The wind breeze, the scorching sunlight getting absorbed by the earth and trees, and there was them—the boys who was working very hard, ploughing the fields.
They were tired, covered in sweats, and wanted too quit. Their arms felt heavy, the wooden ploughs rubbing against their palms, blistering. The soil was rough, dry, resisting every pull, and the oxen barely moved forward. The sun above showed no mercy, burning down on their backs. But they didn't stop. Aron looked at Carlos, who was about to fall on his knees, and without saying a word he gave him a hand. The strength of his grip was enough, and they both stood again.
Together, they began to do the work, hour by hour. The plough dragged, the earth broke, and sweat poured endlessly. It was like a training, a punishment of the body, a trial for the soul. Time lost its meaning. Their backs bent, their breathing rough, but they didn't allow themselves to quit.
At last, the long journey across the fields was complete. They dropped the plough and sat down, resting on their knees, unable to move for a moment. The silence around them was filled only by their exhausted breaths.
Carlos suddenly got an idea.
Carlos: "Let's go to the lake. We will wash there."
Aron just nodded. His throat was too dry to answer with words, but his eyes agreed.
After a while they reached the lake. Carlos, without hesitation, jumped straight into the cool water, his body sinking and rising again with splashes. Aron followed him, and the coldness wrapped around his burning skin, flowing deep inside his tired body. The sweat, the dust, the heaviness—it all washed away.
For the first time in hours, maybe in days, they laughed. Aron and Carlos enjoyed splashing water at each other, their voices echoing across the still lake. For that moment, the world felt lighter, even though both of them knew—this peace won't last.
Elsewhere…
The room was majestic, heavily decorated with golden chandeliers and banners of old victories. A long table stretched across it, and everyone important, all the higher ups, was sitting there. The air was heavy with authority, filled with whispers and silent stares.
At the far end sat a man named Trail. He was very popular among the commanders, known not just for his strength but for his sharp mind. He sat, listening carefully to the person who was speaking. Beside him was Rogard, his expression calm but unreadable.
Trail: "Can I ask you a question?"
Rogard turned his head slowly.
Rogard: "Yes, what is it?"
Trail: "Where were you the night when Mr. Lockhead was murdered? All the commanders were present."
The question froze the air in the room. Some eyes turned toward Rogard. His fingers tapped on the table, but his face remained steady.
Rogard: "He was extremely normal… don't even know what was he saying. I was gone," he said.
Trail leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.
Trail: "Can I ask you—"
But then a voice interrupted. Strong, confident, commanding.
"Can you both please stop?"
The room shifted. The voice belonged to Eagle Baddock, the elite higher up, the son of Reech Baddock. Just like his father, he was manipulative, cunning. His presence alone demanded honor, respect.
Trail immediately lowered his head.
Trail: "I am sorry, Mr. Eagle."
Eagle looked at him with a smile that wasn't really a smile.
Eagle: "Isn't you Commander Trail?"
Trail: "Yeah, I am Commander Trail."
Eagle: "It's a honor to meet you. You recently saved a man, right?"
Trail: "I will say I rather not save him but speak for the truth. If he was a bad guy, I would have found it out before anyone."
Eagle's eyes glimmered with something unreadable.
Eagle: "Indeed, you can. But you still didn't find the reason or the man he died."
Trail: "No. I think it will not be many more days till I find him."
Eagle: "Yeah, yeah. I trust you. You are the bright future of Wingman, ain't you Trail?" He smiled, leaning back.
Trail was about to reply when the heavy doors of the hall opened. The sound silenced the entire room. Every person turned their head, their eyes fixed on the figure who walked in.
Everyone stood up instantly.
The master had arrived. His name was Leon Zack—the very bloodline of King Zack.
The atmosphere transformed. Guards straightened, commanders bowed, and even Eagle's confident smirk faded into respect. A chair was prepared for him at the head of the table, and he sat, his gaze moving slowly across every face present. When his eyes stopped for a second on Trail, the commander felt a weight in his chest.
Leon: "I will first likely to welcome everyone who have risked their lives to let others live in peace and harmony. For those who, from years to years, provided the support for Wingman City. I will like to honor commanders who have recently achieved victory in the war with the army of death. And Commander Trail, for his fearless approach, planning everything from the start."
Trail stood up. The hall filled with claps, a huge applaud echoing through the walls. He bowed slightly and sat again.
Leon: "Now, I will like Commander Trail to speak of what's to come and what to do to be prepared for it."
Trail rose again. He pushed his chair back, stood tall, and looked at every single person at the table. His eyes carried weight, his voice firm.
Trail: "Recently, the murder of Mr. Lockhead has indicated that something terrible is going on in Wingman City. But as it is, it will not stop. Because of what I can say and observed, there is a very hideous organization moving in the shadows—"
He was still talking, but deep down, unnoticed, a man placed some items in the room. Soldiers checked it quickly, then let it enter.
The packages were carried in, all sealed tight. The soldier whispered to another: "It's been quite a while since I saw these many packed items."
Trail continued speaking about how to counter the hidden threat, but then his eyes drifted. Rogard was smiling. His hand moved slightly under the table, suspicious, almost too calm. Trail's instincts screamed. Something was wrong.
His words stopped. The hall went silent.
Everything slowed down. The soldier placed the last package in the room.
And then—
A boom.
A sound rumbled across the entire castle, shaking walls, splashing fire across the ceilings. Screams filled the air. Guards panicked, running in every direction. Flames rose, smoke choked the room.
Trail's heart hammered, but he noticed something. Someone wasn't here. A special higher up. He forced his way through the broken doors, thrashing them open, and began to run. His feet carried him through burning corridors, past falling debris, until he reached another chamber.
The door was barely standing. He kicked it open.
Inside—
Everything was destroyed. Fire swallowed the furniture, smoke clouded his vision. The floor cracked, a hole splitting across it.
And there, in the middle of the chaos, he saw it.
The body.
Hikauchi Utiko had been murdered.
Trail's eyes widened. The firelight reflected in his pupils. His fists clenched. The war inside Wingman City had just begun.
The end.