"Mono/Dialogue"

  'Inner thoughts'

  Narration

  [Message/communication apparatus]

  Date: Winter 1919 NWC or 646 AU.

  Location: Undisclosed winter retreat.

  POV: Cylene Renoir

  Taking careful aim at the target 500 meters (550 yards) away, I hold my breath and let the familiar sensation seep through my body. With my eyes open, my vision undisturbed, and my stance solid, my body has been conditioned to withstand the recoil of the Regalian standard M11A3, which is slightly more manageable than a battle rifle belonging to the home guard of Victoria.

  This rifle had seen the war from its start to its abrupt end, and I’m gd that I don’t have to resort to issuing an A6 variant to lighten the load on our failing industry. I deeply regretted how I was, aside from Rossa and her helpers, solely managing this country when it was virtual reality.

  Oh yes, I’m aware, but that’s unimportant at present.

  And no, I am not in touch with her face-to-face yet because she’s busy tying up loose ends.

  The target is no different than a pinprick at this distance, and the snow doesn’t help the average eyes… and yet I pull the trigger. My hands steadied to absorb the recoil as bullet crack cut through the silent field. Streaking across the range at nigh transonic speed… then came a plink and target staggered from the powerful impact of a 7.62mm bullet.

  Dead center.

  Bull’s eyes. 100 points or whatever. I handed the rifle to a nearby Spesdec agent and headed to my seat. Speaking of Spesdec, my mobile air fortress is nded nearby, and a whole host of soldiers always accompany me. Rossa disliked how I operated incognito and persuaded Kennedy to her side. It was two against one, and I must always be under protection. That expins a whole fleet of vehicles reminiscent of Humvees being modified into… uh… what was that American or British car again? Eh, whatever. The point is, they are parked nearby.

  Once I settle on my plush chair, courtesy of Rossa who keeps lecturing me about appearance, the shooting exercise continues where it left off. My staff and bodyguards are never straying too far away from me. Meredith is always on my side, while I’m annoyed by her constant pestering, the girl has been mostly responsible for my well-being, so I get her where she is to stick around.

  Still though… I looked back on how I fit into this world.

  Sure shooting skill with deadeye accuracy is useful… but I doubt it can help me clear those mountains of paperwork faster. I can spend less time sleeping and resting, approximately only 12 hours a week, and yet it makes me antsy to put off work for ter. My body and mind provide higher basic stats and specs, if I need to use a terminology or two, yet even that wasn’t enough.

  While grumbling internally at this strange problem I am having to deal with, a voice called out with a clear tone of reverence and perhaps a note of youth long gone.

  “Splendid marksmanship as always, your sublime skill has yet to deteriorate, something we mortals only able to admire and envy.” An old–almost wizened in fact, man with a handlebar mustache approached with a tray in hand. The tray is arrayed beautifully but firmly on his hands, delicacies I cannot even imagine back in my old life. What caught my eyes the most would be the simplest guilty pleasure since I came to this strange new life.

  He is of average build with a bit of hunch, hair half-balding from age, and his face sports a kind smile befitting that of a retiree currently enjoying his elderly days. His clothes are tailored to accommodate our warmer winter, back in the game I read that SIEZ’s adjacent territory, especially the southern part of Regalia, averages at -20?C (-4?F) and goes worse the closer you get to SIEZ.

  From what reports Regalia has, SIEZ averages at -50?C (-58?F) at its northernmost tip. Then supposedly ‘I’ had been at its deepest possible point. Well, that’s true, but I was there when Orneas and my world were separated by the virtual space. I did however remember my preparation before being shipped out to the Republic of Eire in Camp Reykjavik, SIEZ should be much worse than that. Anyway, people might be wondering why an old man is going out of his way to entertain me, which looks vastly younger and he doesn’t look like a servant or something along the line.

  ‘Isn’t that awful?’ You might ask. So surprise!

  It was my fault, most of the strangeness and social norms were mostly my fault. Or my drunken mind’s creative penchant to grieve after doing my shitty work shift that came with an equally shifty method to earn a bonus.

  Specifically when I added my grievances with upper-csses into writing some intermezzo that other pyers mostly glossed over, even the devs gave me a backhanded compliment. My imagination was really on the low bar, but this is what I had ever hoped anyway.

  I was in for a culture shock, a few days through my ‘surprise inspections’ spree, as my people prefer to call it, I learned that those little texts I inserted through the many in-game details came to life. This one is a Regalian culture where it is just proper for the second highest standing personage to personally entertain their betters.

  What I added as a joke and petty revenge really becomes real substantiated lore and cultural trivia, and I can do nothing but admit what’s done is done. Woopsie-daisy, better get on my act FAST.

  “I would be remiss to dismiss your words as mere fttery, so it warms my heart to hear. Then, please, do take a seat first.” I motioned him to take his seat.

  ‘I need to continue my investigation.’ I still find everything weirdly cathartic and amusing that I can just barge into someone’s territory and get treated like royalty.

  My eyes caught the sight of… a sandwich that was eerily simir to what Meredith always made me for breakfast, lunch, and… coffee or tea? The hell?

  ‘Holy shit… I had been eating nothing but sandwiches!’ W-Whatever, not like I care about fine dining. Too time-consuming, and the damn paperwork feels like mocking me each time I left them unattended.

  A-Anyway, and since he got out of his way to show his card on what he knows I like, let’s oblige. Politically it should be correct, and retively acceptable or harmless, it can also be a sign that I appreciate his knowledge and handle on interpersonal retions… Realistically… I cannot resist a sandwich… I had been eating algae slop for decades that actual bread is a literal godsend.

  I take one in my hand and politely take a small bite of it. It consists of our trademark mushroom flour with low fat but high protein value as primary seasoning with a sb of wine-shimmered meat… tenderloin. Hmm… the bread itself is an offshoot of said mushroom that somehow can produce half the carbohydrate content of wheat… That game was weird as hell, but since Old World had dabbled in genetic tampering… I say that’s… pusible.

  Oh yeah. The taste is vastly inferior to what my Head Maid had made. It is too sweet on the mushroom, too savory from the meat, and I particurly dislike the emphasis on taste. Meredith’s creation was perfectly seasoned and sautéed with just enough fvoring that it won’t overpower the bread. Of course, I won’t say that, not after everything I went through in the previous world.

  “My gratitude, Autarch Harrison. I find it reassuring that even old age had failed to sink its dastardly cws upon your boundless enthusiasm to receive this abrupt visit of mine. Irrespective of that personal pse, I expect much from your continued tenure, for Regalia and the people.” Practiced, thin, smile. Acting as a bonafide dictator is not much different when it comes to basics.

  “Think nothing of it, Your Grace. If I may be so bold, I’m just a child in your eyes, and that much is enough as a reminder that we do live our life to the best we can.” His tone and mannerisms made it feel like talking with a junior, but I digress. I take another bite and turn my attention to the firing drill commencing a few meters away.

  We quietly observe as Harrison’s men showcase their marksmanship, sharp shooting, and disciplined spread. I must admit, I wasn’t much of a tea drinker kind of gal, but being served an increasingly delicious blend made me feel like a real aristocrat despite being a filthy plebeian back on earth.

  Heh, goodbye old me, and let’s get this over with.

  “As much as I wish to visit my people and discuss nothing of importance… I require an update on our project. Autarch Raymond’s roundabout method was patable… but I prefer to listen directly. I leaned back a bit, one hand beneath my chin, and sported the haughty air of a (theoretically) impcable woman.

  “As you wish… and if I may add?” It takes me a solid second to understand his implication. The old me would have just stared at him like an idiot, luckily my brain is weirdly and conveniently attuned to social cues from the previous world and political implications in this world.

  “… You may speak freely, there’s no benefit otherwise.”

  “My humblest apology and profound gratitude for your clemency…” He straightened up and his face lost its welcoming grandpa quality to that of a kind man with a vested interest. I kinda regret it but we’ll see how it goes.

  “… It has come to my attention that…” He paused, a note of fear and… remorse? Resignation? Acceptance? Strange… “Your policy of isotion while never incorrect was… ineffectual. It was proving the opposite. Our passive approach did not endear ourselves towards our many neighbors.” He ended his words, and suddenly the range was quiet. I can feel Meredith’s harsh gre boring a veritable hole into his skull through her gsses, his men in return began sweating as my Grasdivis and Spesdecs briefly shifted their stance.

  If I were to say- no, mentally deliberate it through my mind, my men will gun down everyone here and no one can react before they bore a gift of my hospitality and mercy via a bullet to the head. Of course, that’s a ‘highly reasonable’ choice for psychopathic tyrant with their insufferable needs to overcompensate, but I believe I am not there yet.

  I can even hear someone’s bored breathing coming from the gun range. However, my focus is entirely on Harrison. It takes tremendous balls and grit to say that to a dictator’s face without polite masking and I… admired that. If I were him, I would be pying nice, but he didn’t. He knows what is on the line and went for it anyway. I guess this project is of such a high value that he intends to risk himself first.

  ‘Now, to be brazen and candid or to be polite and probing? Eh, let’s take the former action.’ I also wondered why he chose to say something like that in pce with many ears and eyes. Still, time to get acting.

  I lean back on my chair, taking back the barely eaten sandwich in my hand. I merely let the tension stew as I, trying my best, enjoy the sandwiches. Deliberately biting and swallowing in as the temperature goes frigid cold. He keeps his eyes level with me, but I notice beads of sweat accumute along his receding hairline.

  It honestly feels awful to make an old man react like this, but I still have my role to py. When there was but one st sandwich on the tray, no one dared to breathe. I had been taking my time… and standing up. His breathing hitches up, but he keeps it steady.

  “Walk with me.” I turned around and he followed. Meredith was a step behind us while a squad of Grasidivis was following us. My Spesdecs are naturally watching in the shadows. Another thing I spotted was how his men visible resignation, expecting the worst to happen, huh?

  Ah… this can work in my favor and am I really that intimidating? Heh… I am a real bit of a mess to find enjoyment here…

  “Go ahead, I find your opinion refreshing. Don’t tell Otto, he will be very cross with you.” I smile thinly and calmly nibble at my st sandwich. He tried to hide it, but I could hear his heart stop thumping so loudly when my men let go of their aggression.

  “As you wish. The idea that we must put Regalia’s interest first and defense is admirable. We surely cannot meddle in the world’s bance of power with void creatures and monsters a mere curtain away from our home. Here? I believe it is time for a change.” He spoke as we walked through the snowy ground.

  “Arganea will be our stepping stone. The New Worlders in Helicar could be described as tribesmen and warlords with trappings of civilization… Persisting on old methods will hamper our influence on the world stage… and I find myself thinking, why don’t we do away with the old?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Picture this, Your Grace. Arganea will hold little value to us as their civil war truly ended. The best case course would be the boy king being capable of earning legitimacy, a possibility that is in no way a guarantee. This is where we bet our cards to lend a hand, not to the King who will soon gain victory but with the masses.”

  “… I see your point, our targeted market for the old doctrine is not them either… but we can turn it in our favor.” I can’t believe I am considering it. I should have known how shitty it feels to get pyed, but… my people come first. Not only because of self-preservation but also of pin logic.

  “Indeed that is why… why won’t you re-ascend the throne? I and many others will support your decision. Even the people will desire the return to the form of the Onyx Crown. We no longer receive pressure from UFSNE to democratize…” My steps slowed until I stood directly in front of a rge tree. If I had to guess, this one should be over a thousand years old, about as old as Cylene’s biological age. This tree had also witnessed much, judging by faded but gring gouges on its bark.

  “Fastolf.” His real name flows instinctively and for one… I should be acting like I don’t know a thing and it can be beneficial, and thus… no… let’s hold it there. I have enough blood already. The st thing I want is to become that… Franz Iosif something guy…

  ‘… but isn’t that just perfect?’ A treacherous idea blooms inside my mind but… Having an entire country that bends to my whims and words… Isn’t that just great? From what I can see, my people love me. As long as I can rule with their admiration… I can usher in a new era… my era…

  “Your Grace?” His voice brought my mind back from traversing into a dangerous territory. I quietly exhaled and shook my head.

  “I will not. It has no meaning.” My eyes flew open, prompting others in proximity to tremble or stiffen. “Whether I wear a crown is of little importance…. I do understand the merit, but I rather not be prancing around like a peacock. Jewels and dresses don’t suit me. Regalia needs bread, not circus.” I flicked my eyes at the elderly man who flinched briefly from my gaze.

  “I made it clear, I hope?” I closed my gaze again, and Harrison nodded before he dropped the matter and continued.

  “… With Arganea recovering, we can introduce a new system to slowly erode nobility’s power and pce our agents to keep an eye on their soil. It will be a slow process, but the benefits shall be great when we conduct field tests to see what sticks around the world.”

  Hmm… I can’t argue that using Arganea as a springboard to measure ourselves isn’t tempting. We can profit much even if the project ultimately fails, for what we need is information and I’m never in the mood to exchange said information freely. Call me a hypocritical and disgusting person all you like, I won’t let a simple card slip from my hand…

  Before going that far though, a point cannot be dismissed flippantly.

  “Wouldn’t that put a strain on our resources? We are in the middle of normalizing paper money after using rations cards for so long.”

  “That is indeed true… but we do not need to trade Regalian blood for New Worlders’ prosperity. If anything, they will be bearing the brunt and perhaps pick up the pieces which is when we will graciously pose a more active non-combat influence. Do they wish to advance? I’m of the opinion that we should let them, and our influence shall soon follow. We have much technological edge, it will be in our base interest to level the pying field as best as humanly possible by using it as a primary bargaining chip. From there, we can observe how the world reacts.” Ah, so we head there anyway…

  I just hope we won’t be like the Central Asian Coalition Government. Corporatocratic incursion past Inner Mongolia was a complete shitshow that almost escate into World War 4 lite. I won’t say it is not tempting so…

  “… I’m all ears.”

  If all else fails, we will all be marching to Avalon.

  ‘Heh… damn you, Mordred, your nerdy fascination with the dead United Kingdom is wearing off on me.’ Thus our foreign policy for years to come had been solidified.

  Location: Somewhere in the Imperial Protectorate Realm of Arganea

  POV: Narrator

  “Arganea, a realm enduring hardship through compromise after cutting off limbs to preserve the head and the body.” Such words flow as one would pour a gss of wine to be savored and enjoyed to its utmost. The person who spoke such words gazes outside the window and onto the frozen harbor.

  The air of winter had always been a quiet affair for folks, but years ago they beheld optimism of a coming spring. No such indication can be traced, with how many appear downtrodden and lost, for a piece of themselves had been sacrificed for the continuation of whatever normalcy was left after the Empire’s thunderous conquest. A conquest that was rumored to be echoing past the continental boundaries.

  None is more stricken by this unfortunate fate than Kingdom of Arganea former Head Admiral. He shared a simir fate with those ships by the frigid docks, to be interred and wait for judgment by spring if he were so lucky. His name is Kressel, Kressel Vi Portomarc to be exact. His old uniform hung by the wall, still sporting the same holes and tears after he was denied of honorable death.

  A saber gifted by His Late Majesty, King Zelos IV of Arganea, the progenitor of Arganean spare and estranged cimants. He was… a mild king. Too mild.

  He allowed his children to take center stage while he stepped back and worked quietly behind the scenes. Charitably, he had been dubbed as a notably serene king with stable ruling. Uncharitably, he is known as King who did nothing of note. A King who brought none of the majesty and fir befitting his station. He spends more time with administrations and with his queen and concubines.

  He might be willing to be derided to give way for his sons and daughters to mature, especially in regards to Ionie and the Twins; perhaps for Zorphal’s sake too, but such is his undoing. The Kingdom slowly but surely fell into factions, with Ionie gaining a good chunk of support along the northern coast. The Twins earned the admiration of the West and grudging respect from the Southerners. East, as always, was left to their device and that’s sufficient.

  Heavy is the crown, heavier will it be upon a man whose desire for naught was burdened by an infernal shackle cd in gold. Kressel was the King’s trusted counselor and friend, and the dying monarch had made him swear to protect what was left of the Royal Family in tears. Honor might have less value in this time of uncertainty, but an era will never refuse a man of his nature. It is others that will be doing so.

  Then the war happened, an ugly reversal under the impetus of Dzargo Xel Acadion. The man changed and conducted an impressive but bloody conquest of neighboring nations. All those years of diplomatic tinkering and dancing flushed down the drain to what appears to be Dzargo’s sudden bout of madness.

  The battle for their control up north ended painfully with a shocking amount of casualties. A battle where his hulks and carracks were beaten back by nothing more than humble galleys. Ship powered by oars and so small and fragile to boarding had best Arganean’s vaunted navy. Reason? Cannons.

  His ships, potent for boarding or nding action, were neutered swiftly by humble and simplistic galleys. His Kingdom’s ships and sails, which had once circumnavigated three continents, were outmaneuvered by oars and men and their edge in providing agility and mobility without nature’s greatest support. Made damningly more lethal when the magical wind propulsion stone was used. Bulks would be needed for his ships but the galley being much lighter meant they used far fewer stones for an hour compared to Arganean which burns through dozens within the same timeframes.

  What remains of the Kingdom’s Navy had been interred with minimal, if any, reverence. Feelings of Shame of the sailors and the resentment or disdain from their people left Arganea’s famed fleet to annals of history.

  Emotions and shocks are both understandable and heartbreaking, for what good is a Navy that had failed so miserably it could do nothing but await for the end? What good is a navy that consumes resources that might find more uses on the battlefield on nd westward? Survivors who can’t bear the shame retire and vanish scattered across the continent, and those who can’t afford such luxury persevere as the common citizenry spat on their steps and gres behind their backs.

  There is no winning the people’s good grace; no more a scrap of potentiality to cajole merchant to invest in a dead-end venture; no more was there the vigor and pride for men of the sea; no more.

  “What a waste of epic saga. We should have fought like men, to die and preserve our dignity. Not to smile at the sideline and pretend all is well and good. Poor men and women, future tarnished due to fate outside of their control…” The door clicked open precisely upon the st few words he uttered. Therein came a female officer with a new uniform modeled after Halciadonish’s ceremonial dress. The Kingdom’s blue and gold had been subsumed into red and silver, with some strips of blue left to hide themselves within.

  “Sire, I plead that you shall refrain from echoing mutinous sentiment.” She spoke not long after with both sternness and wariness of those who could listen well. He turns half his body around to see his secretary with a worried expression while clutching documents. These documents are made of papers that were mass-produced and slowly circuted by the Empire. He grins bitterly seeing just how far the empire leap forward in less than a decade.

  While the Kingdom still struggled with education and the monopoly of writing by the merchant and scribing unions, the Empire had produced something so cheap and readily made avaible that he overheard rumors about how Imperial checkpoints had done away with record-keeping books in favor of this technological marvel.

  It is still very much coarse, but compared to the overpriced artistic product, this is well and beyond better for military use.

  “Pardon me, I’m merely too old for this position. Perhaps if I continue with my rhetoric, Her Majesty shall incline to sign my retirement. One way or another.” His secretary's scowl deepens at his self-incriminating words.

  “Sire, you had been stripped of your nd and is now a ndless noble. On top of how we cannot afford to lose you in rebuilding our Navy. Our people put high hopes on your tenure as Naval Reformation Committee.” His secretary spoke of rebuilding, and yes, perhaps that is possible.

  What he does deliberate is whether or not the New Era requires people like him and their outdated way of thinking. Kressel also noticed her choice of words on how the people need him. He very much abhors her lies, but she is well-put together regarding protocol than he who had lost his embers.

  While the crime against the monarchy, especially regarding slights and rights to speak, has been abolished after that defeat against the Republics, the new ws screened by the Empire might paved the way to return it in some manner or form. Contrary to popur belief, even the Northern region has Ionie’s detractors, albeit being in the minority. One can fairly be certain that Ionie’s rebuilding effort shall be stymied further, made worse if the East weren’t pacified by next year.

  “Very well, let’s cease and focus on the present… Mirce, what do you have need of me?” He fully turned around and took his seat, eyes briefly lingering on the richly decorated and polished mahogany. He ceases his admiration and pces his linked fingers on the table.

  “Yes, Sire. The test report we sent to Argonume and Queen Ionie had been received favorably.” She pces the stack of documents softly on the table. He peruses the papers to confirm the progress of rebuilding and rearmament. Of course, the new Arganean Navy shall be heavily diminished and only sufficient to protect trade nes, but in exchange they will undergo significant modernization because of their highest compliance status.

  While reading through the slog and no doubt slew of fresh paperwork, he eyed his secretary still standing in front of him. It signals that she has more to share, and he motions her to continue.

  “She mandated for us to spare five banners worth of men to be transferred south. From what I can discern… it was sent with utmost urgency in mind.” His brows quirked, confusion evident and questions began to form.

  “… I have every confidence that Her Majesty has little interest in challenging the Empire, did the Republics stir another rebellion?” He frankly admired their zeal, to keep standing up and fight for their rights is noble in his eyes. However, he knows better than to voice such a sentiment.

  “… I am afraid I cannot eborate further, Sire. We received little information on the reason other than to support the Empire’s marau- excuse me, pacification effort.” Her usually prim and properly schooled expression cracked to unveil a resentful and vengeful woman beneath. It is a heartbreaking situation to be on the losing side, so he understands her hidden vitriol.

  He set aside the report because he had a nagging feeling whatever transpired south would be something truly troublesome or dangerous to overall stability.

  “Aye… I’ll prepare the necessary manpower, and report that verbatim to the Capital. Then, is that all?”

  “Yes, Sire. That is all.”

  “You may leave then, and please head to the quartermaster and ask for extra rations. It is the least I can do for all your help.” She smiled with both gratitude and a bit of guilt. He knows why she worked extra hard, and he commends her for it.

  “Understood, my utmost gratitude, Sire.” She bowed and left him to tinker with the problem at hand. His mind drifted onto the test addition of sailors; of which all were greener than weeds sprouting yesterday.

  ‘How far have we fallen to scrape for manpower? It would have been alleviated if the West wasn’t annexed and the South, slim as it might, stopped their bloody rebellion no matter how much I admire them… I sorely wish that the East wasn’t going to be in rubble, but the Empire’s propaganda had put down the demi-human as the enemy of mankind… what a mess…’

  He doesn’t envy the former Western Army now forced to fight their brethren in the East. It will widen the rift between races, but there’s nothing they can do without a proper heir to the Crown of Arganea. Zorphal’s whereabouts are unknown and he doesn’t believe that Bright Boy can survive in Aquysor Fastharad with such meager company.

  Kressel sighs, for he is being entrapped alone in a strange homend… filled with strange people of familiar faces… and an even stranger future of what shall become of them all.

  -

  -

  -

  -

  Through the wooden thickets of the snow-kissed forest, a detachment of eclectic selection of men and women wade through the snow. Their armament reflects greater autonomy and ck of control; be it of heraldry or arms. Spears and halberds, bdes and axes, even the few outdated and dubiously workable handgonnes are spotted to be in the mix.

  A singur unifying factor between them would be a reddish armband reguted and enhanced with a Halciadonish arcane pattern for identification. Except, theirs are wholly unreguted and if one were to have an arcane mind shall notice severe tampering. An act that is both criminal and will nd the perpetrator with hard bor for years to come at minimum sentencing.

  They are primarily protected by body armor ranging from the humble leather brigandine and, or, hard-boiled animal leather, to a few prestigious full pte armor. Their heraldries bore not much significance for locals for their domains are now in occupation or ruined for the foreseeable future.

  Even rarer would be a man at the forefront with armor dented and seen better days but still glowing and shimmering with magical properties. His vish gear has been enhanced with toughness and protection in mind while providing a very useful auxiliary function such as inner temperature regution. His face bore many scars, but his eyes glint of a hawk hunting for rats that might be daring enough to seek refuge by dancing with a harsh winter wind.

  “Halt.” He raised a hand and the group stopped, eyes scanning the surroundings carefully. It was quite the deeper they went inside the forest. Perhaps the animals had truly fallen into a deep bliss of hibernation or arrested activity compared to autumn. Yet he cannot dismiss the subtle prickling on his mind.

  “I need a ranger to scout ahead.” One of the armed persons steps forth, this one equipped with bows and arrows. Armor made of both soft fur and wool cdding their chest pte. The ranger's entire right arm is protected by a riveted gauntlet extending from his shoulder down to his wrist, perfect as both shield and weapon if the need calls for it.

  While their ranger heads deeper, with expert steps to mask their steps, the group forms a simple defensive formation. As he kept his eyes peeled, a woman of great beauty kneeled beside him.

  “My familiars were unable to peer deeper into the forest.” She paused, her palms gripping her staff tighter. “This is very unnatural, I was left unable to perceive any presence of mana but I do sense them… corpses, pristine but cold and sapped of life… no mangled cries in the ethers either…”

  “What about the etheric quality?” He questioned her while sharpening his ears, the half-elf blood in him singing as he concentrated on what the forest was trying to tell him.

  “Horrible would have been better, I sense nothing other than those.” Her pin admission provoked a bitter grin on his lips. He csped a ring on his neck, arcane whisper etched upon its golden surface and he muttered prayers to the old gods. He fought the bitter bite of irony, for all his extended life, there’s no such thing as gods. But here he is… praying.

  This is an eclectic mix of people; men and women, who refused to bend the knee to the imperial decree. This is a collection of a great many people who refused to bend and warp under tyranny, or this is a band of desperate people marauding the countryside from the perspective of a visionary who breathed a sigh of relief at a war coming to an end.

  As they waited, the desired signal came and they continued along the path their ranger had illuminated. They had left the group a wisp of mana, a standard application for someone when they need to backtrack or bypass the need to read terrains around.

  It doesn’t take long for them to arrive in a clearing that shows traces of being purposefully created. From the outside, it looks like a fortified camp, but the gate has been punched open. The ranger is waiting at the mouth entrance, expression grim and one hand never fails to clutch the scabbard of a bde on the hip.

  Heading inside, and what they saw made them understand why the ranger was so pallid. It was no camp but a butchery.

  “By the gods…” One of them uttered before hurling their scant dinner onto the snowy field. What do they see? Corpses. Hundreds, stacked onto mounds and preserved in Lady Winter’s eternal embrace. These dead soldiers are all the missing patrols that Halciadon had left behind. Such a deterrent’s absence allowed the guerril group free reign to gain a foothold even if fleeting.

  The leader searched the body for anything that signifies their death. He found one simir pattern; holes.

  “Who did this? Our handgonnes are incapable of causing such damage.” One uttered, a woman with beast folk’s ears, her nose tried to sniff for anything that might provide an answer. She cannot, only a faint alien smell of something like bck powder… of some such.

  “Nay, those Imperial bastards are supplied by Theoners, poor sod forced to heed their conquerors…” Spoke a stout and smaller man, his beard and tribal tattoo had been faded by time and scars.

  “What now?” The mage asked him as her magical familiar circles around to find a hostile… and they did find one indeed. Her ears flicked as croaking was heard from somewhere in the mounds.

  “Someone is still alive there!” With her guidance, it doesn’t take long to find the poor sod. A young man who is trembling and coughing nonstop, his mouth stammered. A brief fsh of fear morphed into hatred as he locked eyes with the enigmatic rebels.

  “Y-yours… faults… ugh… demons! Demons!” Spittle and hapless rage as the young man spoke. The stout axe-wielding halfling was about to part the boy’s neck of his body, but the half-elf raised his hand.

  “Speak, Acadian dog.” The young man’s eyes burned brighter with rage as his body trembled. His refusal to acknowledge the empire made him wish to strangle the insolent half-breed with pointy ears. However, he soon sneered, defiant till the end. Or at least unwilling to show fear to this hateful foe of his.

  “H-Hehe! W-what? Y-you! *cough!* monsters! … c-cause you! E-Emperor… is… right… you… all… you… blight! Curse! M-Monsters f-fire… *Cough! Cough!* c-cause… y-you…” His breathing gone more erratic, and before long, he breathed his st… hatred still burning bright as lights leave his eyes.

  “… What was what?” His mage confidante turned to him, and he found no answer but one.

  “Someone else is out there.” An admission that made them stiffen, eyes swim warily to search through the dark forest.

  “But why?”

  “Either a trap or this enigmatic entity wishes for us to know…” As he mused aloud, one of his men called out to them. He approaches with the mage in tow. Underneath a tarp, he found wealth.

  Arquebus, broken spear tip, dented and punctured but repairable armor, and more. These many pieces of equipment that will fetch a handsome price in the underworld or those with the right connection reeks of interest that he might not be able to pay.

  “What will you do? I doubt this ‘entity’ of ours will charge a cheap price…” She spoke with conviction, for she had foreseen tricks and knives hidden between smiles and agreements.

  “This is peculiar, what could they want from us?” He turned to the man who found it. The man in question is of weak constitution, for hunger and the long march away from the West had sapped his body of strength. Yet he pleaded with him to join, and here he is.

  “I fear we know not what they wish, Sir Garzia. I had checked every nook and cranny for hidden messages, but I found nothing.”

  “The etheric resonance?” Garzia flicked his vision on his mage colleague. She chanted an aria and a bluish-silver glow resonated from her staff onto the earth. She closes her eyes in deep concentration, brows furrowing before shaking her head.

  “None. Whoever did this, they certainly understand how to impress a potential that even I fear eclipsed the Empire.”

  “… Could it be Great Realms far westward?” One knows the answer. He exhaled loudly and made a decision. “Gather what weapon and armor that can be of use. It is risky, but we need everything we can scavenge.” Not an optimal choice, but a beggar can’t be choosy. The group then went into work, a third preparing to cremate the mound of corpses to prevent corruption, a third to search further into the ruined camp, and the st third to gather what could be of use.

  Above them would be a single loitering object, capturing every minute, silent, and ever so vigint.

  [END OF CHAPTER]

  Author’s Note:

  Yo there, this is me, myself, and I, the author who is having an itchy eyes.

  I have not much to share other than to reiterate and prepare for a lot of selfish politicking. It sucks, but that’s just how the country battled for interest and influence. Damn, anything unfortunate enough to be sentenced as a sacrifice or caught as colteral.

  Update whenever or something.

  Ciao