By late afternoon, Galuguh’s army appears on the horizon.

  A storm of banners and armored men, stretching as far as the eye can see. The sun glints off their spears and shields, casting an ominous shimmer.

  Rangkabhumi tightens his grip on his sword.

  They don’t attack immediately. Instead, they halt a short distance away, their ranks shifting, their leaders discussing strategy.

  Rangkabhumi exhales. Good. They’re resting. That means he can prepare.

  But nightfall brings a cruel revelation. Galuguh’s forces don’t wait for dawn. They launch their assault under the cover of darkness.

  A calculated attack. A battle of attrition.

  They split their forces into two waves, ensuring relentless pressure throughout the night. Meanwhile, Rangkabhumi’s outnumbered men have no such luxury.

  The defenders fight without rest. The clang of steel, the whistling of arrows, and the screams of men fill the air.

  A commander’s voice booms over the chaos—

  “Hold your ground! Don’t let them breach the gate!”

  Another officer shouts—

  “Archers! Fire at will! Stop them before they reach the walls!”

  The volley of arrows cuts through the night sky, striking down dozens—but the enemy keeps coming.

  A soldier cries out, his spear shaking—“There’s too many of them!”

  A commander grabs him by the collar, shaking him fiercely. “Steel your nerves, boy! You falter, and we all die!”

  Another commander roars from the ramparts—

  “Ladders on the western wall! Push them down!”

  Men rush to topple the siege ladders, hacking at them with axes, but the enemy is relentless.

  BOOM!

  A battering ram crashes against the fortress gate.

  “Reinforce the gate! Stack the barricades!”

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  More men throw their weight against the door, but the wood is starting to crack.

  “To the eastern wall! They’re climbing up!”

  Rangkabhumi dashes through the narrow corridors of the fortress, his ears filled with the sounds of battle.

  He reaches the eastern wall just in time to see enemy soldiers vaulting over the battlements.

  “Kill them before they set foot inside!” he roars.

  His men charge forward, steel flashing under the moonlight.

  The nightmare begins. A war drenched in blood

  Steel clashes against bone. Blood sprays in crimson arcs, painting the once-proud stone walls in slick red streaks.

  Screams pierce the night—some from dying men, others from those forced to watch their comrades butchered before their eyes.

  The fortress floor grows slick, coated with spilled entrails and shattered bodies. Severed limbs litter the battlefield, trampled underfoot as the fighting rages on.

  A soldier falls nearby, his gut sliced open—he tries to hold himself together, trembling, choking on his own blood.

  Another man screams, pinned beneath a fallen comrade, his skull caved in by a Galuguh war hammer.

  The scent of iron and rot clings to the air, mingling with the acrid burn of torches and blood-soaked earth.

  Rangkabhumi’s men fight like cornered beasts.

  One soldier swings his sword wildly, his face smeared with gore—his expression one of pure terror. He cleaves an enemy’s arm clean off, but before he can celebrate—

  Shnk!

  A spear pierces his throat.

  He gurgles, his eyes wide—then collapses, dead before he hits the ground.

  An officer’s head is hacked from his shoulders, his decapitated body staggering for a moment before crumpling, blood gushing like a fountain.

  The fortress turns into a slaughterhouse. And by midnight, the enemy breaches the fortress.

  “Get in! Get in!”

  “Kill them all and seize the fort!”

  The walls are lost, and the fight spills into the inner courtyards. More than half of Rangkabhumi’s men lie dead. The survivors bleed from countless wounds, their strength waning.

  Rangkabhumi knows he must enter the fight.

  Without hesitation, he leaps from the second floor, his foot gliding over air like a phantom. His blade sings through the darkness—

  Shnk!

  Two enemy heads roll before his boots even touch the ground.

  His war cry roars across the battlefield.

  “Do not lose hope! General Kagendra is on his way!”

  As the enemy surged forward, Rangkabhumi tightened his grip on his bloodied blade, exhaling sharply.

  “If this fortress must fall… then I will make them bleed for every stone they take.”

  Rangkabhumi’s war cry reignites the dying flames of his soldiers’ spirits.

  “Push them out of the fort!”

  “Clear them out—we need space to recover!”

  “We must hold this fortress until morning!”

  More voices rise, determination burning in their eyes. Victory no longer matters—only survival. Their minds are set on Talang Asri, their families, their home.

  Losing the fort means losing everything. And so, they fight with reckless abandon, willing to sacrifice themselves for those they love.

  Their desperate counterattack drives the enemy back, forcing them out of the fortress. But the cost is steep. Blood stains the stone floors, bodies litter the ground, and those still standing are barely holding on.

  “Close the gates! Destroy their ladders—they’ll be back soon!”

  The young men from Talang Asri rush forward. They are not soldiers, but their hands are steady as they move to aid the wounded, fortify defenses, and give the warriors a brief moment to breathe.

  A commander approaches, his face grim. “Senapati, the enemy’s second wave is coming. They won’t stop now—they know we’re on our last legs.”

  Rangkabhumi surveys what’s left of his men. Fewer than thirty can still fight. The rest groan in pain, receiving what little aid can be given.

  He lifts his gaze to the sky. The darkness remains unbroken.

  Dawn is still far away.

  And if the enemy attacks now—

  The fortress will fall before reinforcements ever arrive.

  “We cannot let them breach the fortress. If they do, reclaiming it will be nearly impossible. We must hold the line.”

  Silence falls over the weary soldiers—not from fear, but from grim resolve. None of them have any illusions about their chances. Yet, not a single man steps back. They are warriors of Talang Asri, ready to give their lives.

  Rangkabhumi exhales, scanning their faces—men bloodied, battered, yet unbroken.

  “Listen well,” he says, voice steady. “I have no intention of running. But if any of you wish to leave, do so now.”

  At Rangkabhumi’s words, a few soldiers waver. The young ones, once so determined to sacrifice themselves, hesitate. Their minds drift to the dreams they have yet to fulfill—the loved ones waiting for them in Talang Asri.

  Rangkabhumi sees it in their eyes. And he smiles, not with disappointment, but with understanding.

  “Young ones, stay inside the fortress,” he says, his voice firm but kind. “Let me and the five commanders handle this outside.”

  “Outside?” one of them whispers, disbelief flashing across his face.

  But Rangkabhumi stands unwavering, his confidence unshaken. Beside him, his five remaining commanders exchange knowing glances. They understand the situation. They know the odds.

  Still, they follow their general without question.

  Rangkabhumi exhales, scanning the bloodied ground outside the fort.

  So much death. So much waste.

  Once, when he was young, he believed war had honor.

  Now, he only knows its cost.