The Chaos Imperium: The Eternal Empire

Raizen Valefor stood at the heart of the Nhạn camp—now the fledgling fortress of Ebonhold—his piercing gaze tracing the three-meter wooden wall, a hard-won trophy from yesterday's ferocious clash with Shadowfang. A cold wind swept through the dead forest, carrying the gritty scent of ash that defined Noctavaria Abyss, mingled with white smoke curling from a smoldering pile of bones near the wall—a remnant of the ritual Kade Fenris, the Nhạn elder, had led last night to break Solvaria Dominion's curse. The gray sky rumbled with distant thunder, faint light spilling over the glossy black stones stacked tight at the wall's base, forming a crude but solid armor. Two scars from Shadowfang's wooden cannon shots still marked the timber—testament to a battle where Raizen had guided Ebonhold to victory against thirty-five warriors and two ramshackle cannons. His grip tightened on the broken sword, its chipped steel blade crusted with dried enemy blood from yesterday's kills, the icy metal seeping through his sweat-drenched palm—a stark reminder of triumph's cost and the looming threat from the eastern woods, where the "clack-clack" of Drakos Imperium's spiked boots grew ever sharper.

The silver necklace etched with "Eternal" dangled against his chest—a gift from Kael Iscariot, the friend who'd once stayed up with him through sleepless nights in Thiên Long's Saigon labs in 2050, dreaming of a world where technology served humanity. Here in Noctavaria Abyss, Kael remained his trusted right hand, but yesterday's flicker of frustration in his eyes—when a bone crossbow string snapped mid-drill—nagged at Raizen. It was a hairline crack in their bond he wasn't ready to face. He drew a deep breath, the tang of dried blood and ash flooding his lungs, his gaze softening briefly as he recalled Selene Kazehana—the Nhạn warrior who'd saved him from a spiral beast on his first day. Yesterday, during Ragnar's firebomb test—two kilos of dry sap, five kilos of black charcoal, and a kilo of sulfur dug from the dry creek—the mix detonated too soon, right in Raizen's face. Crimson flames roared, swallowing him in black smoke. Ragnar took a light burn on his left hand trying to smother it, but it was Selene who plunged through the choking haze, dragging Raizen clear with strong, trembling hands. Her red eye blazed then—not just loyalty, but a fierce love Raizen couldn't ignore, though he kept his distance to focus on the war ahead.

Selene emerged from the wall's shadow, her white hair whipping in the cold wind, her dual eyes—icy blue on the left, fiery red on the right—glinting with vigilance and a trace of tenderness as they met his. A thin scar traced her neck, stark in the dim light, her scarred leather armor clinging tight, the small swallow glyph on her left shoulder a proud mark of the Nhạn, the last survivors of this dead land. Her steel sword gleamed, still flecked with black beast blood from yesterday. She stopped a few paces from Raizen, her breath slightly ragged from checking the eastern perimeter, her low voice warm yet steady: "Shadowfang's pulled back, Raizen. But Drakos is closing in—I found boot tracks less than a hundred paces out, deeper, more even than Shadowfang's. Real troops are coming, not just hired rabble." She hesitated, her red eye locking onto his, then softened her tone, a faint tremor betraying her restraint: "Yesterday… when the firebomb blew early, I thought you were gone. I can't lose you, Raizen. Why do you keep risking yourself like that?"

Raizen met her gaze, his cold stare thawing at her raw concern. "I won't let anyone die in front of me, Selene," he said, his voice low but firm, sidestepping the truth—that as the black smoke swallowed him yesterday, flames searing his left arm and dropping him in agony, he'd been shielding her and Ebonhold. Without Selene charging through the fire to haul him out, without her grit as she carried him from the blaze, he wouldn't be standing here now. She quirked a rare smile, softening her hardened face. "You're a strange one, Raizen Valefor," she murmured, her voice a whisper on the wind, turning away before he could catch the flush creeping up her cheeks in the faint light.

Ragnar Kiryuu strode from the crafting tent near the camp's center, his broad frame dusted with earth, his left hand wrapped in crude white cloth after yesterday's firebomb burn—a light but angry red mark that made him grit his teeth with each move. He carried a bundle of gray vines—each four meters long, thumb-thick, two kilos after drying two hours under this morning's harsh sun. His dark eyes sparked with excitement as he knelt beside Raizen, sketching a net trap in the ash with a charred stick: a five-meter square, four corner dots marking anchor stones. "The net traps are ready," he said, his deep voice brimming with confidence despite a rasp from pain. "I braided three gray vines into a main cord, knots every ten centimeters—five meters square, twenty kilos finished. Anchored with four five-kilo black stones, rounded from the creek over two days. Five pull the cords—nothing gets out. The ancient Greeks, around the 5th century BC, wove flax nets for boars and deer—a good net could snag a whole herd. I've got two east of the wall, two north—lure Shadowfang in, then stone-thrower finishes them from above."

Raizen studied the sketch, his mind flashing to military history from Thiên Long. "Greek flax rotted in rain—these vines are tougher, closer to the sinew Romans used for bows later, 1st century AD. How do you keep them from tangling? And if they're wet?" Ragnar grabbed three vines from the bundle, braiding them despite the sting in his left hand. He twisted them into a tight cord, deftly knotting every ten centimeters, forming a small-eyed net the size of a fist. "Three strands into one main cord—each knot's an eye, small enough to trap a leg, strong enough to hold taut," he explained. "Mesopotamians, around 3000 BC, wove reed nets to fish the Euphrates—same technique, but these northern vines are twice as tough when dried. Wet's the issue—yesterday's test tore mid-fight because I used half-dried cords, nearly got Liam Ignis hurt. Needs five pulling in sync, two meters apart, each on an anchor cord—miss a beat, they're free."

Raizen nodded, approval tinged with caution in his eyes. "Good. Add a 'play dead' tactic—me down in the ash faking injury, Selene lures them in, five pull at once when they're centered. Romans did that in Gaul, 1st century BC, to break German lines. But your hand's hurt—can you still manage?" Ragnar grinned faintly, eyes alight: "This burn won't stop me—yesterday I botched the firebomb, but next time I won't fail."

"What about the stone-thrower?" Raizen pressed. Ragnar pointed to the machine near the wall—a two-meter dry-wood frame, a two-meter arm lashed with ten meters of doubled vine cord, tipped with a curved Asvaria machine scrap. "Upgraded last night," he replied, a smile flickering despite the ache in his hand. "Double vines triple the tension—now it hurls ten-kilo stones fifty meters, more accurate than Shadowfang's crude cannons. Romans, around 200 BC, built ballistas with twisted sinew for power—no sinew here, but doubled vines are close. Two load the stone, one pulls—ten seconds a shot. Yesterday, after five rapid fires, the old wood cracked, a stone veered into the wall, nearly took out the east corner—I swapped in twenty kilos of fresh deadwood this morning, good for ten shots before it needs replacing."

Raizen frowned, his voice low and stern: "Yesterday's stray nearly cost us the wall—I won't lose this fortress to mistakes. Your hand's burned—can you still do it?" Ragnar dipped his head, voice warm: "I can—if I don't, Liam Ignis won't trust me anymore." He glanced up at the young man nearby, clutching an "E"-carved wood piece, like an older brother watching out for kin. Raizen nodded: "Use pit traps east—dig half a meter deep, three wide, cover with net and ash camouflage. When Shadowfang hits it, pull the net to drop them, then rain stones from above."

Kael Iscariot approached from the crafting tent, gripping a new crossbow—its body ten kilos of gray wood dried three days, limbs a half-meter curved Asvaria shard, five grooves holding bone arrows carved from two kilos of beast bone this morning, each half-meter shaft dagger-sharp after an hour on flint. His keen eyes met Raizen's, a faint smile flashing—the bond from Thiên Long's steel arrow tests—but a spark of discontent flared as he glanced at Leon Vesper by the market. "Bone crossbow's done," he said, voice steady and sure. "Pierces Shadowfang leather at thirty meters, five shots in ten seconds—based on the Zhuge Nu from China's Warring States, 5th century BC, they shredded infantry lines with repeaters. Yesterday's drill, though, the wet vine string snapped on shot three—I fought a mock Shadowfang bare-handed, used this broken sword to slash its throat. Switched to five meters of hand-braided dry vine, took two days per crossbow, and each bone arrow's an hour with creek flint."

He frowned, discontent sharpening: "With help grinding bone, I'd have two crossbows today—but you gave Leon the economy, a guy who just rigs prices instead of building." Raizen eyed him, wariness flickering at this fresh grievance. "Leon does his job—you're the best I've got here, Kael," he replied, voice low and firm. "Teach Liam Ignis the bone crossbow—start today. Add beast hide strips from Shadowfang's stash for extra snap, like Mongol bows, 13th century—I need ten crossbows in five days." Kael nodded, eyes still bright with trust, but a thought simmered unspoken: Leon's not worth more than me—I'll prove it.

Liam Ignis dashed up beside Kael, clutching a dry wood scrap etched with "E"—a sign he'd learned from Ragnar while weaving nets this morning. His eyes blazed at Kael's bone crossbow. "I'll learn—to fight Shadowfang and beasts!" he said, voice quaking but fierce. He turned to three villagers near the central tent—two young men and a woman, each holding "E"-marked wood like his first pupils. "I taught them 'E'—they can do it! They want more—to log how to beat Shadowfang like you said!" He grabbed another scrap, carving a simple glyph—a vertical line with two crossbars—eyes glowing as he explained: "This is 'M'—machines! Ragnar talked about it, I'll build stronger ones later! I'll teach them this—so they know how to make it like you!" He pointed at the trio, voice firm: "Learn this—someday we'll make machines tougher than Drakos!" A young man nodded, hope glinting: "I'll learn—so my kid doesn't starve." Raizen gave a faint nod, approval in his eyes at Liam's spread of knowledge—a small but vital step, like Egyptians around 3000 BC carving hieroglyphs to record pyramid tech. "Good—teach them basic signs first," he ordered, voice steady.

Leon Vesper stood by the market—four two-meter wooden posts squared off, three stalls brimming: ten small beast hides, five Shadowfang steel spears, and twenty dry-root bundles from the food stores, each five kilos, enough for a family of three days. He held an "E"-marked wood piece, ambition gleaming as Shadowfang captives traded to stay. "Yesterday's win sold the people on you," he said, voice deep with confidence. "I expanded the market post-fight—food's three 'E's a bundle now, they work double to eat, goods stack for the next clash. I tried 'Ebon' coins from dry bark—ten by five centimeters, steel-knife carved, but they rot in a week, need beast hide to fix. Bones at three 'E's, quills five—they're trading hard for armor and arrows. The British, 18th century, choked colonies with supply caps—I hung a traitor's corpse mid-market to scare them, bait Shadowfang with steel spears for gold and hides, no extra fight." He smirked, eyes narrowing at Raizen: "I swapped three hides with a Red Tiger captive this morning—they've got gold, but I kept it quiet."

Raizen nodded faintly, approval laced with caution at Leon's cunning. "Build a food stash—ration by 'E.' Reward loyalty with steel spears, punish traitors with ten days' hard labor—digging pit traps or fixing walls—like Romans, 1st century AD, ruled Germans with fear and gain," he ordered, voice stern. "But secret Red Tiger deals—report them clear next time, Leon. I don't want surprises from allies." Leon chuckled, dipping his head: "Got it—I'll hang the traitor this afternoon." He signaled two villagers to hoist a traitor's body—the one who lit a smoke signal last night—onto a market pole. The crowd gathered, a man whispering in fear: "He cut the net—now he pays." A Shadowfang captive knelt, trembling at the dripping blood. Raizen watched, voice low: "The rest—ten days digging pits. Work gets you fed."

Another Shadowfang captive, the tall one who'd traded "E," stepped up, voice shaky but resolute: "Shadowfang's done—you're stronger. I want steel spears and a place. But next time, they'll send more—two hundred, five high generals from Drakos. Their Wolfkin chieftess, Lyria Fenrir, once beheaded a beast bare-handed—she'll come for blood if she knows we failed." Raizen eyed him, cold suspicion flickering at Lyria Fenrir's name—a hint of a fierce woman he'd meet later. "Work for me—you get spears and a spot," he replied, pointing to the market's steel pile. "What's Drakos after?" The man whispered: "White bones—to summon beasts for the crowned one."

Seiryu Alvis emerged from the medical tent near the center, holding a small clay pot with half a liter of anesthetic brewed from two kilos of blood-fruit picked this morning—dark red sap pooling inside, a faint sharpness wafting as she stirred with a gray twig. Her torn white blouse, ash-streaked, was her last tie to Saigon 2050's modernity. Inside her "field hospital," five wounded from yesterday—three villagers stabbed in shoulders and legs by Shadowfang spears, two captives hit by cannon shards—lay on dirt beds, wounds wrapped in ash-soaked rags, their pain eased by her post-battle shots. Ellen Lumen, a young Nhạn mother, stood beside her, gripping a gray twig, eyes bright with trust as Raizen entered. "Seiryu saved them—thanks to you beating Shadowfang!" she said, voice trembling but hopeful, pointing to three villagers—two young women and a middle-aged man—learning to brew ash antiseptic in another small pot, a sharp tang rising under Seiryu's guidance.

Seiryu looked up, her icy eyes meeting Raizen's, a strange flicker of feeling passing as he drew near. "Ebonhold's first field hospital—enough anesthetic for five more, brewed from two kilos of blood-fruit sap, dulls pain two hours, but over two teaspoons knocks them out," she said, voice cold but firm. "Egyptians, 3000 BC, used tree sap for surgery pain—this blood-fruit's close, takes three hours on low fire to extract. Ellen's quick—she taught two this morning, now I'm training three for ash antiseptic, enough for ten wounded next fight." She stepped closer, voice dropping, eyes tinged with worry: "Yesterday, when the firebomb blew, your arm got burned—why not let me treat it? You don't have to suffer alone."

Raizen met her gaze, surprise flashing at her unexpected care. "It's minor—doesn't slow me," he replied, voice low, though his heart stirred recalling yesterday's blaze—two kilos of sap, five of charcoal, and a kilo of sulfur in Ragnar's clay pot. Too much sap sparked it early, flames engulfing him, scorching his left arm, while Ragnar's hand burned trying to douse it. Without Selene's rescue and Seiryu's swift cold-wrap, his arm might be useless now. He softened: "Thanks, Seiryu. I'll be careful next time."

She nodded faintly, her gaze warming, but her brow twitched as Selene stepped closer from a few paces away—a spark of rivalry flaring at the sight. "I've been with you longer—let me check that burn," Selene said, voice firm but caring, reaching for his arm. Seiryu cut in coldly: "I know healing—you need medicine, not just a sword." Selene spun, red eye blazing: "I'm more than a sword—I pulled him from the fire." Raizen raised a hand, voice steady: "Enough—you're both vital to Ebonhold." He stepped out, leaving the women exchanging tense glances—a seed of competition sprouting in their hearts.

Kade Fenris hobbled up from the central tent, leaning on a dry cane, eyes mixing awe and faith as he studied Raizen amid the camp. "Cursebreaker—you're stronger than Drakos and Shadowfang," he rasped, raising his cane to rally villagers around the smoldering bone pile. "Tonight, we burn more bones to honor the spoils, pray to break Solvaria's curse. They want you to lead—like Selene says." He turned to the crowd, voice ringing over the wind: "He's the Cursebreaker—we live because of him!" The villagers cheered, some kneeling in the ash, eyes alight with raw faith. A middle-aged man muttered: "He torched beasts—stronger than Solvaria!" A young mother, cradling her child, added: "Elders say Solvaria's monsters took our kin—he'll avenge us!" Kade led them to the bone pile, tossing a half-meter shaft into the flames—fire flared, white smoke soaring like a plea to the sky, echoing Mesopotamian rites from 3000 BC to bind a people with fire and offerings.

Raizen stood a few paces off, his cold gaze piercing east—where Drakos camp smoke thickened, spiked boots clacking like distant war drums. A cloaked figure flashed between dead trees at the forest's edge, dropping a small paper scrap in the ash before vanishing—scrawled in red ink: "Prepare for steel fire." He snatched it up, suspicion flaring at a tiny spiral glyph in the corner—identical to one carved on a Shadowfang corpse he'd felled yesterday. "Drakos and Solvaria…" he murmured, voice low amid Noctavaria's ash and gloom, his hand clenching "Eternal" like a vow. He turned to his crew—Selene with her steel sword and unspoken love, Ragnar grinning by his stone-thrower despite pain, Kael's trust burning bright beside his bone crossbow yet shadowed by discontent, Leon scheming at the market, and Seiryu's cold warmth in the hospital tent. "Fortify Ebonhold—Drakos and Solvaria won't wait," he commanded, his voice echoing through the camp, eyes locked on the thickening dark—a pledge of a greater battle looming, and a heart slowly opening to the women at his side.