New orders arrive without ceremony.
A folded sheet, slightly damp from travel, stamped and signed, delivered by a runner who does not linger. Aldo reads it once, then again, slower, not because the words are complex, but because they are final.
[STAY STILL, WAIT FOR 205TH COMPANY TO ARRIVE FOR SUPPORT]
A passive order. Not a request. Not advice.
He exhales through his nose and lets the paper rest on his chest. The mission is complete—technically. The wolves are dead or scattered. The forest is burned. The numbers are recorded. Yet the true motive was never the wolves. He understands that now with a clarity that comes only after the danger passes.
Rebels. Unexpected. Close. Too close.
[…So they assumed we'd only clean up animals,] Aldo thinks, his gaze unfocused on the ceiling beam above his bed. [They didn't expect contact. Or they expected us to be removed quietly.]
Either way, his company has not been wiped out. That fact alone shifts the board.
He sighs, a controlled sound, and folds the letter with careful precision. His body is still heavy from the night before. Muscles ache in a dull, distributed way that suggests endurance rather than injury. His thoughts, however, keep moving. Plans form and dissolve. Cooperation with another company complicates everything not because of rivalry, but because he will not be in command.
That matters.
Around his bed, boots scuff lightly against the wooden floor.
His company members stand there without speaking, too many of them, close enough that Aldo can feel the collective presence before he opens his eyes. When he does, the image is almost absurd: faces at different heights, some concerned, some curious, some simply waiting.
For a moment, the thought crosses his mind uninvited—like dwarfs surrounding Snow White's bed—and the faintest twitch of amusement flickers and dies.
No one comments. They are disciplined enough for that.
Before Aldo can speak, the door opens again.
A man, precisely a boy, pushes through the cluster of soldiers without apology. He does not shove, exactly, he advances with confidence, and the others part instinctively. He is Korean, about Aldo's age, around 1.78 meters tall (~5ft10), broad-shouldered, muscular in a way that suggests deliberate training rather than labor. His posture is loose but assertive, the kind of stance that claims space without announcing it.
CEO, Big Boss energy, Aldo thinks distantly.
The man stops at the foot of the bed and looks Aldo over with open scrutiny, eyes narrowing slightly.
"So this is the captain of the 204th Company, huh?" he says. "Why are you so thin and weak?"
The question is not hostile. It is diagnostic and mocking.
Aldo shifts his weight and props himself up on his elbows, unbothered on the surface. "I'm just resting after killing the wolves."
The man's gaze flicks briefly toward the window, toward where the carcasses had been stacked before transport. "Is that the pile of carcass?" he asks. "How long did it take you?"
There is genuine surprise now, barely concealed.
"Today," Aldo answers.
That does it.
The man blinks once, then lets out a short breath. Something recalculates behind his eyes. He steps forward abruptly and extends a hand. "Bertrand Comtois," he says. "Real name, Choi Joon-soo. Korean."
Aldo takes the hand and shakes it, grip firm but not competitive. "Aldo Patriot," he replies. "Real name, Pham Van Minh. Vietnamese."
The exchange is clean. Names given. Identities acknowledged.
Comtois nods, apparently satisfied, and straightens. "So we come from different cultures," he says conversationally. "We had better communicate frankly to clear misunderstandings and make cooperation smoother."
Aldo studies him for a second longer than necessary. The man is confident, intrusive even, but controlled. Not careless. Not reckless.
[…This one reads people first,] Aldo notes. [That can be useful. Or dangerous.]
He swings his legs off the bed and stands. The movement draws immediate attention. His soldiers step back automatically, creating space. Outside, the two companies assemble, lining up to face one another. The contrast is visible even without commentary: the 204th varies in height and build, irregular but functional; the 205th is more uniform, cleaner in posture, almost symmetrical.
They observe each other in silence.
Later, after logistics and formalities are addressed, the two company commanders step aside. A corner of the hall offers relative privacy. A table sits between them, scarred from previous use.
Aldo speaks first, direct as always. "My team is heading to Heilop. We'll sell the carcasses—meat and fur. Earn money."
He continues, "Yours will acclimatize to the climate. They need adjustment. My people already arrived on Start Day. We had done the mission so you won't need to wait but us."
A pause.
"Aldo," Comtois asks evenly, "can I benefit from that?"
"Benefit from what ?"
"The carcasses !"
"No."
"Alright."
No offense is taken. No apology offered.
Comtois leans forward slightly. "Whatever… Let's get to the main point. Command structure. Doctrine. Weapons."
Aldo tilts his head a fraction. "I think we should discuss the objective."
The table rattles as Comtois's hand comes down, not violently, but with emphasis. "That's the first difference !" he says. "I approach from my team first, then the enemy. You do the opposite."
The statement hangs between them, not accusatory, simply factual.
Aldo does not argue. But then, Comtois asks, "You arrived on Start Day?"
Aldo nods.
"Then that's the next difference," Aldo replies. "I let my team go first. To get acquainted. The man in the Mediterranean is not evolved from Norse Ice…"
For the first time, Comtois hesitates. He exhales slowly and leans back. "Oh," he says. "Things are much different than I thought." A brief pause. "Perhaps we should start slowly."
Aldo inclines his head. "Agreed."
The conversation ends there—not because everything is settled, but because enough has been revealed. Two doctrines placed side by side. No clash yet. Just awareness.
As the meeting disperses, Aldo feels the weight of fatigue press in again, heavier now that the immediate necessities are handled. His chest tightens slightly—not pain, just reminder. His breathing takes conscious effort for a moment before evening out.
[…Stay still,] he reminds himself, echoing the order. [Wait. Observe. Don't rush this.]
Around him, the village resumes its low hum of activity. Soldiers move. Supplies shift. Plans form in other rooms. Aldo remains where he is, quiet, present, not leading the charge—just noticing.
Two loaded weapons on the same table.
Not fired.
Yet.
The meeting room is borrowed, not built for command.
It smells faintly of cured wood and old smoke, the kind that never quite leaves mountain villages. The windows are narrow and set high, forcing the light to fall in pale, slanted bars across the long table. Outside, Furaberg's cold presses against the walls without urgency, patient and absolute.
Aldo stands at the head of the table, hands resting loosely at his sides. He does not lean. He does not pace. His posture is straight, economical, the posture of someone conserving effort rather than projecting authority.
Across from him, Bertrand Comtois—Choi Joon-soo—rests one hand on the tabletop, fingers drumming once before stopping. He scans the room, the soldiers lining the walls, the equipment stacked neatly in corners, the quiet discipline of the 204th. His gaze is sharp, evaluative, moving faster than Aldo's, but not deeper.
The discussion begins without ceremony.
"I suggest we stick with getting used to the terrain before fighting," Aldo says evenly, his voice low but clear. "And your team-based assessment doctrine."
Comtois tilts his head slightly, lips pursed. "That is so quick," he replies. "…you already compromise."
Aldo does not react immediately. He breathes once, slow, then answers. "For me, it is not compromise but optimization." His eyes flick briefly toward the window, toward the mountains beyond. "Firstly, your company needs to get used to this mountainous and cold Furaberg. Secondly, my team needs to sell those carcasses for coins, or else the villagers will complain too much. Thirdly—don't raid—"
"Why can't we raid the village?" Comtois cuts in, not raising his voice, but pushing forward, "All battlions have done it !"
Aldo turns his head to meet his eyes. "We need their supply and help. Losing their good impression will not benefit us."
There is a pause. Not long, but deliberate.
Comtois exhales through his nose. "Okay..", his voice hints mild annoyance, "Seems fair."
"So we settle that part?" Aldo asks.
"Yep" Comtois agrees, then adds, almost casually, "But can my company get some profit for selling meat and fur from those carcasses? I know a place. We could sell each for twenty five silver coins instead of ten or fifteen outside this native region."
Aldo considers it for a heartbeat. Not the morality. Not the optics. Just the function. Great ?
"Okay," he says. "Do it swift and precise. Your team stays here constantly to get used to the climate anyway."
Orders ripple outward. Soldiers from both companies move, coordinated but distinct, lifting carcasses, securing loads, heading toward the teleportation gates without wasted motion. Aldo watches them go, tracking efficiency, noting posture, breathing, pace.
[…They move well,] he thinks. [Not my way. But not sloppy.]
Comtois waits until the room settles again, then glances sideways. "Next," he says, "the weapons, the gears..."
Both men turn their attention outward, toward the soldiers.
Armor is basic on both sides: Simple plates, layered cloth, fur coats thick enough to blunt the wind but not designed for parade. Boots are sturdy, worn. Nothing flashy. Nothing ceremonial.
Until…
Comtois gestures with his chin. "You've got those wrapped things," he says. "What are they?"
"Rations," Aldo answers. "So my company doesn't need to cook, smoke, or leave traces."
Comtois nods once, absorbing that. "What about your firearms and arms?"
"Matchlock muskets," Aldo replies. "Bows. Crossbows for small spaces. Knives for close combat."
"My team uses wheellock and caliver," Comtois says. "Spears. Swords. Knives." He studies Aldo again. "Why don't your team use melee weapons ? Sword is cool !!!"
"We're new," Aldo says simply. "Just formed days ago. Using sword require training, time and much efforts…"
"Okay." Comtois lets it drop.
The conversation shifts, tightening.
"Structure," Aldo says. "Our team is divided into four platoons. One—FM. Two—SH. They're the swords of the team. Three—TB. Four—FT. Sappers, medics, logistics."
Comtois squints. "I don't see a pattern. FM, SH, TB, FT. I see that they're linked to numbers, but barely."
Aldo allows himself a faint, dry note in his voice. "Good. Then my codenaming skill passed the vibe test."
Aldo snorts softly.
"What about 205th company ?"
"Forty, forty, ten, ten?"
"Twenty-five each," Comtois corrects. "My team has one hundred."
Comtois's brows draw together. "You have a team for sappers and logistics, and a team for medics. Only fifty percent is active combat?"
"Yes."
"Who designs like that?" Comtois asks, incredulous. "I have eighty percent for combat."
"So five teams," Aldo says. "One for sappers, medics, logistics ?"
"No," Comtois replies quickly. "I spread evenly." He straightens, a hint of impatience creeping in. "Unlike you, who puts all specialists into one team. Haven't you read about Napoleon Corps ? Spread evenly !!!"
He stops talking, holding his breath as if expecting resistance.
Aldo does not give it.
"So," Comtois continues, "how do you mobilize when you don't need one hundred percent?"
"I pick squads among the four platoons," Aldo answers.
Comtois's eyes narrow. He looks genuinely surprised now. "Then why do you organize the company into specialized platoons in the first place?"
Aldo pauses. "Experience sharing," he says. "…I guess."
"You came up with that on the spot." Comtois says flatly.
"Yes." Aldo meets his gaze. "Now tell me your company structure."
Comtois exhales. "I already mentioned it. Five teams. Sprinkle sprinkle."
"Label…" Aldo says.
"Ah." Comtois waves a hand. "Aleph. Bet. Gimel. Dalet. Hay."
The room settles again, the friction now steady, controlled, like two gears turning against each other without grinding.
After a moment, Comtois tilts his head. "By the way," he asks, "do you yell?"
"No."
"Why?"
"It won't make your privates better."
Comtois closes his eyes briefly and sighs. "Do you make plans?"
"Yes."
"Why?" Comtois presses. "What if things go wrong?"
"Then note for that."
"How?"
Aldo clicks his tongue once. "You won't get it," he says. "So let's move on."
There is no offense taken. No laughter. Just acknowledgment.
The meeting ends not with agreement, but with understanding.
As the room empties, Aldo remains where he is for a moment longer, listening to boots fade, to voices resume outside, to the distant sound of the mountains reclaiming the air.
[…We can work together] he thinks, his chest tightening faintly, a reminder of the night before.
Comtois hums, [But when something breaks, we will blame the method. Not the man.], he thought.
He straightens, gathers his notes, and steps back into the cold.
The table is old pine, scarred by knives and heat, warped slightly by winters that never quite let go of Furaberg. Aldo's palm comes down on it once—hard enough to rattle the tin cups, hard enough to startle the lamplight into trembling shadows—but not hard enough to break anything.
It is a breach. A contained one.
The sound cracks through the room, sharp, brief, and then gone.
Outside, the mountains sit unmoved, black against a pale sky dusted with stars. Snow presses against the shutters, patient, indifferent.
Comtois does not flinch. He does not even turn his head. He is standing near the narrow window, hands clasped behind his back, eyes on the ridgeline where the moonlight thins into a cold silver line.
"Now let's talk about the enemy… the rebels in Furaberg," Comtois says evenly, his voice pitched low, as if the mountains themselves are listening. He keeps looking outward, as though the answer might be etched into stone.
Aldo's fingers curl slowly, knuckles whitening as the echo of the impact dies. His jaw tightens, then steadies. He exhales once through his nose.
"You were given information about them?" he asks.
Comtois nods, obvious, unembarrassed.
The second strike comes faster than the first.
Aldo's hand slams down again, sharper this time, a clean, controlled violence. The cups jump. One tips, spilling dark tea across the table in a spreading stain that seeps into the grain.
"How come your Greater Engenler nobility has information ?" Aldo says, his voice rising just enough to scrape, "while the Polihland nobility—where I live—has absolutely no information about them? We're both from the same Palantine Heilop !"
Another strike. Not anger for its own sake. Not wounded pride. This is the sound of a system misfiring.
"The same Palantine," he finishes.
For a fraction of a second, Comtois studies Aldo as if assessing a weather change. Then he turns, slow, measured, his expression calm in a way that could easily be mistaken for condescension—if it were not so practiced.
"But, Aldoru, the southern region of Heilop," Comtois begins, "has been experimenting with a General Staff system and standardized filing archives. Similar to what Palantine Savatier uses."
He steps closer to the table, gestures once toward the scattered papers, the maps weighed down by stones.
"It worked. So they keep it."
Aldo's anger stalls, redirected. His brows knit, not in defiance but calculation.
"Thanks to the archives," Comtois continues, "we can retrieve information instead of relying on memory, favors, or whoever happens to be alive this season."
Aldo straightens slightly. The heat drains out of his shoulders, replaced by something colder, heavier.
"The Standard Filling Archives," he repeats.
Comtois clicks his tongue, a small sound, not mocking, more tired than anything else.
"I understand your anger…this Aristocratic governance," Comtois says, almost to himself. "are separate fiefdoms pretending they're a unified state."
Aldo cuts in, reflexively precise.
"Post-medieval," he says. "Fifteenth to eighteenth century dynamics. Fragmented sovereignty with professional enclaves."
He sighs, "Fit this Mikhland Federation more. "
Comtois clicks his tongue again, this time in agreement.
"Maybe... My region professionalized the military early. The nobility there accepted that war requires paperwork."
The room settles. The breach closes.
Comtois reaches for the kettle, moving with deliberate calm. He fills the teapot with a mixture gathered earlier, roots snapped by hand, pine needles still sharp with resin, conifer sprigs, cold-resistant wildflowers crushed between fingers, pale lichens scraped from stone.
He does not hesitate. He does not name them. He pours boiling water over the mixture as though conducting a ritual he has performed a hundred times.
"This helps," Comtois says confidently, steam curling around his face. "Locals drink it for clarity. You should try it."
Aldo watches closely. He notes the lack of measurement, the absence of caution. Authority, performed.
The tea is poured. The smell is immediate—sharp, green, bitter.
Aldo lifts the cup, pauses, then takes a measured sip.
The bitterness hits first. Then dryness along the tongue, a resinous aftertaste, earth lingering at the back of the throat. He swallows, frowns slightly.
"Bitter…. Astringent…" Aldo says. "Pine resin.... Earthy ?"
Comtois smiles, pleased, as if this confirms something important.
Aldo sets the cup down carefully.
"Okay." he says. "Give me a brief summary of the rebel group."
Comtois nods and produces a folded paper from his coat.
"Five points," he says.
Aldo glances once at the paper.
"Four," he replies flatly.
Comtois blinks, then grins.
"In Korea and East Asia, four isn't auspicious. I divided it into five."
Aldo exhales through his nose, something between amusement and resignation.
"Go ahead."
Comtois straightens, professional again.
"They're called the Novaya Mir Soviets. Their strongest militant arm is the Polar Proletarian Front—the PPF for short."
The name lands with weight. Aldo's fingers still.
"Especially the PPF," Comtois continues, "led by a particularly ruthless Russian woman, according to records – Snow Valkyrie…"
Aldo nods once.
"Proletarian revolutionaries," he says.
"Yes."
Comtois moves on without embellishment.
"They rely heavily on guerrilla tactics."
Aldo lifts the tea again, takes another sip, and waves his hand dismissively.
"That's obvious," he says. "Most Earthlings summoned here are teenagers. They can't organize a conventional force…", his voice raises.
Comtois chuckles softly.
"We're not that different. We just have doctrine. That's why we look professional."
He leans closer, voice dropping slightly.
"The General Staff even says you and I are better choices than peasant levies."
"More disposable yet more efficient ?"
"Yep."
There is no pride in it. Only fact.
Comtois steps around the table and drapes an arm over Aldo's shoulder, grinning broadly.
"Ever consider transferring to Greater Engenler, Aldoru?"
Aldo allows himself a small smile.
"It'd be great," he says.
[ It's not a real offer…] he thinks, a faint tightness settling in his chest.
He nudges Comtois gently. The man startles, then snaps his fingers.
"Ah—fifth point."
The room seems to narrow.
"The PPF often contacts new slave-miners in this region."
The words strike deeper than any blow.
Aldo's heart skips. Once. Clean. Unmistakable.
The mines rise in his mind unbidden—dark shafts, the press of bodies, the sound of picks biting stone. Faces blurred by exhaustion. Fear shared without words.
[ There were PPFs there too, ] he thinks. [ There had to be. ]
His expression hardens. He sets the cup down with deliberate care.
"I think I have a plan."
Comtois's eyes light up instantly. He leans in, energy returning to his posture.
"Where? Where?" he asks. "Tell me."
Aldo reaches for the map, spreads it flat, smoothing creases with his palm.
"Step one," he says. "You get your Company 205 acquainted with the mountains and snow."
Comtois blinks.
"Huh?"
Aldo does not look up.
"Acquainted," he repeats.
There is a beat. Then Comtois laughs, sharp and delighted. He grabs his coat—not properly worn, more like a thrown-on cloak—and strides toward the door.
"Boys!" he shouts into the cold night. "SWIM IN THE SNOW!"
The door slams open. Laughter and groans echo outside.
Inside, Aldo remains still.
He picks up charcoal and begins to sketch.
Chevin Mine. Helikov Forest. The village.
Three points. Not five. Not four.
The board is set.