The Chaos Imperium: The Eternal Empire

A cold wind whipped through Noctavaria Abyss, carrying the damp breath of a distant rain rolling in from the dead forest. It twisted the white smoke rising from the smoldering bone pile near Ebonhold's wall into ghostly shapes that hovered in the air. Charred wood scraps on the wall crackled as gusts swept past, a faint lament echoing from the souls lost in yesterday's clash with Shadowfang. Raizen Valefor stood atop a small rise in the fortress's heart, his razor-sharp gaze sweeping the three-meter wooden wall—a sturdy defense that had clinched their victory over thirty-five warriors and two crude cannons. Yet it bore two scars from enemy shots, a stark warning of triumph's fragility. In the fading afternoon light, glossy black stones piled tight at the wall's base glinted weakly, forming a rough armor that had withstood yesterday's fire and smoke. The chill from the dead woods seeped through his thin coat, a reminder that yesterday's win was merely the opening act of a longer war.

His hand clenched the broken sword, its chipped steel blade crusted with Shadowfang blood—a victory paid for by Selene's plunge through bomb smoke to save him and Ragnar's burned hand as he fought the premature blast. The blade's jagged edge, stained and worn, mirrored the unseen cracks forming in his trust for those around him. From the eastern woods, the "clack-clack" of Drakos Imperium's spiked boots grew louder, paired with the scrap of paper he'd found yesterday—"Prepare for steel fire"—a threat he couldn't dismiss, now tucked in his coat like a dark prophecy.

The silver necklace etched with "Eternal" swung against his chest—a gift from Kael Iscariot, the friend he'd once trusted completely back in Saigon 2050. Here, Kael was still the devoted engineer, but yesterday's flash of discontent—when a bone crossbow string snapped mid-drill—and his jab about Raizen handing economic control to Leon Vesper stirred doubts about his loyalty. Raizen drew a deep breath, ash and ritual smoke from last night flooding his lungs, his gaze softening as he thought of Selene Kazehana—the Nhạn warrior who'd braved black smoke to drag him from yesterday's flames. Her red-hot stare and words—"I can't lose you"—had pierced his icy heart, though he told himself it wasn't time to respond. Then there was Seiryu Alvis, the stoic doctor whose quiet care for his burned arm hinted at deeper feelings, her subtle clash with Selene in the medical tent revealing a battle ahead not just on the field, but in the hearts of the women at his side.

Selene approached from the eastern wall, her white hair dancing in the cold wind, her dual eyes—icy blue on the left, blazing red on the right—sharp with vigilance as she gripped a steel sword crusted with dried blood. Her scarred leather armor hugged her frame, the small swallow glyph on her left shoulder a proud mark of Nhạn resilience. She paused near Raizen, breath uneven from leading five villagers in the "play dead" drill he'd suggested yesterday. "I tested the net trap east," she said, her low voice steady. "Five pulled the cords in sync—braided from ten meters of fully dried gray vine, no tears like yesterday. I lay in the ash faking a wound, lured the mock Shadowfang in—the net snapped up, three dropped into a half-meter pit, just like you planned. But Liam Ignis lagged half a second—one anchor cord nearly slipped from his grip." Her brow furrowed, red eye locking onto his, voice dropping with worry: "You're not planning to lie out there yourself next time, are you? Stop risking it, Raizen—yesterday I nearly lost you to that firebomb. If it happens again, I might not reach you in time."

Raizen met her gaze, his cold stare thawing at the concern in her tone. "If I don't take risks, Ebonhold falls," he replied, voice low but resolute. "Yesterday, when the firebomb blew early, you pulled me from the smoke—if not for you, I wouldn't be here. Next time, I'll be smarter." Selene nodded faintly, her red eye softening, though her grip tightened on her sword—a restrained emotion Raizen caught. He looked away, hiding his own fear for her—a warrior as fierce as Selene, yet with a heart more fragile than he'd guessed.

Ragnar Kiryuu emerged from the crafting tent, his broad frame dusted with earth, left hand wrapped in rough white cloth after yesterday's light firebomb burn—a angry red welt that made him wince with each move. He carried a bundle of freshly dried gray vines—each four meters long, thumb-thick, two kilos after two hours under this morning's harsh sun. His dark eyes gleamed with excitement as he knelt beside Raizen, sketching the net trap again in the ash with a charred stick: a five-meter square, four corners anchored by black stones. "I tweaked the net after Selene's drill," he said, voice deep and confident despite a rasp from pain. "Ten meters of vine braided three into one, knots every ten centimeters—twenty kilos total, anchored with four five-kilo polished creek stones, two days to shape. Added five half-kilo stones tied mid-net to hold it firm when wind kicks up the ash. The Greeks, 5th century BC, used flax nets for boars—I boosted durability with northern vines, dried to avoid yesterday's rips."

Raizen nodded, approval flickering in his eyes. "Good—keep it under twenty-five kilos so five can pull fast. Will the vines hold tension in strong wind?" Ragnar blinked, nodding: "I'll reinforce with beast horn—Mongols, 13th century, used horn for bow strength. My hand's burned from yesterday's bomb, but it won't stop me." Raizen pressed: "The firebomb?" Ragnar replied: "Yesterday—two kilos sap, five charcoal, one sulfur—too much sap sparked it early. Next time, I'll cut sap to one-point-five, test it far from camp."

"And the stone-thrower?" Raizen asked. Ragnar pointed to the machine by the wall—a two-meter dry-wood frame, two-meter arm lashed with ten meters of doubled vine, tipped with an Asvaria scrap. "New frame this morning—twenty kilos of gray deadwood, dried three days for hardness," he said, left hand stinging as he gestured. "Doubled vines triple tension—hurls ten-kilo stones fifty meters, based on Roman ballistas, 2nd century BC, with twisted sinew. Yesterday, after five rapid shots, the old wood split, a stone veered near Liam Ignis—new frame takes ten hits before swapping." Raizen frowned: "Yesterday nearly cost Liam—no mistakes next time." Ragnar bowed his head: "I'll stand by him—if a stone veers, I'll shield him."

Kael Iscariot approached, gripping a bone crossbow—ten kilos of gray wood body, half-meter Asvaria metal limbs, five grooves with bone arrows carved from two kilos of beast bone, each dagger-sharp after an hour on flint. "Crossbow's upgraded," he said, voice steady but edged with discontent as he glanced at Leon by the market. "Pierces Shadowfang leather at thirty meters, five shots in ten seconds—Zhuge Nu-inspired, China 5th century BC. Yesterday, wet vine snapped on shot three—I fought a mock Shadowfang bare-handed, slit its throat with this sword. Swapped in five meters of dry vine, added Shadowfang beast hide for snap, like Mongol bows, 13th century." His hand tightened on the weapon, eyes flicking to Leon: "If you hadn't given Leon all economic power—a guy who just rigs prices—I'd have had help grinding bone, finished two crossbows today." Raizen clapped his shoulder: "Teach Liam Ignis—I need ten in five days." Kael nodded, thinking: Leon's not worth more than me—I'll prove it.

Liam Ignis dashed up, clutching an "E"-carved wood scrap. "I'll learn the crossbow—to fight Shadowfang!" he said, teaching three villagers "E" and "M" (machine). "Someday I'll build stronger than Drakos—like you dreamed as an engineer!" Raizen nodded: "Teach them signs—like Egyptians, 3000 BC."

Leon Vesper stood by the market—four wooden posts, three stalls: ten beast hides, five steel spears, twenty dry-root bundles (five kilos each). "The people trust you after yesterday," he said. "Food's three 'E's a bundle—they work double to eat. 'Ebon' coins from bark—ten by five centimeters, rot fast, I'll tweak with hide. Bones at three 'E's, quills five—Shadowfang trades gold for steel spears." He pointed to a hung corpse: "British, 18th century, choked supply—I bait Shadowfang with five spears."

Seiryu stepped from the medical tent, holding a pot of anesthetic—half a liter from two kilos of blood-fruit sap. "Field hospital's stocked for five more—like Egyptians, 3000 BC," she said. "Ellen's training three on ash antiseptic." She eyed Raizen: "Your burn—let me check it." Selene cut in: "I saved him—let me." Seiryu snapped: "I know healing." They faced off—Selene's fiery gaze guarding her treasure, Seiryu's cool care aiming to mend. Raizen saw that in war or love, someone always bled. He stopped them: "Enough—you're both essential."

Raizen turned east—Drakos smoke thickened, the "Prepare for steel fire" note trembling in the wind. "If it's 'steel fire,' maybe steam cannons—Drakos tested them on the northern border," he muttered, piecing together the looming threat. Suddenly, a flaming arrow streaked from the woods, embedding deep in the wall meters from him, a scrap attached: "Our patience has limits." He snatched it up, eyes icy: "Ebonhold doesn't kneel."