|Celestia Kingdom - Archer Ground||
twang-whoosh
Twang—whoosh.
"Red point! Good job, bud!" someone cheered.
Tomas hefted his bow with practiced strength; sweat made his biceps shine in the summer sun. He notched another arrow and grinned with arrogant confidence.
Tomas: "You better buy me some beers if I hit that red dot dead center with two arrows at once. Rob, looking at your face makes me want to keep shooting this board until it breaks. Don't you feel the same?"
Robert laughed, mocking.
Robert: "And if you don't? You'll owe me your younger sister's letter. She needs a guardian — someone who can actually protect her. Or at least warm her—"
"Shoooosh."
Two arrows slammed into the red point, perfectly aligned. Tomas wiped his hands on a towel and flung it at Robert's face.
Tomas: "Take that, you idiot. Over my dead body, bastard."
Robert smirked and raised his hands in surrender.
Robert (muttering): "That fucking handsome, beatable face…"
Robert: "Always take it so personally, dickhead!"
A grumpy voice cut through them. A short figure stepped onto the training field: General Vermilion — master of sword technique, military adviser to the Loyal Court, and their teacher. His simple light armor had seen better days; his white hair and beard were tied back with a ribbon that had belonged to his late wife, Maria, who had fallen in battle four years ago. He steadied himself with a wooden stick. In his old age he trained the new generation of guardians.
Tomas and Robert snapped to attention with the other recruits. Vermilion jabbed Robert in the back; the younger man yelped.
Robert: "Ouch! Tch… old man."
Vermilion: "Have you forgotten the unbreakable oath of a guardian? REPEAT."
Robert rolled his eyes and recited, bored but obedient.
Robert (forced): "A guardian shall never betray his oath, nor abandon his lord or the weak in times of peril. A guardian shall act with honor, defending his country with pride. A guardian shall not insult or dishonor women, the elderly, or children in word or deed…"
Vermilion's gaze hardened. "And what did you say about Lady Anastasia?"
Robert whistled, arms crossed behind his head. Vermilion's annoyance ticked up; it was hard to blame Robert — since his family died in the West Forest, he'd stopped caring about rules. He lived like a free bird, but a bird out of place.
Vermilion sighed. "Being high-ranked this semester doesn't give you license to act like a fool. Even as Lady Anastasia's guardian, you will show respect."
Tomas looked at Robert. "She doesn't need him. I'll protect my sister. I won't let his filthy eyes touch a picture of her."
Robert laughed loudly; Tomas stayed stone-faced.
Robert (loud enough for nearby recruits): "Don't be so sure, Sir Tomas."
Later, leaning close, Robert hissed: "You couldn't even protect your family when the union collapsed. They abandoned you two. Your father was once the Late King's guardian — and he abandoned his children. How glorious is that legacy?"
Tomas's vein throbbed. He slid a hand toward the sword at his hip.
Tomas (cold): "And you—what makes you better? A bastard playing tough to be like your big brother. You're only his shadow. Your family's a stain on the royal court. Spending nights with prostitutes—was that worth it?"
Around them, recruits exchanged worried looks, ready to intervene; fights between teammates were common enough that many treated them as normal. Vermilion stepped between them and planted the tip of his sword under their chins.
Vermilion: "One more word and I'll cut both your noses off."
They fell silent, but the air still crackled with unspoken threats. A black cat padded up behind Vermilion, a small leather basket strapped to its shoulder holding letters. Vermilion opened one and read, brows furrowing. The seal was from the emperor's left-hand man, Bjorn.
Vermilion (reading aloud): "After the successful encounter with the Fox Clan, Celestial forces have rescued many refugees — women, children, and the elderly — who offered no resistance. His Majesty demands our presence and that of a special squad at the concentration camp this noon for a confidential discussion with the generals and His Majesty in attendance. —Honor."
Vermilion looked up slowly. "They saved a lot of people. They'll be brought to the camp. Perhaps they'll be given new homes."
Tomas snorted. "So His Majesty expects us to be their life-guides… after burning their homes?"
Tomas continued, voice low: "It was probably Robert brother's idea to capture them alive — especially women and children who know weaving and harvesting."
Robert scoffed. "Ridiculous. Give them new rights after taking everything? Hypocrisy."
Everyone hushed; questioning Wulfric's decisions was forbidden. Vermilion met them calmly.
Vermilion: "I believe His Majesty's orders are for the good of the country. This campaign is important. He expects me at the camp this noon. "
Robert thought, Such a greedy man.
Somewhere near the Celestial border
Under the noon sun, a caravan of camels and horses dragged cages filled with prisoners — refugees, the few survivors of the encounter. Women and children huddled together in small pens; newborns cried as mothers' milk ran dry. Dust and ash smeared every face.
Yueyao lay in a narrow cage. She was alive but barely surviving. Her throat was raw, her eyes caked with desert grit, her skin blistered by the heat.
"Water… water… I need water… my throat hurts…" she rasped.
She squinted against the sun; a hot pain throbbed at her temples with each breath. Around her everything was wrong — different from home. The truth hit: she'd been kidnapped and sold like an animal. She thought of her mother's diary, remembered her father rescuing her once before. Maybe — if she were lucky — someone would save her again.
A shout and the clang of metal as a guard struck the cage. "Pull yourselves up! Food's here! Pathetic animals!"
They threw raw potatoes and a bitter cactus extract at the prisoners. Yueyao reached for it, hands trembling from days without proper food or water. A memory stirred — a strange, sinking absence — and a painful headache climbed through her skull. She couldn't remember everything; something had stolen her memories.
Nearby, a middle-aged woman tried to argue with a guard in their tongue, begging for more food for her many children. The guard sliced the air with a knife and threatened to kill them all. Yueyao watched helplessly as the woman divided potates into tiny pieces. The children ate hungrily, unaware the raw tubers might make them sick. Yueyao felt a sharp pinch in her chest and thought of her mother. Where was she? Was she alive?
A guard hoisted a little girl; Yueyao frowned. She spied a small rock and, despite how weak she was, hurled it at a nearby horse.
"Poor little horse," she murmured.
The horse reared, neighed, and the supplies cart toppled. Bags of potatoes tumbled into the pens. Prisoners scrambled, scooping spuds into sacks and shirts, praising whatever luck this was.
The commander screamed: "WHO DID THAT?! SHOW YOURSELF OR I'LL CUT YOUR HANDS OFF!"
He approached the last cage where Yueyao lay. He sneered and lunged, yanking her white hair and slamming her head against the fence. The clang sent stars across her vision. He laughed cruelly.
Commander (leering): "Even from that shitty land, you don't look bad…"
Yueyao tried to growl, but her body was too weak. Her claws — unnatural, small, desperate — dug into his wrist until it bled. He slapped her, stomped her leg, and she felt a satisfying crack. A strangled scream tore out of her dry throat.
Commander (spitting): "Fucking bitch, trying to be like your dead mother…"
"Mom. Momma…" she whispered. "Is she alive?"
The commander spat at her broken leg: "Even if she is, she died protecting you — with that damned curse and those fucking claws!"
He raised his knife again — but a calm, manly voice echoed behind him.
"Those people are already in our territory. If you strike again, we will report you for violence against fellow citizens."
Yueyao looked up. A man in dark green stood a short distance away, a golden chain on his glasses, ginger hair that Yueyao thought the ugliest she'd seen, a perpetual unreadable smile on his face. He held a book. Behind him stood thirty heavy-armored guardians — and a magician.
The man handed golden leather bags to the delivery team and spoke in the refugees' language. They counted the bags greedily, then left smiling.
The man turned to his guards, still smiling. "Clean this mess up," he said coldly, voice trailing off, "—but leave no trace in front of His Majesty's lovely country and castle. He will not forgive you for this."
A soft click of firing mechanisms answered him. In a flash, shots rang out into the sky, and heads collapsed. Bodies thudded to the ground. Blood pooled on the dust.
Yueyao watched in horror as the image replayed in her head; her stomach churned.
The man clapped once to gain attention. "Good morning, ladies and little ones. Welcome to the Celestial Kingdom — a land of hope and peace. Thank you for traveling so far in the desert. It is our honour to host you. My name is Bjorn. From now on, I will be your guide."
Yueyao's heart leapt. Finally — someone who understands my language. Maybe I can ask about Momma.
Bjorn walked among them, his smile practiced. He produced a tiny trick: he closed his hand, opened it, and an ice butterfly fluttered into the sky. Children gasped and smiled. A woman stepped forward with a rudimentary grasp of their tongue. Bjorn patted her shoulder.
Bjorn: "We understand your needs. We will give you a new home."
The guardians began shepherding the refugees toward the concentration camp. Bjorn counted heads: "31… 32… 33… 34… 35…"
One was missing.
Bjorn shouted: "Spread out! One missing!"
Guards scoured the area, then spotted Yueyao slumped in the last cart. They raised guns and pointed at her. She breathed shallowly; exhaustion claimed her. She fainted.
Bjorn stepped forward. The sight of her sent a jolt through him. His eyes widened.
Bjorn (soft): "No way… she's here."
A subordinate spoke up. "General, what are your orders?"
Bjorn hesitated, thinking. Then he exhaled slowly.
Bjorn: "I will report this to His Majesty. He will decide what to do…"
(He paused, the shadow of a smirk crossing his face.)
Bjorn: "—or we can simply accept the fate."