"The titular four generals used to be the utmost pride of Al-Shan, the strongest warriors whose names struck fear into foes from before the imperial days. The usage of the titles were discontinued after the civil war, where all four generals sided with the usurper and perished in his service. As far as I know, I am the only descendant of the four generals left in Al-Shan, and that lineage will end with me. Good Riddance." - Mustafa bey Leung, current Marshall of the Army of the Al-Shan Empire.

Al-Shan Empire, Bahn-Gwa island, Winter of the year 660 FP.

Mustafa bey Leung was a man with many conflicts in his heart.

He was but a boy, seven years of age when the civil war broke out nearly three decades ago. As the youngest son of the great Wind Dragon General of the West, Hassan bey Leung, he was raised on tales of bravery and loyalty to the crown from his earliest memories. He had never understood or accepted his father and elder siblings' rationale to support the usurper instead, though he had learned not to show it after the "lesson" he was taught the first time he said so.

The young boy grew up an embittered man, one whose father and elder siblings who he used to look up to as idols, committed the worst possible betrayal in his mind. He channelled the bitterness and disappointment in his heart into his studies, and while he was never that great with the arts martial, he found himself a keen strategic mind. A brilliance he chose to hide away from his parents and siblings. To all appearances he was but a mediocre son.

When he was a teenager, his father started to grant him responsibilities. At that time, the one thorn on the reigning emperor's side - the one now referred to only as the "usurper" - was the continued survival of one last daughter of the royal family. The last princess had hidden herself on the more remote islands, and had occasionally struck back when the chance presented itself, almost always at the nobility or their minions - tax collectors were one of her favorite targets. These minor strikes were something which kept her - and by correlation, the old royal family - in the minds of the people.

Efforts to root her out had failed miserably over the past decade, as amongst the princess's allies were a cadre of space mages who balked at the Usurper's claim to the throne and defected en masse. The few times an assassin or a punitive force found the princess, none had ever succeeded in getting past her bodyguard, who was supposed to be a blood mage.

When Mustafa found himself assigned to aid the hunt for the "rebels", he looked like the dutiful son who devoted himself to his task from the outside. On the inside, to no one's knowledge, he instead leaked information to the rebels personally, as he had no trusted people by his side, and did what he could to aid the other side.

He built around him a small base of officers who earned his trust over the next decade, though his secret aid to the rebels, he kept a secret to all. When he was twenty-five, his father arranged a marriage for him with a noble's daughter, also of military background. It did not take him much to ferret out that his new wife was meant to keep an eye on him and to keep him in check instead.

There was never any love between him and Zara ibn Ossam, and the only thing he thanked the gods about the marriage was that they never had any children. Mustafa never had much interest in women - a fact he kept hidden from his family -, and his wife soon tired of his lackluster enthusiasm in the bedroom and sought dalliance outside instead, which he turned a blind eye on.

After all, she could not interfere with his own hidden activities while she pursued some boy toy outside.

A tentative balance was struck between them, as Mustafa further solidified a core of officers loyal to him alone despite his wife's watch, and he kept his contact with the rebels, now through some of the men he trusted with his life. To the outside, he appeared to be just a mediocre man, neither competent nor incompetent, completely forgettable were it not for his father's fame.

That was what everyone thought until Mustafa bey Leung struck for the first time during the civil war.

The Usurper had intensified the manhunt for the rebels after his favorite third prince was found dead just this summer. Ishak's form had been left in public display by the rebels, the grotesque conditions of his remains hinted at days of torment before he was allowed to expire. The intensified manhunt seemed to be something the rebels had prepared for, as through their messages he gleaned an offer to set up a trap aimed at one of the kingdom's four great generals.

A deadly trap for Hassan bey Leung. The Wind Dragon General of the West. His own father.

It was under those circumstances that he found himself in the lead of a thousand cavalrymen on the left flank of a ten thousand strong army. His wife Zara rode to his right with an arrogant look to her face, while behind them was Ishmael, his lieutenant and second in command. His father personally took command of the main force of four thousand elites in the middle, with his two eldest brothers in command of two thousand more men each. His third brother commanded the one thousand cavalry to the right flank.

Over the decades, the rebel army had grown. The army arrayed against them were nearly six thousand strong, several times what the rebels had back when the civil war started. At the same time, their numbers tied their hands, as their space mages were only good for evacuating a handful of the most important people.

To Mustafa's surprise, he spied someone who looked to be the last royal princess right in the front lines of the rebel army. He could not make heads or tails of the situation, and decided to watch first before he carried on with the plan or stayed his hand. That said, he realized that the rebels had staked their all in this fight, and thus he made his preparations accordingly. He gestured with his hand to summon Ishmael to his side.

"When I give the signal, have everyone charge in the direction I command, understand? Slay the disobedient." He whispered in a very low voice to his lieutenant, to which the man gave a gruff nod. His wife eyed his for a moment before she turned her eyes back to the front, where a spectacle unfolded.

A general from the rebel army had rode ahead of the formation and challenged them loudly to a personal duel. It was an archaic challenge, one long discarded by the empire, yet also one that was often told as tales to children as examples of courage. Mustafa was not surprised in the least when his second brother, Reza bey Leung rode forward to meet the challenge and his father had not stopped him.

Horses neighed, men strained, and pole-axe clashed with heavy glaive as the two men rode at and struck one another with lethal intent. Twenty exchanges passed with neither men at advantage before the rebel's horse bit at Reza's horse. The miniscule opening presented was capitalized by the rebel general, who cleaved away his opponent's right arm in a vicious swing, and took his head off on the backswing.

The rebel trotted back to his army with his glaive held high and a victory cry reciprocated by his comrades.

Mustafa sighed as he saw what he expected from the side. Despite how he presented himself as the epitome of chivalry and bravery, Mustafa has learned over his years that his father Hassan was just a selfish, petty man. As he expected, his father drew his bow and infused magic to an arrow as the rebel general approached his side. The arrow he shot out flew with great alacrity, its aim unerring from the rebel general's back.

If there was one thing Hassan bey Leung was most proud of, it would be his archery. He was a rare wind archmagus who devoted all his magic to the pursuit of archery, and forwent many of the traditional applications of the magic. This single-minded pursuit had earned him the moniker of the best archer in the empire. His arrows never missed, never failed to find their target.

So it was to everyone's surprise when the figure they thought to be the royal princess drew out a crescent-bladed halberd and swatted down the arrow much like how one would swat down a fly.

Mustafa watched in surprise as the figure turned and addressed the rebels - it was too far for him to hear her words - and they launched into a roaring charge soon after. The "princess" right at the head of the wedge they formed as they rushed towards the imperial army formation. By now the woman had discarded her outer robe, and Mustafa saw that she was clad in a suit of leather lamellar armor over a tunic, which struck him as oddly light protection for someone at her position.

He knew the truth soon afterwards when he saw the woman deflect three more shots from his father effortlessly. When his father fired three arrows at once, she took one of his arrows straight to the throat, yet fought on as if nothing happened. That was the blood mage then, not the princess by any means. Not even healers showed such nonchalance to otherwise fatal wounds.

His father had an orderly raise a flag to signal the cavalries from the side to pincer the rebels as their charge collided with the front lines held by his first and second brother's men. Mustafa made his decision at that same moment, as his hand firmly grasped the shamsir at his waist, drew it, and raised it high.

Then he brought the blade down to the side and slew his "wife".

Ishmael saw the signal and brought the thousand cavalry to a charge, not at the rebels, but at the imperial army's own flank. By fortune, nearest to Mustafa's own army was the troops led by his second brother, and the leaderless men broke quickly under the unexpected treachery from their allies.

The rebels had not looked the gift horse in the mouth and capitalized on the distraction, as the glaive-wielding rebel general from earlier led their own cavalry to block his third brother. The woman just plowed straight through the lines of soldier before her as her halberd danced and slaughtered any unfortunate enough to face her.

Mustafa watched from his commanding position as his eldest brother struck at the woman from behind as she made her way to his father. He watched as his brother's spear impaled the woman from the back, yet the woman just nonchalantly swung her halberd back around and crushed his brother's head instead. The spear that pierced all the way through her chest seemed nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

He watched mesmerized as his father finally managed to shoot the woman's horse from under her, only to find that the woman had leaped away from her horse as it collapsed. His father's single-minded focus on archery proved to be his undoing in the end. Most wind archmagus were capable of flight - something his father never learned -, and so he was left face to face with the woman with no avenue of escape.

His final attempt to fight bravely was disdainfully thrown away as the woman broke both his arms with a single swing of her halberd. She impaled him through the torso when he turned to run, and raised his screaming, twitching form for all to see. The soldiers they brought with them today were their family's personal soldiers. Loyal and sworn to the family instead of the crown.

As such, they naturally broke at the sight of their defeated master.

By the end of the day, Mustafa found himself the last remaining direct member of his family. His third brother was pursued and cut down by the glaive-wielder after his father's death. He had his man reorganize and watch from the side as the rebels gathered the surrendered soldiers, as he awaited his fate.

He was quite surprised when the blood mage herself walked to him on foot, while many broken spears and arrows still protrude from her body. Yet for all that the woman walked as if she merely took an evening stroll. A dissonant sight for a woman who just butchered her way through thousands of men.

"Sparrowhawk, I assume?" She asked, the name she gave was the code name he used to communicate with the rebels all these years. "When the eagles weep,"

"The heavens cry blood," he said as he completed the passphrase they used most recently. "What is to become of me and my men?"

"What do you mean?" The woman asked with an incredulous expression. "You've always done right by us, so why would we treat you badly?"

"I understand that the princess had a vendetta with the nobles who supported the usurper," he explained calmly. "You killed my father today on the field, the Wind Dragon General of the West. I am his youngest son, Mustafa bey Leung."

"Well, I definitely don't see a reason why you can't just join us instead. You've proven where you stand in a decisive manner today, my young friend," the woman said. Mustafa felt a bit odd for a woman who looked younger than him to call him a young man, but then again, she looked to be of elvish heritage, which meant she was likely older than even his father. "What brought about such a decision if I may ask? To throw away your family and position, even with no assurance of a future to follow?"

"Humans are just smarter animals who have a sense of what is right and what is wrong," said Mustafa with a shrug. "Mine has never agreed with my family's, and it was something I'd stake my life on."

"Oh, you'll fit just right in all right," laughed the woman even as she pulled an oddly unstained spearhead out of her torso. "Welcome to the Loyalist army, Mustafa bey Leung."