Seven days had passed since the failed offensive campaign at the border of the two nation blocs, and Lunamaria was still sitting alone in the command tent, surrounded by plans that needed attention. She spun an electronic pen in her hand, the tip pointing to the simulated terrain before her. Now, new blue dots had appeared, replacing the empty spaces of four days earlier. They had clustered together to form solid corridors, rather than isolated units on the pulsating digital blocks. A new strategy had been laid out, and this was the most optimal way to achieve the goal. Yes, the call of glory must ring out once more.
Still, the commander sighed and leaned back in her chair. This wasn't enough yet, she told herself. She tilted her head back as her shoulders sagged completely. Above her violet eyes, the tent's ceiling remained unchanged, the same lifeless white glow from energy lamps, the same dim blue streams pumping life into the entire camp. After gazing for a while, she slightly inclined her head to observe her surroundings. Truly, nothing had changed over the past four days. The strategy screens still ran, data on strongholds poured in, and intelligence reports remained displayed. Her eyelashes fluttered over the screen then gradually closed. Perhaps the images from previous days held more valuable references than the current ones.
Then, as the first rays of dawn filtered through the tent slit and the new day's energy warmed her heart, her soul's window welcomed the early sunlight. She stood straight, stretched, allowing every muscle to relax fully. With her hand behind her neck, she gently rotated her head, enjoying the cracking sounds after a long night of darkness. Taking in the mess before the strategy table, she reorganized the piles of documents with a slight smile. A new day, a new future. Upon finishing, the pen in her left hand flicked lightly, and a new terrain simulation immediately appeared, overlaying all that had been on the table's center, a truly fresh and enticing vision. Yet...
"Commander, there's an unusual summons!" The AI assistant promptly notified her privately through her earpiece.
Apparently, the calm wouldn't last long.
That afternoon, inside the officer's resting room at Nation's border base, Stratos sat before his personal computer screen, carefully reading every line in an email. Around him, the last rays of sunset struggled to pierce the windowpanes, seeking even a glimmer of hope in the commander's heart among the soldiers. The room was bustling with cheerful chatter of officers off duty, blending into a continuous background hum. Nearby, rough wooden tables clinked with teacups and coffee mugs amid the rustle of cards in an impromptu game. A group of young officers huddled in one corner, recounting daring raids on enemy positions with bursts of laughter, while others lounged lazily, debating last night's sports game. Some seemed happy to bend a few rules to cheer on their hometown team. There was warmth and liveliness. Indeed, when lives are counted in hours, these moments of normalcy between battles are precious.
Yet he remained seated, indifferent to the noise and the shifting light gilding the worn gold trim of his uniform. Ahead, his personal computer screen had shifted into screensaver mode, yet that was inconsequential, as more urgent matters demanded his focus. On the display, the sender's name was embossed boldly, attached to a document whose length made anyone glance away in exasperation. Judging by those nearby, none wanted to examine the lengthy text, preferring to avoid the commander's raised eyebrows and twitching expression. Sometimes avoidance is wisest.
An officer accidentally dropped a spoon, a metallic clang ringing sharply, prompting quiet chuckles from comrades nearby. Still, the commander did not look up or flinch. He remained fixated on the screen, fingers dancing on the keyboard, completely detached from the room's liveliness. Only the glow from the personal computer reflected in his figure, and then, almost unnoticed, a subtle, almost new smile flickered. Was it the sunset's magic?
"Stratosss," a long, sweet call rang from behind. The commander instinctively perked up before raising his eyebrows.
A thin dossier was placed before the commander's nose, right on the rough wooden table, causing his pupils to flick slightly to the right. At that moment, the sunset rays had been completely replaced by white ceiling lights in the resting room, their glow reflecting off the transparent glass cover of the dossier, though not enough to hide the cute heart icon in a corner of the document. Extending his hand, fingers wrapped in dark blue gloves, he touched the spine before slowly lifting it. Holding the booklet firmly by one corner, he calmly flipped through each page. Although the content was not extensive, numbering just over a dozen pages, his pupils fluttered lightly over every word against the soft rustle of pages rubbing together. After three minutes, his eyebrows gradually relaxed before his soul's window temporarily closed. Only seconds later, his eyes brightened once more as his hands gently placed the dossier back in its original spot.
"What do you think? I've compiled everything needed over the past few days. Just take this and report!" The female officer placed her seat back down, sitting upright and crossing her legs.
"Very good! Thank you," he said, nodding lightly before returning his focus to the words on his screen.
"Hey! Don't be like that. I spent a lot of time compiling this for you," she began.
"Hot cocoa?" He cut off the girl sitting beside him, then looked directly at her.
The girl next to him, perhaps about 26, smiled brightly under her fair skin and neatly tied brown hair. Just below, a red tie peeked from beneath her jet-black uniform. Along the undulating lines shaded by deep night, faded red trim extended from her shoulders down to the soles of her boots. Like the commander reclining beside her, her uniform fabric absorbed all overhead light thanks to advanced technology, yet was enough to depict crisp lines with no wrinkles or stray threads. Perhaps some hidden truth lay beneath this solemn appearance.
Though similar, differences certainly had to exist, especially since no cloak draped over this officer's shoulders. Above her western mountain region, the insignia of Unit W and a black crown stayed fixed, alongside the embroidered flag typical of the nation bloc. Across the border, a nameplate embossed with "Artiee Volkov" accompanied the flag of her birthplace. Unlike soldiers from other legions, four gold-trimmed stars with a bar gleamed on her straight collar. Small as it was, it illuminated the path for young warriors striving for rank.
"Yes, sir!" She stretched slightly, letting alluring curves imprint on the uniform before pressing a hand to her cheek with a cute smile for her commander.
The commander stood, flicking her forehead lightly, making a soft "ah" sound escape those lovely lips with no need for makeup. Then those legs strode steadily to the nearby vending machine. After a soft "ding" and payment approved, two steaming paper cups were served right before him. Wisps of steam mingled with the sweet cocoa scent, filling the area as if trying to entice other soldiers to dig into their purses for a taste. Presenting the hot cocoa, he gently placed it in the officer's hands and returned to his previous mood.
"Thank you," Artiee accepted, blowing gently on the cup, then letting her tongue touch each warm drop.
Artiee stood quickly, sipping again before placing her cup fragrant with affection next to her beloved's. She slumped into the adjacent chair, burying her head against the commander's shoulder. But all she received was a firm push, forcing her upright, cheeks puffed in protest.
"Sit properly, Artiee," he said, continuing to type.
"Aw…" Though helpless, sitting still with cheeks puffed like a displeased little squirrel was all the young officer could do. Even feigning annoyance, the way her tied brown hair brushed lightly against the shoulder still radiated irresistible charm. Then, curiosity overtook her as Artiee focused intently on the screen before him, where words inundated one half of the display and characters streamed rapidly across the other.
"Is that an email from Zerain?" she blurted.
The clicking stopped abruptly as if someone froze the moment. He tilted his head toward his sister, shooting a fierce look at her. Though the tension was thick enough to hold the breath, her eyebrows soon relaxed upon realizing her curiosity was no threat. His hand once more shifted the dense contents toward the girl beside him.
"What do you think?" A quiet smile played on his lips, accompanied by a look of affection that any older brother would give to his chatty little sister.
August 20, 2192, Auxelles, capital of the Federal Republic of Beum
If one compared a region to an endless timeline, then the headquarters corridor of Organization was a perfect example. This place was not only vast but also lined with luxurious granite, completely isolated from the chaotic world outside. Along the corridor, intricate walls were carved with Greek motifs, from ivory patterns on the pillars to laurel wreath details raised on the walls. Interspersed among these were priceless Renaissance paintings framed with gilded wood and sharp decorations.
From the ceiling, clusters of high-quality LED lights cast a gentle glow over every slab of marble. Reflected on the polished floors, shadows of officials moved constantly. These were people living and working toward a higher ideal. In this scene, crisp suits, the steady tap of leather shoes, neatly stacked documents in hand, wireless headsets, and voices with many tones from hurried side conversations were vividly and beautifully depicted. All interwove to compose a symphony of a place where all races were equal.
Despite the bustling atmosphere, right outside a meeting room door, a man in his seventies stood silently. He leaned against a nearby pillar, eyes fixed on the intricately carved oak door opposite. Unfortunately, beyond that door, the scene was not as beautiful. In the main conference room of the headquarters, only rows of emotionless LED lights stood firm on the polished marble floor. Occasionally, their flicker revealed the cold nature of papered walls flanking the auditorium. The space was truly dark and chilly, air conditioning running at full capacity. Were entities from the shadows lurking here? At the front of the room, a long conference table curved gracefully, carved from expensive stone and wood, stood proudly. The gleaming surface was covered with strategic maps, classified documents stacked neatly, and high-tech weapon models sheathed in rustproof a-carbon layers. Despite the abundance, everything was arranged so neatly that these inanimate objects radiated solemn dignity. Yet, no warmth came from them, much like the people who dwelled there.
At the chair, an elderly man in a navy uniform with four diamonds and golden wings on his collar stood straight. His hair was white as frost, his face marked with pockmarked scars, thick dark circles framed his faded eyelids. Deep inside his eyes was a blue representing hope, but there was nothing but cruelty after many years. The light slid slowly across the room on each person reflected in those deep black pupils. All the officials suddenly held their breath, sitting upright whenever those eyes swept across them. It was a terrifying silence. No matter how formal the outside appeared, under this feeling it became suffocating. Was this destruction waiting to be unleashed? After a moment, those eyes stopped and began to drill into the female soldier standing opposite.
"The situation at the frontline is a disaster!" With strong inner force, he spoke, drawing everyone's emotions toward the commander.
"Commander Whieblod, Legion 4 has failed to meet expectations in recent battles. You promised to breach their border in three days, but this is the result you bring back! How do you explain that?" He continued.
Opposite the general and officials, Lunamaria stood upright, Legion 4's insignia glowing beneath the LED lights. Her hands folded behind her back, eyes sternly looking ahead, chin slightly raised.
"Sir, Legion 4 has achieved its goal of protecting the strategic base at the front. Losses were unavoidable, but we held this critical position and pressured enemy forces!" She firmly replied, though biting her lip and frowning briefly.
"Held position? Ha, surely I heard wrong, Whieblod?" Another general at the left end of the table laughed, fingers interlaced with a raised eyebrow.
"This is not defense, Whieblod! What we need from you is offense! Pierce through their defenses! And you failed!" Another male official in an elegant vest with gold insignia slammed the table and stood abruptly.
"Sir, the battlefield situation is not so simple. The enemy redeployed quickly to replace lost shields. Legion 4 had to adjust tactics to preserve forces and maintain pressure on all fronts, while gathering intelligence for the next counterattack."
"Counterattack?" The old general exhaled lightly, flicking his finger and signaling the man who had just stood.
"Don't call that preparation, Whieblod. You lost five key strongholds in three days! Your comrades are lying six feet under! That's not counterattack, it's excuse. We will not accept this failure, Whieblod!" He leaned forward, pupils fixed relentlessly on her.
"Exactly! Their fortifications remain, while we lost the best soldiers! Do you dare call it counterattack, Commander Whieblod?" The officer shouted, pounding the table and pointing at her.
After those words, the room almost exploded with whispers and accusations. But it did not last long before the general started rhythmically tapping the table.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I do not deny failure to pierce the border as planned. But I emphasize that Legion 4 has held strategic positions, completely destroyed the forward fortifications, and gathered data on enemy formations. I believe this data will be key to the next campaign."
"As the commander of Legion 4, I take full responsibility after the campaign concludes, but I ask to continue leading to rectify the mistakes!" She shouted, standing tall with steady shoulders, though her hand behind her back clenched unconsciously.
A sudden silence fell over the walls of the room. Each member in the tribunal narrowed their eyes, then reclined in their chairs. Yet their dark pupils still pierced the disciplined soldier standing before them. Even the old general was no exception.
"Rectify mistakes? Whieblod, you left your comrades on the battlefield. You call that data a victory? All I see is a chain of failures. Organization does not want excuses. We want results!" The old man's eyes widened, chin raised slightly toward her.
"Gentlemen, I agree this failure is unacceptable. But Miss Whieblod still holds the peak at E17. That is good news!" Another female official spoke up, pointing to an item on her personal screen.
"We all know the importance of these border buffer zones. If lost, we'll be pushed back dozens of miles. Perhaps we should review the data she brought before passing judgment. And I believe Whieblod knows what she is doing!" The woman continued.
"So you suggest we keep banging our heads against those bastards for data's sake? We don't need that, we need victory! If she cannot deliver, replace her!"
"In my opinion, that data is very important. Also, casualties in this failure are low. I understand many officers are prisoners. And I believe Whieblod understands what must be done!" Another official interjected.
Those two words, "prisoners," were enough to widen the commander's pupils. Taking a deep breath, she spoke before the exchange between two senior officials devolved into a brawl.
"Gentlemen, I do not make empty promises! I have lost soldiers I consider brothers, each name etched deeply in my heart! But I know, if we do not use what we have, their blood was shed in vain! I need one chance, not for myself, but for the soldiers under my command! I will bring the border back for the bloc, or bear all consequences myself!"
The silence returned, enveloping the room. The loudest official gradually sank in his chair, still narrowing his eyes with lingering doubt. At the center of the meeting table, the rhythmic tapping faded completely, replaced by clasped hands. After a nod, the dignified figure finally rose. The verdict was likely sealed.
"Whieblod, Organization will not tolerate failure. But you will have one last chance. The enemy's eastern flank, or do not return. Meeting adjourned!"
As the meeting ended, the oak door leading to the broad hallway opened slightly. Stepping out of this earthly hell, all was silent. No more polite voices of permanent members, no clacking of elegant leather shoes. Before the young woman's violet eyes, probably only one remained—the one called by a name she barely had the strength to utter.
Although it had temporarily ended, why did the heavy feeling still linger? The criticisms, the scrutinizing eyes, the doubtful thoughts—all blended together, condensing into chains that bound the commander after the meeting. But… she had to move forward! Those legs felt terribly heavy as they slid down the corridor, her shoulders completely slumped, leaning fully against the wall. The sternness from a few minutes ago had vanished completely, replaced by a pale hue and hollow eyes. Along the endless hallway, only uneven breaths escaped from her sagging lips. Perhaps there was nothing left!
"Luna…" A deep, warm voice rose, like hands guiding a person back to their true nature.
Just one word was enough to make her feet pause. Then she slowly turned around, directing her gaze toward the source of the call. Before the purple-painted window stood a calm figure, enough to tighten her heart. Effandor Whieblod, clad in the distinctive suit of a senior adviser to the nation bloc, and also her father. The aging man stood there, leaning against a familiar stone pillar as light from the ceiling washed over, highlighting the harsh wrinkles on his face. His hand, roughened by years, gripped the edge of his vest. Sometimes it trembled lightly, as if holding back a surge of emotion. His features retained their usual sternness, yet now hid a silent worry. His usually straight eyebrows now softly curved in compassion. His dark lips pressed firmly as if locking away the words he wished to say, leaving only heavy breaths carrying the anxiousness of a father. Truly a veteran and senior adviser, yet unable to disguise a heart beating wildly for his daughter, whom he loved more than life itself.
Looking at him, a smile tried to break forth, but couldn't reach the crow's feet. After that smile, came only a nod, understanding fully the bloc's principles. Bound by rules from the early days of its founding, this old father could not step into that dark room to defend her. All he could do was stand here silently, witnessing his lone daughter face cold accusations from those who had never smelled the smoke of war.
"Father…" Lunamaria bowed. Softly and trembling, she could not hide the weariness gnawing at her soul.
Although trying to remain polite as always, her violet eyes did not reflect the image before her. Invisible cracks marked a young warrior's heart, one who had fought battles not only on the field but in her own mind. She stood there, small before her father like a lost child in a storm, her sharp uniform sagging under the weight of an entire legion.
"You did very well!" he said. Just five words, but as certain as the stone beneath their feet.
He placed his large, battle-worn hand gently on her shoulder. His grip was not strong but warm enough for the beloved daughter to feel the comforting heat. A silent strength and a wish to make up for what she lacked. He leaned in, eyes squinting. No matter how harsh the battlefield, this father would be here, ready to hold her hand.
"Don't let those criticisms shake you. The battlefield is where the truth is decided, not in cool rooms filled with comforts." He embraced her.
She opened her mouth to argue, wanting to say she had failed, that lost strongholds were proof of her tactical weakness. But the fatigue in her heart was like a heavy stone, choking her words. So she remained silent, the door left ajar, the warmth from her father's hand the only support in the raging storm. The old father sensed this, his eyelids relaxing, no longer furrowing, but softening further. His worry deepened. No father can bear to see his cherished daughter's well run dry. So he held her tight, letting his strong arms ease the burden on Lunamaria's shoulders. In that moment, she felt warmth from his chest, heard his steady heartbeat. Perhaps for the first time in many days, the commander allowed herself to be weak, to sink into a comfort only the deep bond of love between father and daughter could bring.
"You have proven your capability, but remember you are human. If you do not care for yourself, who will care for your legion?" He whispered in her ear.
Then, as the hallway darkened, the old man slowly released her shoulder. His rough hand left her navy garment, but his violet eyes stayed fixed on her pale face, scanning each feature for a small sign that his beloved daughter remained intact after long days. A faint smile passed over his lips. Finally, without a word, he silently reached into his thick vest, pulling out a folded slip of paper, its edge reflecting the remaining yellow lights. He placed the letter in her hand, the gesture gentle but decisive. An order no one could resist. She looked down, finger touching his bright red seal and signature.
"One week!" He spoke. Just two words, but solemn and calm.
"I approve. You will take leave!"
Lunamaria slowly raised her head, a surge of mixed emotions rising within. She wanted to refuse, to say the legion needed her, she couldn't turn her back now. But looking at her steadfast and forgiving father, protest faltered at her lips, leaving only a gentle helplessness quietly surrounding her heart.
"This is not a suggestion, but an order! Commander Lunamaria Whieblod, obey it strictly!" He called out, allowing no dissent.
"Yes, sir!" The commander stood straight, regaining her accustomed composure.
Before leaving, Effandor Whieblod, his hair silver-gray, once again placed his rough hand on the commander's shoulder. His fingers squeezed lightly, warmth flowing through the cold uniform, embracing his daughter's whole world once more. His violet eyes shone bright, not only with a father's affection but strong resolve. He stood tall, broad-shouldered, the remaining hallway lights casting onto his weathered face, where battle scars blended with a rare, proud smile.
"Commander of Legion 4, Lunamaria Whieblod!" He called loudly through the silent corridor.
"Only 25, yet she has overcome every trial, standing where many others have fallen. We, Organization, are proud to have young people like her in our ranks!" He raised his head, chest swelling with pride ready to burst through the endless hallway. His hand tapped firmly on her shoulder, assurance passing with strength and love.
Then he released her, turning away, his vest jacket billowing with each steady step. The former commander's silhouette remained large, like a mountain among the land. His footsteps faded on the granite floor. Lunamaria stood silently but firmly, her father's warmth lingering, her heart pounding, entwined with the love and duty he bestowed.
"Thank you, Father…"