A dark shape emerges through the rising smoke, distinct even in chaos. A figure steps over the rubble with deliberate grace, each stride heavy enough to leave faint impressions in the soil. The man—or something close to one—wears armor of unfamiliar design, jet-black and engraved with glowing red lines tracing geometric patterns along the joints and edges. It looks forged from a metal beyond steel, denser, colder, as if it drinks the light instead of reflecting it.
The sword in his hand—massive, a Claymore by silhouette—shares the same dark brilliance.
Aldo stops. The air between them thickens. Dust settles in slow motion as both figures regard each other. Behind Aldo, his team falters, feet instinctively stepping back, breaths shallow.
The armored figure lowers his gaze, the visor's red glow focusing on Aldo. He says nothing.
Aldo's fingers twitch slightly near his belt. Not reaching, just thinking. [He's not charging. Why? Confidence or calculation?]
The wind brushes through the scene, carrying with it the distant smell of burnt timber and sweat. For a heartbeat, the chaos around them fades into silence—only two figures remain in the frame: one in black, the other in dust-colored uniform, staring across an invisible line of intent.
Neither moves. Neither breathes too loudly.
[The reason I'm not attacking is clear enough,] Aldo thinks. [The reason he isn't… that's what bothers me.]
The soldier's armor hums faintly, the red lines pulsing like veins. Behind him, the battlefield groans with dying echoes, the world caught in a breath before the next collapse.
Aldo shifts his weight, eyes narrowing. His expression, calm as ever, hides the small tremor in his jaw—a signal too subtle for anyone but himself to feel.
And the armored man simply stands there, sword resting lightly against the ground, as if waiting for a decision neither of them has made yet.
The air tenses—so thick it hums between them, an invisible pressure that presses against the lungs and slows every breath. Dust drifts in slow spirals through the silence. The smell of burnt timber lingers, heavy and damp in the cooling air. The armored man's glowing red visor tilts downward, his voice breaking the static between explosions and heartbeat.
"You are the captain of this group of former Earth slave warriors?"
Aldo's tone, as always, is level, calm, stripped of hesitation. "No?"
The reply hangs in the air, not quite defiance, not quite surrender—just a plain statement, so neutral it feels unreal. The armored man's head tilts slightly, the faint glow of his visor shifting like a slow pulse.
"So your captain died?"
Aldo's face doesn't move. Only the flicker of smoke near his eyes gives the illusion of expression. "He defected to your former slave side."
For a brief second, the armored man says nothing. His armor hums faintly—an otherworldly resonance, almost like breathing from a machine. Then his voice returns, quieter this time, tinted with something dangerously close to empathy.
"Then why don't you come with us? We are all Earthlings. I was also a slave under the oppression of Mikhland, like you."
The words strike the air like a small tremor. For the first time, Aldo's gaze wavers—not out of uncertainty, but contemplation. The shadows from the firelight dance across his glasses, reflecting small orange streaks. [He's persuasive, but too late.] His voice comes steady, quieter than before.
"I don't believe in the future of the former slaves or this Federation."
A gust passes through the battlefield, sweeping dust into motion, dragging along the echoes of distant screams. The armored man exhales, though the sound is filtered through the metallic filter of his helm.
"So you decided to stay and continue to be a slave for Mikhland because the future for the former slaves is uncertain?" He takes a slow step forward, sword still lowered but heavy with meaning. "I must say, you have held us back for a long time..."
Aldo blinks once, his tone sharpening just enough to pierce through the tension. "Thousands of Albus soldiers are too slow, so those efforts are for nothing."
A pause. The armored man's expression cannot be seen, but his stance says enough—a momentary stiffening, as if those words have cut deeper than any blade.
"I see," he mutters finally. "So you decided to stay loyal to Mikhland?"
Aldo's answer comes almost instantly, his words unshaken, but the flicker in his eyes betrays a certain fatigue. "I work under duress for them until I get their Free Citizen status, but not for loyalty."
A brief silence. Even the wind seems to hold its breath. The man in armor takes another step closer; his crimson lines shimmer, outlining his frame against the dim forest edge. "Isn't your command and what you did very creative and daring, even a bit risky, to hold us back longer than we expected?"
Aldo's lips twitch faintly, almost like the ghost of a smile—but his eyes remain distant, staring somewhere past the man, past the smoke. "It's because I'm bored with life that my fear of death hasn't overcome me yet."
The man lets out a breath—half a sigh, half a chuckle—filtered through the metal. "I'm bored with life, so I take risks and think rationally?"
Aldo tilts his head. The gesture is small, almost imperceptible. "I don't know."
Between them, the sound of distant gunfire and dying fires fades into something like quiet. The world narrows into this strange, absurd conversation between two people who should be killing each other.
"If you were to survive and become a Free Citizen in the future," the armored man says, his voice softening, "would you at least be a Reformist?"
Aldo's answer is slow, as though he's testing each word before releasing it. "I don't like to settle down, so I might complain and demand reform."
For a moment, the armored man stands silent again. Then, a tone of weary humor slips through. "You're lucky I'm moderate. If it were someone else, they would have eliminated you because they were puritans. Do you think God has planned it for you?"
Aldo finally looks directly at him, his expression so steady it almost hurts to read. His voice lowers, carrying the faintest warmth of honesty—neither mocking nor apologetic. "I am like many other Vietnamese. I can be considered less religious, valuing the mundane world more than the afterlife. So, I don't think so."
The armored man stands still for a few seconds. Then, with a motion slow and deliberate, he steps aside.
"Fine. You can go."
The words fall heavy and final. His stance relaxes, the sword lowering until it grazes the earth. Behind Aldo, the air shifts as his men hesitate, glancing between the two. Then they move—first one, then the others—running past the armored figure into the open gap.
Aldo lingers for a heartbeat longer, watching the red glow pulse once more along the black armor. Then, without a word, he turns to follow his team.
But the man calls out again, his tone suddenly deeper, warmer, almost human.
"Oh, right, let me finish."
Aldo pauses. The man's visor turns toward him, glowing faintly against the backdrop of burning sky.
"I am a Swede," he says slowly, as though unspooling a memory long buried, "and I visited Vietnam when I was eighteen, in 2018. Maybe we would have met in Hanoi—you as a high school student, me as a university student."
He stops, the wind carrying away the ashes between them. "But fate has us meet... in another world, in another capacity."
Aldo doesn't respond. His face softens briefly—something like a shadow of nostalgia passes across his eyes—but it fades before it can settle.
The armored man raises his sword slightly, not as threat but as gesture. "Anyway," he continues, "you should go to the four o'clock direction. We don't have guerrillas there."
He takes another step back, his armor whispering faintly as he moves.
"May God keep you safe at all times and bless you constantly. May you always be healthy and happy, because you deserve to be."
The words come sincere, unguarded, strange from a man dressed for war. Then he turns away, walking toward his comrades, the red light fading slowly into the smoke.
Aldo stands there for a moment, listening to the rhythm of the man's footsteps fading into the forest. The forest hums faintly in response—crickets resuming their hesitant chirps, the faint creak of trees returning after battle's silence. [Why does mercy feel heavier than cruelty?]
He exhales once, glances toward his men waiting in the shadows ahead. Then he begins to move—slow, deliberate steps at first, careful to keep the sound low.
When the armored man's silhouette disappears completely behind the veil of smoke and branches, Aldo changes direction. His eyes narrow slightly, focus sharpening again.
[You were too kind, stranger. Too kind to realize I'm not done yet.]
He signals his men with a short gesture, fingers slicing through the air. They adjust formation silently. The forest swallows their footsteps as they move in the direction the man pointed—south-east, the "safe" route.
But Aldo doesn't follow it exactly. He veers off slightly, leading them along the dark treeline, skirting shadows like ghosts. His eyes flicker with calculation, not guilt. [If he's right, the route is clear. That means his command base is the opposite direction. And that's where they took the lieutenant.]
The trees grow denser, their trunks blackened by old fire. Moonlight filters through the leaves in fractured rays, glinting off Aldo's glasses like shards of silver. His men follow quietly, their breaths shallow, their movements synchronized by shared fear.
Every few steps, Aldo glances back—not at his men, but at the faint, retreating glow of the red armor far away in the mist. For reasons he doesn't understand, that glow lingers longer than it should in his mind.
[Maybe, in another life, we really did meet in Hanoi. Maybe I ignored him while waiting for a bus. Maybe he smiled first.]
The thought feels absurd, but it lingers nonetheless.
He tightens his grip on his knife. The metal catches the last trace of moonlight before vanishing into shadow again. Around him, the forest breathes—wet soil, quiet wind, and somewhere in the distance, the muffled voice of men still fighting for causes neither side fully believes in.
Aldo doesn't slow down.
He leads his squad deeper into the forest, into the direction that might save their officers, or kill them all.
Either way, he walks without hesitation—calm, focused, the faint scent of smoke still following behind like a memory refusing to fade.
...
The morning sun rises weakly over the slate rooftops of the town, its golden rays filtering through the mist that still clings to the cobbled streets. Dew gathers on the windowsills and the iron gates of the small church, the only place in this war-torn settlement that seems untouched by time. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of incense and dried herbs, mingled with the metallic tang of blood and the faint sweetness of candle wax. The choir's faint echo of a dawn hymn fades into silence as Aldo and his remaining comrades stand near the entrance, boots leaving faint prints on the marble floor.
The church is a sanctuary, but not for peace—its silence feels too heavy, like it's hiding cries that were once too loud. Rows of pews are occupied by the wounded: high-ranking military officers, their uniforms torn, insignias soaked in blood, faces ghostly pale. Nuns in white habits move among them with mechanical grace, binding wounds, whispering short prayers that sound more like chants of obedience than words of faith. The soldiers' bodies twitch occasionally under the nuns' hands, some half-conscious, others barely alive.
Aldo's eyes travel across the rows of cots until they fall upon the children kneeling at the front, heads bowed in prayer. Their tiny voices blend in a fragile harmony:
"Let those from the lower sphere serve in gratitude, for through their toil the Gate remains pure."
The sound chills him more than the morning air ever could. Their words are pure, innocent—but their meaning isn't. The children's teacher, a nun with silver hair and an unreadable face, watches them with serene pride. Aldo's gaze sharpens. He and his comrades understand perfectly what "those from the lower sphere" means. It means them—the Earthlings. Slaves who are to serve, to be cleansed, to be used.
Bojing, the Chinese boy who always carries a quiet spark of defiance behind his calm face, steps closer to Aldo. His boots scuff softly on the marble. His whisper cuts through the still air.
"When we ran back here… I saw a priest 'purifying' a group of Earthlings," he murmurs, eyes darting toward the confessional. "Their foreheads glowed, like a symbol lighting up. What was that?"
Aldo's expression remains composed, but his jaw tightens. He answers in a tone so soft that even the air seems to hold its breath.
"I saw it too. It's the Glowing Sigil," he replies. "A control mark. The purification must recharge it."
Bojing frowns, confusion flickering in his eyes. "But… why don't we have one?"
Before the boy can say more, Aldo's hand moves swiftly, covering his mouth. His palm is cold, firm. His eyes, behind the glasses glinting faintly in the dim light, are calculating but strangely gentle.
"Because," Aldo whispers, "our summoner was lazy. Forgot, or didn't bother to carve one. So we keep quiet. Pretend we have it. Don't draw attention."
Bojing nods, swallowing hard as Aldo's hand lowers. The fear on his face is unmistakable—not fear of Aldo, but of being noticed in a world that hunts difference. Across the nave, a priest begins a sermon. His voice carries the weight of conviction and madness.
"Purity is the chain that binds the lower to the higher. They serve, and in service, they are sanctified."
Bojing drifts toward the sound, his curiosity pulling him closer to the wall where the sermon echoes. He presses his ear against the cold stone, his breath shallow. Aldo, meanwhile, stares ahead, unmoving. His mind is turning over quietly, his face expressionless. [This is the kind of faith that sustains the system… slavery dressed as sanctity… and they teach it to children.]
He lets out a slow breath and looks up. The dome above the altar catches the sunlight now, painting the entire hall in faint hues of blue and gold. The ceiling is a swirl of holy murals—angels ascending, beasts bowing, radiant gates opening to a blinding world. It's beautiful, almost painfully so, but Aldo sees something tragic behind that beauty. [If faith looks like this… maybe that's why no one questions it.]
As his eyes trace the frescoes, the face of a man flashes in his memory—the Swedish revolutionary, his expression fierce and hopeless as he led a doomed revolt. Aldo's heart trembles for a brief moment, though his expression remains unchanged. [They knew they couldn't win… yet they fought. Why? What were they protecting? Freedom? Dignity? Or just the idea that they still owned themselves?]
He doesn't know. He doesn't understand. His thoughts grow heavier, his gaze more distant. [If they fought for something intangible, something I can't see… maybe I'm missing what it means to live here. Maybe I need a reason too. A goal.]
The light from the dome falls directly on his face, and for a heartbeat, Aldo almost feels it—something stirring, like a whisper too faint to hear. The world outside the church seems to fade, as if time has paused to listen to his inner silence. Then, a soft noise breaks it. The wooden door to the side creaks open. Bojing steps out of the small room where he'd been taken. His face is pale. His eyes are red, wet. He's shaking—his hands clutch the edge of his tunic as if holding himself together. Tears slip silently down his cheeks, leaving faint trails of salt on his skin. He walks as though afraid the floor might crumble beneath him, tiptoeing toward the church's garden. The nuns don't notice. Aldo does. He turns slightly, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, following Bojing's uneven steps.
In the garden, morning light filters through leaves of lemon trees, their fruits glowing faintly yellow amid the green. Bojing stands still, staring at a patch of soil where peas are sprouting. Tiny green shoots curl upward from the earth, trembling slightly in the breeze. His lips part, and he lets out a soft, broken sound—a sob that he tries to swallow but can't. He crouches, his hand hovering above the peas, fingers trembling. His tears fall onto the leaves, glistening like dew. [Why… peas…?] The thought is unspoken but written all over his face. Something about them—perhaps a memory of home, of meals shared, of a simpler life—has shattered what little strength he had left. His eyes drift to the lemon tree beside him, its blossoms white and pure, its scent heavy and nostalgic. He exhales shakily, and for a moment, the world seems to collapse into his grief.
Aldo watches from the doorway. His posture is composed, yet his eyes soften. He doesn't move to comfort Bojing—he knows better than to break the silence of someone grieving something only they understand. But he feels it too, a dull ache somewhere deep, somewhere human. [This world breaks people in quiet ways.]
The sound of footsteps interrupts the stillness. Heavy, deliberate, echoing. From the corridor, a figure emerges—tall, cloaked, the hood shadowing his face. The Inquisitor. Her mask glints faintly under the church's dim light, featureless and cold. The nuns step aside instinctively, bowing without a word.
"Aldo," the voice calls, distorted behind the mask, low and commanding. "Come in."
Aldo rises slowly, brushing the dust from his cloak. His comrades glance toward him, but no one dares speak. The air feels heavier now, the incense sharper. He gives Bojing one last look—the boy still kneeling among the peas—and then turns away. His footsteps echo softly as he walks toward the shadowed doorway. The air grows colder with each step, the light from the garden fading behind him. He stops before the threshold. For a moment, he closes his eyes.
Then, without hesitation, he steps inside.
The door closes with a dull, echoing thud that rolls down the stone staircase like the dying heartbeat of something ancient. The corridor ahead is dimly lit—just a single line of candles running along the wall, their flames bending and trembling with every step Aldo takes. The Inquisitor moves first, her cloak brushing against the rough stone, each footstep measured, deliberate, almost ritualistic. Aldo follows, silent and watchful, counting the echoes. The further they descend, the colder it becomes—the air turns heavy, soaked in dust and the faint scent of iron and wax. At the end of the staircase, a door made of dark oak waits, its surface scarred by age and use. The Inquisitor pushes it open. A thin beam of light cuts across the floor—pale daylight filtering through a small window with three iron frames. The room inside feels claustrophobic despite its moderate size; its walls are lined with shelves of parchment, instruments of measurement, and a scale placed prominently on the table between two chairs.
Three others are already inside. One stands by the window, writing notes in a black ledger, his face half-covered by the shadow of his hood. Two more stand guard, each holding a weapon—a long rifle and a longsword—both pointed downward, yet their posture makes it clear that their readiness is absolute. The faint scrape of steel against armor hums beneath the silence. The Inquisitor gestures for Aldo to sit. She takes the opposite chair, the faint glimmer of silver embroidery catching the light as she settles her cloak around her. Her mask hides most of her features, but her voice, when it emerges, is smooth and controlled—too smooth, almost mechanical.
"By Unity, Dominion, and Faith — the World is Reforged."
The words come out like a creed, rehearsed countless times. She continues in the same unwavering rhythm.
"Issued under the Tri-Monarch, ratified by the Committee of Aristocrats, and sanctified by the Parliament of Mikhland…"
Her tone doesn't rise or fall. It's steady, almost devoid of life, as if spoken by a living machine repeating an ancient law. Aldo lowers his gaze to the table, studying the strange apparatus placed between them. A small, old-fashioned balance scale—its pans polished but worn at the edges, like it's been used for decades. The Inquisitor notices his glance. "This device," she says evenly, "is a detector of deceit. It will not tilt if your words align with truth. It will tilt when you lie."
Aldo nods slightly, though inside his mind races. [Truth… or what they define as truth? That's the question. If they judge by thought, then truth is mutable. If they judge by intent, then lies are just another shade of belief.] He studies the scale's base—tiny runic symbols carved along the brass edges, faintly glowing. The device hums faintly, reacting to the air, to breath, to energy.
As he looks up again, his eyes catch the small silver tag on her chest: Marjorie Westleye. He files the name quietly in memory. The Inquisitor's gaze, unseen behind her mask, remains fixed on him.
"The interrogation begins."
Her hand gestures to the note-taker, who flips open a second page. The scratching of his quill fills the silence.
Marjorie spreads a few papers across the table—handwritten reports, each stained with fingerprints, some smudged with ink and blood. "These," she says, "are the confessions of your slave-soldier comrades. Their statements contain contradictions." She leans forward slightly, gloved hands folded over the documents. "Explain."
Aldo straightens his posture. His face is neutral, his voice calm. "They are inexperienced," he answers after a moment. "They panicked. Shock affects memory. The contradictions may come from that."
The scale remains still. Its pans do not tilt. Silence returns. Only the scratching of the quill continues. The other Inquisitors exchange brief glances—professional, cold, detached.
Then Marjorie asks, her voice as steady as before, "Were you conscious that night?"
Aldo nods once. The scale stays balanced. The questioning quickens—sharp, precise, like the rhythm of a metronome.
"You are the team leader."
Aldo shakes his head. "No. I was vice-captain, unofficially. The captain defected—to the Former-Slave side."
The scale remains motionless.
"If you did your best," Marjorie continues, "why did most of the Lieutenant Colonel's regiment get wiped out?"
Aldo exhales slowly, choosing his words. "Laziness. Complacency," he says. "The regiment left the fighting to us—the Earth-born soldiers. Most of them deserted halfway through. We began with one hundred fifty. By the middle of the battle, only eighty remained. The rest joined the Former-Slaves."
The needle of the scale quivers faintly, then steadies again. Aldo's eyes flick toward it, his mind taking note. [So it measures my own conviction, not the truth. Interesting.]
Marjorie pauses. Her next question lands like a stone dropped into still water. "You saved the Lieutenant Colonel and his commanders. The regiment was wiped out. Why didn't they counterattack or resist at least? "
Aldo's tone doesn't change. "They were drunk after the party."
The Inquisitor's tongue clicks softly against her teeth, a tiny sound of irritation. She mutters something under her breath about The disgraceful discipline of Lord Heilop's troops, then returns to formality.
"What was the occasion for this… party?"
Aldo tilts his head slightly, his eyes distant as if replaying the scene. "After hunting the Apacha bear," he says. "Or rather—my old platoon killed it. The regiment had assigned it to us. The bear had been eating livestock near the settlement."
…
Marjorie lowers her gaze, shuffles through her documents, then draws out a scorched, leather-bound notebook. Its corners are brittle, its pages slightly warped from heat.
"Is this yours?" she asks.
Aldo's breath catches—not visibly, but in a faint shift of his shoulders. His eyes narrow. "How did you get that?"
"Recovered from the battlefield," she replies calmly. "Restored with purification solution. We found your Given name written inside." She opens a few pages, scanning the faint script. "You've written about a 'Communication Orb.'"
Aldo's heartbeat quickens, but he keeps his tone steady. "It's part of my record. Nothing secret."
She studies him for a moment, the silence stretching thin. Then she closes the notebook and pushes it across the table toward him. "You may keep it."
He takes it with a controlled movement, his fingers brushing the charred leather. The other Inquisitor keeps writing, the pen scratching endlessly, as if translating human tension into ink.
Finally, Marjorie waves her hand. "You're dismissed."
Aldo stands, bows slightly, and walks toward the door. The guards don't move; their eyes follow him until the heavy door creaks open once more. The air outside feels lighter, as though the underground chamber has exhaled him back into the world. He walks through the narrow hall, up the stone staircase, each step drawing him closer to the sunlight. When he emerges, the brightness almost blinds him.
The countryside stretches wide and calm before him—the kind of peace that feels unnatural after the interrogation's suffocating silence. The rice fields ripple in the breeze, golden and soft, like the earth itself breathing. A few houses cluster in the distance, smoke rising from chimneys. Aldo exhales long, his shoulders sinking.
[So tranquil…]
He walks toward the gathering soldiers near the teleportation gate, where the Lieutenant Colonel—bandaged, pale, but standing—addresses them. His voice is firm but hoarse.
"The gate will project you. A protective enchantment will shield your bodies during transit—resistance to impact, complete phase permeability. Stabilization and spell removal occur at the destination."
A younger lieutenant steps forward, his tone clipped and reassuring. "Ignore the false rumors. The gate does not erase or recreate you. It simply displaces. Understand that."
Aldo watches the light shimmer across the platform—a circle of polished green stone engraved with spiral glyphs. When the Lieutenant Colonel and his staff step onto it, the runes blaze to life, flooding the area in emerald radiance. Then, in a heartbeat, they vanish—absorbed by the light, gone without a trace. The soldiers follow in small groups, their armor reflecting fragments of green as they disappear. The air hums faintly with residual magic, like a held breath that never fully releases. Aldo steps up last. For a moment, he looks back at the horizon—the village, the fields, the church tower barely visible beyond the haze.
The glyphs ignite beneath his boots. A rush of wind, a surge of light—and Aldo's figure dissolves into the glow, carried toward the main barracks near the mansion of Heilop's domain. The last thing that remains is the faint echo of his breath, swallowed by the silence of the countryside.