Part 36

Under the low sky, a burning corpse lies scattered—the smoke rising along the outline of its wings, and through the gap of its massive throat, a reddish fire still glimmers.
The thunderous roars that shook the surroundings have ceased, leaving only the scent of ash, blood, and burning flesh in the air.

On the land now rests a dead dragon—one of the most fearsome creatures on Earth, which cannot merely be defeated, but must be subdued. That impossible task has now been accomplished.

Around the body of that dead dragon now stands Medan’s army.

Six thousand Malth, whose form is utterly terrifying. The Malth are long and slender like giant serpents, but their bodies are encased in a special iron chain, forming an invincible fortress in each figure. Their surface is a hard, iron-like mesh, impervious even to the tearing of air.
The Malth’s eyes are deep as dark mist, and their movement generates a sound like a low roar in the air—which spreads cold fear into the hearts of enemies. Their bodies are built like silent killers, striking with venom into the veins of foes. The Malth are silent, yet deadly certain.

Medan Balan himself is a calm-minded king, who keeps the Malth ready for attack at the precise moment.

The Malth move in perfect coordination, forming a precise blood-eye, encircling enemies and gradually eradicating them. Their iron-chained bodies are an unyielding defense, and with serpent-like length, they tear apart the shackled enemies in their path.

Now, the Malth are coated in blood and ash. They have encircled the dragon’s body—a deep, magical discipline encompassing it.

Around the dragon’s remains gather another forty-five thousand diverse soldiers—armored with bloodstains, weapons tired, yet eyes gleaming with victory. They are now silent observers, knowing that something unsaid will be declared in this moment—something complete in magic, not war.

And at that moment, sixteen thousand wizards enter the field. Their robes bear engraved stone symbols, ash, and ancient scripts painted in golden lines. Together they form a circle of magic, holding long staves or metallic discs—chanting in an ancient tongue to draw magic from the dragon’s corpse.

From the wizards’ voices rise cryptic chants, and invisible metallic particles swirl through the air around them.

This scene—the dead dragon, the Malth’s iron wrath, and the wizards’ magic—creates a new history, where the name of victory is Medan Balan, and the meaning of defeat is eternal extinction.

*****

Among the twelve princes, some were like poisonous trees behind curtains—silently dripping venom, while others were like storms, shaking the earth with their force. Some were like icy walls—solitary, ruthless, cold as lost souls. Yet all of them were terrifying in one way—deep within, carrying the burn of fire, they waged war, betrayal, politics, and harsh rule against each other.

The soldiers of Belran Balan’s kingdom were straightforward and steadfast, yet almost mad, leaping suddenly as if wild elephants charged at the enemy.

…And many more, each one more ruthless and fearsome than the last.

The twelve terrifying kingdoms of the Balan dynasty formed a vast alliance, where each prince was a living embodiment of death—firm, unwavering, and merciless. They were not merely power, but symbols of punishment, a punishment that never failed during their rule.
Each kingdom had a distinct history, a separate system of governance, and the soldiers under their command were an indomitable force—standing against them meant surrendering to death.

****

The ruthless princes of the Balan Empire, whose hearts were as hard as stone and whose eyes burned with fire, could face Barzak Bhagar, yet could not kill him outright. For Barzak was deeper than all their conspiracies, his shadow long and powerful; he was like an undiscovered storm, one that could not be easily stopped.
They knew their weapons could not take Barzak’s life—because he was not merely a man, he was a harmonizer of broken tunes, whose every step carried the pain and hope of a thousand years. Touching his life ignited a fire of revolution, which silently spread even into the hearts of armed soldiers.
Therefore, their only weapon remained politics—dark, poisonous, secret strategies that spread in the shadows without a torch.
They took refuge in a web, a net of conspiracies, where false words could not be distinguished, where trust was destroyed, and betrayal hid behind smiles.
This rule of politics was as cold as ice, as explosively unpredictable as a volcano, gradually striking Barzak’s faith, strength, and hope.
Thus began the journey of that politics—a silent war, where the enemy stood before your eyes, yet struck like an invisible blade.