Fulgistan

Looks good to me!

L. F. G.

“Alright, that should do.” Firing off the last in a succession of emails that had obliterated his afternoon appointments, Secretary for Culture Bayanchur Tekin pushed his chair back and grabbed his messenger tote, ready to leave the Bureau for Culture offices early for once. It was a fine autumn day in Bogd Gioro, the rain-clouds hanging grey and gravid over the sandstone office blocs. A perfect day for a night in. No more meetings and a full four back issues of Paran Desert Fighter Ace Go!!! to read through; he'd been saving them all summer. The phone rang. “Balls.” “Bayanchur?” Tomur Almas' voice said on the other end of the line. “I was looking at the Central Committee digital calendar and I saw you have your afternoon free. I was hoping you could look into something for me.” “Comrade Almas, I, uh, under normal circumstances you know I'm always happy to do whatever you require of me, but lately things have been chaos over here at the Bureau. We have the, uh--” Bayanchur stuck the receiver into the crook of his neck to look over his shoulder at the wall calendar. “Y'know, we've got the Qiu An Harvest Festival and Livestock Fair coming up. And of course, as you know, I'll be judging the nanny goat competition this year. So that, y'know, that's taken up quite a bit of my time, here. Quite a bit on my plate. Is there any chance one of the other numerous ministers and secretaries could look into this matter for you?” “Sorry, Bayanchur. Hate to be a drag, but it's important, and I need someone who's discrete. It'll only take you an hour or so.” Tekin mouthed curses all through Almas' response, snapping right back into his subservient mode to issue his own. “Happy to, comrade. What is it that you need?” “The past few months, I've noticed some strange memoranda coming across my desk. They're seemingly unrelated, and as far as I can make out, complete nonsense in the form of what seems to be advice. All of them have been from various personnel in the Sub-Bureau of Geopolitical Rectification. Job titles, all low-to-middling, but no names. It's all extremely odd. No one seems to know how the memos got into my in box, either.” “Sub-Bureau of Geopol… I've never heard of them in my life, and I was a provincial finalist in my school civics bee.” “Nor I, Bayanchur. That, among other things, is what's so damn strange about all this. There's an address listed on these letters. I want you to investigate, in person.” Tekin raised his eyebrows, his curiosity piquing despite his irritation. “A Bogd Gioro address?” “Yeah… on Dalian Road, in the Youkou neighborhood. 358.” “Alright, I'll head over. Is this something that you need a report on by end of day, or…?” “Bayanchur, come on. You're a national official, let's see some hustle.” “Yep, yep. I'll have it on your desk by tonight. In the meantime, can you send me these memos you've been getting?” “Sure, sure. Hang around the fax machine a minute, and they'll be right through.” “Of course, Comrade General Secretary. Talk to you soon.” Bayanchur was speed walking out of the office before he'd even hung up the phone. The fax machine squealed somewhere far away and unimportant. Fresh air. Crowded pedestrian walkway, packed escalator, standing room only on the cross-city tram. Bodies like bullets in the ammo can in cosmoline tunic suits, he thought idly, not like sardines at all, as the tram trundled along and the press of humanity swayed with every curve in the track. Twenty minutes of locomotive-induced mass hypnosis for the second-shift crowd on their way home. Youkou Station was a little run-down; with only one ticket counter and another little place that served hot cornmeal mash and pickled long beans; four tenge. Bayanchur didn't waste time, and anyway it was a little cheap for his taste. He was puzzled when he reached the place; it looked like a shop for religious statuary, or possibly just garden ornaments. The only person in the dimly-lit, dusty shop, the peeling wallpaper emerald green behind her, was a heavyset aunty with a ruddy complexion and a bald spot. She certainly didn't look friendly. “Er… is this 358 Dalian Road?” "S'RIGHT!” She shrieked, her red-stained teeth showing a betel nut habit. She didn't move. “I'm… I'm looking for the Sub-Bureau of Geopolitical Rectification. Is that at this address…?” "S'DOWNSTAIRS!” The woman yelled from across the room, pointing to a small plaque on the wall and a concrete stairwell leading down. “Down… right. Thank you, comrade.” “Unh.” Bayanchur descended the stairs. Three flights in all, down rather deep into the Eurth. A nondescript utility door at the bottom, reinforced glass window so yellowed with age and covered in urban detritus he couldn't see what lay beyond, besides a dim orange light. Tekin pulled the handle, and stepped inside. An old, slight man sat at a desk, his bald pate shining under the strange orange fluorescent lights that illuminated the space within, immaculately waxed ochre travertine glinting officially under their glow. He looked up at the younger man expectantly, cradling his wrinkled hands in front of him. “Good afternoon, comrade. I'm looking for the Sub-Bureau of Geopolitical Rectification…?” “This is it, comrade. You're in the right place. The place.” “Right you are…erm, comrade…?” “You can call me Nei.” “Certainly, er, what is your rank or title, comrade Nei?” “Just 'Nei',” He said dismissively, getting up abruptly and beginning to walk off down the hallway. It was only now, looking down it head-on, that Bayanchur realized he could not see where it ended. It was as if a fog hung about the interior of the Sub-Bureau. Sub-basement is more like, he thought as he followed the old man reluctantly. The orange lights passed by like streetcars as they walked, Bayanchur's loafers squeaking slightly on the flooring and the old man making no sound at all. “Er, Comrade Nei, you may not be aware, but I have the honor to be Secretary for Culture to our great nation, and--” “General Secretary Almas has sent you to investigate the memoranda he's received from the Sub-Bureau.” Nei said flatly, his hands now clasped behind his back as he shuffled along, not looking back at Bayanchur. They had passed by dozens of unlabeled doors by now. “I-- yes, that's right. Can you be so kind as to enlighten me, Comrade, as to who you are and what it is that you're doing here?” Nei looked back over his shoulder for the first time, and stopped. “As you wish. But stay close; it's a long walk to get where we're going.” “How much longer can it be? At this depth, we're surely going to run into a metro tunnel sooner or later.” The old man chuckled. “You are much, much deeper, Comrade Secretary, than I think you realize. Follow me.” The pair set off into the haze of the underground complex, every step taking Bayanchur Tekin closer to a revelation that would shake him to his core.

"Men make their own history, but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly encountered, given and transmitted from the past. The tradition of all the dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brain of the living." — Mark Karls "And for your treason against the state and your failure to abide by the terms of the decree, I pronounce upon you the Emperor's justice." The haggard chieftain's eyes did not leave the young major's when the saber fell true, a flash of mercury in the murky dawn light, and severed his head, blood spilling down the front of his padded silk jacket as the bound trunk slumped to the ground. Jian Bozaan's throat hurt. He had read the death sentences of forty men this morning, and stood by as they were carried out by a rotating detail of men, their sergeant barking out formation orders that echoed through the Jintakh palace courtyard. As two other captives hauled the body away, bayonets at their backs, all the young man could think about was how much he wanted a drink of water. But it would not do. Not now, to show weakness in the face of the enemy at the moment of death. Though the leaders of the uprising had been sentenced to die from the moment they had raised their ancestral kite-banners and raided once more in Huang lands for slaves and bounty, neither Jian nor the Emperor had any wish to show them the disrespect that was perhaps due. A quick death, and no more, and pray that that would be the end of things. As the next man was brought forward, the Bozaan's former slaves jeered and shouted anew, stamping their bare feet and lobbing stones at the hated Khan Gokmek. The big man scowled back at them, spitting between his teeth and sticking his chin out in defiance before a rifle butt clubbed him to his knees. When his eyes rose again, they were fixed on Jian, and filled with an even more passionate hatred. "Sain baina uu ta, little cousin? I'd greet you properly, but you've tied my hands. There is no respect for one's elders in this generation." "Khan Gokmek of the Blue-White Orda, you have committed grave crimes against the Emperor and the state-" "Traitor!" Gokmek roared over the young man, even as he was clubbed down once more, partly-coagulated blood from the ground staining his bleached kaftan and pouring afresh from his shaven scalp. "Traitor to your own blood! Half-breed cur! Tyrant's dog!" "Get back." Jian growled at his men, who obliged instantly. One hand on his kepi to shade his eyes, the major drew his saber and swung, the leaf-shaped blade slicing through Gokmek's flesh, opening his carotid artery and only getting partway into his neck. The big man fell for the last time, blood spurting from the wound, and died sputtering on the cobbles as Jian stepped to the side and sheathed the blade, completing the sword form. "Tch. Out of practice." He said pensively, looking down at the blood that had spilled onto his blue sleeve. "I must say," he said loudly, "I find this all awfully dramatic. Take the rest of them out to a field and shoot the lot. We've certainly forty cartridges to spare." And with that, the remaining Bozaan rebel chieftains shuffled off to receive their first and final taste of modern imperial governance, courtesy of the barrel of a rifle in a trench, far from home. Major Jian watched as the crowd of onlookers began to part as well; they had no wish to follow the executions of their former masters now that the spectacle was over. At last, he allowed himself a drink from the canteen at his hip, the water warm but sweet as nectar in his dry mouth and throat. On his left side, Captain Liao approached, sporting an eyepatch and a shiny new medal for his sacrifice. "We've won a great victory here, sir. I'm sure His Imperial Majesty will be pleased." "Oh, the medal wasn't enough for you, Captain? Angling for a villa in Xintou now?" Jian cracked a smile, feeling a little more at ease without the men around to evaluate his every move. "You know they're seizing some nice monasteries up there these days, perfect to raise a family of 400 in." Liao chuckled, taking a sip from his own canteen now. He had warmed up to the Major over the course of their campaign, grown to trust his aggressive instincts and embrace his iron-hard hatred of the Emperor's enemies. "You know I need no other rewards. If I was in it for the money, I'd have become an Assemblyman. Nothing to do all day but take bribes from rubes and rubberstamp Imperial decrees." Out of the corner of his eye, Jian glimpsed a silver smear against the orange sky, a dull glimmer like broken machinery amidst a factory fire. As he watched, the indistinct shape became clear, cresting proudly over a wispy of cloud like a great whale in the heavens above, a god or a dragon at play. The royal air yacht, Chilong*, its twin engines whirling soundlessly at this distance, as cries went up in the town at the sight. "Corporal! Get me a change of clothes, and have someone wash up all this blood. Crown Prince Dai is here." "More wine. And open up the cellars to the officers, they deserve it." "Your servant shall do as you ask." The stooped servant girl tiptoed away, behind a sliding rattan screen. "Hot in here. Don't know how you boys stand it." The prince said idly, as an androgynous courtesan shifted gracefully to fan his face. His features were sharp and angular, framed by a black goatee and hair falling down to his shoulders, coaxed with combs and pomade into curls reminiscent of the latest Argic fashions. He had called Jian to his temporary quarters in the palace almost immediately after landing, disembarking with his modest retinue from his cramped (but still princely) quarters aboard. They were seated around a low square table, beautiful porcelain wine bowls arrayed on fashionable Seylosian saucers. It was indeed hot, and unusually sticky for the steppe, the full force of the Alharun summer coming to bear even through the cooling flagstones of the palace. "In His Imperial Majesty's service, no ardor is too great to bear." Prince Dai chuckled. "Is that scripture? You always talk like a poet. It's hard to tell sometimes." "Just a fact, Your Highness." Jian replied, raising his cup to the prince as he took a drink. "May your Imperial Father reign ten thousand years." "Bolin*, what's going on with you? I come to congratulate you on a campaign well fought, and you're acting like you've done something wrong. I promise I'm not going to beat you." He said with another laugh, raising his own cup. "To Big Sword Bozaan, Scourge of the Bozan. My Imperial Father will be toasted quite enough." The royal chuckled through his wine as he downed the bowl. Jian was silent as the yellow wine's aftertaste filled his mouth, sickly sweet like raisins and honey. His eyes fell on one of the wall hangings, a mediocre copy of a tenth-century landscape. He could not appreciate it for long, however, as the windows were open and the flies were getting in, despite the servants best efforts. Even though he knew perfectly well that the courtyard had been washed with water and lime, he could almost believe that the smell of death was lingering, and maturing, in the courtyard outside. "Is that what you came here to talk to me about?" He asked finally, fixing his eyes on Prince Dai's own. There was another long pause. "Everyone in this room must leave. Major Bozaan may stay. Do not allow anyone to enter." Wordlessly, the dozen or so attendants and guards around the room complied, bowing to the sovereign's son as they left the room, closing the screen behind them. The prince poured another bowlful for them both, an intimate and humble gesture. "Do you believe that what's happening in our country is right, Bolin?" "As a major in the army, it is not my place to-" Thunk. Prince Dai rapped his knuckles on the table in irritation. "You insult me by pretending to be stupid. We had the same tutors, we both know my father well. I'm sure you understand the situation just as well as I do." "Which situation is that, Your Highness?" Jian said coldly, his face like stone as his back stiffened. "The situation of this new century, damn you! And by rights it will be our century, if only we have the guile and the willpower to realize our ambitions." "Your father is no opponent to modernization, if that's what you fear." "Ahhh, but you're wrong. Or you're lying. My father had no qualms about breaking up the monasteries, and he allows me my little toys, but there is no path for us to enter the modern wurld under his leadership. He keeps a stranglehold on the National Assembly; it took the threat of a palace revolt to change his mind. My grandfather had the vision to crown himself Emperor anew, in defiance of his ancestors ways. And my father, as you say, is amicable enough to the changing of the times. But my grandfather and my father both saw and measured their power in the old way all the same; in horses, in musketeers, in catties of rice and hectares of farmland. If we are to preserve our place in the wurld against the powers that be, and secure the future of the nation, then our true power must be vested in technology, in industry, in the development of goods for trade abroad. I can make that happen, but not if we have fallen so far behind that we can never recover." "A fine sales pitch for a coup d'etat. What have I to do with it?" "All we'd need is twenty good men. No one knows the palace better than we two. I already have most of the key guards paid off, and with you at my side, we'd have the army to heel before anyone even knows quite what's going on. The true cause of the Emperor's death, as usual, will be concealed, and with a skillfully embalmed corpse at his state funeral, no one will be the wiser. The Emperor merely tragically perished of a heart attack while receiving his firstborn son and his old rival's hostage boy, turned loyal Imperial hero. A great tragedy, to be sure, but what nation has not risen from greater misfortune before?" "Zilong, you're drunk. I won't hear this, alright? You can just forget all about me getting on that damn blimp of yours, and go back to your father with your report like a good son." "Zilong, is it now? You're the one who stands to advance his standing the most from this. I'm offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. The restoration of your father's old titles, a generalship; hell, I'll make you Secretary of War and give you a hundred concubines for your general staff if that's what you damn well want. We need to seize on the moment, and strike while my father's guard is down. I think that he suspects." "It would seem he is right to suspect, you're plotting-" Jian's voice dropped to a desperate, husky stage whisper- "Regicide, Zilong!" "Wrong. I'm participating in the natural life cycle of kings and emperors. No man can really reign for ten thousand years, after all, hmm?" "If this is supposed to convince me, you're doing a very poor job." "You're the only one I can trust with this. I wouldn't come to anyone else and ask this." "And you know damn well that you shouldn't have come to me, either! This is treason, Zilong, and I won't hear of it anymore!" Wincing at his sore hamstrings as he rose to his feet, Major Jian looked at his childhood friend with nothing in his eyes, and nothing was returned to him from the Prince's gaze. "If that is all, Your Highness." He said, loud enough for anyone at the door to hear. "Out of my sight." The Crown Prince growled up at him, pitching the lees of his wine cup over his left shoulder in a show of disdain. "May his Imperial Majesty reign for ten thousand times ten thousand years." The Major said with a dutiful bow. In any event, Emperor Xian did not reign for even a week longer. Jian had barely reached home when the news reached him; dead of an apparent heart attack. A great tragedy; most of all for the Emperor's grieving son. In a grand address at the state funeral, he promised sweeping reforms, massive infrastructure projects, and expansion of the military. With the threat of Bozan rebellion quashed, there was little any could do to oppose the new Emperor Hui. Indeed, there were few at the beginning who wanted to do so in the first place. And so it was that at the age of 21, Jian Bozaan found himself discharged with a pension, a retired military officer put out to pasture as a war hero, in the hopes he would live and die quietly. And so, sensing the nature of the forces which were working against him, Jian Bozaan resolved to do just that, and for some years thereafter took to copying old etchings and practicing archery. It seemed there was nothing which could excite the fighting spirit which once dwelled within him, as the new century dawned without him... 赤龍 lit. "Cinnabar Dragon" Bolin and Zilong are both courtesy names

Wulumuqi, the city of silk, goldsmiths and pearls. Wulumuqi, whose people had built and crewed a thousand ships for as many years for conquerors, traders, and great diplomats alike. The vessel presently pulling into port, however, was unlike any the ancient harbor had ever seen. As the Revelation hove into view along the quayside, her twin hulls churning the water ahead of and behind her, the sun was rising over the sea, illuminating the patchwork landscape of minarets, skyscrapers, apartment towers, and humble old-fashioned hutong alley houses. Standing on the quay, squinting against the orange autumn sunlight, a pair of Alharun experts regarded their new home. Though neither of them said so, it was impressive as a craft, but perhaps not as a living space, even from afar. "Look at that thing move. Bet she can really hustle when the reactor gets going. Or revved up, or... I'll ask the engineers what the proper term is when we're aboard." Ma Rushan adjusted his round glasses as he spoke, an old nervous habit that was rearing its head again thanks to the mixed company of the occasion. It seemed like everyone short of Almas and the cabinet had turned out to welcome Revelation, with a military drill team standing just feet behind him, ready to snap into action at a moment's notice. Aside from the state dignitaries and the scientists themselves, many members of the public had turned out despite the early hour. Ma saw anarchists in Argic biker leathers, party cadres in their mustard brown suits, and what looked like a few classes of schoolchildren, here to learn all about science and wurld affairs, he assumed. "I think the engineers will probably be occupied with more important things. Besides, your Anglish needs work." Pan Yue brushed the hair out of her eyes, mirroring the tic-ridden behavior of her longtime dig and dive partner. Despite her ribbing, they were nothing less than the best of friends and colleagues. They'd had each others backs when funding ran short, or a regulator came undone, and through all the battles of tenure at Eastern Pengxia University. The pair enjoyed a partnership that, over the years, had become so close it threatened to verge on the intimate. Sometimes, Pan wondered idly why she hadn't asked him to marry her long ago, when they had met in the navy. Sometimes she wondered if she still would. But life as a glube-trotting professor of underwater archaeology was like any other; humdrum and uncertain in its own way. "My Anglish is fine, and I'll be immersed, so it'll just get better. Besides-" Ma's no-doubt-lengthy rebuttal was interrupted by the sound of artillery, a salute from the medieval fortress that still watched over Wulumuqi harbor. Red, white and blue erupted in clouds of pigment over the ramparts, settling on the water like a technicolor fog. Ma couldn't help flinching involuntarily, as he felt his face go red. Behind him, he heard the drill team snap to attention. "Ei ya, this is a civilian venture," he muttered. "I'll never understand our government's obsession with militarizing every facet of society." "Save your ei yas," Pan said, looking over her shoulder. "You'll need them. Here comes Guiyin." Striding with utmost confidence down the pier towards them, sticking out like a sore thumb in an emerald green gown and chunky monochrome jewelry, Zhu Guiyin smiled as she caught sight of the pair, quickening her pace and embracing them one after the other. "Pan Yue, Ma Rushan, I'm so glad you're here. Plenty of people would be capable of enduring the physical hardships but there are few who could carry the spiritual weight of this venture." The tall woman nodded sagely, eyes widening as if she'd said something profound and not delivered a backhanded compliment. The decision to include their old acquaintance in the delegation had sparked many an argument between the two professors; she was spacey, unreadable, and given to what most Fulgistanis were likely to perceive as flights of fancy. But to hundreds of thousands of adherents, she was a priestess of the Water-Anointed serpent, a holy woman whose presence here was due as much to religious sensitivities around the ancient ruins as it was to her unique expertise on architecture of the period. It helped that as a priestess of the faith, she had plenty of experience freediving with the sea snakes that the temple held sacred. "Good to see you too, Guiyin. It's been too long." Despite herself, Pan meant the words. She had a genuine affection for the tall, gawky priestess that transcended her own atheism; more than anyone else, Zhu Guiyin encouraged her to see the wurld differently." "Just in time, too." Ma said as he nodded at the extending gangplank. "I believe our welcoming party is here."

Day One: Bug Out Another transport helicopter took off into the sunset, the beauty of the Xioan sky spoiled by the pillars of angry black smoke on the horizon. Corporal Sang Min watched it from the back of the jeep as the helo sped westward, rifle at his side as his squad bumped along back to base. At the gate, they passed a tanker full of gas, the second one to come and go today, its precious cargo headed for the capital along with most of the rest of 2nd Battalion, Pengxia Rangers. It was one of two Fulgistani units training here at the Nanhong base, along with a unit of engies from the hated Other Army. At present, those engineers were going to work accounting for everything of importance on the base, packing up whatever they could, and destroying or demolishing whatever they couldn't. The driver of the jeep deftly steered a corner around an excavator ripping up long strips of runway, and came to a halt in front of the commander's office. Silently, the troop dismounted and filed inside, shaking the fine red dust from their boots and clothing at the door. The lieutenant colonel was at her desk, poring over her maps. A woman of sixty, her face was growing pudgy with age, but Sang was under no illusions about her physical health; Pang Qiangguo was an old-school revolutionary peasant woman, and nothing to mess with. Black hair buzzed so short it was blue-grey against her scalp, and the kind of smile that suggested not so much a lack of teeth as the idea that the gods had been frugal when handing them out to her at birth. She was not smiling now. Sang stepped forward and saluted. "Sir, we talked to Gang Niu but he said he won't consider evacuation unless he's guaranteed a place for his family. We couldn't even find the other interpreters; hardly recognized anybody in town. Everyone's fleeing west." The colonel let out a sigh through her nose. "It's just as well he won't come, Corporal. While you were out I got a call from Loyaxane. We're not permitted to evacuate any civilians. Personnel only." "Sir, these people are firmly convinced they're going to be killed or enslaved the moment the Sefesians get here, we can't just leave them to their fate." "Sang, you know as well as I do that I can't disobey a direct order from Major General Dong." The even, icy tone of her voice belied her true hatred for the man; he was a notorious bungler sent to manage the training operations in Xio after his failure to defeat Rusheau in the West Ceris campaign. And now he was going to f*ck up the handling of another crisis, with even greater loss of life. Lili... Sang saw her face as the ramifications of this order set in. Not one single Hong. The soldiers run and the common people stay and die. The wurld turned upside down, he thought. He decided to change the subject. "Who's still here?" The lieutenant colonel leaned back in her chair. "From our outfit; Sergeant Fu and her squad, Lieutenant Ming and a third of the signals platoon, all of supply, the mortarmen, a couple of the nurses, and Doc Ngoc." "What about Cookie?" "He was on that last chopper with the others. He was sad he didn't get to say goodbye to you." Sang scoffed. "Let him poison some poor Imperials today, good riddance." "In the meantime, Corporal, I want you and your detail to lend a hand wherever you're needed. We're departing at 0900 tomorrow." "Understood, sir." "Dismissed." Sang walked out of the office with a face like stone. His normally cheerful demeanor was tempered by the overwhelming, looming dread that oozed from every dark corner, every crack in the concrete, every towering cloud of carbon rising from the east. It was a grim day for the Rangers, but an even worse one for Xio. Just a few days before, the Rangers had considered themselves (privately, of course) to be among the best-trained and most formidable soldiers in the country. Now, facing the tide of Sefesian-Anglian onslaught, they felt like the rest of the Nanhong residents; unprepared, running scared for the capital. Sang directed his men over to a stack of pallets, where they set themselves to stacking and strapping down cases of ammunition. The work was meticulous enough to serve as distraction, but in his heart, the corporal knew they were in for the first of many long, watchful nights.

OOC: This thread will serve as a soft reboot, both for Jian Bozan and the history of Fulgistan, but also for the lore of the nation itself. Expect more contemporary insights into Fulgistan to follow. And it was in those days that Lei Junfa, the Thundering Warlord, led an army down from the heavens, whose soldiers carried fire in their stomachs and sliced men's flesh with only the palms of their hands. This cannibal army ravaged the wurld, and soon they had conquered all the realms of the Huang. For generations, Lei Junfa and his sons took the children of the Huang for their roasting-boards, broke their swords, stole their fields, and ground the common people beneath their feet. So mighty were they, not even the finest heroes of the age could oppose their armies. And so it came to pass that in the reign of the seventh son of Lei Junfa, the people suffered terribly, even worse than before, and the gods could no longer ignore their suffering. So one night, when Lei Junfa's son was sleeping, the Great Sea Serpent came to him, and said unto him: “You and your brothers and your father have tormented the Huang for too long. I shall send you the seed of your destruction, but I shall send him by Another Way, for that is my wont. Though I am King of the Seas, my servant shall come to you from land bounded by land bounded by land again. Though I am Prince of Rectitude, my servant shall need to seek redemption for his wrongs. Though he shall be your doom, he shall come to you from within your own household. So it was said in heaven.” When Lei Junfa's son heard these words, he awoke with a fright. The Serpent had planted the seed of his Painted Dynasty's undoing: the man called Gang Liuwei. — The Funeral Ballad of Gang Liuwei, Unknown Author, ca. 11th century CE, describing events of the 4th century March 27, 1898. Bozanistan, westernmost province of the Five-Colored Empire. They saw the buzzards before they saw the bodies. Four men and a boy, bound as if crucified on long stakes on the hilltop, their corpses the tallest objects for miles around. As the troop of blue-jacketed cavalrymen came within sight, their tall red mares dyed a deep umber by the dust, the young major signaled the halt, and approached the gruesome scene on foot with Captain Liao, both men leading their horses. It was not long before they got to the top of the hill, and the major shooed the buzzards away with a few swishing strokes of his lariat. “What do you make of it, Captain?” Liao turned his head abruptly; was this boy really so green as to ask a question like that when he saw what was clearly the aftermath of a Bozan raid? But then, the lad was half-caste (though he didn't look it) and perhaps he had a sense of humor. Then again, aristocrats so loved to give their underlings these little tests, extend a little lure of good humor then huff themselves up into a rage at your newfound familiarity...yes, they loved their little tricks to let you knew where you stood. Against his better judgement, he decided to be flippant. “I reckon the good news is we can take the scouts off our payroll, sir. Maybe we can think about increasing the tea ration.” To the captain's surprise, his superior's broad moustachioed face cracked into a grin, and a dark chuckle emerged. The black visor of his gold-trimmed kepi shaded his eyes. “You have it right; that is indeed the good news. The bad news is, as you can clearly tell, only two of these men belong to us. This one, and that boy, they look like they're just peasants. Why would a Bozan raiding band, riding hell-for-leather across the plains with two Imperial captives, stop to kill their captives, stake them up like this, and kill these two poor peasants besides?” “I don't know, sir, unless…” Liao pondered. He had earned his commission, not purchased it, but it had been granted for his ability to marshal men on horseback and keep cool under pressure, not his detective skills. Nonetheless, he ventured: “They wouldn't do this unless they wanted us to see it.” Another big smile from the major; it was unnerving juxtaposed with the scene in front of them. “Precisely! They suppose we'll come upon this tableau, fill our hearts with fiery revenge, and ride off in the direction we've been tracking them. But! Look here — the scouts, their faces are smashed in. They're unrecognizable but for their uniforms.” “The Bozan do that to all the captured scouts. They hate them most of all, for betraying their people.” “That may be so, Captain, but in this case, I think we will find it has a secondary purpose…” The major reached for the shoe of one of the dead scouts. With a sickening sound, and a sloughing of dead skin over dead tissue, it came free, revealing its owner's deformity. “Now, Captain, when did the Imperial Army ever accept a man with a club foot? I'm convinced the Bozan still have our men prisoner, and if we don't hurry, they're going to do a lot worse than this to them.” “Sir! You said they wanted us to follow them!” “Not the first group. It's an old trick. Two bands meet on a well-used trail, then one doubles back along the trail while the other rides away through open country, leaving a fresh trail to distract pursuers. If my instincts are correct, we'll run into the other party of braves about four, five miles behind us. If we hurry, we might be able to stop them before they get to their home ranges and the hills are bristling with arrowheads.” As he spoke, the young major strode confidently to his horse and mounted it. As the Captain made ready beside him, he took a small notebook from his saddlebag and marked it once, twice, four times with a pencil. On the notebooks page, he now had sixty such marks. It was certainly macabre, this accounting of the dead, but he thought little of its strangeness. After all, how else was Major Jian the Big Sword going to ensure he had properly honored the slain, when it came time to balance the total?

I'm happy to welcome a fellow New Jerseyan as my neighbor.

Cache of Ancient Artifacts Provides Stunning New Insight Into the Mysterious Qi Dynasty When Zhang Yutai, a 52-year-old shepherd, took shelter in this dry, dusty abandoned cave dwelling in the hills of Dawan province, he had no idea he would stumble upon an Eurth-shattering discovery: the lost treasures and records of the ancient Qi Dynasty's last Emperor. Behind a crumbling wall partition, Mr. Zhang found crumbling silk wrappings containing over 1,000 bamboo books, as well as 300 pieces of statuary, jewelry, coins and other artifacts that made up a portion of the Qi imperial treasury, stashed away in this remote cave dwelling by fleeing retainers after the dynasty's fall in 317 CE. The Qi Dynasty, or "Painted" Dynasty, has occupied a mysterious place in Huang historiography for centuries. They were a barbarian people of mysterious origins, who swept eastward from the shores of the Chensha lake and conquered the Yellow Empire in 119 CE. Their rule was marked by bloody sacrifices to their gods, and the foreign emperors took many conscripts for their military campaigns in the south. After nearly two centuries of brutal rule, the Qi were toppled by Gang Liuwei, founder of the Ning dynasty. The records of the Qi, which were already few, as they were not as literate as the Huang they ruled over, were lost almost entirely during the rebellion that brought the dynasty down, leaving little clue as to the nature of these mysterious conquerors. The cache uncovered in Dawan is by far the largest group of Qi dynasty artifacts uncovered to date, and researchers hope that these unusual documents and objects will provide more information not only to the origins of the Qi dynasty, but to the governance of this unusual theocratic state. The art objects contained in the cave have sparked particular interest, as the bamboo books are yet to be translated or digitized. Scholars have noted the singularly unusual aesthetic sensibilities employed in their construction, totally unknown among other cultures in Northeast Alharu in this time period. However, according to Dr. Pang Feiqin at Yindan University, the artifacts do bear a striking resemblance to Mesothalassan artwork of the 6th century CE. Is it possible that a Mesothalassan group could have migrated all the way to what is now Fulgistan? Or, even more astonishingly, do the Mesothalassan people themselves have their origins in the Paran Desert? Dr. Pang remains skeptical of such a bold claim. "All we know for sure is that the Qi ruling class represented a heretofore totally unknown ethnic and cultural group, and that, seemingly, nearly all traces of this group's artwork and culture have been erased from the area they formerly occupied." Research on the so-called Zhang Hoard is currently underway both onsite in Dawan Province and in Dr. Pang's laboratory in Yindan. Those among us clamoring for more information about this exciting discovery and the mysterious people who produced it will have to resign ourselves to waiting and watching. For more educational programming that sheds light on our shared past, be sure to tune in to Eyes on History, on BGCTV 8.

TO: Chief Consul Tamäj Vilhälm Köseg, @Stedorian People's Republic FROM: General Secretary Tomur Almas, Worker's Republic of Fulgistan Dear Comrade Köseg, As I'm sure you can imagine, the deteriorating diplomatic situation in East Ceris is of chief interest to us, as over 18,000 Fulgistani men and women of the armed forces and the Party cadres currently remain in the western part of that island conducting relief and reconstruction efforts for our Ceriser allies. I write to you now to implore you to repair the relations between your own state and the Ceriser nations of the North Adlantic Union. In the face of an Anglian threat that is rapidly expanding out of control, it is of vital importance that the nations of the New Wurld put up a unified front against such a powerful and ambitious enemy. Moreover, Stedoria itself, as has already no doubt been represented to you, is not in a position either to dictate to Ceris nations or to aid them significantly. The people of Ceris deserve, as do all peoples, to chart the course of their own destiny. Though sudden, the decision of Eastern Ceriser nations to join the NAU was one motivated above all by internal, not external factors, and I believe that your nation should keep this in mind as it attempts to navigate the current crisis. To assure you of my nation's own good faith in this matter, I would like to extend to you an invitation; I have obtained special permission from the presidents of Ganlin and Ubraoria, and the General Secretary of Criasia, for you and any members of your government you choose to make a personal inspection of the Fulgistani-led reconstruction efforts in West Ceris. Our primary concern is in restoring the productive and governmental capabilities to these nations, putting them in the best place possible to rebuild themselves and each other, and to resist the looming threat of both Anglia and lingering Sentist influence. It is my hope that when you see for yourself the conditions we have worked in these past two years, and what we have been able to build from the ashes of war, that your government can be persuaded that accepting necessary help from foreign powers is in the best interest of Ceris at large. Sincerly, Tomur Almas

Revolutionary Guard Reserves Deployment to Aid Rhavan Government in Relief Efforts "As the Socialist Republic of Rhava reels in the wake of a string of recent tragedies, the Central Committee has authorized the deployment of 3,000 reserve military personnel, and a further 4,000 civilian medical personnel to central Rhava in an effort to provide much-needed material and medical aid to the rural population of the area affected by the devastating Hurricane Ongan. This announcement is expected to be the beginning of the Party's expressed intention to consolidate the socialist and continentalist states together into a cohesive bloc to resist Anglian aggression in the New Wurld; depending on the willingness of the Rhavan government, further relief deployments may be sent to Chow Cho, another area of Rhava suffering badly from disasters and unrest." "For BGCTV, I'm Chen Weihuang."

I'm okay with that placement, as long as @Rhavais okay with me expanding up next to his northern border, leaving room for Rhavan expansion in the west.

General Secretary of the Workers' Republic of Fulgistan Tomur Almas (啊儿马同母 A'erma Tongmu) A Party cadre from Kuanqiao, Mingsheng Province, Almas was born in 1967 into a secular Muslim family, apart from his maternal grandmother who was a Bozan woman of the Blue-Black Orda. His personal name, Tomur, means "iron" in the Bozan language, and it is common for Fulgistanis both supportive and unsupportive of his policies to refer to him informally as 钢I母 (gangmu, “Iron-Mur”) in conversation and political cartoons. Almas first rose to prominence as a representative for Mingsheng Province, after which he ran a successful campaign for Mayor of Bogd Gioro, a position he held for 8 years starting in 1990. In 1997 he was instrumental in the overthrow of the Lihun Clique, an opportunist faction that had seized control of the Central Committee. Almas provided the anti-Clique faction of the Revolutionary Guard, led by General Jinhuang Choinom, with the intelligence necessary to seize the Xuanwu Palace complex and arrest the Lihun Clique. He steadily gained a following in the People's Great Khural around his support for limited capitalist opening of the country in order to build the country's limited and outdated productive forces. In 2015, he became General Secretary of the Party, and in 2017 oversaw the opening of the Samarkhand Province Special Economic Zone, an experiment with foreign investment. Almas is married to Wei Haiying and has 2 daughters, Shujie (20) and Alyona (26). In his spare time, he enjoys cycling, reruns of the 1980s animated show Star Fighter Jinjian, and attending games of his favorite baseball team, the Bogd Gioro Thunder.

Liu Weiwu shaded his eyes with his hand as the aircraft cannon shells struck home amongst the artillery positions on top of the ridge. A cheer went up from the men as the Anatean pilots finished their attack run, giving a wing-waggle as a farewell before pealing off into the blue sky again. Captain Liao, who had not even deigned to duck from the oncoming fire, waited for only a moment before his tanned arm and gravelly voice once again began to issue orders. "Shang qilai! Shang qilai! Pan and Liu, get up that slope and clear those dugouts! Don't give 'em time to regroup!" Once he had made certain that his subordinates had heard him, he took the whistle around his neck and sounded a long piercing note, swinging his arm forward in a chop. "Company, advance!" Most of the company had gone to ground in or around the flooded rice paddy, and the men rose dripping with muddy water from the Eurth to give a shaky cry of "Sha!" and begin the advance. Liu Weiwu, his fingers tight around the uncomfortable stamped-metal grip of his pistol, took his position along the company's left flank, opposite Captain Liao on the right. As the other company commanders of the 1st Battalion gathered the initiative, the entire line, previously thrown into disarray by the sudden attack, began to take shape as it marched quickly up the ridge in a wavy formation. As the left wing of the sweeping advance, Liu's company was the first over the ridge. "Keep at least three meters between you, men, don't clump up!" Liu took a stick grenade from his belt pouch and gave a tug on the priming cap, lobbing the explosive over a wall of sandbags, where it detonated with a great cloud of dust. This first line of Salvian artillery positions appeared to be abandoned. Beyond the first row of dugouts, Commissar Liu could see scattered groups of crewmen running for cover, many of them being cut down by Fulgistani rifle fire. It appeared that the sudden arrival of air support, coupled with the initiative of the ground forces, had significantly stymied any preparations for a Salvian massed attack. "Lieutenant Liu, look out!" "Na'er ne? What are you talking a-" Liu managed to catch a good look at the driver of the observer half-track before it ran him down; he was a young man, his brow dripping with sweat and teeth clenched in a rictus grip like that of a dead man walking. His forage cap was askew on a tan face, and his brown hair, overgrown at the sides, was likewise in disarray. It was as if time were standing still in that moment; the terrified expression of the Salvian non-com in the driver's seat was etched into Liu's mind as the half-track careened over the artillery embankment and into his body, throwing him down as the machine's wheels and tracks threw up gravel and debris around him. As he lay dazed, but very much alive, he could hear the shots ringing out, the half-track shuddering to a halt as its driver bled out, and the calls of his men. "Corpsman! Get a stretcher over here! Comrade Liu's been wounded!"

"Can you go a little faster, Mahmoud? I'd hate to be late." "And I would hate to get a traffic citation before we even get out of the airport; that would certainly look bad." "What's the use in having diplomatic immunity if you never get to exercise it?" Dr. Zaitao Binsar found herself in Altaria under very different circumstances than those of her last visit. For one thing, the government had finally shelled out for a chartered flight to Iverica, something that the delegation to the First General Assembly had not had the benefit of. They had also given Dr. Binsar significantly greater freedom to negotiate; the Central Committee viewed the ATARA Development Bank as one of its primary international projects for the coming decade, and was prepared to spend a little outside of its means if it meant securing Fulgistan a seat at the table in the guidance of the bank and its projects. Important too were the proposals on financial regulation; as a nation without a stock exchange, Fulgistan had very little to lose and much to gain from the reigning in of predatory capitalist officials across the New Wurld. More than that, Binsar's own disposition had changed significantly; with one General Assembly under her belt she felt much more prepared to enter the metaphorical ring and advocate for her nation. The wurld of ATARA delegates was a small one, and she had managed to establish some professional but nonetheless warm friendships among the other delegations on her last visit; she looked forward to re-entering the room with old colleagues and new. "Here we are, ma'am, Terminal A. Shall I come in or wait outside?" "And deny yourself Moira's famously warm welcome? I think not. Let's go."