Enemies or Allies?
That was the only question circling Alan's head right now. Cerberus wanted him dead. Why? He had no idea, but that didn't mean they were the only ones. Both sides had the same reasons. Or worse, maybe Cerberus had ties to the military.
'A quick debrief and you'll let me go? Is karma usually this efficient?' he thought, scanning his surroundings, nerves frayed, fear churning in his stomach.
Company-375, or at least the part of it that had shown up, was leading him through the forest.
Alan counted over twenty soldiers, though only twelve showed themselves openly. He wouldn't have been surprised if more lurked in the trees. Not that numbers mattered; even one soldier was enough to send him running. The last thing he wanted was to draw the Empire's attention.
They moved in perfect lockstep, the rhythm so precise it felt as if it had been drilled into their bones. Stranger still, their footsteps made no sound. Not a leaf crunched, not a twig snapped. The silence was unnerving.
He caught himself glancing more than once at the woman beside him, the second Lieutenant of Company-375, still walking close, her sword hanging at her right hip. Each time he looked, her steel-grey eyes snapped to him, as if she'd been waiting for it. He swallowed, feeling a trickle of sweat slide down his temple.
On his left was the man who'd reassured him earlier. Alan guessed he was high-ranking in the Company as well; he was the only one besides the Lieutenant who stood close to him. The rest maintained a two-meter buffer.
'They kept their distance, caution usually means lack of intelligence. Is that the case here?'
He was tongue-tied. Every time he thought of opening his mouth to ask a question or come up with an excuse to leave, he saw the Lieutenant's hand drift toward her sword resting on her right hip. He'd considered using [Internal Mapping] on them, maybe to figure out what they were, but that felt like a quick way to find out how bad the army's temper was.
'Sure, my memory of that night's a blur, but... doesn't their uniform look like the kidnappers'?' His mind began piecing possibilities together. 'Cerberus wants me dead. Does the army want me alive? That'd make sense if they're interested in cases like mine. Maybe the kidnappers wore fake uniforms to trick people and make grabbing me easier? ... One thing's certain, though...'
He was still alive. That meant they were at least willing to talk, or thought he was worth something.
The group stopped. Alan looked ahead and saw a massive wall, perfectly straight with jagged edges, curving to form what appeared to be a circular perimeter about fifty meters across. Before he could start questioning it, two soldiers walked forward, pressed their palms to the wall, then slammed their hands down onto the ground.
The wall didn't just sink; it sank into the ground and drowned.
A segment of the wall retracted into the earth with a muted rumble, sending a tremor through the ground, as if the soldiers had brought down an invisible giant hammer. Alan stared, awestruck. No one else so much as blinked.
The unit moved again, passing through the new gap into what looked like a small fortress. Most of the soldiers entered; four remained outside to guard the area. With a sharp upward sweep of their arms, the gate rose from the earth, sealing them in.
Inside, Alan's eyes darted around. The encampment was ringed by a stone wall, with tents scattered in all directions, and more soldiers moving about; some were seated around fires, while others sparred. Near each tent hung a banner. Calling it a banner felt too tame; it was the crimson of dried blood, a shade no dye could match.
A dragon dominated the standard, not a storybook beast but a smoother thing, like liquid gold. Its serpentine body coiled tightly around a dark blade standing upright, gaze fixed on its victims with a predatory smirk. The curves of gold clung possessively to the black steel. It wasn't so much a creature as a symbol, one that whispered of power without ever needing to shout.
One tent stood out. While most were small, black, and built for three to five people, a large red tent loomed on the far right, nearly three times the size of the others.
The soldiers scattered for new orders. The Lieutenant steered him toward a circle of wooden stumps around a cold fire.
"Sit." She gestured for him to take the spot opposite her, with the man in his twenties on his right.
"So," the man began, peeling away the cloth covering his head and face. He looked to be in his late twenties; his grey eyes held a warmth that seemed effortless. Fine creases deepened when he smiled, and a few silver threads ran through his slicked-back black hair, catching the light. Trustworthy. Disarmingly so.
"I'm Second Lieutenant Silas Kane of Company-375, and this..." He turned toward the woman.
She let out a short breath, removed her head covering, and spoke in an even tone. "As I said before, I'm First Lieutenant of Company-375, Evelyn Kane. Now that the formalities are done, let's get to what matters."
Where Silas radiated welcome, Evelyn was a void. Eyes glittered, sharp and unreadable, her gaze weighing him as if she could measure his worth in grams. Dark hair framed her face in a neat braid, the kind of style that spoke of habit rather than vanity, though the way it caught the light hinted at more care than she would admit. Her beauty was like precise geometry given form; angles precise, expressions controlled, every strand of hair exactly where she wanted it, as accurate as her uniform.
Alan held her gaze a moment too long, then looked away.
"Cloak off, weapons, on the ground." Evelyn's voice was steady, but her eyes dissected him, measuring every twitch in his face.
Alan's thoughts whirled, scenarios and questions tumbling over each other, escape routes flickering before him. Part of him wanted to spill everything, beg for help. The other part wanted to gamble, twist the truth, and survive the game.
The problem was, he didn't know what they were fishing for. That made baiting the hook dangerous.
'If I don't risk, I won't win.'
He slipped the cloak from his shoulders and dropped it beside him. The bow and quiver on his back came into view, along with the coat, torn at the heart and shoulder, dark with dried blood.
Evelyn's eyes narrowed, the slightest tilt of her head sending a cold current down his spine. He started to explain: "This—" "Didn't ask," she cut in, her tone like the edge of a blade.
Silas, at his right, stirred the burned wood in the fire pit with a branch, as if the exchange bored him. But his gaze flicked toward the bowstring, once, measuring.
"Name. Bloodline. Age. Any proof of identity?" Evelyn's voice was level, but she leaned in slightly, close enough for him to see the faint reflection of the fire in her irises.
"Alan. Just Alan. Eighteen years, seven months. No documents." He let the words tumble out, a carefully staged, uneven civilian panic. Inside, he called on ｢Surgeon｣, steadying his heartbeat, trimming the adrenaline, and altering the sweat on his skin to fit the mask.
"Bastard son?" she asked, one brow lifting.
"..." Alan's expression shuttered, his expression froze. He averted his gaze, indicating his preference not to answer.
"I see. Where are you from? And what were you doing in this part of the forest?"
"Zarethun. I... went out exploring. Bought the bow for wild animals. But—" His words faltered when he saw both siblings' eyes land on the bloodied arrow in his quiver. "—I ran into bandits. Tried to flee. They chased me, maybe thinking I had something valuable. I was tiring... so... in the end—" He let his eyes close, shoulders sagging under a memory that wasn't real. "—I used it."
Evelyn's gaze locked on his. "You sure that's the whole story?"
Alan's hand went to his coat. "I... took this from them. Thought I could sell it." He held out a dagger. Evelyn took it, turning the blade in her hand, thumb brushing the edge. "And this is just a kitchen knife, for food. If I caught anything." His voice tightened.
"Do you realise how dangerous the forest is? You could've been eaten alive," she said, eyes lifting from the dagger.
He scratched his cheek, forcing a nervous laugh. "Guess the old campfire tales got to me, ha-ha..." His cheeks flushed with staged embarrassment.
Alan closed his eyes for a moment, drew in a slow, deliberate breath, and let his shoulders drop, forcing his racing heart to steady before he faced the twin again.
Silas smirked. "Not like you needed to worry about monsters. A certain Lieutenant has been hunting them all morning passionately." His chin tipped toward Evelyn.
Alan's gut twisted. 'Great. Not only are there monsters in the woods, but there's worse right in front of me!' He begged that this world had no truth-sense lurking in it, or at least, not in their arsenal.
"Your coat?" Evelyn asked, tone unchanged. If she'd been in plain clothes, it might've sounded almost shy.
"This? My uncle's. Loved bragging about how he survived near-fatal hits—heart, shoulder. Refused to wash or mend it, so that he could show it off later." Alan's mouth tugged in a sardonic smile.
A silence stretched out. Evelyn's eyes flicked once to Silas, then back to Alan, calculating.
He tried to lighten the mood. "Um... would it be alright if I took the dagger back after this... debriefing?"
No answer. Evelyn's fingers brushed her lips, her eyes half-lidded in thought. The silence pressed like a hand to his throat, then she spoke again.
"The bodies. Where are they?"
"To the south, by a thicker, larger tree than the rest." His voice smoothed out, thinking this might be the end.
Movement caught his eye as soldiers opened the gate again. 'Coincidence? Or did they hear us and go to check? Maybe they can communicate without speaking...' Then it hit him like a hammer 'What if they went to ask about me in town?!'
Silas broke the lull. "As much as I'd love to send you home to enjoy your day, I'll have to keep you here longer."
'No, no, no, no...'
"Are you sure? It's not my business, but... Lieutenant Evelyn said you needed this debrief for a certain operation. I wouldn't want to get in the way," he said, wearing the face of a man afraid to inconvenience them.
Silas's smile was thinner as he leaned closer. "Not at all. The operation's tied to your town. You might give some help."
"And bringing a civilian into army work, no risk of... leaks?" Alan stared at that smile. It didn't shift. "I'm not a fighter."
"Ha. That's fine. And help isn't the only reason. You might run into trouble heading back, and we can't spare men to escort you." He glanced up at the sky. "Unfortunately, we can't risk pulling soldiers from here."
Alan wore the face of a worried civilian facing the military. Inside, he was cursing them six ways to the abyss. 'What the hell is this operation?! And you pick this day, of all times, to run it?!'
"So," Silas rose to his feet and leaned toward Alan, offering his hand. "Welcome to the Company-375 of the Imperial Army."
"Oh... uh, thanks." Alan took Silas's hand and let himself be pulled up, leaving the kitchen knife, bow, and arrows on the ground. 'Finally! I might not be getting out of here, but at least I'll get a break from this interrogation.'
"I'm heading to the tent. Call me when the commander returns," Evelyn said, turning toward the large red tent.
"W–wait! What about the dag—" Alan's words were cut short when Evelyn tossed him five tiny gold coins. "That's five Ulms. Not like a dagger is worth that much."
'Money!' Alan snatched the coins, heart racing for a beat. For a brief, blissful moment, all his problems vanished. 'Ah~ money is the cure for everything.'
Evelyn passed by a group of soldiers, tossed the dagger to them, and disappeared inside the red tent. 'Focus, Alan! You've got real problems here.'
"You must be hungry. From what you've told me, you haven't eaten since morning. And after that chase and interrogation, you must be exhausted, physically and mentally. So, let's eat!" Silas said, practically drooling. He looked hungrier than Alan by far.
'Food! Food also counts as a real problem, right? Yeah, I can't think straight on an empty stomach anyway.'
"Absolutely! Thanks." The two of them reached a long wooden table. Around other tables, soldiers were engaging in arm-wrestling matches and resting.
"Just wait here. I'll prepare the best dish you've ever tasted in less than five minutes." The pride on Silas's face was unmistakable.
'Five minutes? What, does he have canned food lying around?' he sat at the far end of the table, propping his chin on his hand as he watched Silas head toward a massive pot at the other side of the camp, surrounded by sacks and crates of supplies.
He wanted to rest his head on the table and savour this brief pause after a long ordeal, but the sensation of being watched was suffocating, like prey frozen beneath a hawk's shadow. 'If this keeps up, I'm going to lose my mind.'
His eyes wandered across the camp, but not idly. He was searching. The sharpened palisade walls loomed like prison bars, with guard towers perched above, their soldiers scanning the perimeter. Any attempt at climbing was suicide.
Alan's gaze lowered to the earth beneath his boots. The ground was packed with roots, still slick with rain. Digging his way out? Pointless. Even if he had the right tools, the mud would give him away long before he'd made any progress.
He shifted his focus to the tents, counting paths, tracing the spaces between supply crates and fire pits. Every trail led back into patrol routes, soldiers moving in pairs like a net cast tight around him. There was no blind spot, no shadow deep enough to slip through. 'Whoever had set this camp up knew what they were doing.'
Alan exhaled slowly, leaning back on the bench, forcing his frustration down. 'No climbing. No digging. No slipping past. Damn it... I'm stuck here, for now.'
"I'm back," Silas returned, balancing two bowls of soup, the steam curling lazily upward. The aroma hit Alan first: meat, herbs, and vegetables, and his stomach growled so loud he swore the whole camp heard it.
"Here you go. Best dish you'll ever taste," Silas said with a grin, sliding one bowl across the table.
'Have five minutes lasted that fast? Whatever, food time!... maybe my last meal.' Alan didn't wait. He scooped a spoonful, blew on it once, and shoved it into his mouth.
'...Huh?'
Another spoonful, just to be sure. It got worse.
'The soup's cold...
Watery too...
The vegetables were undercooked...
The meat's raw...'
He blinked, stared at the soup, then back at Silas. "...Seriously?"
Silas leaned back, spoon dangling between his fingers, and slurped a mouthful with exaggerated delight. "Mmm. Perfect, right? Nothing like a soldier's cooking."
Alan watched him with a look that could curdle milk. 'The bastard is enjoying this.'
He tore into the meat with all his strength until his jaw ached, eyes watering as he forced down the rest of the soup in one go.
Then Silas casually pushed his untouched bowl aside and smirked. "Of course, I wouldn't eat this swill. Who in their right mind would? But hey, you looked like you were starving, and charity's a virtue, isn't it?"
Alan nearly slammed his forehead on the table. 'To think I fell for something that obvious...' He swallowed the rest of the soup in one miserable gulp, purely out of spite, ignoring the way his jaw ached trying to tear through the meat with his eyes watering.
"So then," Alan pressed on, brushing off the prank and steering the conversation elsewhere, "What exactly are we going to do? I thought you wanted my help."
Silas's lips curved into a sly and wicked grin before answering. "Well, the commander ordered us not to move until he returns, unless necessary." He paused, his gaze locking with Alan's. "And he's the one who'll decide what happens to you."
"...Will he be back soon?" Alan asked, showing a genuine flicker of concern. "I'm worried my uncle will be anxious if I'm gone too long. I didn't even tell him I was leaving."
"Hmm. He should return before sunset. Four hours at most."
'Alright. If they don't have anything against me, staying here might not be a bad idea. But if they do...'
"This..." Alan feigned nervousness, letting his eagerness to leave show plainly.
"Oh, come on man! It'll be fun!" Silas suddenly leapt up from his chair, wrapping an arm around Alan's neck and pulling him close. "Think about it, you might even earn some recognition. Or better yet... a reward." His voice dropped to a playful whisper in Alan's ear.
"I'm in." Alan's response was instant. The word reward had flipped the switch. Watching Evelyn carelessly toss gold coins around earlier had left him with a clear picture: if there were money on the table, it wouldn't be small change. He might walk out of here not just alive, but rich!
"That's the spirit!" Silas clapped him on the back encouragingly. "While we wait for the commander... how about a little fun?" He gestured toward the circle where soldiers were duelling with wooden swords, while others cheered and placed bets. Unlike outside the camp, none of them now wore their masks.
"Gambling? Sorry, but I just made some money. I'm not planning on losing it so soon." Alan patted his coat pocket, hiding it protectively.
"Of course not! I meant a sparring match. Just a little duel, it'll be fun!" Silas's arm tightened around his neck as he dragged him toward the ring.
"Wait, hold on! I'm not a fighter, remember?" Alan clung to the table in protest, but Silas's grip was like iron.
"No, no, I remember. That's why it's just a 'mini match'. Wooden swords only. I won't hurt you."
"...Fine. But only one round, I'm tired." Alan exhaled like a man walking to the gallows as he stood. "And don't expect much from me."
'Please let this be just me overthinking... Something is off about this guy.' It was obvious to Alan that it was not merely a mini-duel; he would be measured.
The two of them stepped slowly toward the duelling circle, watching as a pair of soldiers clashed in the centre while the others cheered and shouted bets around them.
Two soldiers circled each other in the ring, wooden swords raised, their movements crisp and precise despite the mud underfoot. One lunged, his blade snapping out in a thrust, but the other twisted aside and countered with a downward arc that cracked against his opponent's guard hard enough to rattle teeth. The sound of wood on wood echoed through the camp, drawing cheers and groans from the gathered soldiers.
Strike, block, feint, retreat.
The match wasn't just brute force; it was rhythm. Their boots shifted in perfect balance, kicking up clumps of dirt but never losing footing. Even when one stumbled, he rolled back to his feet in a fluid motion that spoke of endless drilling. The watching soldiers roared, some waving coins in the air as bets were shouted across the circle.
Alan swallowed hard. This wasn't play-fighting; it was training sharpened by repetition, and even with wooden swords, every swing carried the weight of intent. His stomach clenched at the thought: 'If this is just how they spar, what the hell would a real fight look like?'
"I see you're all enjoying yourselves," Silas remarked as he approached the soldiers.
"Oh, Lieutenant, you gotta see this! Arthur has lost four matches in a row, four in a row! It's unprecedented!" one soldier laughed, pointing to the man beside him. Arthur, red-faced and fuming, spat curses at the duel in progress, his head looking ready to ignite like a torch.
'He must've lost a fortune.' Alan couldn't help the small grin tugging at his lips as he watched Arthur stew.
"Still planning to keep this going?" Silas cut into the ring. "We've got a guest who'd like some fun too."
"L–Lieutenant Silas?! We're in the middle of—ugh!" The duelist's protest ended in a grunt as his opponent drove a kick into his stomach, sending him sprawling several meters out of the circle and straight to the ground.
"NOOOOO!" Arthur cried, collapsing and clutching his head.
"Five matches in a row! That's a record!" the soldiers shouted with laughter, while Arthur lay muttering something about the stars not favouring him. Silas, meanwhile, plucked the wooden sword from the fallen, half-conscious loser.
"Hey! What's the little spy doing here?" called the victor, a spiky-haired soldier striding toward Alan. The circle's attention swung instantly to him. The word little wasn't misplaced; everyone here had at least eight years on him.
"Wow, still in one piece?"
"That's unusual enough."
"Maybe the Lieutenant got bored with him after this morning's hunt?"
"Um... I'm not a spy," Alan stammered, sweat beading on his face. He wished the earth would swallow him whole under so many stares.
"Haha, I know, I know," the spiky-haired one chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "Otherwise, the Lieutenant would've eaten you for lunch."
"No, she'd have tortured him."
"Bet she'd use him for target practice."
"Or toss him into a dragon's nest."
A knot of anxiety tightened in Alan's chest as the speculation spiralled. He could barely breathe, imagining his lie being uncovered. He nearly sobbed internally, 'I just want to go home...' cursing his miserable luck.
"Leave the kid alone. Can't you see he's about to keel over?" Silas drawled. "Give him the sword, Paul. We've got a little duel ahead of us." He stepped into the ring, stretching his limbs.
"Hey, the little spy wants to break some bones? I like it!" Paul shoved the wooden sword enthusiastically into Alan's chest before flopping down among the onlookers.
'Break bones? Whose bones does he mean?' Alan scrambled for excuses to escape, but it was already too late; every eye was on him.
Arthur's eyes lit with sudden opportunity. "I'm betting on the Lieutenant! Who's got money on the boy?"
*Silence*
"What? No faith in youth? Where's your spirit men?! You should be encouraging him, not giving up before his first try!" Arthur's voice rang like a preacher's sermon, but no one bit.
"Nice try."
"Why don't you bet on him yourself?"
"And didn't you just lose everything? Or did you forget?"
"Tch." Arthur slumped back down, defeated. He hadn't had a coin to wager anyway.
"So then, let's begin—"
"Hold on a second!" Alan cut in hastily, stopping Silas's advance. "Don't I get any advantages at least?"
"Hm? Advantages?" Silas tilted his head.
"You're older, stronger, more skilled, and far more experienced! Of course, it won't be a fair fight. Aren't you going to handicap yourself somehow? It won't be much fun if this ends instantly, right?"
Silas considered, stroking his chin. "Fair point. Alright, let's make this simple." He planted his sword in the dirt. "Your goal is to touch me. Doesn't matter how—your hand, your sword, even tossing something at me. If you touch me, you win. I won't touch you, won't attack you, won't hinder you in any way. If five minutes pass without you laying a finger on me, I win. Easy, right?"
'That... feels a little too easy.' The ring wasn't that big, seven meters across, tops. His chances should be decent. 'Unless he's just impossibly fast...'
"I'm betting on the little spy!" Arthur shouted quickly, scanning for anyone to join him.
'I'm not a spy, and this isn't fun,' Alan thought, face flat.
"I'll take the spy's side!" Paul raised a hand.
"I'm with the Lieutenant."
"Lieutenant."
"The little spy."
Bets piled up until the camp split evenly in two. "So what are we even betting?" someone asked. Arthur, broke and desperate, shouted, "Dinner! Losers give their meal to the winners!" The deal was struck.
"Lil' Spy! Over here!" Paul beckoned
'Gambling for a meal while my life hangs in the balance in a much larger game... how cruel.' At that moment, it was evident that he was holding back his tears. He turned toward the group, which had formed a circle around him.
"Alright lil' Spy—"
"I'm Alan."
"Alright Spy-lan, rules are simple: play it smart, and you'll win for sure." Arthur's eyes bored into him.
'Please, just leave me alone...' Alan screamed silently. For the first time, death at Evelyn's hands didn't seem so terrible.
"You at least know the basics of swordplay, right?" asked a long-faced soldier. Alan shook his head quickly, embarrassed. The man backed away immediately toward the opposite side.
"You're not going anywhere," Arthur seized him and turned back to Alan. "What about magic? Even a simple spell could help." Alan shook his head again.
"No worries! What matters is that you try. Go out there and have fun!" Paul shoved him into the ring with cheerful encouragement.
"..." The crowd fell silent, returning to their seats with the grim certainty they'd be going hungry tonight. "One last cheer!" Arthur hurried after him. 'Leave me alone...'
Arthur leaned close, whispering in Alan's ear, "If you lose, you will be dinner." Then he darted back to the log where his group sat. "May the stars guide you!"
'What encouragement!' Alan grimaced inwardly as he returned to face Silas.
"Oh, you're done? I was about to fall asleep waiting," Silas said, lifting his chin from the hilt of the sword planted in the dirt. "We won't be needing this." With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the wooden blade out of the circle.
"I forgot to mention, neither of us is allowed to step outside the ring." He stretched his back, rolling his shoulders as he raised one arm. "Now... one, two—begin."
'Dear wisdom of fantasy novels, don't fail me now!' Alan thought desperately before charging at Silas, wooden sword raised high. Silas didn't budge, not even an inch. That stillness unsettled Alan, but he pressed forward. When he swung with all his strength, the strike crashed against something as hard as steel. The impact jarred his arms, sending tremors up his arms.
'What the—'
"Hey! That's cheating!" Arthur bellowed from the sidelines, while the opposing group howled with laughter. Alan's expression, caught between shock, disbelief, and denial, only fueled the hilarity. Before him shimmered a faint silvery wall, the invisible barrier flaring just long enough for him to see it. A wide grin spread across Silas's face as he tried not to burst out laughing himself.
"Hey!" Alan hammered at the barrier with his sword, his boot, his shoulder. It was like striking solid iron. "This is cheating! Didn't you say you wouldn't stop me?"
"What do you mean? Your hands are free, your legs are free. If you can't reach me, that's on you, not me." Silas's taunts only fueled Alan's frustration. He spun toward his supposed 'supporters', searching for help, but they'd all buried their faces in their palms, groaning in dismay.
'I look so stupid...'
"Some advice would be great right about now!" Alan shouted. He didn't truly care about winning or losing; the duel wouldn't harm him either way, but curiosity bit deep. If someone else ever threw up a wall like this against him, he'd need to know how to crack it. 'Is this barrier magic? A skill?'
"Most of the counters would take you years to learn," Arthur said, hunched over a double-edged sword with a chunk of metal for a blade. 'Was he serious about eating me for dinner?!'
"Just tell me—I'll figure it out."
"Can you coat your sword in magicules?" Paul asked.
"...Kind of," Alan muttered. Aside from consuming them for his ｢Surgeon｣ and relying on them for his ｢Magic Sense｣, he'd never actually interacted with them. He barely knew what else they could be used for.
"Try wrapping your blade in it. Not that it's something you can master in under five—" Paul cut himself off, glancing at Silas, who now lounged comfortably inside a dome-shaped barrier. "Four minutes left!" he called.
'All right, all right. Like Haki, right? Focus, focus.' Alan clenched his jaw and bore down on the magicules within him—but they refused to move. His ｢Magic Sense｣ and ｢Surgeon｣ let him see them: a glowing orb, fist-sized, pulsing in his chest. Yet no matter how he strained, they wouldn't budge.
From the ground, Silas had the time of his life watching Alan squeeze his eyes shut, his face contorted, looking like a man straining at stool.
"Three minutes~."
'Oh, shut up already... wait a second.'
Alan shifted focus back to his soul, to ｢Surgeon｣—specifically one of its sub-skills:
——————————
[Microsurgical Control]
Allows for near-microscopic manipulation using tools, magicules, or physical extensions. Enables precise operations on nerve endings, blood vessels, and tissue structures without any collateral damage. Supports minimally invasive procedures on living targets.
——————————
As much as he wanted to smack himself for overlooking such a detail, a small smile crept onto his face. 'Would they notice if I used a skill?' He didn't know, but it was worth trying. He'd been dragged into this duel; he might as well wring something useful from it. If others could throw barriers like this, he'd better learn to break them. 'And really, what was the worst that could happen? I'm probably doomed either way.'
He activated [Thought Acceleration], steadied his breath, and triggered the sub-skill. Luckily, no outward change betrayed him. Focusing inward, he mapped his chest with [Internal Mapping] until he found the magicules clustered at his chest—his core. Then he seized control with [Microsurgical Control].
At last, they began to move. What had once been chaotic motes of glowing dust now streamed into ordered currents, flowing through his body like luminous rivers or burning veins. Calm. Clear. Obedient.
'All right, one mystery to chase down if I live through this.'
Returning to the task at hand, he guided the flow toward his arms, into his fists. With ｢Surgeon｣ guiding them, the effort felt natural, even exhilarating.
'Oh ｢Surgeon｣, I don't care how finicky, exhausting, nerve-wracking, maddening you are—you're brilliant!'
When the energy pooled in his right hand, he tried channelling it into the wooden sword. But nothing. Not a spark.
'Because ｢Surgeon｣ only works on organic matter?' The thought rang truer the more he considered it. So he let the sword dangle from his left hand, focusing instead on packing his right fist with glowing force.
Alan clenched his right fist. Veins of light crawled under the skin. For the first time since he woke up in this world, something answered. He launched forward — fist into the invisible wall.
*Crack*
Hairline fractures webbed the surface, light bleeding through like molten glass. The soldiers around the ring gasped, the laughter dying in their throats. Even Silas's eyebrows rose a fraction, the grin on his face sharpening rather than faltering.
Alan didn't hesitate. He struck again, pouring every thread of [Microsurgical Control] into the blow.
The barrier shattered like glass, shards of light scattering [Microsurgical Control] into the air before dissolving into nothing. For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then chaos.
"...He broke it?" one soldier muttered, awe edging his voice.
"He actually broke it!" another roared; others shouted in disbelief.
Silas's grin widened as he rose and slipped back a step, smooth and effortless, dodging Alan's strike by a hair's breadth.
The duel shifted in an instant. He lunged forward, hounding Silas around the circle, his fists glowing faintly with each attempt to land a touch. For a full minute, he hounded him, striking, feinting, lunging, even hurling the wooden sword once in desperation. Each time, Silas twisted or swayed just out of reach, his movements deceptively casual, as if he were dancing rather than dodging.
Alan's breath came short, sweat dripping from his brow. The soldiers roared with each near miss.
"Go on, Spy-lan!"
"Catch him! One touch!"
"Ha! You'll never corner the Lieutenant at that speed!"
Alan ignored the noise. His world narrowed to that sly grin. A few steps ahead of him. For once, he wasn't just bluffing survival; he was close. Too close for even Silas to shrug off.
Alan's lungs burned, each breath ragged, but he refused to stop. He drove forward again, fist flashing with stubborn light. Silas danced back, always just out of reach, his grin infuriatingly calm.
Then, without warning, Silas froze. His head turned sharply toward the stone gate they had passed through earlier. The easy grin slipped, replaced by something harder.
Alan blinked, confused, then stumbled forward in sheer momentum. His glowing hand slapped against Silas's shoulder.
Contact.
The circle erupted.
"He touched him!"
"No way!"
"What—Lieutenant—?!"
Even Silas's eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face. For the first time, he looked rattled. He glanced down at Alan's hand still pressed against him, then back toward the stone gate, jaw tightening.
Alan's chest heaved. He could scarcely believe it. 'Did I just win?' Before he could gloat or collapse, the earth rumbled as the towering wall sank once more with that same muted thunder, stone swallowing itself into the ground. A tremor rippled through the camp as the gate lowered, revealing the figure beyond.
Silas immediately stepped back, composure snapping back into place, though his eyes flicked toward Alan with a new, keener edge. The soldiers' cries died as boots stamped against dirt in uneasy unison.
Through the rising dust emerged a massive, broad-shouldered old man with a heavy moustache, clad in the same uniform as the soldiers, save for the yellow insignia on his chest, marked with the carving of a flame.
The Commander of the Company-375, Johan Eisenhower, strode into the camp. His weary eyes scanned the field until they fell on the duelling circle where all stood at attention.
From among them, Silas strode forward with polished steps, snapping his hand to his brow in a crisp salute. "Commander Eisenhower, as always, your timing is impeccable. The Company stands at attention."
"Hmm..." The Commander's gaze drifted over the rest of the soldiers gathered around the sparring ring before narrowing on the black-haired youth in the torn brown coat. "Today seems full of new faces..."
"We found him near the perimeter of the camp and detained him for a quick investigation—"
"When?" Johan cut in, gravel grinding in his tone. His weary eyes swept over the camp like he'd already found the answers and was simply waiting for someone to confess. Silas caught a flicker of something unreadable in it, anger, perhaps irritation. "About an hour ago... May I ask if something troubles you, Commander? We'll see to it properly." Silas forced as much polish into his tone as he could, careful not to provoke his superior's temper.
"Did you send out any soldiers after the prisoner was taken in?" the Commander asked, his eyes sweeping the camp again as if searching for something missing. "Yes. The First Lieutenant sent two to confirm a matter."
"I see..." He turned sharply toward the camp gate, still hanging open. Four soldiers entered, each carrying a body by the shoulders and legs. Silas's gaze tracked them sharply, then widened in shock as recognition hit him.
"This..." They were the two men Evelyn had dispatched to investigate the supposed victims of Alan. They weren't dead, not yet, but their injuries were severe.
"Where is First Lieutenant Evelyn?" Julius's question snapped Silas out of his daze. "She is not one to be late."
He swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady as he turned his head toward the main command tent at the far end of camp. "She's there, sir. Shall I call for her?"
"No, that won't be necessary. We'll finish this discussion in the tent. I also have a message to send." He strode toward it without pause. "Tell the others to rest and be ready to move tonight."
"Yes, Commander," Silas replied quickly, falling into step at his side.
'Are those the two who went to gather information about me?... Good, then,' Alan thought from a distance.
Meanwhile, the rest of the soldiers clustered around the injured ones, some staring in confusion, others bristling with anger. Arthur stepped forward, raising his voice over the murmurs.
"All right, everyone. I have some news for you." He glanced once at the wounded before turning back to the company. "First—yes, I know y'all are wondering what happened to these two. Lieutenant Silas will address that later. Second—we march tonight. No word on the destination yet, but it's going to be a long night. Rest up and be ready."
Some soldiers dispersed as ordered. A handful trudged toward their tents to snatch what little rest they could before the night march, others sat cross-legged with whetstones in hand, dragging steel against stone in patient strokes, as others began packing kits and tightening straps. The aroma of food filled the air as several soldiers lined up with bowls in hand, eager for an early dinner before the road ahead.
Alan ended up at a low table with Paul, Arthur, and a few others, each with a bowl of what barely qualified as stew. The stuff vanished in minutes, shovelled down more like fuel than food.
"You know," Paul said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "I've never seen anyone get the hang of magicules that fast. You punched through the Lieutenant's barrier, even though it was a weak one, like kindling. Not bad, kid."
Arthur retorted between bites. "Mana. Not magicules. Don't lump the two together." Paul rolled his eyes, leaning back. "Here we go again. It's the same thing."
"It's not," Arthur shot back, pointing with his spoon. "Magicules are just the raw particles. Mana is the structured energy you actually manipulate through technique. If you don't know the difference, no wonder sword-swingers smash things until they work."
Paul's grin widened. "And yet it works. You mages waste half your lives arguing over names while we're busy cutting down the enemy."
"Oh, sure," Arthur replied dryly. "Until you're up against someone who doesn't politely stand still while you hack at them. Then suddenly you're screaming for a mage to save your hide." The rest of the table chuckled. Alan forced a small smile, but he didn't join in. Even in this warm little circle, with easy laughter and camaraderie that came as naturally as breathing to the others, he felt nothing. No safety. No relief.
Not even trust.
He looked down at his empty bowl, fingers tightening around it. Ungrateful. Selfish. Mean. That's what it made him, wasn't it? These people shared food, jokes, and conversation, and all he could do was calculate how to escape them, how to lie better, and how to survive.
And yet, he couldn't stop.
Because deep down, Alan knew one thing: if he let himself believe, even for a heartbeat, that these soldiers were truly his allies, then he'd already be dead.
The argument fizzled out with a few more jabs, Paul smirking into his bowl while Arthur grumbled under his breath. Alan set his own bowl aside and leaned a little toward Arthur, lowering his voice so it felt more like a private remark than an interruption.
"I guess I still have a lot to learn about magic," Alan said, keeping his tone light, almost sheepish. "Even just now, I barely scraped by. Lieutenant Silas... well, he made it look easy."
Arthur's brow twitched, but for once, he didn't rise to the bait like Paul. Instead, he sat back and crossed his arms, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "The Lieutenant is easy to underestimate. Too many forget he was scouted from the Aegis academies before he joined the Military. Between the two Lieutenants, he's the approachable one."
"Approachable," Alan echoed, filing the word away. "And the First Lieutenant?"
Arthur let out a dry laugh. "Lieutenant Evelyn? I don't think I saw her many times doing anything out of her role as Lieutenant... Well, I think that's how she achieved the role of First Lieutenant. She's the kind not to explain anything and let everyone figure it out for themselves."
The others chuckled in agreement. Alan forced a grin, though inside his chest tightened. 'And I'm stuck between them.'
Arthur turned his attention back to the stew pot, but his tone shifted, quieter, almost teacher-like. "As for magic, stop thinking of it as something foreign. Magicules are everywhere, like air. Mana is what happens when you make that air yours, shape it, and refine it. Mages obsess over the difference because the smallest details can be the difference between casting a spell or blowing yourself to pieces." Paul snorted but didn't interrupt.
Alan nodded slowly, careful to wear the look of a curious novice. Inside, he was scribbling notes in mental ink.
As time stretched on, the camp settled into a strange calm. Half an hour passed before most of the soldiers had finished their stew, and laughter faded into the background hum of sharpening blades and idle chatter. Alan was starting to think he could blend into the crowd when Silas approached, his usual light-hearted smile replaced by a more sombre expression.
The soldiers straightened up instinctively, sensing the shift. Silas stopped just short of the group, his voice unusually sober. "The two the Commander brought in won't make it."
The words hung over the camp like a funeral bell. Even Arthur, who had been mid-sentence in another rant about Paul's 'barbaric' understanding of magic, froze.
"No healers?" one soldier muttered. Silas shook his head. "Not here. Our mages aren't trained for that level of recovery, and the wounds are too deep. We can keep them breathing, but they'll only suffer until the end."
Paul rose slowly, his jaw set, his spoon clattering into the empty bowl. He muttered something under his breath, an old prayer, and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. "Then I'll send them to rest. Better a clean end than a slow, choking one."
A coil of tension tightened in Alan's chest. His survival instincts screamed to stay silent, to avoid drawing attention, but another voice pushed against it: Opportunity. 'If I stay quiet, I will die just as quietly. If I speak, I gamble everything. I've survived this long by gambling, I can't stop now.'
Silence meant slow death. Speaking was a gamble on a swift execution or a temporary reprieve. But a reprieve was a chance, and a chance was all he ever needed.
"Wait." His voice cracked more than he wanted, but it made every head turn toward him. He swallowed and forced himself to speak again, steadying his tone. "Let me try."
Arthur frowned, his hand pausing on the sword. "As much as I appreciate your will to help, there is nothing you can do, you've just known the difference between mana and magicules"
Alan pushed himself to his feet despite the weight of every stare. His palms were sweaty, but his mind raced, assembling the lie. "I can't fight. I can't cast proper spells. But healing... that's the one thing I can do. It's the only talent I have."
Arthur blinked, then scoffed. "What, you've been hiding that?" Alan shrugged stiffly, playing into the image of a nervous, desperate civilian. "It doesn't always work. And if it fails, then... I'll look like a fool. But if it doesn't—" His gaze flicked toward the injured soldiers. "—then maybe they don't have to die."
Silas studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he lowered his sword. "...Fine. Show us."
The crowd parted like a tide, murmurs rippling through the Company as Alan was led to the wounded men. Their bodies lay on crude stretchers near the command tent, breaths shallow, chests rising with agonised effort. Blood had soaked their bandages dark, and the smell of iron hung thick in the air.
Alan knelt at their side, closing his eyes for a brief moment. The men's bodies jerked with every ragged breath, their faces twisted in agony. Before he touched their wounds, he released a pulse of magicules that spread like an invisible mist.
The cries softened, their pained thrashing subsiding as their muscles loosened under the effect of [Anaesthesia Field]. Their foreheads relaxed, their eyes sliding shut into something closer to sleep than suffering.
His heart pounded as he activated ｢Surgeon｣. The world sharpened, their pulse rhythms, their torn organs, every tiny vessel screaming in pain. His mind ached from the flood of information, but he pressed forward, layering [Microsurgical Control] over his perception.
For a heartbeat, his hands hovered, frozen. He had healed himself many times before — flesh, bone, blood — but never another human being. The inner workings of another's body felt foreign and alien. The arrangement of their blood vessels, the strain in their nerves, even the rhythm of their lungs differed in ways that made his instincts hesitate. There was no margin for error; the wrong adjustment could paralyse instead of mend, kill instead of save. 'I can't... practice this. It has to work.'
As he probed deeper, something made him pause. Their bodies weren't like his own. Their muscle fibres were denser, knotted in unusual patterns that didn't match human physiology. The bones were slightly elongated, their marrow thicker, and even the arrangement of nerves across their spines seemed... strange. Not malformed, not unnatural, just different.
He nearly recoiled, questions flooding his mind. What are they? What kind of people live in this world? But the thought of them bleeding out on the ground silenced his curiosity. There was no time to investigate. He shelved the mystery. Survival came first.
He stilled his thoughts and drew the magicules from his core, weaving them into glowing threads and guiding them into the men's bodies. The wounds were catastrophic: punctured lungs, ruptured vessels, nerves frayed like split cords. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer difficulty of translating what he knew of his own body into theirs. Every connection was a matter of guesswork sharpened by intuition, every repair a battle against uncertainty.
Conventional medicine would have been useless. But with ｢Surgeon｣, he nudged, stitched, and reconnected, his consciousness working like hundreds of invisible hands.
A faint web of light crawled across their chests, faint at first, then brighter, their skin flushing with colour as broken tissues knit themselves together.
A collective gasp escaped the watching soldiers. One of the dying men's breaths evened, his rattling cough replaced by steady inhalations. The other twitched, eyes fluttering open in confusion.
Alan sagged, sweat beading on his brow, but forced a weak grin. "See? Not hopeless." Silence followed, then erupted into chaos.
"Oooh! I may not know much about healing magic, but you surely are talented," Paul said with a surprised tone. Arthur lowered his arms, disbelief etched across his face, and then whistled, shaking his head. "I guess Spy-lan is full of surprises." Of course, Alan didn't have any knowledge of healing magic, but he chose not to correct them. Let them believe what they wanted. If they thought his skill was that impressive, it would serve as a shield, a reason for them to hesitate before cutting down his neck.
Inside, though, he trembled. He hadn't just saved their soldiers. He had revealed himself, and once admitted, there was no turning back.
...
Later, Silas gathered everyone near the command tent, his expression calm yet firm. "Listen carefully," he began, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the soldiers. "Evelyn sent those two on an exploration mission, but they were ambushed. Fortunately, the Commander returned early and managed to rescue them. The attackers... were a single individual, and their identity remains unknown. The Commander happened to return early, luck, or fate, who knows, and he managed to drag them back alive. Barely. If he'd been any later..." His pause said enough.
A hush fell over the group. Eyes darted toward the surrounding woods, imagining the unseen threat that had struck so suddenly.
"The First Lieutenant is coordinating with the Commander on our next move. For now, you answer to me." Silas's gaze swept across the camp, lingering on each face. "We cannot take chances. Prepare yourselves; the camp may come under attack at any moment." He turned slightly toward Paul. "You will take your Platoon to secure the perimeter and sweep the forest. Scout the surrounding area. I want no surprises."
"Alright!" Paul shouted, excited to face the so-called threat.
"The rest will reinforce the camp's defences. You, however—" His eyes met Alan's, steady and commanding. "Alan will stay in the tent near the command post. As a civilian, your protection is a priority. Do not leave the area unless instructed."
The soldiers moved quickly, executing the orders with disciplined efficiency. Alan followed Silas's gaze toward the perimeter, feeling a mix of fear and resolve. The forest loomed around the camp, its shadows stretching long under the fading light, and somewhere within it, the unknown attacker waited. It took no more than ten minutes for everyone to be in place.
'I feel awful watching them work while I sit here like some lazy house cat. Not that I'd be much help anyway,' Alan thought as he peered out from his tent, a plain, cramped shelter with a small gas lantern and a few blankets. Dusk was closing in, and the air was growing colder.
He had already given up on escape. The best he could do now was pray his end wouldn't be too painful. There was always the chance the camp might come under attack, and he could slip away in the chaos. And even if the banners won and dragged him back, he would find some way to clear himself. He'd only run because he feared for his life—like any ordinary man would. Reasonable enough. It wasn't even a lie!
Another option was to try searching in his arsenal for some help; he already has some experience with ｢Surgeon｣, so he decided to experiment with his newest ability: ｢Magic Sense｣.
The first thing he noticed was the sheer gulf between ｢Surgeon｣ and ｢Magic Sense｣. The difference was night and day, no, sun and moon. One was a Unique Skill, the other an Extra Skill, and their usefulness reflected that gap. It made him wonder: were there other ranks beyond these? If he survived this mess, he swore he'd dig into exactly how skills and magic functioned in this world.
Just thinking about activating ｢Magic Sense｣ made his head ache. Even with his experience in the nerve-draining ｢Surgeon｣, he could barely endure the torrent of information this new skill spewed into him. It was relentless. From what he gathered, the ability constantly vacuumed up data from his surroundings and crammed it directly into his brain, completely replacing, and vastly outshining, his normal sight and hearing. ｢Surgeon｣, by comparison, suddenly felt like child's play.
'Let's not be reckless this time.'
The first time he'd triggered it, by accident, he'd nearly fried his brain on the spot. This time, he prepared carefully. He activated [Anaesthesia Field], then reached for the glow of ｢Magic Sense｣ buried within his soul. It gleamed there like a small jewel, less dazzling than ｢Surgeon｣, but still distinct.
He framed it in his mind: if ｢Magic Sense｣ was a faucet, then information was water, and his brain was the cup. The only way to avoid overflow, meaning brain-fry, was to twist the handle very slowly.
Alan closed his eyes, sitting in lotus position, then gingerly cracked the faucet open. At once, sparks of light, every colour imaginable, flared around him, motes blinking in and out of existence like tiny fireflies.
With a trembling hand, he twisted it a little more.
The sparks shifted, clustering into random shapes that gradually settled, sharpening into something more coherent. A few centimetres farther out, new ones blinked to life. That's when it hit him: ｢Magic Sense｣ wasn't just feeding him data, it was mapping a sphere of perception, with his body as the centre.
Slowly, carefully, he widened it. A trickle became a stream.
Noise crashed into him, alien, brutal in its sharpness. The rush of blood through the veins. The faint groan of wood beneath him. The tiny scritch of insects climbing his leg. Everything was amplified to painful clarity.
Curiosity pushed him further. He risked a little more. The cup shook at the rim.
Everything within three to five centimetres gained definition, first without mass, then with it; first without shape, then with shape; first without colour, then vivid colour. It was overwhelming, an avalanche of natural details about air, light, soil, and wood.
He turned his perception inward, and his perspective warped violently, shifting to a third-person view of himself, except that it was close as though his eyes were glued to his own skin. He couldn't push the sense farther out, no matter how hard he tried. Without [Anaesthesia Field] cushioning him, his brain would've felt like it was dissolving into mush.
At that point, he deactivated ｢Magic Sense｣. He didn't feel tired, but the sweat on his forehead and the faint tremble in his fingers told the truth.'Congratulations Alan, you just invented the migraine apocalypse.'
Alan exhaled sharply, sweat dripping down his temple. The afterimage of the magical spectrum flickered behind his eyelids, a chaotic tapestry of light and information that felt more overwhelming than helpful. Although it had its uses, ｢Magic Sense｣ was a blunt instrument in his current state, providing a flood of data when he needed precision.
His gaze drifted to his hands. There was another way.
If raw perception was too much, then control was the answer. He had already proven he could manipulate magicules, not just sense them. During the duel, he'd used ｢Surgeon｣'s [Microsurgical Control] to force the energy into his fist, to make it obey. ｢Magic Sense｣ was a window; ｢Surgeon｣ was a tool. And right now, he needed a tool.
He closed his eyes again, shutting out the world. This time, he didn't reach for the glittering jewel of ｢Magic Sense｣. Instead, he dived inward, into the familiar, clinical space of his Unique Skill. The world resolved into the intricate biological map of his own body, the thrum of his heartbeat, the flow of his blood, the neural pathways firing in his brain.
And there it was: his core. A condensed, fist-sized orb of potential energy swirling in his chest, glowing with a soft, internal light. The source of his magicules. During the duel, his focus had been desperate and singular: PUSH. Now, he could be precise.
He activated [Microsurgical Control], and his perception of the core shifted. It was no longer a mere orb; it became a complex structure, a galaxy of countless individual particles spinning in a chaotic yet harmonious dance. His will, honed by ｢Surgeon｣'s precision, slipped between them. Instead of shoving this time, he guided.
He selected a bundle of motes of energy from the chorus and directed it down the pathway of his arm. It felt like trying to thread a needle with a single atom. The effort was immense, requiring a level of concentration so deep that it made his previous attempt with ｢Magic Sense｣ feel clumsy in comparison. Yet this time, it was clean and controlled.
The bundle reached his fingertip. He willed it to coalesce, to manifest.
As it slipped from his fingertip, out of his body, he sensed a powerful loss, like half of his control had vanished into thin air. A pinprick of light, no larger than a grain of sand, sparked into existence at the tip of his index finger. It hovered there, humming with a faint, pure tone. It cast a tiny, sharp shadow on his leg. A laugh, breathless and stunned, escaped him. He had created light, not by accident, nor through a chaotic surge.
Emboldened, he tried again. This time, he gathered a dozen bundles, weaving them together into a slightly larger, brighter point of light. The strain increased, a tightness forming behind his eyes, but it was manageable. It felt like sculpting.
Then an idea popped into his mind: Barrier. He experimented with shape, trying to flatten the light into a plate-like shape. It wavered, flickered, and collapsed back into a sphere. Form required more energy, more control than he currently possessed. But the principle was there.
He could do more than punch barriers. The possibilities unfolded in his mind: a pinpoint light in the dark, a momentary distraction, a focused burst of energy... perhaps even a blade. If this were a language, then he was learning its alphabet.
The pinprick of light at his finger flickered out as his concentration wavered. The mental exhaustion was real; this was a different kind of exhaustion than the sensory overload of ｢Magic Sense｣. This was the deep drain of meticulous, precise effort.
He slumped back against the tent post, a genuine, tired smile touching his lips for the first time in hours. He had a new project, a new variable in his desperate survival equation.
The smile faded as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the tent. The single point of light he'd made was nothing. Outside, the soldiers of Company-375 moved with the unconscious ease of those who spoke this language fluently. Their barriers, their enhanced strength, their silent communication, it was all built on a foundation of control he could only barely mimic.
The initial thrill of creation was gone, replaced by the cold, heavy weight of reality. He saw the gulf now, not as a gap to be crossed, but as a bottomless chasm. They built fortresses with this power; he could barely light a match. Every tool he'd painstakingly acquired felt laughably inadequate; the gap wasn't just wide, it was continental.
He had unlocked a new tool, yes. But it only allowed him to see the true scale of the toolbox he was up against.
"Ha," he muttered to the empty tent, the sound bleak and hollow. "You unlocked super-vision just in time to see how screwed you are. And now you've learned how to make a birthday candle."
His ｢Surgeon｣ showed more potential than he ever expected, but realising that potential would take time, time he might never have. Using [Thoughts Acceleration] would only intensify the necessary efforts, resulting in a longer recovery period. In other words, luck is his only hope.
'I'm out of ideas...' The thought was final, a door clicking shut in his mind. The frantic energy of experimentation drained away, leaving only a deep, bone-tired exhaustion. There were no more tricks to try, no clever lies to spin, no skills to hastily master. He had already played every card in his hand.
With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of two worlds, he extinguished the lantern. The darkness that swallowed the tent felt appropriate. He lay back on the thin blankets, not to sleep, but to... stop. To let the frantic hammering of his heart and mind quiet into a numb stillness. His fate was no longer in his hands. All he could do now was wait for a miracle to happen, a concept he had never believed in until it became his only option.
He didn't know how long he lay there in the dark, listening to the distant, muffled sounds of the camp, the low murmur of voices, the rhythmic tread of patrols. Time became a slow, syrupy crawl. It might have been an hour, maybe two.
Then, a change in the rhythm. A set of footsteps, purposeful and direct, broke from the pattern of the patrols and moved straight toward his tent. Alan's eyes snapped open in the darkness, his body tensing despite his resignation.
The tent flap was thrown aside, and a figure blocked out the faint moonlight. The silhouette was unmistakable. Silas stood there, his usual playful demeanour replaced by a stark, unreadable gravity.
"L–Lieutenant Silas..." Alan's voice wavered as he tried to steady himself. 'So this is it...' he thought with resignation, his eyes drawn to the sword at Silas's hip.
The lieutenant lowered himself onto the ground across from him, gaze fixed with piercing intensity. Alan felt as though an invisible hand clawed its way up his chest, squeezing his lungs tight. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to hide, but there was no escape, no horizon that promised safety. His lips parted, words dying in his throat. Should he beg for his life? Confess everything and grovel for pity? The thought of raising a weapon against Silas was absurd, a suicide born of madness.
'Calm yourself, Alan. Don't jump to conclusions. Maybe... maybe he only wants to check on me?'
A chill as cold as winter water slid down his spine when Silas finally moved to speak. And then—
"Pfft—ha! The look on your face! Like death itself came knocking at your tent! That's priceless—ha!" Silas's laughter shattered the silence of the empty canvas walls, filling what had moments ago been Alan's grave. But the mockery offered no relief. If anything, it only tightened the knot in his chest.
Leaning forward, Silas's grin stretched, sharp and playful in its cruelty. "Relax. I only came to ask a small favour of our talented healer, nothing more."
Alan blinked, his brow furrowing. 'What? A trick? Trying to draw information from me? But why—there are easier ways...' He shifted uncomfortably beneath the blankets, adjusting his seat. Whatever game Silas was playing, it was already wearing thin.
"Someone's injured? The camp's under attack?!" Alan shot to his feet in feigned alarm. Silas did not answer. He only rose in his turn and pushed through the tent flap.
"No, don't panic. Just a minor wound," he tossed over his shoulder, his back to Alan.
Alan followed, suspicion gnawing at him. 'Then what is this? Why hasn't he killed me already? Does he need me for something else?'
"You know," Silas began once Alan had caught up, his eyes flicking toward the command tent looming nearby, "ever since the last coup, 197 years ago, the Empire has reshaped itself from the ground up. Every sector, even those once dismissed as trivial or beneath notice, like the natural sciences or civil rights, was transformed." He spoke slowly, taking short, deliberate steps toward the big red pavilion.
'Coup? What does that have to do with this?' Alan trailed behind, searching Silas's face for clues.
"That coup was unlike anything in the Empire's long history, longer than the lifespan of mortals on this world. Even now, questions linger. But in its wake, strange incidents began to ripple through the land. The most significant?" Silas halted before the tent, his smile still locked in place, unchanging, unshakable. "The Otherworlders. Or as some call them... the Strays."
Alan's legs felt heavier with every step, sweat beading along his brow. That smile terrified him more than any frown. His body trembled, but Silas paid it no mind.
"At first, the Empire saw these foreigners as nuisances. Dangerous. But over time... it discovered its value. The cooperative ones were welcomed. The troublesome ones, purged." His voice dipped, amused. "And so, our magician engineers laboured without rest, decade upon decade, to refine detection techniques. To seek out distortions in space. Year after year, their craft advanced until..." He let the thought hang in the air like a blade. "...until Otherworlders could be discovered the instant they crossed the veil."
The world wavered. Light warped and bent as though Alan were peering through water. He summoned what little strength remained, forcing himself upright, throat tight. "I... I don't understand what you're trying to say..."
Silas gave a hollow laugh and stepped inside the command tent. "What I mean to say is..."
Alan followed, each step leaden, as though climbing a mountain. Then, stench. The cloying reek of blood and rot smothered him at once. His eyes widened. A corpse lay sprawled on the floor—the massive frame of Commander Eisenhower, his chest pierced clean through. Behind the desk sat Evelyn Kane, First Lieutenant of the Company-375, her face as unreadable as stone, save for the faint flicker of disgust that crossed her features as she turned from the body.
Words deserted Alan. His ears rang, the metallic taste of blood and rot filling his mouth as his mind spiralled through disbelief, horror, dread, and revulsion. He turned, slowly, to Silas, who was now lifting something from the ground: a bow and a bundle of arrows.
"Oh, and for the record..." Silas's grin cut deeper into his face as he pressed the weapons against Alan's chest, keeping a single arrow for himself. "...this isn't the wound I wanted you to heal." The arrow drove deep into his own side, near the liver. Silas sank to his knees with a pained groan.
'What—?'
Alan stared, numb, as the Lieutenant's grin returned, wide, twisted, gleeful. "What I meant to say is... no one will believe you." The world detonated. A thunderous roar, followed by a searing wave of heat and force, ripped through the camp, hurling Alan several meters back. The ground quaked, soldiers' shouts rising in panic.
"Seize him! He's murdered the Commander!" Silas's voice rang out, feigning agony as he clutched the arrow at his stomach.
'What is happening—?' Alan's thoughts shattered as a gale roared at his side. Not mere wind, this was a storm in human form. Arthur advanced, air screaming around him like blades.
"I vouched for you! I told them you had a good heart after you saved Marcus and Theo! And you used that trust to murder the Commander !... No, I knew you were hiding something, from the very beginning," Arthur thundered, fury etched into his face. "But to think you'd strike down the Commander alone... I will go all out then!"
The whirlwind exploded outward, tearing through the camp. Friend and foe alike were thrown against the walls. Alan, caught closest to the heart of the storm, felt the gales bite into his flesh like a thousand razors.
The air pressure crushed him, and the speed of the winds tore him apart mercilessly. Tears welled in his eyes as he fought against the overwhelming pain invading his body. Instinctively, he activated [Anaesthetic Field] as a protective mechanism against the flood of damage. Lifting his gaze, he looked at Arthur, who was now anything but the friendly soldier who had once shared food and conversation with him.
He tried to gather every ounce of strength left in him to use the bow clutched in his hand, but it was useless. It wasn't only the winds; there was a strange force pinning him down, preventing even the movement of a single eyelid. Then, suddenly, the storm stilled as Arthur regained his composure, if only for a moment.
"So? It's impossible that you killed the Commander on your own. What sort of cheap trick did you use? Come now, why not try it on me? Or are you just the coward you look like?" His voice dripped with scorn and rage as his eyes locked on Alan, who was desperately crawling away.
"No answer, then? As much as I want to end you here and now, there are still things I need to tear out of you. You are such a lucky one." He advanced on Alan, restraining the urge to drive a spear of wind straight into his chest. But all such thoughts vanished the moment a glowing magic circle flared to life beneath Alan.
"Damn it!" Arthur cursed, just as Alan vanished instantly from the camp.