Infiltrate

The capital barracks bustled with movement as war-hardened boots hit cobbled stones and banners unfurled under the early sun. 

Cheers from children, the weeping gratitude of elders, and the proud gazes of loved ones lined the streets as Hiral stood at the gates—unmoving, resolute, and impossibly composed, even after weeks of endless labor behind palace walls.

The eastern army had returned, not in triumph of battle, but in glory earned through service—a harvest reaped, villages rebuilt, wrongs righted in silent defiance of the corruption that ran through the empire's veins.

Seran dismounted with his usual ease, dirt still caked under his nails, his armor dulled from honest toil rather than bloodshed. 

In his hand, he held a thick bundle of letters—folded carefully, wrapped in cloth, and sealed with wax. 

He handed it to Hiral without a word.

"From the villagers," Seran finally said, his voice rough from the road. "Some letters have drawings from children. Others… from elders who thought they'd never see another winter."

Hiral's eyes softened as he untied the bundle and carefully thumbed through the first few. 

One letter, written in clumsy but bold strokes, thanked him for bringing back "the sun to a dying field." 

Another said he'd restored "honor to the sword." He held the papers like they were glass.

But Seran, ever the realist, added quietly, "We helped this time. But you know it's not enough."

Hiral nodded, gaze steady. "I've been cutting at the rot where I can. Restructuring the way petitions are handled. Shielding the honest ones. Stripping the worst officials of influence. But I'm a general. My sword was never meant for ink."

Seran smirked. "You should've listened to me a decade ago and become a minister."

"And die of boredom in some bureaucratic skirmish?" Hiral countered, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "No, thank you. I find satisfaction in the dirt, the sweat, and the people's smiles. Even if change is slow… it's change."

"Still, this general of ours now holds more power than your high minister father ever dreamed of," Seran said, tone light but eyes sharp. "That revenge…? Sweet as spring wine."

Hiral chuckled and gestured toward the inner barracks. "Enough with dramatics. Go. Wash, rest—and visit your father before he thinks I've sent you to die."

Seran saluted with a grin, then turned on his heel and left, whistling a half-forgotten marching song as he disappeared down the hallway.

****

Within hours, the army fell back into rhythm under Hiral's direction. Orders were reorganized, supplies accounted for, the training grounds readjusted based on what the troops had learned from months in the field. 

Hiral, in plain black robes edged in silver thread, moved like clockwork through his tasks—his very presence a silent reassurance that order had returned.

But across the capital, whispers began to coil like smoke.

"The general commands the hearts of the army. Even the villagers sing his name."

"He turns bandits into builders. And ministers into tools."

"The Empress must be blind, letting him grow so unchecked…"

Inside the imperial palace, however, the Empress did not seem to care.

Seated beneath golden silk drapes, flanked by courtiers competing for attention, she listened intently to envoys' reports—not of the eastern provinces, but of the Kingdom of Ro. 

Her fingers curled on the armrest of her throne, nails digging into the wood.

"The western king grows complacent," one of her favored spies said. "His attention has shifted to internal policy. His court festers with secrets."

She leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

"And what of their famous general?" she asked, voice low.

"Still popular. Still untouchable. But… his distraction grows. He's not as sharp in court as he once was."

The Empress's smile was predatory.

She dismissed the warnings of her ministers—that Hiral's power eclipsed her own. 

They were ants scurrying in her temple. 

She would crush them later. For now, her obsession burned only for the western king, and his shadow, the general Alexis.

****

The imperial sun barely broke through the haze of politics that loomed over the capital when Hiral turned his attention from courtly whispers to a far more tangible burden—jade and diamonds, buried like secrets in the land he had once marched across.

Reports confirmed what his own eyes had hinted: the veins of rare resources beneath the barren lands weren't just rich—they were enough to shift power if anyone knew. 

That, more than war or politics, could make or break nations. 

Hiral had begun quiet extractions, moving small amounts under the guise of military cleanup operations. 

The material was logged under nonessential salvage—coded, masked, forgotten in the mess of bureaucracy he controlled with masterful precision.

But he knew he had to see it again himself, ensure the operation remained hidden and that none of the western delegates—or greedy ministers—caught wind of its true worth.

He'd already crafted a careful excuse: an official visit to "inspect and realign diplomatic standards" at the shared encampment on the borderlands. 

Plans were nearly complete.

Until the summons came.

The throne room was unusually empty, heavy with silk-draped silence. 

The Empress sat reclined, her black lacquered nails tapping the armrest. 

Her gaze—sharp, glinting like obsidian—followed Hiral as he knelt in front of her.

A dangerous smile curled on her painted lips.

"General Hiral," she purred, "you're far too useful. Far too… unknown."

Hiral did not lift his eyes. "Your Majesty flatters this servant."

"Then be useful once more." She stood, letting her sleeves drag like shadows. 

"The Kingdom of Ro. Their court. I want you there, breathing their air, smiling at their princes, learning who they truly are when their blades are sheathed."

"Your Majesty," Hiral said carefully, "my face is known."

"That can be easily taken care of." The Empress descended a few steps, stopping just above him. "Let them see you as a sickly envoy. Pale. Covered. Dying. A shadow of a shadow."

Hiral's lips tugged into the faintest of smiles. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but acting was never my strength."

She laughed—a chilling, delighted sound. "You are many things, Hiral, but stupid is not one of them. Prove your loyalty. Be my hound with a diplomat's leash."

And like that, she dismissed him.

****

In the privacy of his office, Hiral shut the door behind him and leaned against the heavy frame. For the first time in days, his calm cracked.

"The enemy's den," he murmured. "And I go in willingly."

He stared at the array of maps and ledgers before him—plans for the extraction, diplomatic movements, troop shifts. 

All of it needed rearrangement. 

Again.

He exhaled and reorganized everything, building contingencies upon contingencies. 

In the main barracks, soldiers moved like a sea of muscle and discipline. 

At its heart stood Seran, polishing a blade and laughing with a younger recruit, and Tirin, scribbling field reports with a look of permanent irritation.

They looked up in surprise as Hiral entered, not in robes of office, but in simple soldier's garb.

"Bad news?" Tirin asked dryly.

"Worse," Hiral replied. "I'm being sent west."

Seran blinked. "To the Kingdom of Ro?"

"As a sickly diplomat. Covered head to toe. Only my eyes will breathe the air."

"…The Empress is joking, right?" Seran deadpanned.

Hiral smiled. "She doesn't joke."

Tirin cursed under his breath, already calculating problems.

"I'll need you two to oversee the resource extraction discreetly," Hiral continued. "Keep the jade flowing in trickles. No flags. No suspicions."

"And the court?" Seran asked.

"I've already planted enough seeds to grow without me for a season. Just make sure no one prunes them too soon."

He paused, then added, "Oh, and the usual—protect the people, keep the reforms from crumbling, and don't let the Empress use the army for petty power plays."

Tirin scowled. "Oh, that's all?"

Seran just laughed, the sound tired but warm. "You'd better come back. I refuse to lead this circus alone."

"I'll return," Hiral said, voice steady. "But if I don't… the jade mine's location is in the letter I left in Mu's keeping."

Then he turned, not waiting for goodbyes. Because the next time they'd see him, he wouldn't be General Hiral.

He'd be Jiral, the dying envoy from the east.

****

The days before Hiral's departure to the Kingdom of Ro were not spent in quiet reflection, but in painstaking transformation.

Gone was the poised, commanding figure of the Eastern Empire's most formidable general. In his place, a frail diplomat was being sculpted—not merely in appearance, but in essence.

****

The soft glow of lanterns lit the narrow paths of the Red District, where perfume clung to the air and secrets were whispered into silken sleeves.

Inside the lavishly adorned parlor of Madam Reyi, Hiral sat among courtesans, his posture slouched, eyes lowered, voice softened.

He practiced how to flatter without fawning, how to observe without staring, and how to speak in circles yet land every word like a blade.

"You learn fast," Madam Reyi praised, her painted lips curling upward. "Most courtesans fumble for weeks. You, General Hiral, are a natural seductive poisonous flower with sweet smile."

Hiral chuckled, dipping his head. "Thank you. I'll surely put my poisonous charm to good use in the west. I'll surely let them feel the charm of the east."

Madam Reyi, amused, gifted him a delicate fan of black silk, with tiny embroidery in the shape of twin koi fish. "For luck. And for remembrance."

Hiral bowed in gratitude and left.

A quiet alley led Hiral to an unmarked, ancient pharmacy, its shelves sagging with old scrolls and herbs. The owner, Granny Bashi, was said to be older than most temples and twice as unforgiving.

When Hiral bowed low and requested guidance, the old woman grinned, gums mostly bare.

"You want to change your gait? Then wear high soles—make your knees bend where they shouldn't."

She tossed him cloth bindings. "Wrap your chest and midsection. It'll restrict the way you breathe, but it'll also force your shoulders to hunch and your spine to tilt."

Hiral accepted everything with reverent hands. "And… poisons?"

Granny Bashi snorted, then handed him three small vials and a sachet of crushed leaves.

"One puts them to sleep.

One makes the next drink they take fatal.

One clears the effects of both."

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't be complacent, boy. The West is full of conniving men with sweet smile but rotten heart."

"I won't," Hiral murmured. "That's why I'm going with thorns behind my smile."

****

In his private quarters, Hiral stood shirtless before the mirror. 

His ribs showed more clearly now—he had shed weight with a brutal regimen. His skin was powdered pale. 

His posture twisted, made fragile by deliberate contortion.

Layers of loose diplomatic robes hung beside him, designed to obscure muscle tone and mask every trace of the general he once was.

On the low table was a small box of tokens:

The fan from Madam Reyi.

A jade hairpin from Seran, "for stabbing or styling."

Hiral stared at it for a long moment. Then, with a breath, he placed it in his personal pouch, forgetting that there was a balm from Alexis there.

****

Two days later, a covered carriage painted in Eastern imperial sigils rolled slowly past the city gates. 

Inside it sat a sickly diplomat—face veiled, posture hunched, voice quiet.

The guards only saw Envoy Jiral—an ailing, soft-spoken man who traveled with two silent attendants and a single trusted physician.

None suspected he was the same man who once led the Eastern army to stand against a Western general now praised in songs.

As the wheels turned and the capital faded behind him, Hiral thought only of one thing:

"Let's see what you're hiding, Kingdom of Ro. Let's see what kind of beasts wear crowns and silks."

****

The capital of Ro loomed ahead, gilded spires piercing the sky and gleaming with deceptive splendor. 

The people, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, watched the Eastern envoy's carriage roll in with veiled contempt.

Whispers flew like birds between balconies.

"Another sacrificial lamb sent by the Eastern Empress?"

"Look at that—can barely sit upright, poor thing."

"Sickly or sly? Either way, useless."

Inside the carriage, Hiral, veiled and wrapped in layers of cloth to mask both identity and health, sat with practiced elegance. 

His eyes—now tinted a deep blue-gray with powdered dye—drifted over the city's layout like an artisan mapping canvas strokes in his head.

He coughed delicately, as if the dust and foreign air were a burden too heavy to bear.

"Such wonder," he rasped softly, glancing toward the window. "These streets are cleaner than most alleys of the Eastern inner court. Their systems of drainage and light—efficient. If only the East could afford such brilliance…"

His tone held no sarcasm, only hushed awe. The Western diplomat escorting him, pleased at the flattery, puffed up like a rooster.

"Indeed, indeed! We owe such wonders to the Genius Inventor of Ro, a man so brilliant even the King ensures his work remains untainted by public scrutiny. The nobles, of course, spare no coin when it comes to such greatness."

Hiral bowed his head, hiding a faint smile behind his sleeve. "A shame he does not reveal himself. I should like to offer my admiration—if only I were not so terribly fragile."

****

Reaching the capital the diplomat just drop off the envoy entourage then quickly left in front of the place where they would stay. 

Tucked in a narrow alley, dwarfed between two bustling merchant guilds, stood the modest two-story building the Kingdom of Ro assigned to the Eastern diplomatic team.

Peeling paint. Squeaky hinges. Dust coating the walls like a second skin.

The physician—a corpulent, self-important man hand-picked by ministers not to help but to spy—wrinkled his nose.

"This is an insult to diplomatic protocol!"

Hiral, as Envoy Jiral, merely inclined his head. "It is shelter, Master Qian. What more can we ask, having come here under strained peace?"

The two silent attendants—trained shadows in civilian garb—entered behind them and quickly set to cleaning, their movements methodical and efficient. Within minutes, broom and cloth met every inch of the floor.

Master Qian went out to buy food because he couldn't work on an empty stomach. 

Hiral, quietly selecting a ground-floor room with a view of the tiny overgrown backyard, slipped in and swiftly cleaned it himself—his motions refined, swift, almost unnatural for someone of his supposed frailty. 

Within an hour, the space shone.

Master Qian returned, panting and scowling, arms full of wilting vegetables and a small sack of flour.

"These westerners! No respect! No courtesy! I, a court physician, treated like a beggar!"

He stormed to his second-floor room—the one the attendants had made spotless with fresh bedding and a new washbasin—and immediately began writing his first report, filled with half-truths and imagined slights, including a firm note:

"The envoy is meek, sickly, and unfit for strategic service. Barely coherent. This mission is doomed to fail."

Meanwhile, in the small kitchen, Hiral's chosen agents chopped vegetables with quiet precision. 

The aroma of sizzling meat and spiced broth wafted into the cold rooms, warming the space with life.

Hiral, in fresh clothes now toned down to look diplomatic but dignified, sat by the open window of his office, quill in hand, scribbling swift observations of Ro's security systems, transportation patterns, and rumored supply routes.

He paused.

On the edge of his desk sat the black silk fan embroidered with koi. 

Koi, the gambler's symbol for luck.

Luck, huh. 

Hiral mused. 

Fingertips brushing its surface, Hiral smiled to himself.

The capital of Ro was a den of perfumed actors with hidden blades at their back. And Hiral—veiled in sickness and secrets—was about to sharpen his own.

He looked out into the fading sunlight, mind already calculating next steps.