The Death of Chichica, Heart of a King

The sunset over the wasteland was a deep red, slowly sinking behind the distant mountains. Over the mountains, ten thousand fathoms of rosy light smeared the sky scarlet and soaked the earth in blood. In that blood-colored dusk, the cruel battle had already ended.

The Red Dog Main Camp at the mouth of the valley was filled with ruin. Its edges were blackened from fire, its interior dark red with blood. Broken warrior corpses numbered in the thousands, layered like maple leaves; snapped Bone Arrows and Copper Arrows were beyond counting, dense as tall grass. And the farther one went toward the center, the more it was so.

A pair of deerskin shoes stepped into the camp, surrounded by clusters of straw sandals. The deerskin shoes slowly walked deeper into the camp, crossing the fallen corpses, until they reached the Red Dog flag. At this moment, the Red Dog flag passed down for many years had long since snapped, its cloth sunk in bloody mud, torn and ruined beyond recognition.

And a powerful corpse lay on its back beside the Red Dog flag. His eyes were wide with rage, his face covered in blood, his hair dyed red, a Wolf Robe draped over his back, a War Club clenched tight in his hand. A dozen feathered arrows were lodged in his body, but the fatal wound should have been the two-finger-wide bloody hole in his left chest—he had died with his heart pierced through by a Copper Spear. His limbs still held the posture from just before death, as if he were still fighting. Because at the instant he died, his body had exerted itself with all its strength, the muscles all over him spasming and twitching, forming the stiffness of a corpse.

The owner of the deerskin shoes finally