and stepped outside into the cool air.

---

The Great Square was already filled with activity, war drums lining the perimeters in row after row, sending rhythmic beats piercing the air and soldiers standing into neat formations, set-faced for the grim purpose at hand. Civilians thronged around, their faces masked in a mélange of veneration and tearful glee, while the above sky reflected the overall mood, clouds colored red tingeing the city in an eerie radiance.

As the ceremony began, 125 coffins were carried into the square. Each was carved from a single tree, its surface smooth and polished, the grain of the wood glowing faintly in the evening light. They lay in rows, a solemn testament to the cost of war. Families moved among them, searching for the names and symbols carved into the lids. Some found closure, while others were faced with the heartbreaking reality of unmarked coffins, the remains inside too mangled to identify.

Larin stood with Ngieri, Gwendon, and Rinku near the edge of the square. Their eyes scanned the coffins, the weight of the moment pressing down on them. When the names were read aloud, Larin's breath caught in his throat. "Gaius, Laipui, Malaa." The names hit him like a dagger plunged into him, each syllable an ache for the friends he had lost. His fists clenching at his sides, his jaw was set against the tide of emotion trying to take him. But Ngieri made a soft gasp to one side of him, her hands shaking. Gwendon's face was dark and threaded through with grief, but Rinku held her silence, an expression of cold determination on her face.

At the front of the square, Pupi stood tall, with his staff held in hand and his voice crystal clear and strong as he repeated the names of the dead. When he finally finished, the crowd was quiet, the mass of their sadness suspended in the air. Pupi threw his head up, his tears unshed as he began chanting:

Sinlung loves her children 

Her children love Sinlung

May the souls of our dead reunite with Sinlung 

The dead are lucky to have died 

The living are the ones cursed with existing after 

May we never forget them 

And what they have done 

Who they are, and the people who cherish them

The words carried across the square, a hymn of remembrance and unity. When the chant ended, Pupi held his staff up high, and his eyes had filled with mana, glowing so bright. "The elders will free our imprisoned forms. Sinlung has allowed so."

Inhaling, the other advisors seem to inflate their bodies; a shudder as they give way, revealing seals on the power and releasing it to be called up into their eyes, glowing like embers in the dim light. Zakop stood among them, his face fierce as the ground beneath him began to tremble. The people of Xiaxo had not seen their leaders unbound since the Great War, and the sight was both awe-inspiring and humbling.

In unison, the advisors cast [Sinlung], their voices harmonizing in a deep, resonant chant. Streams of liquid-like mana, each unique in color and texture, flowed from them toward the coffins. The mana bathed the wood and the bodies within, accelerating their decomposition and returning them to the earth. It was an ancient rite, a tradition that connected the dead to the land they had fought to protect.

When the ritual was finally over, the silence was shattered by the boom of 125 gunshots in the air, echoing through the village of Tlangthar as a last salute to those who fell. The people remained silent, unmoving, etched on their faces the memory of grief.

The ceremony ended without fanfare, only the quiet resolve of a people united in their sorrow and determination. As the crowd began to disperse, Larin remained where he stood, his thoughts heavy with the weight of the day. The war had only just begun, and the road ahead was uncertain. But in the stillness of the square, amidst the rows of coffins, one truth remained: Xiaxo would resist.