Breathe in.<br/><br/>Pause.<br/><br/>Exhale.<br/><br/>Breathe in.<br/><br/>Pause.<br/><br/>Exhale.<br/><br/>Catch the faintest trickle of fog rolling across the bottom of his armor, muting the sheen of its gold facets. This was the best time of day, for Kekkan. It was cool and still, and he could stare down the long pass towards the thing he hated the most in the entirety of existence. That gate- that thrice damned gate. They very one his people had splattered their blood on endlessly in a futile attempt to get through. Those to the south had never understood true conviction, or hardship. They certainly never understood the real extent of what power could be-<br/><br/>No, they were like turtles, hidden in their shell, and Kekkan would coax them out.<br/><br/>The Dreadlord slid from his armored horse and let his feet fall heavily on the dry grass and dirt below his feet. He was certainly out of range of the wall’s spotters, but not if they sent scouts- which they had, of course. They always sent scouts.<br/><br/>There was much disagreement over how to deal with scouts among his compatriots- at least among the other Dreadlords. Most simply killed them if they could be bothered to capture the nimble and lightly-armored soldiers. The rest just never made the effort- the thickness of their logic astounded Kekkan. Why bother chasing down scouts that would merely report that the kirmu were doing what the kirmu always did?<br/><br/>Even now, there was a gentle growl in his throat at the thought. That was the whole problem- they always did the same thing. They had grown complacent in the slaughter, they had glorified it and held it aloft like something they should be proud of. It was ridiculous. The southlanders could afford to speak highly of their own repetition- it was working. The fact that ten kirmu managed to reach the gate was an irrelevant boast, and Kekkan rarely resisted the urge to demand tribute from anyone foolish enough to make such boasts in his presence.<br/><br/>This also put him in a difficult position- many of the other Dreadlords had led such campaigns against the gate before, and were prone to such boastful thought. Though Kekkan was known as ‘The Guilded’, his wealth did not hold weight when compared with the debauchery of his comrades in their hedonistic revelry over pointless battles. This is why they would stay as they were- praising Lord Ugran like he was a god. His people forgot that Ugran had been flesh and blood like any of them, but he had possessed a mind greater than they could grasp without his goading and rallying. They didn’t understand where Ugran’s greatness truly sat.<br/><br/>No, perhaps he had not been flesh and blood like<span style="font-style: italic">them</span>. But he had been of Kekkan’s ilk. Bred of the same bloodlines as all kirmu, but with a different mind. If that is all it took to be seen as a divine, the Dreadlord thought his task simple. He must be so great as to be seen as the greatest of all things divine.<br/><br/>Kekkan’s single, spherical ‘eye’ on his faceplate fogged once more before he moved around behind his armored horse, the beast adjusting its footing on war-torn and well-trampled ground. The heavy coffers on its hips jingled with collected coin and tribute. The pleasing sound of coughing and wheezing southerners met his ears. If most of his ilk didn’t expend much effort chasing down scouts, Kekkan was unique in this regard as well. He loved to track them on his own.<br/><br/>But killing them<span style="font-style: italic">here</span>served no purpose, he reasoned. No, he corrected himself, killing one of the pair would serve a functional purpose for him.<br/><br/>It would be entertaining.<br/><br/>The two scouts were bound around their wrists and necks with rope attached to the back of Kekkan’s saddle. He had fast-marched them for some eight miles after running them down in the first place. His sword had been unnecessary- the two men were so exhausted from their flight that he’d easily subdued them with little need to induce any hungers. The eight mile ride since had let him think on what their punishment ought to be.<br/><br/>One of the two was nearly blubbering when he’d been wrangled by the Dreadlord. He was younger, and fell silent under the steely gaze of his partner. This dichotomy made Kekkan’s work easier- it told him which ought to die, and which would better serve him.<br/><br/>Before the elder of the two had caught his breath, Kekkan’s gauntlet-clad fist backhanded him across the face and sent him to the ground. The Dreadlord knelt down on the man’s chest, tugging the young one’s rope so he’d fall to his knees while Kekkan did his work. For the younger scout, Kekkan was not speaking- his terror and fear made it easy to manipulate him. The Dreadlord had already reached out with his San and gripped the young one’s mind in a golden fist. The elder of the two could see it because Kekkan willed it so.<br/><br/>“Genj.” Kekkan hissed out, fishing in a heavy satchel on his hip. “I see conviction in you. Unfortunate- without it I might have spared you today, but your fate will be less cruel than his.” The Dreadlord spoke cleanly in the southlander’s tongue. The older scout pursed his lips to spit on the Dreadlord’s visor, but Kekkan’s grip was fast, and he dug the sharp thumb of his gauntlet under the scout’s chin, halting the motion. “Do not endeavor to die with dignity. In this instance, that is impossible. I assure you of that.” Kekkan continued, fishing a golden orb, the size of a baseball, out of his satchel. The older scout’s eyes began to go glassy as he stared at his own reflection, distorted in Kekkan’s spherical ‘eye’. “As I said, I can see conviction in you, but that conviction is born from hate. Mine is as well, and this is how I understand you.” The Dreadlord explained, holding the orb in front of the scout’s face. He watched the man’s eyes float to the orb before widening- a sign of the Dreadlord’s unique influence working on him. The man began to squirm and drool, eyes wild and fixated on the orb. “I know you are too consumed with hunger to understand me further. Eat.” Kekkan hissed, releasing the man’s jaw and cutting the binds on his hands. The older scout frantically grabbed the golden orb and began to shove it into his mouth with such force that he shattered his front teeth and quickly began to tear at his lips to make more room. Once it was inside his now distended and dislocated jaw, it became lodged in his throat. Kekkan stepped off the man and watched as he kept trying to force the orb deeper in his throat even as he suffocated. The wet gurgling was satisfying.<br/><br/>Now, there was the matter of the younger one. There was a flask on the older soldier’s hip- Kekkan pulled it free and sniffed it through his visor.<span style="font-style: italic">Genji-wine</span>, a bootleg spirit brewed by some of the guards in hidden places in the wall. Vile and strong, like any soldier’s drink. The blubbering scout could not hear what Kekkan was saying- the entire time it merely sounded like the Dreadlord hissed like a serpent. Kekkan brought the flask to the boy’s lips and forced him to drink amidst his terrified crying, willing a single thing into the scout’s mind.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Thirst.</span><br/><br/>He watched the man drink the flask down. Kekkan stood and undid the boy’s rope from his saddle, and instead tied it to the now still form of his partner, binding the dead man’s ankles in it. The boy was quiet, traumatized past tears now. Kekkan pointed down the pass towards the gate, giving the boy the only verbal command he would understand.<br/><br/>“Walk.”<br/><br/>With that, the Dreadlord stepped back up onto his saddle and let his horse walk him away from the pass at its own pace. He need not look over his shoulder- the boy would drag his partner the last distance down the pass and into view of the gate. They would see Kekkan’s handiwork, and how traumatized the boy was.<br/><br/>Old soldiers would feel bad for the young boy, and offer him drink. He would thirst, and take it. And then drink would take him, far after it was offered in sympathy and well beyond when it was withheld for his benefit. With some luck, if he could maintain some post due to the pity of his comrades not wishing to send the broken boy back to<span style="font-style: italic">nothing</span>but drunken delirium in civilian life. Without drink given to him, perhaps, he would brew his own to fuel his thirst, and the thirst of others. He would help drag others who had escape the depths of drunkenness renew their addictions.<br/><br/>This was but one way that Kekkan would form cracks in the gate. The foundation of the great defense was not stone or metal, not like his people thought. It was flesh and blood, souls and breath. These things could be more easily broken, filled with cracks of want and hunger.<br/><br/>And Kekkan understood hunger. He understood it very well indeed- something he relished as he heard the boy’s stifled sobs fade behind him into the misty pass.