The Empire of Dumor spread over the map like an ocean wave over sand, and left nothing but destruction in its wake.

Villages burned. Cities were taken down, stone by stone.

Anyone who dared rebel, or fight against Dumor died. The streets were lined with burnt, eviscerated bodies. And with every toppled city or town, the black smoke of the conquerors could be seen for days.

The Villages of the Djang held up the longest. The Djang Sky Warriors, with powers no one in Dumor could understand, stood against the endless armies of the Dumor with suicidal bravery.

And then they burned.

Duke Irons plodded morosely down the dusty path toward the small village. "This is beneath me, beneath me! he muttered over and over again to himself.

Behind him, their marching steady, their chins to the sky, a line of one hundred Dumor soldiers followed.

They reached the third of the seven Djang Villages at midday. The sun beat down on the soldiers with ferocity, making them sweat and pant in petty revenge for the savagery done to the Djang.

At the city square, curious but openly fearful villagers gathered as the soldiers lined up and stood at attention, and the Duke opened his scroll.

"Today is the Sixth Day of Moonsong," intoned the duke. "Today, you will pay for your insolance, as you have done every Moonsong for twelve years. Mercy, mercy, you cry. Mercy, mercy, will not be given."

Duke Irons rolled up the paper and shoved it into his vest, plodding away from the soldiers to leave them to their business. "A drink. I need a drink."

But drunkenness did not drown out the screams.

Every man, aged twenty-two, (and anyone the soldiers guess was twenty-two), was to be sliced at the neck and bled out until dead. That was the law. There could not be any hope for the Djang. The Djang, though the Emperor would never admit it with words, were warriors. So he admitted it with brutal actions.

On their way out, the Duke made his final proclamation, one he'd memorized by now, but opened the scroll anyway. "Mercy, mercy, you cried. Mercy, mercy was not given. But let it be known, soon, these deaths will not happen. Soon, these deaths will be stopped. Do not train your children in the ways of the Warrior, and you will be spared."

They marched out, steady, plodding. And as for the duke, drunk. These villagers officially did not train their children in the ways of the Sky Warrior. They knew better. Perhaps the deaths would stop. They... weren't being trained. They couldn't be.

A river ran along side the road, and as they passed, Duke Irons looked out to see children playing. See? Just playing. Foolish, foolish.

Four boys screamed and shrieked with delight as the ball was thrown just out of reach. Shoving, kicking, fighting for the ball, they played their game with the intensity of Warriors.