…
The first volley cracks through the silence, deafening and bright. Smoke bursts out like storm clouds, the smell of sulfur heavy and thick. Bullets tear through leaves, splinter bark, hit the dirt—and the smaller bear reacts instantly. It grabs the ribcage of a dead elk lying nearby and lifts it like a crude shield. Bullets clang against bone, some shattering, others ricocheting away. Only a few find flesh, slicing into its legs.
The larger bear roars—a raw, guttural sound that makes the air vibrate. It rolls once, massive body shaking the ground, and rises onto its hind legs. Its height swallows the sky, 5.5 meters of blood, fur, and fury. The wound on its head oozes again, steaming as if boiling from the inside. Its eyes blaze with animal rage and something almost human—hatred. Then it charges.
The platoon freezes. The first row drops their weapons, fumbling for new bullets, hands slick with sweat. The second row tries to load, but someone's musket jams with a metallic shriek. Panic spreads faster than orders can.
The platoon leader stumbles backward, shouting words that don't sound like commands. His eyes widen, face drained of all color. The others mirror him, stepping back, forgetting formation, forgetting breath. The smaller bear limps behind its companion, dragging the elk skeleton like a shield.
Aldo stands still. The roar grows louder, the ground trembles, birds flee again in a scatter of chaos—and he simply watches. His right hand steadies the musket. His left brushes against his belt where the dagger sits. [There's no need to panic. It's just another equation.]
He breathes out. [Distance, velocity, mass. Predictable.] His heart doesn't race. Fear is something he misplaced long ago, maybe back on Earth, maybe the day they brought him here. The others around him are moving too much—eyes darting, lips trembling, shouts mixing into incoherence.
He lifts the musket to his shoulder. The runes along the fuse glow brighter. The smell of burning dust reaches his nose. The bear crashes through the underbrush—snapping branches, shattering small trees—each step closer shaking the ground like distant thunder.
Aldo's finger rests on the trigger. His eyes narrow slightly, calculating the angle, waiting for the right second. [Three seconds before it reaches them. Two before they scatter completely.] He hears the platoon leader yelling, his voice cracking. "Fall back! FALL BACK!"
The soldiers scramble. Some trip, some drop their guns, one screams something about dying here. None of it matters. The bear's shadow covers them like a moving nightfall.
Aldo fires.
The flash lights his face for an instant—cold, colorless eyes, unblinking amid the chaos. The bullet leaves a streak of blue light, cutting through smoke and air, and slams straight into the bear's chest. The explosion of mana and metal sends shockwaves across the clearing. Bits of bark and fur fly. The roar that follows is deafening.
He doesn't smile, doesn't flinch, doesn't breathe. [If this works, maybe I'll finally get some sleep.]
The bear staggers—but doesn't stop. Its claws dig into the ground, carving furrows in the earth. The forest shakes again.
And the platoon, realizing the shot only slowed it, starts to run.
At this time, the platoon leader boy gives everyone a dozen sharp-tipped branches, waving them with a mixture of desperation and authority. He signals to the main team, the remaining ten who had not yet run far, each pair grabbing a banyan tree trunk as a makeshift spear or fence to block the charging bear. They move quickly, not from bravery, but because they know very well they cannot outrun a creature the size of a tank hurtling through the forest. Every footstep is calculated, every breath measured against the distant, thunderous pounding of the bear's advance.
The bear hits the branches. The impact rattles the trees, bending their trunks and splintering the sharpened tips. The beast pushes forward but stumbles over the obstacles, sliding on the uneven ground. It doesn't fall entirely, but it loses momentum, and the small footholds and sticks slow it just enough for a pause. Aldo lifts his musket again, loading a second bullet filled with Manatite dust. The shot goes off with a flash, a muffled explosion that sends dirt and debris spraying into the air, creating a haze that cloaks the forest in suspended particles. The ten former Earth slaves do not hesitate; their fear is suspended in motion, their hands trembling but precise, firing and reloading as fast as the musket allows.
Aldo fires a third bullet. The explosion is louder, a sharp shockwave that vibrates through the trees. The roar of the bear echoes, startling everyone, making their ears ring, but this time the beast collapses completely to the ground. It rolls once, massive shoulders scraping against roots and moss, then lies still, panting heavily, chest rising and falling in exhaustion rather than any mortal wound. The forest seems to breathe out in relief.
A long silence follows. Even those who had run away moments ago stop, looking back through the trees. Their shots are now cautious, a check to ensure the creature is truly down. The dust settles slowly, drifting in lazy streams through the sun-dappled forest. The bear does not move. The platoon approaches carefully, each step tentative yet triumphant.
The young platoon leader jumps and shouts, "We did it! It's down!" His voice is high-pitched, nearly breaking with elation. The platoon erupts, laughter and cheers spilling over the quiet forest. They jump up and down, slap each other's backs, the energy of relief and triumph overpowering the fear that had frozen them moments before.
Aldo kneels beside the beast, his expression unreadable, and methodically removes a few claws and teeth. Not from joy, but as evidence, proof for the regiment and perhaps for his own record. The small platoon leader, skilled with his hands and surprisingly calm after the adrenaline, begins to cut off patches of the bear's fur, speaking in low tones about potential buyers and prices. His teammates gather around, leaning over with wide eyes. The bear's teeth are massive, as long as two human fingers pressed together, and the claws span larger than any man's hand in the group. The soldiers handle the pieces gingerly, marveling at their size, laughing and joking despite their recent terror.
Aldo glances once toward the smaller Apacha bear that had jumped over the stream and disappeared into the forest. It moves like a shadow, agile and alert, but he does not acknowledge it. No relief, no satisfaction. He stands and begins the walk back, the platoon following behind. Their chatter is full of stories, each retelling more exaggerated than the last, the joy and adrenaline masking the seconds of panic they had just lived through.
By the time they reach the Albus barracks, the sun has moved toward the horizon, softening its light over the encampment. Soldiers on guard duty are taken aback at first, then start whispering to each other as they notice the trophies: bear fangs, claws, patches of fur. The evidence of the bear's defeat spreads quickly. One runner is dispatched to the Lieutenant Colonel, who appears within minutes, brisk and attentive. Soldiers in tents press against the canvas, peeking and leaning for a glimpse, their eyes bright with excitement. Cheers ripple through the camp like waves, laughter spilling across tents and walkways.
The Lieutenant Colonel, face calm but eyes sharp, examines the trophies. He takes a faintly glowing gem from his uniform, placing it near his mouth. Words pass silently into the crystal, and the subtle vibration hums through the air, almost like a pulse.
Aldo, curious, tilts his head. "What is that?"
The Captain next to him explains, "Communication Orb. Secret, instant communication. Don't drop it—expensive as hell." He salutes Aldo, crisp and formal. Aldo returns the salute, expression neutral. The Captain's gaze drops to the fang in Aldo's hand. "May I?"
Aldo hands it over. The captain holds it up, light catching on the enamel-like surface. His eyes glimmer with appreciation, tracing the curve as if it were a rare jewel. "Incredible. Look at the size of this." He turns to Aldo, voice now lower, "How did you bring it down?"
Aldo's answer is precise, clinical. He explains the platoon setup, the branches, the teamwork, and the use of Manatite dust bullets. Three shots. Nothing more. He does not embellish, does not dramatize. The captain listens, nods, and mutters a complaint about the limited supply of Manatite bullets. "Mages control the production. Few make them, and even fewer distribute enough." He shakes his head, then laughs softly before joining the larger crowd celebrating outside.
Aldo does not follow. He walks into the quiet of the tent, past comrades animatedly recounting the story to soldiers Albus and Flavus. He sets himself at a corner table, takes a notebook from his bag, and flips past several pages of sketches, diagrams, and notes on things unfamiliar in this world.
Finally, he reaches a blank page. Slowly, meticulously, he draws the Communication Orb, each rune, spiral, and crystal lattice recreated with care. He writes notes beside it in his neat, exacting hand. [Mana resonance… spatial transmission… replicable with lesser crystals?] His focus does not waver. Outside, laughter and celebration continue. Aldo ignores it all.
He draws, he writes, he studies, indifferent to the joy of others. The world outside is loud, jubilant, alive with adrenaline and triumph. Inside, he is quiet, the only sound the faint scratch of his pen on paper. The bear's collapse, the platoon's victory, the cheers—they are all just part of the scene, background to the task he considers important.