I returned to the Dragoon Platoon headquarters, my eyes instinctively scanning every shadow. The sting on my neck was a cold, physical reminder of the stranger's stiletto. His words played on a loop in my mind: Win a hundred battles, and you'll be rewarded.
I needed to know more about this "ledger." If soldiers were being monitored so closely, my presence as a "black-haired farmer" was a massive red flag. But more than that, I was beginning to realize that "Lucas Ternos" shouldn't even be alive to be noticed.
Deep in the heart of the command tents, a single candle flickered, casting long, dancing shadows. I stayed low, eavesdropping on the darkness.
"The boy on the ridge," a cold, precise voice whispered. "Lucas Ternos. Diamond Platoon."
The stranger with the clover tattoo stood at attention, his ledger open. Across from him, Lieutenant Samson remained obscured in the gloom.
"Diamond Platoon?" Samson's voice rasped with disbelief. "The entire Western vanguard was a suicide run. They were farmers, for gods' sake. Fodder meant to break the first wave and die in the mud so the real units could advance. The casualty report for Diamond was projected at one hundred percent."
"Exactly," the stranger replied. "Yet, Lucas Ternos is walking around with a clean blade and a steady pulse. He held the ridge with a banner pole but refused to spill a drop of blood. He struck nerve clusters with the precision of a clockmaker. A man who was meant to be a nameless statistic has instead become a variable we didn't account for. He's an error in the paperwork, Lieutenant."
"The record?"
"The ledger says he's a farmer. But farmers scream and vomit when they see a gut wound. This one just... watched. I told him the rule: win a hundred battles, and he'll be rewarded. Let's see if he survives the tally tomorrow. If he does, he's no farmer."
I retreated into the gloom, my heart hammering. Projected at one hundred percent. My survival wasn't a miracle; it was a clerical error they intended to fix.
I reached the camp just as the merger was announced. The survivors of Dragoon, Griffin, Lotus, and Thorn were now the Lion Platoon—fourteen of us in total. I looked at their faces. They were shells of men, their eyes fixed on the middle distance. One boy in silk-trimmed clothes was muttering to himself, "Father said to be a man, one must enter a hundred battles... but I'm the only one left. I should be dead."
I didn't see soldiers; I saw patients in acute psychological shock. Having just finished my time leading high-pressure teams through life-or-death crises back home, I knew if they didn't speak now, they would break.
"Listen up!" I called out, gesturing to a crackling campfire. "Hey guys, tomorrow will most likely be our last day."
The group went dead silent. Thirteen pairs of hollow eyes stared at me in absolute horror.
"Oops! Wrong choice of words," I added quickly, rubbing the back of my neck. "I meant of the war. Tomorrow is the last day of the war."
A few collective breaths were released, though the tension remained thick. Slowly, they gathered.
"I'm Horo," a man said, his face framed by high cheekbones and wind-burned skin. "I came with Lancer, who just went inside. We're the only ones left from the Lotus Platoon. We're a cavalry unit from Tesma, the village blessed by the Lord of the Tesma Mountain, the chief of Horses."
Chiefs. I'd heard about them at dinner. Certain species could be ruled by evolved individuals with human-level intelligence. I knew nothing about the Lord of the Mountain, but Sonny had mentioned Goblin Kings south of Leodorn.
"Ooohh… I'd love to have a horse blessed by that chief…" a young soldier said wistfully.
"The Lord only appears to those with a deep connection to their steeds," Horo replied.
"I know that weight," a man named Caesar said, shifting his heavy iron plate. His face was a map of old scars, dominated by a twice-broken nose and weary, deep-set eyes. "I'm Caesar. Thorn Platoon. Like you, Lucas... I'm the only one left from my unit. The center vanguard was a meat grinder."
Despite losing all his comrades, Caesar seemed remarkably cheerful. Perhaps he was in denial, or maybe he hadn't formed deep bonds with them. In war, there was little time for mourning. I watched him closely; his eyes were too bright, his smile a fraction too wide. He might be in the same, or worse, state than the silk-clad boy.
"I... I'm Arthur! Arthur Clover!" the boy in silk stammered. "All twenty of my retainers... they stayed behind so I could run. Please! If you protect me tomorrow, my family has gold!"
"Tsk! Nobles, thinking they can buy anything," a spiky-haired guy next to Arthur sneered. He introduced himself as Rico. Beside him sat Marcus—who actually seemed to have a friendly glint in his eye—and Dennis, who looked ready to spit. They were mercenaries. Rico's dislike for Arthur was palpable.
I pointed to the two identical, sharp-jawed faces sitting together. "I'm Falon, and this is Ghanu," the first one said. "We're from Iba. We aren't conscripts—we followed the war to find a miracle doctor."
"A miracle doctor?" Marcus asked.
"Our mother died giving birth to us in the middle of a border skirmish," Falon explained. "They say a man with 'eyes of glass' saved our mother and delivered all three of us in the middle of a battle years ago. He only ever appears in the thick of the carnage, right when the slaughter is at its peak—snatching lives back just as they're about to cross the threshold. We've spent our lives following the scent of blood."
Just then, a third identical face appeared from the shadows of the medical tents. It was Hisu, the youngest triplet. He sat down and shook his head toward his brothers; he hadn't found the doctor tending the current wounded.
Soon after, Lancer, Horo's companion, finally came out of his tent, claiming he was bored, and joined the circle. Nearby, two soldiers named Livid and Beowulf were already deep in a hushed, passionate discussion about strategy, ignoring the rest of us.
Finally, the turn reached the boy sitting perfectly still at the edge of the circle. His skin was darkened by the sun, and his eyes were unblinking, like a bird of prey.
"Unfortunately, I can't give you my name," he said, his voice like cold stone. "If you prove yourselves after the war, I might."
"Such arrogance from a farmer!" Dennis scoffed.
"If you haven't heard of our village, then you're ignorant," the farmer retorted.
Arthur leaned in, whispering that the boy was from Telan, a village where farmers were warriors by necessity due to constant monster attacks. In their village, warriors only shared their names with those whose strength they respected.
Finally, I introduced myself as Lucas. It was the safest option. I didn't have all of Lucas's memories; just fragments, and retrieving them was like translating a language. Still, I managed to answer their questions. Maybe someday, I'd introduce myself as Alab.
The conversation continued. The mercenaries, except for the cheerful Marcus, clashed with Caesar over his ideas about helping the weak, and with Lancer, who claimed to be the strongest. The triplets, the strategy-obsessed duo, and I tried to defuse the tension. Overall, the group was becoming strangely optimistic.
The peace was shattered when the Lion Platoon representative stepped into the light. "Right flank tomorrow! Lucas, Lancer—you're the sergeants. 0300 sharp."
The group broke up. But as I headed to my tent, a small, cold hand caught my sleeve. It was Arthur Clover. His face was pale.
"Lucas," he whispered, his eyes darting toward the command tents. "I have a secret I need to tell you."