The Himalayas trembled under the weight of men and machines.
Through the white expanse, the Dutchman’s army advanced — a column of black figures against the ghostly snow. Their breath rose like smoke, their boots struck the ice in rhythm. Rifles gleamed against the morning light, and the wheels of heavy field guns ground deep tracks into the frozen path. The metallic clatter of cannon bolts and chains rang eerily through the valley.
It was a sight unseen in these ancient mountains — a tide of steel and ambition cutting into the heart of purity. Over a hundred men marched beneath the tattered flag of The League, their faces hard, their eyes hollow. Their rifles, bayonets, and powder carts glimmered like a serpent’s scales winding upward through the snowfields.
At the head of the army rod
