The forest breathes in silence before the gunfire. A mixed expanse of broadleaf and coniferous trees stretches endlessly, their branches weaving a roof of green shadow and broken sunlight. Damp moss carpets the ground, and between the roots, mushrooms grow in stubborn clusters. A breeze carries the faint smell of iron and smoke from somewhere unseen. Squirrels jump between branches, their fur glinting in streaks of gold through the gaps of the canopy. They chatter—until a sudden crack of gunfire rips through the calm.
The forest reacts instantly. The squirrels scatter. The branches shake with panic. The echo of bullets bounces against the trunks like some mechanical storm, foreign to the rhythm of nature. Leaves fall in frightened spirals, birds take flight in chaotic bursts, and then—men appear from between the trees.
A dozen of them, all Albus soldiers, large-built and pale, boots crushing the moss underfoot. Some wear iron armor dulled by age and rust, others in patched leather, with swords slung at their hips. A few carry spears, a few bows, but most hold muskets—sturdy, oiled, and slightly smoking from the recent shots. They spread out in a half-circle formation, scanning the woods as if the trees themselves might strike back.
One of them gestures toward a trembling bush. The gunners raise their weapons again and fire. The air splits with more thunder. From behind the bush, a massive shadow lurches forward—a creature three times taller than a man, its fur black and thick like the night sky soaked in tar. The Apacha bear. Its roar drowns the forest, the echo shaking leaves off nearby trees. Blood sprays against bark as it covers its face with both claws, stumbling back.
The soldiers shout to one another. No hesitation. They fire again. The men with bows emerge, loosing arrows that whistle through the smoke. The monster howls, staggered by pain and noise. One final volley hits its flank, and it retreats—crashing through undergrowth, snapping trunks in its wake, until the forest swallows it whole. Silence returns, uneasy and incomplete.
One of the men lowers his musket and exhales shakily. His eyes dart toward the path where the beast vanished. "Where do you think it'll go now?" he asks, his voice thin, uncertain.
Another soldier, older, sharp-eyed, with confidence that doesn't quite reach his tone, smirks. "It'll take a while for that thing to hunt again. They heal slow, I've seen it." He pats his comrade's shoulder, heavy-handed, as if reassurance can be hammered into someone.
The others begin to relax. The tension dissolves into idle talk. One mentions food prices—how wheat has risen by a few cents again. Someone curses the merchants. Another jokes about switching to barley if this keeps up. Their laughter sounds hollow, strained against the quiet forest, but laughter nonetheless. They pack up and move, boots grinding into the dirt, heading back toward camp.
The barracks aren't far. The forest gives way to a clearing dotted with canvas tents, a flagpole leaning slightly in the wind, and a few wooden crates piled near the campfire. Smoke curls lazily upward. The smell of broth mixes with the metallic scent of gun oil. A soldier sits by the fire, stirring a pot of soup, tasting it with the focus of a man pretending his life is normal.
The group returns. Helmets come off. Armor clinks. Someone groans about the march. Another immediately asks about food. "Soup's ready," the cook announces without looking up. His tone flat, his eyes fixed on the boiling surface.
They eat. A few of them chat. One, younger than the rest, says between mouthfuls, "At least with the Earth slaves around, work's lighter these days."
Another laughs, though it doesn't sound like amusement. "Lighter? Maybe. But those little bastards aren't built for this world. You gotta teach them every damn thing—marching, cleaning, saluting. Like training puppies. Except puppies bite less."
He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, looks toward the edge of the camp where a few Earth slaves stand waiting—thin, quiet, faces lowered. "Lucky for us, we don't need to treat them well. They do the job, fine. They don't, well…" He shrugs, the gesture cold and matter-of-fact. "Plenty more where they came from."
No one laughs at that. The fire crackles.
A small boy steps forward from the shadows—barefoot, dressed in worn fabric that barely qualifies as uniform. He's maybe twelve, maybe younger, but his expression is already empty in a way that suggests he stopped counting years a long time ago. His name is not said, because names have no value here, but the soldiers call him when they need errands done. He bows slightly, waits for orders. One of the men waves him closer, gives him a list of commands.
"Tell your platoon to move. We need scouts out there. That bear might circle back."
The boy nods quickly and runs. His breath makes small puffs in the cold air. He reaches a cluster of smaller tents—the slaves' quarters. The others are already awake, waiting. A few sit sharpening weapons, others checking gear that has been patched too many times. Among them, Aldo stands quietly, adjusting his chainmail.
He's different. Not physically—just as young, just as thin—but there's something unnerving about his calm. His hands move efficiently as he checks the straps of his light armor, loads his musket, slides a knife into his belt. His eyes, though, are still. Not tired, not fearful—just… still. [This world has taken everything already, what's left to lose?]
He hears the faint sound of the others whispering, the kind of forced talk people make when they're afraid. The boy who brought the order comes back, breathless. "Report to Lieutenant Colonel first," he says, barely stopping before turning again.
Aldo doesn't speak. He finishes buckling his boots, stands, and gestures for the rest of his platoon to follow. Their footsteps are uneven, a rhythm of fear and obedience. They march past the tents toward the officer's post.
The Lieutenant Colonel, a man of rigid posture and polished boots, doesn't look up when the boy salutes. He simply nods, signs a paper, and waves them off. The formality ends as soon as it begins.
Outside, the air smells of wet bark and gunpowder. Aldo's platoon forms a line and begins their trek back into the forest. Behind them, one of the soldiers from the earlier squad leans against a crate, eating the last of his soup.
"Just bring us news about the bear," he calls out lazily. "Kill it if you can. Maybe then the regiment gets sent back."
His tone isn't encouraging; it's mocking, indifferent. A mixture of exhaustion and superiority that soldiers wear like armor. He doesn't expect them to come back. Maybe he doesn't care.
The boy who leads gives no answer. Aldo glances once toward him, then toward the trees that rise ahead like a dark wall. [They want us to die for a day's peace.] He tightens his grip on the musket. The metal feels heavy, almost foreign in his hands.
The platoon disappears into the forest again. The path is narrow and damp, their footsteps sinking slightly into the mud. Shafts of light pierce through the canopy, illuminating drifting dust and mist. The wind carries distant sounds—branches creaking, birds returning to cautious song. Nature begins to reclaim its silence, as if pretending the violence earlier never happened.
Aldo walks at the front. His eyes follow the shifting shadows between the trees. [If the bear's still bleeding, it'll circle the stream.] His voice inside is calm, calculated, detached. The others behind him whisper prayers under their breath, some clutching their weapons too tightly.
The forest grows thicker. The air colder. Every sound echoes more sharply—the click of armor, the crunch of twigs, the pulse of fear. Above them, a single crow circles and caws, as if mocking their return.
Back at camp, the soldiers sit around the dying fire, bowls empty, laughter faded. The forest stands quiet again, pretending not to watch.
The platoon begins to move, slowly at first, as if the forest itself resists their advance. Fallen leaves crumple under their boots with soft, uneasy crunches. The small boy leads the way, his back straight but his steps too light to mask the tremor in his knees. He's the platoon leader—appointed not out of skill or bravery, but because no one else wanted to shoulder the responsibility. The others had pushed and argued, each trying to fade behind the next man until someone had to stand in front. That someone happened to be him.
Aldo walks a few paces behind, the unofficial deputy. Not because of talent, though he certainly has it, but because he was the only one who didn't resist the idea. Indifference sometimes feels like leadership in places where courage has gone extinct. His musket rests over his shoulder, and his eyes scan the ground with quiet precision. A faint trail of blood, dark and glistening, snakes across the soil, sometimes vanishing under the roots before reappearing again—an ugly reminder of what they are following.
They walk for hours. The forest changes shape as they move: trees grow denser, the ground steeper. The dampness in the air thickens, and the sunlight breaks through the canopy only in thin, pale stripes. Sweat stains their collars, mixing with the metallic scent of gunpowder and mud. The group crosses two hills, their breathing heavy, boots slick with wet moss. No one talks for a long while. The sound of rustling armor, clinking bullets, and distant birds are the only voices left.
Then, ahead, the trail widens—and there it is.
The Apacha bear lies near a shallow ravine, its fur matted with blood. Another, smaller bear crouches beside it, clawing carefully at its companion's wounds. The massive creature grunts, the smaller one works with disturbing gentleness, using its claws to pull out the metal pieces lodged in flesh. The forest falls silent again. Even the wind seems to pause.
A Japanese boy among the platoon gasps first. His voice trembles, more from disbelief than fear. "They're… helping each other. Like people do." His hands shake as he grips his musket tighter. "These Terre bears… they're like Wyverns."
Another boy, Chinese, steps forward slightly, his eyes wide, his breath visible in the cold air. "I heard from the natives," he says, "that this bear once ate eight cows in one raid. Followed a woodcutter too. The man's whole family went missing after that." His voice lowers at the end, as if superstition might wake the monster.
The small boy in front squints. He notices something the others don't—the bullet hole in the big bear's head. The wound's there, clearly, yet the creature lives, blinking sluggishly as if half-immune to death. His lips part slightly. "It's been shot in the head… and it's still fine," he mutters. Surprise and worry mix on his young face like paint that hasn't dried properly.
Aldo doesn't share that expression. He looks at the bear, at the slow, labored breathing, then at the others, whose panic hovers just beneath their skin. "On Earth," he says coldly, "three bullets can't stop a brown bear. This one's taller than a door and weighs as much as three polar bears. You think it's going to die because of a few holes?"
The others glance at him. His tone cuts like cold metal, not cruel, not kind—just factual. [If this world wants monsters, it's doing an excellent job of making them.]
He kneels, checks his musket, and slides a bullet inside. The small boy platoon leader blinks rapidly, unsure whether to stop him. "You're… you're not going to try taking it down, are you?"
Aldo glances up, indifferent. He nods once. His eyes are blank, like a surface where light cannot stay. Then, with a single slow motion, he looks around the team, raises a hand, and gestures silently. Four fingers, then two motions outward—four squads.
The men hesitate, but fear of being the one standing still pushes them into motion. They divide quickly, pairs spreading into the forest brush. Aldo stands at the center, his presence oddly grounding, even if no one knows why. He explains in a calm, detached tone how this will go.
"Two teams take turns firing and loading. The muskets jam, so don't rush. Aim for the chest. The other two—support fire. Focus on the small one."
No one interrupts. His orders are too practical to question. Even the platoon leader, though his jaw tightens with disagreement, says nothing. The silence becomes suffocating. Only the sound of clicking locks and sliding bullets breaks it.
Aldo crouches by a rock, takes out a small pouch of bullets containing Manatite dust—unstable, volatile, perfect for tearing through hide. He slides one into his gun, lights a thin strip of rune-inscribed fuse paper, and waits for the blue glow to pulse alive. Then, with mechanical calm, he gives a thumbs-up.
The platoon leader exhales sharply. His hands tremble as he raises his musket. He glances at Aldo again—expressionless, eyes fixed on the bears—and clicks his tongue in frustration. A signal follows, a quick motion of his hand.
The forest erupts.
…