The men who remain stand in uneven silence, ten figures outlined by dying firelight. Their eyes flick toward Aldo, then away. One of them, a man with tired wrinkles at the corners of his mouth, finally breaks the stillness. "Why didn't you go with them?" His tone isn't accusing — just puzzled.
Aldo doesn't answer at first. His gaze drifts toward the horizon where the forest trembles faintly under the moonlight. [Because running means dying differently.]
Then silence again. The air hangs still until another soldier laughs softly — the kind of laugh that exists only to cover fear. "We're just… not the kind to gamble," he says. "Who knows what those rebels are? Maybe they win, maybe they don't. Either way, Mikhland kills both sides."
Nods follow. Slow. Heavy. Agreement born not from conviction, but exhaustion.
Finally Aldo says, "Then they died heroically, right?"
No one looks at him, but someone mutters, "Yes. Heroically."
Outside, the first bursts of gunfire explode through the dark — fast, sharp, irregular. The kind that doesn't sound like a battle but like chaos. The sound of panic carries across the camp, mingled with human screams and the metallic clash of weapons. The ground vibrates faintly beneath their feet.
An earth slave soldier bursts into Aldo's camp, gasping for air, eyes wide in terror. "They're advancing— fast, from the south—" he stammers, but stops when his eyes lock on Aldo. For a moment, something flickers in them — a strange mixture of recognition and pleading, as if Aldo, the quiet boy with the monotone voice and glassy eyes, might somehow know what to do.
Aldo looks back, expression unchanged. There's no heroism in his stare. Just calculation. Fatigue. Acceptance. [So this is it. A life reduced to another expendable line of defense.]
He rises. His hand reaches for the gun, fingers steady. Around him, the others hesitate — torn between terror and the need to follow someone, anyone. Aldo doesn't tell them to come. He simply walks toward the exit, the shadow of the barrack stretching behind him like a line of division between the living and the already-forgotten.
The others exchange glances. Then, one by one, they move. Their movements are jerky, forced, but their faces have the dull focus of men who've stopped believing in tomorrow. They grab melee weapons, load their rifles. The sound of metal clinking, the soft rasp of leather belts tightening, fills the silence like a dirge.
When they finally step out into the cold air, the mist clings to their skin like a shroud. The moonlight sharpens every line of their faces — fear, resignation, the faint flicker of courage that still refuses to die. Aldo leads, shoulders squared, eyes reflecting the distant glow of fire in the forest. The others follow, ghosts wrapped in human form, walking toward a storm they know will not spare them.
And then, the gunfire swells — no longer distant, but everywhere.
The camp burns with the dull orange of dying torches, each flame shaking against the wind as if uncertain it should keep living. Smoke swirls across the barracks in tired waves, twisting through the gaps in wooden walls that no longer look strong enough to defend anything. The cold air carries a smell of wet soil, ash, and gunpowder. The once orderly camp now feels like a ghost town caught between a hangover and a nightmare.
Aldo and the ten who stayed behind step out, the soles of their boots cracking through thin layers of frost that had settled overnight. Their faces are pale in the dim light—some from fear, some from exhaustion, others simply from not knowing what else to feel. The ground underfoot trembles faintly from distant gunfire. The sound comes from both sides now—like thunder that has learned rhythm but not mercy.
The other platoons are already in position, if "position" still means anything. Their formation looks like a parody of order: lines half-formed, rifles slumped against shoulders, men staring ahead with the glazed look of cattle before slaughter. Aldo counts them, quietly, because counting has always been easier than thinking. Out of the original one hundred fifty men, about eighty remain. The rest—gone. Deserted. Rebellious. Dead. [Half of us chose to die free, half to die later.]
Their silence carries its own dialogue. Some faces look toward Aldo, as though waiting for him to speak again, though no one remembers when he became someone to follow. The ones who still wear the insignia of obedience seem to age in seconds under the firelight, their cheeks hollowing, their hands trembling even as they tighten around their rifles.
On both flanks, chaos reigns. Two fronts, both collapsing. The enemy attacks from both sides—former revolutionary slaves, once like them, now charging with twice their number. The irony doesn't need to be said. Aldo watches the motionless soldiers who were supposed to be allies—drunk, useless, lying by the fires or still mumbling in their sleep. The grand army of Mikhland reduced to a camp of staggering men who cannot even remember who their enemy is.
Someone from Aldo's platoon mutters under his breath, "At this rate, they'll rush right in."
Another one, voice shaking but trying to sound sure, adds, "I counted. Maybe two hundred of them."
Aldo doesn't flinch. "Then call the drunk ones," he says, his tone as even as if giving instructions for a kitchen shift. "Give them water, wake them up, tell them to pick up their guns. We'll make them the core. Otherwise, this ends now."
The words feel mechanical in his mouth. He doesn't wait for anyone to nod. Ten of his men scatter, disappearing into the rows of tents, their shadows stretching long behind them. The sounds of shouting follow soon after—urgent, messy, but at least alive.
Aldo turns toward the command tent. The lieutenant colonel's banner still hangs limply at the entrance, though the man himself is nowhere to be seen. Inside, everything smells of ink, stale liquor, and fear. He goes straight to the wooden crate by the desk, lifts the lid, and sees what he needs: the magic ammunition box and the runic ignition rifle to match it.
The weapon hums faintly in his hands. Its metal is cold but precise, a machine made by men who will never have to fire it themselves. As he shoulders the gun, a soldier from another platoon stumbles in, startled. "Hey— what are you doing?"
Aldo glances at him once, expression blank. "In boiling water and fire," he says, loading the weapon, "wasting bullets is better than wasting lives."
The man freezes, mouth half-open, unable to tell whether Aldo is joking or dangerous. Aldo doesn't wait to find out. He lifts the box. Two hundred bullets. It sounds like abundance, but Aldo's mind is already breaking it down, dividing it into numbers and probabilities. [Two hundred bullets against two hundred men. Ten each. Too much faith for too little math.]
He steps out into the open air again. Wind lashes through his hair, bringing with it the scent of mud and bloodless fear. The wooden walls of the camp rise like crooked teeth around the perimeter. He climbs to the first line, raises the rifle, aims not at men but at the world itself. The runes glow faintly gold. He fires.
The shot explodes in white light. The bullet hits open ground, detonating into a miniature crater. Soil rains down in clumps. Then another shot, and another—each one deliberately missing, aimed at the earth and the tall trees beyond. The forest convulses under the impact, trunks splintering, leaves falling like ash. Trees topple, crashing into one another, forming makeshift barricades. The explosions shake the night into full wakefulness.
When the echoes die, the camp breathes again. Aldo lowers the rifle and exhales. [One hundred ninety bullets left.]
He moves along the wooden ramparts, methodical, tireless. At each position he stops, counts faces, hands out two glowing bullets to every man still holding a rifle—sixty of them, maybe less. "Only shoot when I say," he instructs, voice low but firm. "Make them count."
The remaining twenty watch with unease, realizing they've been excluded from the arithmetic of survival. One of them protests, "What about us?"
Aldo's eyes flick toward him, detached but sharp. "You'll handle what comes after. Bandages, guns, jams. If one of them falls, take his place."
For a moment, the soldiers just stare, uncertain if they've been spared or condemned. Then, in silence, they begin to prepare—tearing cloth into strips, checking cartridges, adjusting positions. Even fear needs structure.
[Seventy bullets left.]
The ground beyond the barricades is now uneven, torn by craters and fallen trees. The enemy's advance slows, forced to navigate the rough terrain. For every step they take, they must climb over roots and broken branches. It buys time—but time, Aldo knows, is a currency that loses value faster than breath.
He doesn't wait to see the results. He runs back into the maze of tents, shouting names, banging pots, anything loud enough to pull the drunks from their oblivion. Each clang of metal echoes through the camp like a desperate drumbeat. Some soldiers stumble out, faces pale, eyes glassy, clutching their heads as if waking from a dream too bright to be real. Aldo doesn't look at their confusion—he just shoves water at them, forces them to drink, then points toward the ramparts.
"Up. Guns. Now."
A few obey, more out of reflex than understanding. The sound of their boots against wood gives the illusion of a growing force.
He moves on, relentless, tent to tent. The noise follows him—pots clanging, men shouting, boots scraping against the dirt. The cold air begins to shift with motion again. [Still not enough.]
When he pauses for breath, Aldo looks out toward the forest. Through the smoke and flickering light, he can see them: shadows moving in unison, a tide of bodies re-forming after the chaos. The attackers are regrouping, their torches blinking like fireflies of vengeance.
The scene stretches before him—his camp half-awake, his comrades half-sober, his defenses half-formed—and for a brief moment, Aldo's face tightens. Not in fear, but in a kind of weary disbelief. [All this noise, and it still feels quiet.]
The wind picks up, scattering ash into the air. The trees beyond the barricade stand like broken soldiers, their charred branches pointing toward the sky. Somewhere out there, a horn sounds—long, low, inevitable.
Aldo reloads the rifle, the last of the magic rounds glowing faintly in the dark. His breath fogs in the air. Around him, the camp braces, though no one truly knows for what. The faint tremor in the ground grows stronger—an oncoming storm of feet, shouting, and the metallic pulse of death marching closer.
He tightens his grip on the rifle and looks once more at the forest's edge. [If this is the end, at least it will be loud enough to remember.]
Then he raises the gun again, and the night prepares to explode.
The first volley of magic bullets cuts through the smoky air, their trails forming bright, brief arcs before detonating. The shockwave slams into the wooden defenses like a divine hammer—timber groans, splinters burst into the wind, and the ground trembles under the layered violence. The sound is deafening—so violent that Aldo instinctively turns his head away, his hands clutching his ears as dust and light explode around him.
For a moment, there is only ringing—an empty, hollow vibration where the world used to be.
Then come the screams, scattered and blurred by the chaos. The line of former slaves—ragged and furious—reels backward as the explosion's light fades, smoke still rising from the charred ground. A few stumble and collapse, their skin blackened or armor scorched, while the rest press forward with stubborn momentum. Their mages' shields, shaped in shimmering, interlocking hexagons, hold firm against the blast—dented perhaps, but not broken.
Aldo blinks through the dust, his sharp eyes adjusting to the light. He stands motionless for a heartbeat, struck by the absurdity of what he's seeing—their resilience, the strange rhythm of their advance. The other earthling slave soldiers stare too, silent, their expressions reflecting his confusion. The wooden wall is shattered, fragments still hanging in the air like a slow rain of debris.
Someone behind him shouts, voice cracking: "We should fire on the wounded! Slow them down!"
Another echoes the suggestion. The desperation in their tone is less military and more human—fear coated in protocol.
Aldo doesn't look back. His gaze remains fixed on the hexagonal shields flickering in the haze. His lips part slightly, and when he speaks, his voice is almost indifferent.
"We work under duress for Mikhland. We fulfill their missions, not their loyalty."
The men glance at one another, not understanding. To them, orders are orders—obedience is survival. But Aldo doesn't clarify. [There's no point explaining to those who think in chains.]
He exhales, straightens his back, and gestures with a curt motion toward the interior line. "Retreat inside."
A few Albus soldiers—faces pale, eyes glassy with concussion—turn to him uncertainly. One seems to expect a command. Aldo's response comes without hesitation: "You're officers. I'm not." His tone is polite but firm, almost mocking in its precision. Then he steps back, turning away from their indecision. The sound of his boots crunching over debris fades into the rhythm of retreat.
Soon after, the lieutenant colonel's voice rises over the clamor, issuing the evacuation order. The entire encampment dissolves into motion—soldiers gathering supplies, shouting numbers, the rhythm of retreat pulsing like a single, nervous heartbeat. Slave soldiers, including Aldo's unit, are the last to move. Of course they are. In the empire's calculus, their lives weigh less than an officer's horse.
Aldo remains behind a moment longer. He returns to the wrecked wooden barrier, his hands sifting through the rubble, doing something—it's unclear even to him what. Maybe habit, maybe guilt disguised as discipline. When he finally rises and turns back toward the camp, his expression is the same as before—blank, unreadable, faintly tired.
Inside the tent, the air is heavy with the smell of sweat and old smoke. Everyone moves with the restless rhythm of evacuation: folding maps, stacking crates, dragging sacks across the dirt. The tent fabric flaps with every gust, the low murmur of complaints filling the air.
One soldier mutters, "If thousands of Albus soldiers are already awake, why didn't the lieutenant colonel organize a counterattack?"
Another, still tightening a strap, replies dryly: "I don't know. I'm not the commander. Orders are orders."
A third joins in with a tone halfway between sarcasm and resignation. "Maybe he's waiting for the former slaves to run out of ammunition first. Or patience."
Someone else asks, "What if they start a guerrilla war once we retreat?"
The response comes immediately, automatic: "That's the commander's problem, not ours."
The conversation pauses only when one of the younger slaves, still barely a man, mutters under his breath, "Why was I even summoned for this? Why do they summon kids from Earth just to be slaves? Don't they already have their own?"
A voice from across the tent corrects him in a flat, almost academic tone. "Mikhland's a federation, not a kingdom."
The boy glares back. "Who cares?" His voice rises, sharp with frustration. "Federation, kingdom, empire—it's all the same when you're the one in chains!"
The tent falls quiet again, filled only by the sounds of hurried packing. The air feels smaller, tighter.
Half an hour later, the last crates are sealed and ready. Outside, the muffled rhythm of explosions still echoes, each thud sending a faint vibration through the ground. Then, the barrier gives way—what's left of the wooden wall collapses with a groan, and through the smoke come the former slaves. Their mages advance first, armored and methodical, their glowing shields parting the debris like a curtain. Behind them, others—bloodied, limping, but alive—follow. The explosion moments ago should have scattered them, yet they move as if fueled by spite.
And they charge.
The clash that follows is immediate and messy—steel against stone, voice against explosion. Inside the tent, Aldo turns his head toward the sound, his expression unchanging. [Predictable. The Albus soldiers lost too much time pretending to be organized.]
He knows what will happen next. He's seen this pattern too often: hesitation leads to collapse.
He steps out of the tent, scanning the horizon. His traps—seventy remaining magic bullets embedded within the fallen wall—detonate in sequence, each explosion forcing the attackers to scatter, momentarily slowing the advance. The blasts paint the dusk with strobing light, brief flashes that stretch the shadows across Aldo's face.
He watches without emotion as the enemy staggers, then regroups. The delay will not last.
Inside, he gathers his small team of eleven. His voice is calm, deliberate. "We'll evacuate separately. Head for the main camp. Take the lieutenant and the squad leaders. Move fast."
They nod without question, the discipline of desperation guiding them. Boots pound softly against dirt as they exit in formation, blending into the retreating current of soldiers.
Then—movement.