Chapter 122: Overturning (7)

The plaza nearby remained a churning sea of humanity. The onlookers, whether city residents or mountain folk from afar, all wished for the ordeal to end quickly.

The young mountaineer named Timo was forced to his knees, guarded by captors. An executioner stood behind him with an axe. Before long, a man in Tibetan attire stepped forward, his face twisted in arrogance as he made an announcement.

"To harm our officials is to oppose the Tsanpo, to oppose the Son of Heaven. It is an act of irreverence toward the gods. For this man, who has profaned the divine, there is but one end."

As he spoke, the executioner raised his axe. A Nepalese soldier stood before Timo, pulling his hair back to expose his neck, while another soldier stood behind him, pinning his body to prevent any movement.

Timo and his guards all closed their eyes, waiting for the blade to fall. Just then, a cry erupted from the crowd below the platform, causing the men above to freeze.

"It’s bad! The mountain people have broken into the city!"

"What?" The Nepalese administrator behind the Tibetan turned pale with alarm. Disregarding protocol, he demanded, "How many are there?"

"Many! They are everywhere! The city gates had few defenders; one charge and they were scattered. They are heading this way now."

"They must be here to rescue this man."

The Tibetan interrupted their exchange and barked an order without hesitation: "Men, seize every mountaineer in the plaza!"

At his command, hundreds of Tibetan soldiers stormed the square, beating the previously rounded-up mountain folk to the ground. Those who dared to resist were met with blades and spears. Soon, the unarmed mountaineers were all taken prisoner. Though their faces burned with indignation, they were helpless; the Tibetans clearly viewed them all as a single conspiratorial faction.

Every captive was haunted by the same question: how had things spiraled into this? Which village did those invaders belong to? Why act so impulsively? It was like throwing eggs against a stone.

They knew these hundreds of Tibetan soldiers were more than enough to handle them, not to mention the local garrison. Before they could fathom the situation, the Tibetan on the platform issued a second order.

"Rebellion is unforgivable. Since you wish to see him off, I shall grant your wish. Observe this, for soon, it will be your turn."

With a wave of his hand, the executioner raised the axe once more. A gust of wind followed the strike; the blade met flesh, lingered for a heartbeat, and then slammed into the mud with a sharp, metallic clang.

The soldier who had been gripping Timo’s hair suddenly let go, falling backward. A fountain of blood erupted from the headless neck, drenching him completely.

The Tibetan stepped forward, snatched up the severed head, and held it high. "Let us go and wipe out these rebels, no matter how many there are!"

Below, the captured mountain chieftains watched that wide-eyed, lifeless face, their own hearts sinking with the grim realization that their fate was sealed.

The Tibetan had made his uncompromising stance clear. All that remained to be seen was how long the mountain insurgents could hold out.

The uprising was not limited to Timo’s village. The news had been delivered by Drolma. When the village elder learned that Syndica had led men into the city, he knew there was no turning back. Regardless of whether they succeeded, the entire village would face the wrath of the Tibetans.

They could have fled under the cover of night, but with so many people, where could they go in such haste? Then, he received a second report: the chieftains of the neighboring villages—who had visited the city with the Western merchants—had all entered the city and were likely trapped within.

The elder knew what had to be done: unite all the villages. Perhaps then they could stand a chance against the Tibetans. Coordination took time, and by the time they descended from the mountains, it was already quite late.

The city of Kumpitir had walls. Though not particularly high, they were not easily scaled without equipment. However, today was a special day; the garrison was concentrated in the plaza, and there was no curfew. The city gates remained open as usual, creating the perfect opportunity for an assault.

The dozen or so nearby villages he had contacted mustered several thousand men. The Nepalese army numbered only four or five thousand in total, and with troops dispersed across the region, the capital’s garrison was usually only around two thousand. In terms of numbers, they were not at a disadvantage.

Led by guides familiar with the terrain, the thousands of men attacked the gates simultaneously. They seized the entrances in one stroke and surged toward the city plaza. Their movements were swift; catching the defenders off guard, they faced almost no resistance until they reached the vicinity of the square.

Once they reached that point, looting and chaos were inevitable. The massive crowd of civilians trapped near the plaza had nowhere to run, causing further disorder that hampered the garrison's counter-insurgency efforts.

Under the administrator's command, local troops were assembled and sent to block the streets, attempting to halt the mountain folk. But their efforts were severely obstructed. The streets were packed, and it was impossible to distinguish between the invading mountaineers and the city’s poor, who dressed in much the same way.

"Bring them along. We’re leaving."

Realizing the situation was spiraling, the Tibetan grasped the value of the captured chieftains. As the local garrison tangled with the mountain folk, he led his men and the prisoners toward the royal palace. He reasoned that as long as he held the royal family and could summon reinforcements from across the region, the rebellion would be a mere inconvenience rather than a catastrophe.

By the time they arrived, the battle for the palace was nearing its end. Dhitishaditya, who held the advantage in numbers and terrain, had driven the remnants into a corner. The path was littered with the corpses of his brothers, and lying among them were their captors.

"Dhitishaditya, will you not even spare your own father?" The old king stood with a blade pressed to his back, his bloated frame shielding the woman behind him.

The situation was clear enough now. No one had expected that a son previously dismissed as a pathetic failure could orchestrate such a stunning coup.

Dhitishaditya’s face remained dark, his feet rooted to the spot. He felt nothing for his brothers—the years of bullying and ridicule provided plenty of psychological justification—but facing his own father, he could not bring himself to strike.

Seeing his hesitation, Kang the Fourth couldn't help but warn him: "It is too late to stop now."

"A fine son I have, colluding with mountain savages. What do you hope to gain? The throne? After killing so many, do you truly think you can sit upon it?" The old king’s words made the act even harder to stomach. Just as Kang the Fourth prepared to finish the job himself, a voice in Tibetan rang out from outside.

"So long as you have the backing of the Tibetans, he shall be king."

The Tibetan official stepped forward, surveying the scene with a frown before clapping Dhitishaditya on the shoulder. "Are you his last son? Then what are you waiting for? The mountain people have entered the city. Do you intend to die here with him?"

"Timo! You killed my Timo!" A sharp, shrill cry pierced the air. From behind the old king, Syndica saw the head held in the Tibetan’s hand. Fury and despair flooded her heart. She drove her blade deep into the king's back, the blood-stained tip emerging from his chest.

No one had expected her to act. In the moment of their shock, the woman kicked the king’s back, yanked the blade free, and shoved him forward, sending him sprawling at Dhitishaditya’s feet.

"I’ll kill you!"

Syndica lunged toward the Tibetan. She was struck by several arrows before she could close the distance, but the Tibetan tossed the head aside and tried to block her with his sword. She ignored the blade piercing her own body, driving her own weapon through the Tibetan’s chest. The two became locked together in a grisly embrace.

When the onlookers finally reacted and pulled them apart, both were near death. The woman fell before the severed head. She reached out, but her strength was gone.

She could only gaze into the familiar eyes of her beloved until her own breathing slowly ceased.