The room stills. The air thickens. The name of the creature alone draws an instinctive tightening of shoulders, a shift of weight, a nearly synchronized inhale from a hundred uneasy chests. Aldo lets the sentence hang in the air for one pressured moment, watching eyes widen, watching jaws lock, watching that quick flicker of fear in the faces of his newly formed company.
Then he continues, quick and brisk, almost dismissive, as if to defang the very assignment with the tone of his voice.
"Since tomorrow is still a leave day," he says, "the whole company will spend it studying the geography of the area, learning about these wolves, and preparing tactics to fight them."
His voice is practical, calm, the sort of rational monotony that normally dampens emotion. But tonight, it does not soothe. A Chinese private in 1-FM—stockier, hair unkempt, face pale from both exhaustion and the cold drafts passing through the cracks of the wooden walls—stands up. His eyes are wide, his jaw trembling slightly, and his hands come together anxiously in front of him as though bracing himself against something invisible.
"Sir… those wolves hide in the snow," he says, voice hushed yet sharp with dread. "They have coordinated pack attacks. They freeze prey alive with their spray—their breath—while running… and then eat them. Alive."
A ripple of unease spreads instantly through the company. Murmurs break out—fragments of "freeze alive?", "running while spraying?", "in the snow?"—a growing wave of panic unfolding in voices, in shifting feet, in darting eyes. Shoulders tense. Breathing quickens. Someone audibly clenches their teeth.
Aldo lifts his hand.
The room falls quiet in a slow, reluctant silence.
He draws in a breath, steady, grounding, letting the moment stretch just enough for his voice to cut through it with clarity.
"Calm down, team."
His gaze sweeps across the room, faces lit by the weak lanterns on the walls, shadows quivering behind them like restless ghosts. He sees the tension in their jaws, the way some grip the edges of their seats, the almost childlike fear in the younger ones.
"I know we're still in the dark about Erikas's geography," he continues, "and about this Winter Red-Eyed White Wolf. But remember, your lives matter more to me than any deadline."
He pauses deliberately.
The tension coils tighter, waiting, expecting—
Then he delivers the punchline with a deadpan expression sharp enough to cut through the fear.
"Let me clarify what I have just said: If there's a stronger enemy… we run away."
Silence.
Not rejection. Not confusion.
Just stunned stillness.
Then—
A private from 2-SH stands abruptly, eyes wide, then squints with feigned seriousness. "Sir, you're a genius," he declares loudly, then adds, "Where do we run away to?"
Aldo doesn't miss a beat.
"To the local barracks."
This time the silence shatters.
Laughter erupts through the room: uneven, surprised, but real. The tension melts as voices crack and shoulders relax. A few Japanese slave-soldiers cover their mouths as they laugh, a reflexive gesture of old cultural embarrassment despite all being roughened boys by now. Others laugh openly, some bending forward, some shaking their heads with disbelief. The noise fills the space with warmth, momentarily pushing away the creeping dread.
Aldo lets it continue for a bit. Humor, after all, is a pressure valve. And the company needs that tonight more than orders.
But when the laughter softens into a gentle buzz, he straightens slightly and speaks again, his tone firm yet calm.
"Tomorrow, we'll listen to my lecture and practice."
No jokes. Just truth. A promise wrapped in responsibility.
He leaves the room afterward. No dramatics. No lingering. Just the sound of the door clicking shut behind him as he walks into the dim corridor.
The barracks are mostly asleep now. The hallways dark except for a few dying lanterns. The cold bites sharper in the stillness of late night, carrying faint drafts through the cracks in the wooden boards. But the Army library—on the far end of the compound—remains lit. Soft circles of blue-white glow emanate from the walls, where circular Manatite-powered plates shine silently like cold moons pressed flat against stone.
Aldo steps inside.
The silence inside the library is absolute, heavy, like a blanket laid over the world. Rows of shelves rise above him: dark wood, organized neatly, full of leather-bound volumes of geography, biology, strategy, history. The room smells faintly of old parchment, medicinal herbs, and polished wood.
The librarian, an older Mikhlander woman with gentle eyes and the firm posture of someone who has bandaged far too many wounds, is long asleep. A blanket is pulled over her shoulders, her breathing slow and soft as she rests in her chair behind the front desk.
Aldo moves quietly, each footstep soft on the polished floor.
He makes his way to the geography shelves, pulling a thick, map-heavy volume of Topography of Northern Erikas. He sets it on the nearest table. Then he retrieves a biology tome,its cover bearing the stylized silhouette of a wolf with sharp ears and elongated limbs, Fauna of the Northern Palantines.
He spreads both books open, smoothing the pages with slow, deliberate gestures. His eyes are locked on the intricate diagrams: mountain passes, frozen ridges, den locations, recorded wolf migrations. He reads meticulously, flipping pages with the crisp whisper of parchment.
A shadow passes across his face and thoughts tightening like knots.
[Winter wolves. Ice breath. Pack tactics. Camouflage. Running attacks. These aren't simple targets. This isn't an easy hunt. It's a survival test.]
He inhales slowly.
[And they sent slave-soldiers for this. We're not disposable. We're convenient disposable.]
His jaw clenches.
He turns the page again, stopping at an illustration of the Red-Eyed White Winter Wolf—fur pure white, fangs curved backward, eyes drawn glowing crimson by the illustrator.
[Not monsters. But monstrous animals. Efficient. Tactical.]
He traces the outline of the wolf's pawprint diagram, noting the size comparisons.
[We need to know their movement patterns. Their ambush points. Their behavior before the strike. If the pack separates… if they flank… we need countermeasures.]
His fingers drum the table quietly.
Outside the library, the rest of the barracks are submerged in sleep and darkness. Only this room, with its Manatite glow, remains alive. The brightness spills through the windows and under the door—small beams escaping into the night like a silent announcement: someone is awake, someone is working, someone is preparing.
Aldo hears it then.
Soft. Faint.
Footsteps.
Coming from the hallway.
Rhythmic. Slow. Hesitant. As if someone is approaching, unsure whether they should be here. Or curious. Or worried. Or both.
Aldo does not look up immediately. He lowers his gaze back to the text, his finger sliding down a passage describing the wolves' sensitivity to sound.
But his ears sharpen.
The footsteps stop just outside the door.
A shadow leaks under the gap between wood and floor.
Someone stands there, breathing softly, unsure whether to knock… or walk in… or walk away.
Aldo closes the book halfway, his eyes narrowing slightly, focusing.
The night is still young.
And someone has come looking for him.
The footsteps come softly at first, almost cautious, tapping against the wooden floorboards with a rhythm that suggests both curiosity and restraint. The night around the barracks is dim, the lanterns flickering with a thin amber glow as if the cold wind outside gnaws at their flames. Aldo sits alone at his desk, hunched slightly over a mess of papers: maps, wolf-track diagrams, elevation sketches of Furabeg's mountain passes. His face lit by the faint bluish shimmer of a mana-lamp. His fingers are smudged with charcoal and chalk dust, and his eyes, sharp, brown, and cold in concentration, reflect the weight of calculation rather than the weight of sleep.
The door opens with a soft creak, and the Lieutenant steps inside. He pauses for a second, letting his eyes adjust. His breath quietly escapes him when he sees the boy still awake. The man's eyes widen, a brief flash of surprise breaking his usually composed demeanor. He softens his posture, shoulders lowering, and his voice becomes gentle as he steps further into the room. "Aldo? What are you doing awake at this hour? You should be sleeping."
Aldo lifts his head slowly, not startled, merely shifting from deep focus into awareness. His voice is calm and level, almost too mature for his age. "Preparing for the mission in Furaberg, Erikas."
The Lieutenant stops only a few steps away from him, strokes his chin, and lets silence linger as he observes the papers. The lines on his forehead pull tight—thought, experience, and perhaps a hint of worry weaving together. He finally says, "There've been rumors nearby. Rebel troops—earthling former-slave revolutionaries—gathering in the mountains." His tone carries an unsettling weight. "Maybe they didn't send your company just to kill wolves. Maybe… they want to see if there are revolutionaries hiding there."
The words sink into Aldo like a cold current. His brows rise slightly in surprise, though his breathing stays even. "They would use my company as bait?" The question escapes him before he thinks to restrain it.
The Lieutenant tilts his head, neither confirming nor denying outright. "I'm not one hundred percent sure." His voice drops lower, almost confiding. "But with twenty years of experience… it's likely."
The room feels colder at that. The lantern flame trembles, as if reacting to the subtle dread threading the air. Aldo's fingers tighten around the edge of a paper just briefly. [Of course they would. They always do. Efficiency before humanity.] But his face gives nothing away beyond a flicker of focus.
The Lieutenant moves closer, not with intimidation but with intent to teach. He pulls a chalkboard from the shelf, worn edges, scratches from years of battlefield diagrams, and sets it on the table beside Aldo. His chalk taps once, then begins to scrape across the surface.
"If there are guerrillas," he says, drawing quick symbols, troop arrows, lines for terrain, "you counter them with basics first. Scouts go first. Always."
The chalk arcs left and right.
"Flank teams follow. Your movement must have eyes everywhere."
He circles a point and taps it. "Cover each other. Three-hundred-sixty degrees. Never march blind."
Aldo watches intently, leaning forward. The lamplight casts a faint shadow over his glasses, reflecting the chalkboard diagrams.
The Lieutenant continues, drawing a narrow mountain path. "Avoid bridges, curves, bushes, narrow passes. Anything with concealment." His voice is steady, practiced. "If needed, clear vegetation. Take a longer route. Silence is your armor."
The chalk stops. Aldo's gaze sharpens. "What if we get attacked?"
The Lieutenant turns, meeting his eyes. There is no softness now…only experience carved into the gaze of a soldier who has lost entire squads to mistakes. "If they hit you from close range, respond immediately and get out of the kill zone. Break contact fast. If they're far, suppress them with strong firepower."
He places the chalk down and leans on the table with both hands, his shadow falling across Aldo's notes. "But the most important thing is scouts and skims. Scan the terrain. Read the land. And since it's Furabeg…" He taps the maps Aldo has painstakingly drawn. "…use local knowledge. Mountains don't lie. Snow doesn't lie. They tell you where something passed."
Aldo nods, absorbing every word. [A trap is only a trap if you walk blind into it.]
Silence lingers for several seconds. The Lieutenant's eyes drift over the papers: geographic layers, sketches of paw prints, notes on wolf pack behavior. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth, the kind that appears only when a teacher sees potential in a student. Or is it ?
Then his expression shifts again—puzzled. He looks at Aldo closely, head tilting. "Where's your Glowing Sigil?"
Aldo blinks. "The summoner who brought me here forgot."
The Lieutenant straightens, sighs through his nose in a way that feels tired but unsurprised. He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a blank insignia—shield-shaped, simple metal, unmarked. He places it gently on the table in front of Aldo.
"Then design your own. You should make it different so we can distinguish your company."
Aldo's brows lift. "Why not ask the summoner to fix it?"
A short, dry laugh escapes from the Lieutenant. "Call a summoner ? No. Too expensive. Too time-consuming. And the Military can't stand Thaumatologists from the Magic Academy. The Magic Academy are occupied mostly by women though…" He waves his hand dismissively. "So…Just draw your insignia. It's simpler, cheaper and less annoying for me."
Aldo picks up a piece of chalk and pauses for a moment, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. The room feels still, like the world is waiting for the design that will represent him and his men. Then he draws with smooth, controlled strokes.
A dark blue background.
Two yellow stripes on the edges.
A white star in the center.
The Lieutenant watches, arms crossed lightly, expression turning approving. "Good. I'll have a hundred of these made for your entire company in the next day." His voice carries a touch of pride. "We don't need such expensive method."
He turns toward the door, his boots making soft thuds, each step already fading into the muted ambiance of the late hour. Before leaving, he glances back one last time. The lantern light frames him in a warm halo.
"Keep studying. Dawn comes soon."
Then he steps out, the door closing behind him with a gentle click.
The room falls quiet again—deep, focused quiet. Aldo exhales slowly. [Used as bait, huh?] The cold wind outside brushes against the thin windows, murmuring like distant mountains. The papers flutter slightly under its breath.
Aldo straightens them, his fingers steady. His eyes return to the maps, tracing the lines of mountain passes where wolves and revolutionaries might both roam. Snowfields, narrow ravines, hidden shelters… every line becomes a potential threat or opportunity.
Around him, the shadows stretch long, shifting as the lamp flickers. His face is calm, though beneath the calm a quiet determination hardens like forged steel. He flips a page, continues reading the notes about wolves, environment, terrain.
And the night continues…cold, quiet, and deliberate…