71. Sparks of Rebellion

The cold morning sun crawled sluggishly over the bloodstained soil, casting weak rays over the scorched remains of the school. The bitter smell of ash still clung to the air, making the ground seem unclean, defiled by the violence that had unfolded the night before.

The villagers had not left. They remained among the ruins, their eyes hard, their hands rough with labor as they dug through the rubble, searching for remnants of what was lost. Bloodied hands clutched splintered wood, broken bricks, and burnt fragments of scrolls.

The mourning cries had long faded.

Now, only grim determination remained.

---

Harsh stood in the center of the square, surrounded by the commoners, their faces hollow but their eyes sharp with newfound defiance. The morning breeze stirred his cloak, and the scent of smoke and burnt earth still lingered on his skin.

He stared at them, his jaw clenched, his arms folded tightly across his chest. His face was a mask of iron, devoid of emotion. But behind the hardened expression, his mind was a storm, churning with calculated rage.

He scanned the crowd—farmers, masons, potters, and fishermen. Many bore bandages from the previous night's fight—their wounds crude and hastily wrapped. Fathers clutched the hands of their trembling children, while mothers stood with vacant eyes, their arms wrapped protectively around those who remained.

The air was heavy with unspoken grief, but none bowed.

They stood.

And they waited.

---

A young man stepped forward from the crowd. His face was still blackened with soot, his hands wrapped in strips of cloth, covering fresh burns.

He was no warrior.

Just a blacksmith's apprentice, no older than twenty.

The boy clenched his fists, his knuckles white. His voice was hoarse, but steady.

"Tell us what to do." His eyes bored into Harsh's, brimming with raw defiance. "You say we shouldn't kneel. That we should stand." His voice hardened, a tremor of anger in it. "But how do we stand without swords in our hands?"

A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd. Several villagers nodded, their eyes cold and expectant.

A woman with tangled hair and a bloodied shawl stepped forward. Her voice was firm, despite the tear stains on her face.

"We're ready." Her voice wavered slightly, but the steel in her eyes did not. She took another step closer. "Teach us. Show us how to fight."

Her hands were trembling, but her gaze was steady.

An older man, his hair graying, stepped forward next. His wrinkled hands clenched around the haft of a rusted farming tool. His voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp, but it carried over the crowd.

"I was a soldier once. Long ago. I can still hold a spear."

He lifted the tool, his arms trembling from old age but steady with resolve.

"I will fight again."

---

Harsh's eyes hardened.

For a moment, he was silent, staring at them.

No fear.

No hesitation.

Only grief and steel remained.

His fingers flexed at his sides, his muscles taut. Something cold and jagged churned in his chest—a sensation he hadn't felt since his days in the lab, watching his experiment spiral into chaos.

He turned slowly, facing them all, his eyes dark and unyielding.

"You will have swords," he said, his voice low but sharp.

"You will have shields."

"You will have fire."

A slow murmur spread through the crowd. A flicker of disbelief, quickly crushed beneath the weight of hope.

"But first," Harsh's voice cut through the murmurs like a blade, silencing them. He took a step forward, his boots crunching over broken stones.

"You will have knowledge."

His gaze swept over them, cold and resolute.

"Because swords do not win wars. Men with wisdom do."

---

A woman from the back of the crowd, her face worn and gaunt, pushed forward, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. She clutched a ragged shawl around her shoulders.

Her voice was sharp, bitter with skepticism.

"Knowledge?" she spat, her voice hard. "Will that protect my children from the next sword?"

The murmur grew louder, filled with uncertainty.

Harsh's eyes snapped to hers, cold and piercing. He closed the distance between them in three strides.

He towered over her, but his voice was steady.

"What did the nobles have?" he asked, his tone sharp and merciless.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she remained silent.

Harsh's voice hardened.

"They had iron," he said. "You had wooden staffs."

He took a step closer.

"They had chainmail. You had cotton rags."

His voice dropped, turning sharp as steel.

"They had knowledge," he said coldly, his eyes narrowing. "And you had none."

Her eyes widened slightly, her breath catching.

"You were slaughtered because of it." His voice was a low growl now, filled with barely restrained fury.

A sharp silence fell over the crowd.

He turned sharply, his cloak snapping in the breeze. He took a few steps away from her, then spun back around, his eyes glinting.

"I will give you knowledge." His voice rang out, cold and clear. "I will give you iron and steel. I will teach you to forge. To smelt. To build."

He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing.

"I will give you fire."

His voice cut through the crowd, fierce and unwavering.

"And then, when they come for you again…"

His voice lowered to a deadly whisper.

"You will burn them to the ground."

---

The crowd was silent for a moment, but then a voice—a woman's voice—cut through the stillness.

"Then teach us."

Her voice was raw with pain and fury, but there was no doubt in it.

"Show us how to fight. Show us how to build. Show us how to be more than dust beneath their feet."

One by one, others raised their fists, their voices hoarse but resolute.

"Teach us!"

"Give us iron!"

"Give us steel!"

"We will fight with you!"

---

Harsh's jaw clenched, but he slowly raised his hand.

The crowd fell silent again, watching him with rapt attention.

His voice was cold and unwavering.

"Then be ready."

His eyes hardened.

"I will make you soldiers. Not slaves."

And they did not kneel.

They did not bow.

They stood—grim and resolute, their eyes filled with fire.

This deepens the connection between Harsh and the commoners, expanding on their shared grief and rage. It marks the beginning of their transformation from a broken people into an organized force.

They are no longer just villagers.

They are the embers of rebellion.