Kida

Part 1

Even after the world is razed to ash, a proud orchid can still grow amidst the rubble. The flower is a beam of hope, and a promise that life will always prevail.

On a blackened battlefield, men in armor of thickened leather and iron plates crawled along the gore-soaked ground, hacking away at each other with screams of panic, desperation, and anger. The grey sky was thick with smoke from cannons that belched plumes of fire. Flaming, barbed arrows bore down upon the writhing mass like hornets from hell. It was a living nightmare, like some grotesque madman's vision. Miles away, on either side of the battlefield, great tents were gathered in horseshoe formations. Here, strategists sipped green tea as they examined their maps and barked orders to messengers who relayed the information to the battlefield. The two groups of strategists were on either side of the war, and yet, they were no different from each other than two schools of minnow in a large pond. As far away as they were from the violence, they could still smell burning flesh and hear the tortured cries of lives being snuffed out. Many of them looked slightly green and nauseated, but not one of them dared to leave his post. The war had lasted hundreds of years, but each battle was taken incredibly seriously, as if the outcome of even the smallest skirmishes would end the whole mess.

"Those damn Argarians...they've developed a new cannon," complained a strategist, who was watching the battle through a bronze telescope. He arranged his puffy cheeks into a pout, as if trying to imitate the world's fattest fish. "No matter how quickly we improve our technology, it just won't- oh, Kirisa, send this plan to squad ten. They're caught up in the western trenches- as I was saying, it just won't keep up. Frankly, I'm surprised we're still locked in a stalemate."

Another strategist, a mousy man with short, greasy hair, gasped lightly in shock, like an owl that had just laid a particularly large egg.

"You mustn't speak like that, Pikachin. It's dangerously close to treason."

The heftier man scowled, shifting in his chair with an ornery gleam in his eye.

"I'm fifty-seven years old. Do you know the average age of our population? I'm ancient. If I can't speak my mind- Kirisa, there you are! Yes, I want these messages taken to squad ten immediately, and when I say immediately, I mean that you should have been there five minutes ago."

After giving the quivering messenger a harsh admonishment, the old man coughed wetly before continuing his conversation.

"As I was SAYING, if I can't speak my mind, you might as well just cart me off to the grave pits already. I mean, we're not the ones who started this war. It was some dusty Argarian royal four hundred years ago who dropped the proverbial gauntlet. All us Januits are doing is picking up the gauntlet. They attack us, we retaliate, they attack again, and somehow this horrible cycle manages to scrape by."

The mousy man's face was pale as milk, and he trembled as he spoke, appalled by his cohort's sharp tongue.

"Princess Saya and the royal family are doing all that they can! The Argarians are focused on world domination and the poor princess-"

"Our 'poor princess' is a slip of a girl who can't even be bothered to come within a hundred miles of the battlefield. We've had warrior queens in the past, boy. Don't you remember Erasea the Valiant, don't you remember your nursery school rhymes? We could use someone like her right now. Not some fancy feathered bird living in a diamond cage, cooing at admirers!"

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Knives flashing, striking wooden targets. Flowers spilling over the sides of stone walls. A woman's voice, laughing sweetly before suddenly cutting off to silence.