It was after midnight—Christmas blown out like a candle; December 26 beginning to frost the world.
Anna, six years old and full of food and heroics, had fallen hard asleep in her sleeping bag, red hair pasted to one cheek, flanked protectively by two peasant women. Sheepy lay across the doorway like a living log of muscle, breathing slow. Baby Strong slept too in Anna's big bag beside her, fist on his chest like a tiny pledge.
No one else could sleep. The nine—three peasant women, three peasant men, two men-at-arms, and the knight whom Anna had named Sir Egg—whispered in the blue dark, some with helmets in their laps, others with folded hands, as if still in church. Anna's strange duckling fable ran circles in their heads; they worried at it like beads. Braveheart's talk of a world without kings—this democracy—itched their thoughts as well, and they traded hushed theories so as not to wake the sleepers.
Braveheart alone lay restless, eyes bright with a different scripture. He had noticed the pattern: ask the baby nicely, and the world arrived. He did not know what the child was, only that miracle could be negotiated—and negotiation could be used.
Strong stirred: a soft grunt, a courteous little fart, the working of a face that means business in any century.
Braveheart moved—soft as a shadow—toward the small lord.
Sir Egg's head came up. Distrust sharpened his gaze; something about this "Sir Braveheart" never sat right. "What do you there?" he whispered.
Braveheart halted, palms open. "Only this," he said smoothly. "The little lord must do his need outside—not upon the girl."
The women were already sitting up. Sir Egg glanced to them. Medieval habit did the rest. "See to him," he said, low. "Quickly."
They nodded—glad of the privilege—and one eased the child from the bag without disturbing Anna while the other found the towel. Sheepy's ears pricked; he rose, stretched, and padded to the threshold, taking up solemn guard.
The night air bit clean as metal. They stepped into it, breath printing white. Behind a hedge of winter-black branches they crouched, murmuring comfort. Reassured by familiar hands, Strong finished his noisy business; the women cleaned him with practiced tenderness and wrapped him in his Hulk towel, tucking the edges like a spell.
Strong's eyelids fluttered. His mouth made a small, decisive "hmm."
The Soul System answered like a bell.
> [SOUL SYSTEM]
Balance: 2,972,730 SP
Intent detected: Feed / soothe.
Bunny Sippy Bottle — 24 SP
Enhanced Human Milk (240 ml) — 240 SP
Subtotal: 264 SP
New Balance: 2,972,466 SP
A squat bottle—ears for a lid—appeared neatly in his hand, already warm; milk gleamed inside like a little sunrise. Strong latched happily, eyes closing again.
The others had drifted outside to watch. Smiles moved like ripples. Braveheart stepped forward and went to one knee, voice turned reverent as incense. "Little lord, the cold is cruel. You deserve better than a towel. Gift thyself warmer clothing."
Strong paused mid-suckle, considering, and gave another thoughtful "hmm."
The air flashed—clean, white—then folded around him in green.
> [SOUL SYSTEM]
Intent detected: Warmth / clothing (infant).
Baby Hulk Full-Body Winter Costume (face open, fleece-lined, blue torn-pants motif) — 30 SP
New Balance: 2,972,436 SP
The suit settled as if told by angels as a joke: soft, ridiculous, winter-proof. Friendly molded abs; tiny faux-torn blue pants at the thighs; the face left open, bright and unafraid.
All nine bowed their heads without meaning to. Sir Egg touched a cross upon his tabard and whispered, "A wonder."
For a heartbeat, Braveheart's grin turned honest. This is how empires begin, the grin said: with a child who can make the world appear.
From the doorway, Sheepy watched, tail thumping once, satisfied. Inside, Anna slept on, a pope beneath a library book, missing for the moment the simplest miracle: that a baby had commanded milk and warmth in a world that had never offered him either.
The women tucked Strong back between them, the little green suit hot as a stove. He giggled, a coin-bright sound, and the women made those soft noises caretakers have always made when something is truly, helplessly cute.
Braveheart watched and waited, saying nothing until all were gathered outside the mat-box house—beneath a thin wash of moonlight, hidden from the city by a wall of overgrown bushes. The snow took sound and thinned it; breath steamed, slow and reverent.
The baby lay propped in Anna's arms like a tiny idol. He was wrong in the way statues are wrong: too defined. Ropy cords stood faintly along his forearms; calves round as apples bunched under the fleece. Light-blond hair glowed like threadbare gold, and his eyes were a flat, wintry blue—ice seen through ice. He did not speak. He only breathed, and now and then let out a thoughtful little "hmm," as if ruling on a petition none of them could hear.
As if sensing the shift in the air, Strong raised his bottle and suckled with deliberate force, watching Braveheart the whole time. The motion drew the men's attention; one by one, heads bowed without instruction. When at last the Little Lord turned his gaze fully, even the bushes seemed to stop moving.
The moment those small, solemn eyes met his, Braveheart's resolve cracked. Truly frightened, he fell to both knees, hands together as if before an altar.
"Little Lord," he murmured, his voice slipping into that uncertain space between prayer and negotiation, "I do not wish to ask too much—to be greedy—but please… understand. We, your subjects—your swords and shields—are grateful for all you have granted. Yet the enemy we face is too great. They command the air, the land, the sea. Even in peace their army stands over three hundred thousand; in war they swell to millions. And that is not counting their allies—the western league they call NATO"
The name hung like a curse. The child's eyes flashed—an unnatural, glacial flare—so quick the crusaders weren't sure they'd seen it. Braveheart lowered his head at once. For the span of a long breath, none dared move beneath the Little Lord's gaze.
The bottle's rhythm slowed. Strong's pale lashes half-lowered; he made a soft, grave "hmm."
Braveheart risked a glance upward. "So I ask, Lord: grant us armor. Grant us arms to break this enemy. Let us wear the look of an old god and the teeth of a new war, so we may remind these people of our past as we bring it roaring into their present."
He was careful. No plea for tanks, no demand for battalions, no talk of money. He had watched the child conjure food, ammunition, the rolled blue mats, and—worst miracle of all—nine men out of a forgotten crusade. The infant, ridiculous in a too-small Hulk costume, spoke only in breaths and little judicious "hmm"s, yet the world around him kept obeying. Unpredictable power demanded careful phrasing. Tonight he would ask for simple things and pray they would be enough.
The suckling ended; the bottle slipped free with a soft, wet pop.
The air changed temperature. A faint, metallic tang rose, like the scent that follows lightning. Somewhere near Braveheart's molars, pressure ticked.
Then, inside the child's silence, the System spoke—efficient, literal, blunt.
[SOUL SYSTEM]
Balance: 2,972,436 SP
Request detected: Equip nine (9) Crusaders — enhanced armor & ordnance (requester: Braveheart).
Master's approval detected. Beginning materialisation.
The words echoed through the child's skull like a summons to heaven, and the ground obeyed.
Pale fire erupted—white, ghostly, absolute—and within that brilliance, shadows thickened into substance. Armor. Iron. Faith made visible.
[SOUL SYSTEM]
Balance: 2,972,436 SP
Request fulfilled: Equip 3 (three) Light Crusader Sets [Female-Optimized]; Equip 5 (five) Heavy Crusader Sets [General].
Era Modifier Applied: 1989 — Ahead-of-Time Surcharge (+20%).
Light Crusader Set (Female-Optimized) ×3
(Designed for one-hour high-activity wear; emphasis on mobility; crusader visual identity retained.)
Great-Visor Ballistic Helm (IIIA shell, cross-shaped tinted visor, internal comms/vents) … 18,500 SP
Soft Armor Carrier (IIIA panels) + Slim Ceramic Front Insert (8×10) … 42,000 SP
Composite Limb Guards (poly/carbon pauldrons + forearm shells) … 12,000 SP
Knee Protection (articulated) + Reinforced Tactical Boots + Gauntlet Gloves … 6,000 SP
Tabard/Surcoat (FR white, crimson cross; quick-release for medical) … 800 SP
Primary: AK Carbine (modern furniture, optic rail, sling) … 55,000 SP
Optic: 1× Red-Dot/Prism, daylight-bright … 9,500 SP
Drum Magazines, 100-round (×3 per set) … 7,200 SP
Box Magazines, 30-round (×6 per set) … 2,700 SP
Ammunition Load (300 rds for drums + 180 rds for box mags @ 10 SP/rd) … 4,800 SP
Sidearm 9×19 mm + OWB hip holster (retention) … 6,200 SP
Small Pack: med kit, hydration, tool roll … 4,500 SP
Pre-modifier Subtotal (per Light set): 169,200 SP
Ahead-of-Time Surcharge (+20%): +21,600 SP
Total (per Light set): 190,800 SP
×3 Light sets: 572,400 SP
Heavy Crusader Set (General) ×5
(Rifle-rated torso protection; enhanced limb shells; full load; crusader identity prominent.)
Reinforced Crusader Helm (IIIA shell, expanded cross visor glazing, anti-fog, comms) … 32,000 SP
Plate Carrier + Level III/IV Ceramic/PE Plates (front/back) + backer … 95,000 SP
Composite Shoulder/Arm Guards (thicker shells, quick-detach) … 18,000 SP
Composite Greaves/Shin Guards + Armored Boots + Heavy Gauntlet Gloves … 10,000 SP
Tabard/Surcoat (FR white, crimson cross; badge panel) … 1,200 SP
Primary: AK Rifle (full-length, suppressor-ready muzzle, sling) … 65,000 SP
Optic: LPVO 1-6× with illuminated reticle … 16,000 SP
Drum Magazines, 100-round (×3 per set) … 7,200 SP
Box Magazines, 30-round (×6 per set) … 2,700 SP
Ammunition Load (300 rds for drums + 180 rds for box mags @ 10 SP/rd) … 4,800 SP
Sidearm 9×19 mm + OWB duty holster (ALS-style retention) … 7,500 SP
Mission Pack: med kit (enhanced), sustainment, tools … 5,500 SP
Pre-modifier Subtotal (per Heavy set): 264,900 SP
Ahead-of-Time Surcharge (+20%): +34,140 SP
Total (per Heavy set): 299,040 SP
×5 Heavy sets: 1,495,200 SP
[SOUL SYSTEM]
Debited: 572,400 SP (Light ×3) + 1,495,200 SP (Heavy ×5) = 2,067,600 SP
New Balance: 904,836 SP
Note: Ammunition loaded; optics zeroed; sizing auto-fit available on donning; medical kits stocked to 1989 civilian standard.
The white burned itself out by degrees, like frost melting from a window. In its wake the suits stood tidy in two ranks—three light sets to the left, five heavy sets to the right—each exhaling a faint, oily steam into the cold. Breath fogged in the lantern light; the world held still as if listening.
Then Braveheart moved.
His legs gave out beneath him as if some old muscle memory remembered how to kneel before a thing holy. He fell to his knees on the frosted grass, palms splayed, forehead nearly touching earth—there was an altar in the turf now and he bowed to it. The hard soldier in him took over; his eyes ran the length of seams and plates, rails and harness, cataloguing everything with a field-man's hunger. For a moment any sermon he had practised slipped like paper from his lips. "What… what is this?" he whispered, and it was not a question so much as a man thinking aloud. He crawled forward until his fingers closed on a cold helmet and flinched at the perfect, clinical chill of its metal.
"By God—look at the balance, look at the fit…what are these made of?" He touched a pauldron, testing its give like a man testing the temper of a blade. The Falklands rose behind his eyes—mud and wire and boys bleeding on beaches—then a sharper, impossibly brief imagining: his men in this kit, whole and walking back across that brutal wind. The thought was a small, unbearable grief; he swallowed and tasted rust and regret.
The little lord—Strong, wrapped in a peasant woman's shawl—watched him with deadpan delight. The baby's smile was a sovereign's verdict: calm, unbothered, pleased. The woman holding him drew him close, pressing him to the warm swell of her chest as if to keep him safe from the brightness. "Awe," she breathed, half prayer, half wonder. "Look—the Little Lord approves."
Strong's soft "hmm" landed like a benediction. He reached a tiny hand, and Braveheart, who had known how to hold rifles and stretchers but not small bodies, found himself asking permission in a voice that had lost none of its old courtesy. "Majesty," he said, hoarse and ridiculous with reverence, "let me bear you a moment."
The woman searched the baby's face for a sign, and the child responded by reaching further—then giggled, and without ceremony he offered himself over. She passed him down into Braveheart's arms. For a suspended second the ex-soldier simply held the living weight, as if cradling the crown of the queen. The smile that came to him was involuntary and small and human. The baby dropped his bottle, grabbed a fistful of hair and tugged; Braveheart only laughed, awkward and startled, and let the child's fingers tear at beard and skin as if that roughness were a benediction.
When he stood, the old command returned like heat. He shifted Strong to one arm with the ease of habit and, with a voice that still bent rooms to hush, said: "You nine—kit up. Put on the clothes. Calm hands. When you're dressed, I'll tell you the plan."
They moved with great eagerness to put in their new clothes and gear.