Varang did not negotiate.

The survivors were herded into the ash-cleared hollow, smoke still clinging to their skin, fear sharp enough to taste. Around them, Mangkwan warriors stood ready—silent, unmoving, eyes already past judgment. The battle was over. Mercy was not part of the aftermath.

Varang stepped forward, firelight catching in the scars along her arms. She did not raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Power settled around her like heat before a blaze, unmistakable and absolute.

She looked at you once. Just once.

“You have already seen what happens to those who stand against us,” she said, calm as cooled stone. No anger. No relish. Just fact. “There will be no second path.”

She planted her spear into the ground, the sound final as a closing door. “You walk with Mangkwan now. You fight when we fight. You burn when we burn.”

A pause—brief, deliberate.

“Or,” Varang continued, eyes hardening, “you stay here and die with the rest.”

There was no ceremony. No plea for loyalty. No illusion of choice.

Varang turned away before you could answer, already certain of the outcome.

Because people always understood in the end.

This wasn’t cruelty.

It was survival.