Chapter 12: Ashes After the Flames

Raizen Valefor stood atop the three-meter wooden wall of the Kazehana fortress, his piercing gaze sweeping the northern dead forest where the bone-crowned figure had vanished after last night's clash at the dry stream. A cold wind whipped through, stirring ash from Noxvaria into the air, carrying the faint tang of dried blood from the two beast corpses—the hulking five-meter giant with its shattered bone crown and the smaller three-meter one with short steel spines—now dragged near the wall by gray vines, propped at its edge like a silent warning. The early morning sun cast weak rays on the half-meter-thick rampart, built from salvaged Shadowfang cannon timber and local gray drywood, its base lined with glossy black stones that glinted like crude, unyielding armor. His hand tightened on the broken sword, its chipped steel edge still flecked with the giant's black blood, his eyes brushing the silver necklace etched with "Kael"—a keepsake from Kael Iscariot, his truest friend amid this savage world.

Selene Kazehana stood beside him, her steel sword sheathed at her back, her mismatched eyes—icy blue on the left, blazing red on the right—scouring the deep woods with unyielding vigilance. Her ash-dusted leather armor bore fresh streaks from hauling the carcasses that morning, the thin scar on her throat stark in the dawn light, a mark of battles survived. "The bone-crowned one didn't show—but he's not far," she said, her low voice cutting through the wind's rustle across the dead forest. "That roar last night—deep, cold, like it came from the earth. My tribe spoke of Solzareth's bone-clad shadows—he's lingering to see what we do." Her brow creased, red eye darkening as she recalled the hazy figure in the northern woods—tall, crowned with long bones, black cloak billowing like an ancient omen of power and curse.

Raizen nodded faintly, his icy stare fixed north, fingers digging into the "Kael" necklace until his knuckles whitened. "He's testing me—but he's not all in yet," he muttered, voice low with suspicion, glancing at the pile of white bones and black stones hauled back from the stream at dawn—spoils of victory now stacked near the wall as proof of triumph. "Drakovia's the same—they're not just watching. Those boot studs last night—they're closing in." He turned, peering down at the Kazehana camp below—villagers and Shadowfang captives gathered around the central tent, their cheers and murmurs rising from souls who'd doubted him three days ago, now alight with faith as they eyed the sturdy wall encircling them. "This fortress needs to be tougher—the people need to be readier," he said, voice hard, stepping down from the wall with a sharp motion, broken sword still in hand like an inseparable limb.

His crew—Selene, Ragnar Kiryuu, Kael Iscariot, and five Kazehana warriors—stood near the white bones and black stones, each clutching a piece of the night's haul. Selene lifted a half-meter white bone, testing its heft with a tap against a black stone—a dry clack rang out, unyielding. "These bones—my tribe saw them in the western deadlands ten years back," she said, voice low, red eye flickering with a faint memory. "Solzareth left them—burned everything, marked the curse with bones."

Raizen met her gaze, suspicion flaring at Solzareth's name—cropping up too often, from the abandoned camp's armor shard to the stream's white remnants. "If he's Solzareth, I need his strength—and what he fights with," he replied, voice deep, turning to Ragnar by the portable catapult—its two-meter lever arm quivering from last night's three shots, the old Shadowfang cannon wheel axle caked in stream ash. "Ragnar—upgrade the catapult. I need more range."

Ragnar tested the gray vine coiled around the axle, tugging to feel its tension through calloused hands, eyes sparking with the thrill of a Thiên Long tinkerer. "Forty paces now—not enough to smash Shadowfang cannons from a distance," he said, voice low with a confident edge, hefting a five-kilo black stone from the spoils to check its roundness. "I'll tweak it like a Roman ballista, 1st century BC—double the vine tension. Romans twisted sinew for extra kick—I'll lash two gray vines, loop 'em twice around the axle, hit fifty paces." He frowned, a flicker of concern crossing his face as he recalled last night's fight. "That big bastard was tougher than I figured—next time, I need to hit from farther."

Raizen nodded, a glint of approval in his eyes at the catapult—a rough weapon that saved them in the dark. "Test the white bones—they're harder than chipped stone, could make better ammo," he ordered, voice low, pointing at the bone pile near the wall. "Two days."

Ragnar grabbed a half-meter bone, tapping it against a black stone—a sharp clack, no cracks. "Hard as raw steel—lighter than black stone, flies farther," he muttered, eyes lighting up as he recalled Romans reinforcing gear with animal bone. "I'll carve 'em round—three kilos, pierce armor better. Two days—Jace'll help." He glanced at Jace—the young kid nearby, eyes blazing as he eyed the catapult, clutching an old crossbow bolt like he'd dive in now.

Kael Iscariot stood three paces off, gripping his five-shot crossbow—twin gray drywood planks lashed with tough vines, its Asvaria metal arm notched with five stone-tipped bolts from last night. He tested the vine string with a light pull, feeling its give, calm eyes glinting as he met Raizen's—like seeing the friend he'd trusted since Neo Saigon 2050's dawn. "White bone beats chipped stone—I'll craft bone bolts," he said, voice steady and sure, stepping to the pile and hefting a meter-long shard, tapping it on the ash—a dry clack, unyielding. "Like at Thiên Long—I made steel test bolts to shred rigs. These are light, tough—slice through Shadowfang leather easy. Three days—Jace and I'll get it done."

Raizen met Kael's gaze, a rare warmth softening his stare as he recalled their Saigon days—Kael always at his back, unwavering through every grind, a memory of heat amid Noxvaria's chill. "Good—I trust you," he replied, voice low and warm, clapping Kael's shoulder—a fleeting gesture in the tension. "Jace—learn the catapult and bone bolts. Record it for the people later."

Jace nodded hard, eyes fierce with the bolt in hand, voice quaking but resolute. "I'll master it—to fight Shadowfang and beasts! To write it down like you said!" He stepped closer to Ragnar and Kael, gripping the bolt like a silent oath.

Leon Vesper lingered by the market—four two-meter posts squaring off three zones, now swelled after morning trades: ten fresh hides from the smaller beast, five Shadowfang steel spears, twenty dry root clumps from the grub stash. He twirled an "N"-marked stick, his sly grin burning with a schemer's zeal as he watched Shadowfang captives and villagers swarm—two traitors from days back chopping wood double-time, eyes greedy for the new hides. "I hate politics—backstabbing in Neo Saigon 2050 fouled everything, cost me my fortune," he said, voice low with a mocking twist, narrow eyes flicking to Raizen. "But trade's my game—last night's win sold the people on you. I spread 'Drakovia's coming, food's low'—those traitors are grinding for 'N' marks. Market'll flow harder—I'll turn bones and spines into goods."

Raizen's brow creased, suspicion flaring at Leon's words, but he nodded as villagers hauled wood near camp, trading for "N" marks with Leon—fear fading, trust budding as they eyed the wall. "Bones and spines—how's the pricing?" he asked, voice low, pointing at the spoils by the rampart.

Leon smirked, ambition glinting as he hefted a half-meter white bone and a steel-spiked tuft from the smaller beast. "Bones—three 'N's a shard, for bolts or short spears. Spines—five 'N's a bundle, light armor against knives," he replied, voice thick with confidence, tapping the spine on a black stone—a faint ping like raw steel. "David Ricardo, 19th century—supply and demand balance. I've jacked grub to three 'N's a clump—they'll work double to eat, stockpiling for the next fight. Drakovia or Shadowfang hit—we've got trade to arm up."

Raizen nodded, a flicker of approval crossing his eyes as villagers and Shadowfang captives labored—some chopping, others hauling stream stones, trading with Leon. "Do it—but keep the people steady," he ordered, voice hard, gaze sliding to the traitors chopping wood—sneaky eyes darting to the bone pile, hinting at wants beyond food.

Seiryu Alvis stood in the medic tent near the central hub, cradling a clay pot with half a liter of fresh painkiller brewed from ten bloodroot fruits that morning—dark red sap pooled inside, a sharp whiff rising as she stirred with a gray drywood twig. Her torn, ash-streaked white blouse clung like a last echo of Neo Saigon 2050. Inside, three wounded from last night—two villagers gashed by the smaller beast's claws, one Shadowfang captive limping from a stray stone—lay on dirt beds, wounds bandaged with gray ashleaf-soaked rags, their pained eyes easing under her morning numbing shots. Liora stood by, hands steady on a gray ashleaf sprig, learning antiseptic brewing, eyes bright as she watched the trio rest. "Seiryu saved them—thanks to you bringing 'em back!" she said to Raizen as he stepped in, voice trembling but firm, clutching the sprig like a tiny banner of hope.

Raizen met Liora's gaze, a rare warmth softening his stare at her report—a spark of trust spreading among the people. "Painkiller holding?" he asked, voice low, eyes scanning the resting warriors.

"Enough for five more—brewed extra this morning," Seiryu replied, voice cold but certain, stirring the pot to check its thickness. "Like Sumerians with poppy in Mesopotamia, 3400 BC—this sap kills pain fast, but two spoonfuls max or they're out. Liora's quick—she's got ashleaf antiseptic down for the next scrap." She glanced at Liora, a faint approval in her eyes as the young woman simmered a sprig in a smaller pot, the sharp scent of oil wafting up—success in the making.

Raizen nodded, approval flickering as he watched Liora—once just a scared mother, now focused, brewing with purpose. "Good—train more," he ordered, voice low, stepping out to the wall.

From the rampart, villagers and Shadowfang captives cheered—a chaotic mix of joy, awe, and hope filling the air between the dead trees. A grizzled skeptic roared down, "The curse-breaker saved us! Selene was right—he's tougher than all!" A Shadowfang captive near the wall muttered, awe-struck, "Stronger than our chief—I picked the wrong side. Steel spears here, food—I'll trade 'N's to live." Kaelric Duskwind stood tall, staff in hand, gazing down with a mix of shock and faith, rasping, "This fort—this man—might see us through the dark."

But amid the cheers, Leon approached Raizen, narrow eyes tense as he peered east—where the Drakovia trio had slipped away at dawn. "Smoke—not north, east," he said, voice low with caution, pointing two hundred paces into the dead forest. "Thin, steady—like a controlled campfire, like last night. Closer now—and a clack-clack like metal on metal. Drakovia didn't bolt—they've pitched a new camp." He frowned, eyes flicking to the traitors chopping wood—one sneaking a dry bark scrap, carving a small mark with a stone knife, tucking it into his leather pouch. "And those two—this morning, I caught 'em burning a small signal near camp's edge—not for warmth. They're pinging Shadowfang—maybe Drakovia's paying 'em."

Raizen turned, icy stare piercing eastward—thin smoke rising between bare trunks, faint clacks of metal on stone like army boots ringing through. His grip tightened on the broken sword, suspicion flaring at the traitors' ploy—a new plot brewing, not just from Solzareth but Drakovia too. "Drakovia and Shadowfang—how'd they link up?" he muttered, voice a low rumble over the wind's howl. "Watch 'em close—if they turn, I'll deal with 'em. Fort's gotta be ready—not just for Solzareth, but Drakovia too."