The morning sun on the first day of the new year did not rise with the golden color of hope. It rose pale and sickly, as if reluctant to shine on the earth below.

  Zeal tightened his worn scarf, holding back his own breath that froze in the air. His worn boots trod the muddy path leading to the gates of the small town of Ugudan. The town was only a two-hour ride from the capital, Everiven. Normally, Ugudan was a bustling transit town—a supplier of textiles and wheat, a place where merchants stopped for cheap ale before entering the luxury of the capital.

  Zeal had not come here to trade. He had come to search for the rest of his “family.” After the Angborg Prison break-in a few months ago, his crew had scattered. The last coded message he had received directed him to meet at the “Pig's Head” tavern in the center of Ugudan.

  “It's so quiet,” Zeal muttered. His hand reflexively touched the hilt of the dagger at his waist. This silence was wrong. There should have been the sound of merchants' carts. The sound of dogs barking. The sound of village temple bells. But there was only the sound of the wind whistling through the gaps in the wooden fence, carrying a scent that made Zeal's stomach churn.

  That scent wasn't the smell of horse manure or market trash. It was the scent of wet, rusty metal. The scent of meat left out in the sun too long, mixed with the sickeningly sweet smell of decay.

  Zeal stepped through the half-open wooden gate. The hinges were broken, hanging crookedly.

  The first sight that greeted him was not a market. Instead, it was a row of bamboo spears neatly planted along the main road. At the tip of each spear was a round object surrounded by slow winter flies.

  Zeal approached, squinting in the sunlight, hoping it was a pumpkin or some strange New Year's festival decoration. But when he stood directly beneath it, he saw empty, staring eyes. A head. The head of an old woman with gray braided hair. On the spear next to it, the head of a young soldier with a dented helmet. Next to that, the head of a teenager.

  Their mouths were agape, their tongues swollen and protruding. There were no screams. The screams had died hours ago.

  “For Heaven's sake...” Zeal whispered, his feet taking a step back.

  He had seen bar fights end with guts spilling out. He had seen people hanged. But this wasn't murder. This was a death art installation.

  Zeal forced his feet to move. He had to know. He had to make sure his crew wasn't here. He walked deeper into the city.

  Each step became heavier. The ground beneath his feet changed color. The brown Ugandan mud had turned into thick, sticky red sludge. In the gutters on either side of the road, blood did not flow; it pooled, thick as jelly, clogging the drains.

  Zeal reached the town square. And there he saw “The Mountain.”

  In the middle of the square, where there was usually a stone fountain, there was now a pile of corpses stacked three meters high. The corpses were not thrown randomly. They were stacked with terrifying precision. The bottom layer was large adults. The middle layer was women. The top layer was children.

  They were naked. Their clothes had been stripped off and burned in bonfires that were now just ashes on the side of the road. Their skin was pale, blue, and red. Zeal covered his mouth with his scarf, holding back the urge to vomit.

  But the real horror was not in the mountain of corpses. The horror was in the small details around it.

  In front of the town hall, there was a row of giant ceramic vats—usually used for dyeing textiles. Zeal peered into one of the vats. The liquid inside was a murky red. Floating inside were pieces of human bodies that looked like they had been half-boiled. The pungent smell of cooked meat made Zeal finally vomit beside the barrel. He threw up his dry bread breakfast until his stomach was empty and sore.

  He wiped his mouth roughly, his eyes watering. He walked again, staggering like a drunkard. He saw a more specific scene. More sadistic.

  On a long table that had once been a fruit vendor's stall, there was a pile of sorted body parts. One pile specifically for left arms. One pile specifically for right arms. One pile of legs. And one pile of ears arranged in a small pyramid.

  “Who...” Zeal's voice was hoarse, almost inaudible. “Who had the time to do this?”

  This wasn't the rampage of a monster. Monsters only kill and eat. This was done by humans. Methodical humans. Humans who wanted to send a message.

  Zeal stopped in front of a shop. The “Pig's Head” shop. His meeting place. The shop door was destroyed. On the shop terrace, the bodies of adult men were lined up. They were seated on chairs, tied with an iron wire. Their heads were tilted up towards the sky. Their mouths were gagged. Not with cloth. Zeal approached, his eyes widening in horror when he realized what was in the mouths of the corpses. Their own genitals. Cut off. Forcibly inserted. Their mouths were sewn shut so they couldn't come out.

  The ultimate humiliation. Total domination. The erasure of masculinity and lineage.

  Zeal fell to his knees. His knees hit a pool of cold blood. He crawled toward one of the dead men. The man with an anchor tattoo on his left shoulder.

  “Sir...” Zeal whispered, his voice breaking.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  It was Mr. Rocco. One of the Angborg heist crew. The man who always laughed the loudest. Now, he was nothing but a humiliated corpse, seated like a doll, with his own manhood in his mouth.

  Zeal touched Mr. Rocco's cold arm. His skin was stiff. Rigor mortis had already set in. This happened last night. Probably right when the fireworks exploded in the capital. While people were dancing in the palace, Ugudan was being slaughtered.

  “Who did this to you?” Zeal sobbed, tears falling onto the anchor tattoo. “Who?!”

  “Halt!”

  The loud shout startled Zeal. He turned quickly, his right hand grabbing his dagger, his eyes wild like a cornered animal.

  At the end of the street, a group of horsemen appeared. They wore shiny silver armor with the Blue Lightning emblem on their chests—the Royal Guard.

  But even these elite royal soldiers looked shaken. Their horses whinnied in panic, refusing to step further into the pool of blood. Several soldiers in the back row were seen dismounting and vomiting on the side of the road. They were accustomed to war, but not to a slaughterhouse.

  A captain of the army—a middle-aged man with a pale face—dismounted from his horse. He drew his sword, but its tip trembled.

  “You!” the captain snapped at Zeal. “Put down your weapon! Did you do this? Are you one of them?”

  Zeal stood up slowly. He raised his blood-stained hands (blood from the ground where he had been kneeling). “Look at me!” Zeal shouted, his voice hoarse with anger. “Do I look like I could kill a thousand people and arrange them like toys in one night?! My friend is in that chair! He was mutilated!”

  The captain stared at Zeal, then at Captain Rocco's corpse. He lowered his sword slightly. He could see pure despair in Zeal's eyes.

  “Who...” asked Zeal, taking a step forward. “Who did this?”

  The captain of the army looked around, staring at the pile of heads on spears, the pile of arms, and the terrifying barrels. The captain's face hardened. His fear turned into fanatical hatred.

  “Look at the sign,” said the Captain, pointing to the town hall wall with the tip of his sword.

  Zeal turned his head. On the white wall of the town hall, a large message was written in fresh, still-wet blood. The writing was crude and primitive, but clearly legible.

  JUSTICE FOR MACHIMA. FASHEART RISES.

  Zeal gaped. “Fasheart?” That poor industrial district? The district of miners and outcasts led by Beth? Zeal knew Beth. He had seen her before. She was cold, but efficient. This kind of cruelty... this wasn't efficiency. This was sadism. This was madness.

  “They're animals,” spat the Captain of the troops. “The Fasheart rebels. They attacked the capital last night and blew up our sacred monument. And now... they're slaughtering innocent civilians in Ugudan just because this city supplies food to the palace.”

  The captain clenched his fist. “They're not human anymore. They're demons.”

  Zeal stared at the blood writing again. Something was off. The writing was too big. Too “clear.” As if someone wanted to make sure everyone knew who did it. But when he saw Mr. Rocco's body, Zeal's logic dulled. Pain and grief clouded his critical thinking. All he saw was the body of his family member. And the name “Fasheart” was written on it.

  Suddenly, a deep, resonant trumpet sound was heard from the main road. The ground shook. Not because of an earthquake, but because of the stomping of thousands of feet and the dense aura of the Intians that pressed down on the air.

  The Royal Guard immediately moved to the side of the road, kneeling with their heads bowed.

  From the morning mist, a different detachment of soldiers emerged. Their armor was not silver. Their armor was white gold. And in front of them, riding a giant black stallion with glowing blue eyes, was that figure.

  Prince Arlen Runerre.

  He wore no crown. His golden hair was disheveled. His face—usually perfectly handsome—was now gaunt, his eyes sunken with dark circles beneath them, yet burning with a terrifying blue fire. There was an aura of instability around him. Static electricity crackled from his body, scorching the hem of his own cloak.

  Arlen had just lost his energy source the night before. He was hungry. He was angry. And he was hurt.

  Arlen did not dismount from his horse. He surveyed the Ugudan square with a cold gaze, like a god looking down on broken ants. He saw the piles of corpses. He saw the barrels. He saw the heads on spears.

  His expression didn't change. There was no disgust. No sadness. Only... validation.

  Arlen rode his horse closer to the town hall wall. He read the blood-stained words: JUSTICE FOR MACHIMA.

  “General Crawler,” Arlen called softly. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly across the silent square.

  A large man with burn scars on his face stepped forward. “At your service, Your Highness.”

  “Record this,” Arlen said, pointing at the corpses. “Document everything. Take pictures. Every head, every body part, every drop of blood.”

  Arlen turned to Zeal, who was still kneeling. “You,” Arlen said.

  Zeal looked up, staring into those terrifying blue eyes. “You're a living witness?” Arlen asked.

  “I... I just arrived, Your Majesty,” Zeal replied, trembling. “I found my friend... murdered.”

  “Good,” Arlen said coldly. “Save your anger. You'll need it.”

  Arlen turned his horse to face his troops. He raised his hand, clad in an iron gauntlet. Lightning struck from the clear sky, hitting his sword and creating an explosion of sound that made everyone jump.

  “My people!” Arlen's voice boomed, amplified by magic. “Look at what those ‘Liberators’ have done! Look at the true face of the Fasheart Revolution!”

  Arlen pointed to the mountain of corpses in the middle of the square. "They talk about justice. They talk about equality. And THIS is their form of justice! Mutilation! Massacre! They don't want freedom. They want our extinction!"

  Arlen stared at General Crawler. “General. Send a message to every State Governor. To Vsnava. To the neighboring borders. Activate the War Beacon.”

  “Your Majesty?” General Crawler hesitated for a moment. “Full mobilization?”

  “Full,” Arlen hissed, his eyes wild. “I want every soldier who can hold a sword. I want every Battle-Mage from the academy. I want every cannon we have.”

  Arlen looked toward the southeast. Toward Fasheart. "They destroyed my tower. They took... what was mine,“ (Arlen remembered Mira). ”So I will take their lives."

  “One week,” Arlen raised one finger. “In one week, I want the largest combined army in Asnaven's history assembled on the southeastern plains. We will not negotiate. We will not take prisoners.”

  Arlen squeezed the reins until his skin creaked. “We will wipe Fasheart off the map. We will burn the land until it turns to glass, and we will salt it so that nothing will ever grow there again.”

  “FOR ASNAVEN!” Arlen shouted.

  “FOR ASNAVEN!” replied the thousands of soldiers behind him in unison, their voices shaking the silent corpses.

  Zeal was still kneeling in the bloody mud. He heard the battle cry. His heart was broken. His logic was dead. He stared at the word “Fasheart” on the wall. Then he stared at Rocco's corpse.

  Zeal picked up his fallen blade. He gripped it so tightly his hands bled. He didn't care about politics. He didn't care if Arlen was a tyrant or a hero. He knew only one thing: someone had killed his crew.

  And if Arlen wanted to burn Fasheart... Zeal would help light the fire.

  The sun rose higher, bathing the slaughterhouse in bright light, exposing every detail of the atrocity for the world to see. The Asnaven Civil War had begun. And it began not with the clash of swords, but with a perfectly planned massacre.