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.
...