The First Strike of the Night
A long, weary sigh escaped Muraka as he walked the outer perimeter of the British Empire’s camp.
The darkness wrapped everything in a heavy shroud. The soldier from the Mok Tribe had been assigned the tiresome duty of patrolling the outer edges, and tonight of all nights it chafed him to the bone.
“Hmph… I swear, they had to send me out on a night like this. Making glorious warriors of the Mok Tribe stand guard like this… it’s downright insulting.”
His voice was rough, edged with irritation. Beside him his fellow tribesmen muttered agreement, the sound low and sullen.
“We’re not even British, you know. We’re the locals who joined under the Empire’s orders and the chieftain’s nod. And now they want us to waste our strength on this?”
Muraka’s broad chest rose and fell. His brown skin gleamed faintly in the starlight, muscles coiled like steel cables under tribal tattoos that spoke of countless victories. Dual axes rested across his back, their edges already sharpened from the morning’s drill. He had expected the glorious clash of swords he had trained for all his life.
Instead, the Empire had placed him on perimeter watch. Tomorrow at dawn the main attack would begin, but tonight he and his warriors were to remain here, lanterns low, waiting for any intruder who might slip through the darkness. Sleep was forbidden until the order came. Even if a man wanted to rush forward and meet the enemy, his body was still half-asleep, his reflexes dulled. To charge now would be nothing but a slaughter.
Yet the alternative was worse. These warriors did not beg. They simply endured.
At that moment, a British officer named Ron walked past their station, smiling faintly.
“Calm yourselves,” he said, voice warm. “Preventing an ambush is still a vital task. And since the war may not even last a single day, better to rest here and be ready when it finally begins. We can crush the tired enemy all the more thoroughly.”
Muraka grunted, the sound half-reluctant.
“…Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”
The others relaxed a fraction. Hunting a wounded beast is indeed easier than chasing one in full fury. The tribal honor in their blood eased, and they resumed their slow, watchful pacing.
Ron watched them from the corner of his eye and allowed himself a quiet sigh of relief. *Still, the Mok are exceptional fighters, but you can’t escape the savages in their bones. Nothing but war lives in their minds.*
The Mok contingent formed the core of the five-thousand-strong Imperial garrison. Two thousand strong, they were the Empire’s prized auxiliary shock troops—brown-skinned, black-haired, and blessed with senses so sharp they could detect movement a kilometer away even in total darkness. Selected from the most loyal clans, they had no equal in scouting and night fighting. To the Empire they were indispensable.
But control was another matter. Their relentless aggression sometimes drove officers to the edge of losing the entire unit. A single reckless charge could spark an incident, and the Mok’s pride made them loathe to admit fault. Ron had learned the hard way how delicate they were.
He was glad the watch was almost over. When dawn came the real fighting would begin. Until then, he simply wanted to return to the command tent, collapse, and dream of tomorrow’s victory.
Then—
“Ugh?”
“…Crum?”
The sound of approaching footsteps, unnatural in its silence, froze the patrol.
Muraka and his men stiffened. The lazy slouch of moments ago vanished. Their bodies coiled like springs, eyes scanning the treeline.
Ron’s smile faltered. A prickle of unease ran down his spine. “What is it?”
“…Ron Officer. There’s something out there.”
“Not an animal. This… it smells human.”
“Humans?”
Ron’s face hardened. The words from the Mok warrior he trusted more than any officer carried weight. These men’s instincts were superhuman. If they said danger was approaching, danger was approaching.
“How many?”
“Hard to say. But the ground is trembling. Hundreds, at least.”
“Deep in the forest? Even then, dozens… maybe hundreds.”
“…This is bad.”
Muraka’s voice was low, edged with raw excitement. His hand tightened on the haft of one axe.
Ron weighed the situation in seconds. Reports claimed no additional troops had joined the camp tonight. Yet the Mok scouts were certain of movement. The only logical conclusion was—
“Ambush?” Muraka’s voice rose with bloodlust. “Commander, order me now and I’ll bring their heads back to you myself.”
The warrior’s excitement was palpable, but Ron shook his head.
“Not yet. First we report. We need to gather our own forces. If they’re hundreds strong, we match them. Fall back to the camp at once. All of you.”
“Damn… yes, sir.”
Muraka and his men moved with practiced silence, though their eyes still burned with battle fever. Ron let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. *If I’m even a second late, they’ll vanish into the trees on their own.* He turned and hurried toward the command tent, boots barely touching the ground.
*One more report. Then I can rest.*
*
“What? An ambush?”
The voice belonged to General Neto, fresh from his bed, face flushed with annoyance rather than fear.
Neto North, the Empire’s arrogant, corrupt general, stood in the doorway of his tent, staring at the report officer. Clara, still half-dressed beside him, watched with narrowed eyes.
“North forest,” the officer continued. “Mok scouts detected movement. Immediately after I sent a detachment to investigate.”
Neto’s lip curled. “Rebel scum. They must have decided to die tonight. They’re hiding inside the fortress and still trying to play games?”
Clara’s voice was silky. “The Mok Tribe patrols that area. Even if they move quietly, attacking now is foolish. They must not understand how useless such tricks are against them.”
Neto laughed, loud and dismissive. The Mok’s natural night vision was legendary. No ordinary magic could match it. The Empire had never lost a single ambush in the two years of this colonial war.
“Exactly,” he said, eyes gleaming. “How did our side respond?”
“General Richard stopped the original patrol and took seven hundred men to the scene herself. She has already engaged the enemy. She sent a formal after-action report, though I understand she’s deeply concerned about something.”
Richard. The name made Neto snort. “That woman? Hah. She must be losing her mind. Sending her whole detachment just to file a report. Still, she’s no fool. She’s probably convinced the whole thing is Cromwell’s doing.”
Clara’s fingers tightened on her cloak. “Cromwell?”
Neto reached out without thinking and ruffled her hair, the gesture almost affectionate. “Relax. This is nothing. The power gap is too great. One man couldn’t turn the tide even if he tried. And besides, the rebels don’t actually believe in him. They’re bluffing.”
He pulled her closer, voice dropping to a mocking whisper. “Richard will handle the cleanup. If he really is there… we’ll cut his head off tomorrow. Simple.”
Clara forced a smile, but inside her chest something cold and heavy twisted. *Why does this feel wrong? He’s right… yet my heart won’t settle.*
*
Fear, they said, was born from knowledge.
And at this very moment, in the heart of General Leah Richard, the knowledge she carried burned like wildfire.
She had always known the danger. That was why, against her own officers’ protests, she had personally led seven hundred men into the northern ridge. She had expected a trap.
But what she saw now was far worse than any trap.
Her blue eyes widened as she stared across the dark treeline at the man standing at the center of the enemy formation.
He wore no armor. No helmet. Just simple dark robes that stirred faintly in the night wind. And from him radiated a thick, unnatural green light—holy power so pure it hurt to look at.
A man.
A single man.
He was surrounded by hundreds of soldiers, yet they had not moved. They simply waited, as if certain of their victory.
Richard’s hand shook on the reins of her horse. The ground beneath her feet seemed to tilt.
*No… this can’t be real.*
Her mind raced through every file, every report, every whispered rumor she had ever heard. She had trained under Edward Cromwell. She had seen what he could do.
*Edward Cromwell…*
The name alone made her blood run cold.
This was the monster they had all feared.
The man who had ended entire armies with a gesture.
The man who had summoned angels from the sky and shattered legions with nothing but a word.
And now he stood there, smiling faintly, as if the war itself were nothing more than an inconvenience.
Richard’s voice cracked. “Cromwell… could it really be him…?”
The wind carried her words across the darkness, but it was too late.
The enemy had already taken the first step.
And the knight who had decided to desert was only beginning his reckoning.