Early in the morning, Brad slipped into meditation out of habit.
But he couldn't focus.
As he aged, his sleep had shortened, and on rainy days, his knees ached. Lately, his shoulders knotted up regardless of the weather—a sorry state, even by his own reckoning.
The child called out to him, somewhere between meditation and reality.
"Captain, you're up? Captaaaain."
He opened the door to find the innkeeper's son, Alfonso, hugging a water bucket.
"You're up early. This is on the house. Ungh."
Thud.
Little Alfonso set down a bucket as big as himself.
"Thanks."
"I'll leave the towel here. What about breakfast?"
"I'll come down."
"Got it. I'll tell Mom."
The cute, perfect little server scampered down the stairs.
The water was lukewarm.
"Truly, not a penny of tip feels wasted."
After washing up and heading downstairs, Terman's family awaited him. What started as service turned into a feast.
As he sat, the well-wishes flowed.
"Live long, Captain."
"Growing old with you is my one wish."
His wife chimed in.
"Stay healthy, Captain. Take good care of our boy."
"Lady, your husband left my hands long ago."
"Captaaaain, live to a hundred!"
"Mm, thanks, Alfonso."
Even his gruff self couldn't resist the child's clear eyes.
Had his own eldest son at the capital academy ever been this adorable? A lifetime stationed on the frontier had turned his family into strangers, a melancholy fate. He hid the lump in his throat and picked up his spoon.
"Dig in, everyone."
"Whoa, thanks for the meal."
"It's not much, but please enjoy."
"Try this. Mushrooms I picked at dawn—such a fine aroma."
It was a truly heartwarming morning.
As he left the inn, Terman followed.
"I'll take one discharged soldier for now."
"Good. Eat well."
The farewell and reply were both simple.
The journey ahead reversed the path he'd taken to prison. Brad hoped fortune awaited at its end.
'If only the fortress were as it once was.'
But he suspected it wasn't so hopeful.
His steps grew heavy.
The old knight's mood aside, the weather was clear.
A blue sky with pristine white clouds brought peace, and wild reindeer grazed idly on the spring earth. Looking back, only humans stood apart from this tranquility.
The path was gone, but the veteran of the north found it.
Hills rolled into hills, the plains all green. Vast forests along thawed rivers proclaimed life here too.
After walking all day into dusk, he sought camp.
A massive rock from eroded hillsides blocked the wind—a spot scouts favored.
Clearing stones from one side revealed a hole with a pot and firewood.
He deftly lit a fire and boiled water.
"Been a while since I did this."
Even as a soldier, and later in rank, he'd cooked himself. Nothing masked the guilt of sending men to die or boosted morale better.
As the water boiled, he pulled flour and jerky from his pack.
Bubble bubble.
He stirred in flour, shredded jerky, then sprinkled salt from Terman.
He'd just lifted his spoon when—
Clop clop, clop clop.
Brad's hand went to his waist. Foe or friend—he hoped the latter—as he gripped tight.
Neigh.
"Whoa, whoa."
Clop, clop.
Three riders halted their horses, circling warily.
"This is a Westguard scout camp. State your identity."
"Dorian, long time no see."
"Gah!"
Brad, backlit by the fire, stepped aside to show his face.
"Ember and Bill too, eh? More water for the soup."
"Captain?"
"Captain's back! Any discomfort anywhere?"
He gave a wry smile to his worried men.
"Jailers treated me well—vacation well spent. Sit. Rare chance to taste my soup."
"Ah, yes."
"We'll gratefully partake."
The soldiers sitting by the fire were neatly turned out.
"On duty, I see. Which way?"
"Toward Springgarden."
"Trouble there again?"
"Yes, quiet for a while, but a month ago..."
"Idiots with no sense. Northguard's been quiet."
"We lost one greenhorn too, damn it."
"Bill, watch it. Sorry, Captain. Your head's already full."
"..."
They hid something, but Brad pretended not to notice, adding wood.
Warm meal in, night deepened.
Next morning, he parted from the soldiers and pressed on.
Wind, plains, hills, horizon—endless repeat. No path, vague direction, but the old knight's stride was steady.
At last, journey's end.
Snow-capped mountains framed a central plain with hills and walls atop: Westguard, the empire's shield, northernmost fortress of Brennenton Earldom.
The place Brad Cahill had built his life around.
'First time away so long. But what does it matter? Just fulfill my knightly duty to the end.'
He stepped forward.
Short or long, the road ended; destination neared. He'd go unshaken.
'May it end knightly.'
Creak.
The gates opened; one rider burst out.
Clop clop, clop clop.
Neigh.
The expert rider reined in before him.
"Whoa, whoa. Later than expected."
"Hal, you. Terman send a pigeon?"
"As if. Who'd saddle old comrades? That 'Booze and Grub' sign's bad luck anyway."
"Hahaha. Sticking to your trade ain't wrong."
"Anyway, came to greet you. Heave-ho."
Hal dismounted, eyeing Brad's pack.
"Hand it over."
"I'm fine."
Hal snatched and tied it to the saddle anyway, taking the reins.
"Tch, not some riverside brat."
"Aren't you the one watching those brats?"
Old friend and subordinate Hal Frederick was prickly.
"Hm."
Silence fell. Natural for these gruff men, but today it meant more.
"What's up? You joked even when I went to jail."
"Bolt Unit was wiped out."
"...!"
"Survivors mostly laid up wounded. And..."
"And?"
"Unit leader Bolt didn't return."
The northern-hardened old knight shut his eyes tight.
Westguard ran dual command. Unit leaders moved independently—a frontier check against rebellion.
Vice Commander Bolt Grassium clashed often on ops, but his dissent stemmed from loyalty to Brennenton—no doubt.
"Can't make sense of it. This fortress faces orcs, barbarians, rival domains. Why send a greenhorn here..."
"Enough."
No grievance. A sword-wielder's fate.
"We might all die. Need a plan."
"Heard Springgarden's the issue."
"Northguard."
Former commander Brad eyed his old comrade.
"Northguard? Not the Carmine side?"
"Survivors said orcs. Uncountable numbers."
"Head family's response?"
"One messenger came and went. No details."
"Sigh."
Regret laced the old knight's sigh.
Half a year ago, Brennenton's third young lord seized command.
The new staff obsessed over visible results, jailing him for defiance against their aggression. A grueling saga.
"You've worked hard. My gear?"
"In the smithy."
"I'll fetch it myself."
"Understood. Other orders?"
"Assemble troops. Going for Bolt Unit survivors."
"Ah."
Hal Frederick straightened.
"On it."
Soon, they passed the gates. Sentries saluted silently to their old commander.
Clop clop.
Spring sun warmed nicely.
Westguard: northernmost of Brennenton—empire's frontier earl—built by prisoners on monster-cleared plains, capturing natives to labor.
Knight Brad Cahill's lifelong devotion.
Wind stirred his gray locks.
When black, he was a conscript, eyeing opportunity over safety like young men do. Survived as masses died.
Era where survival equaled skill, merit.
Knighted when monster kills felt trivial. No academy polish—just battlefield-forged.
But that was it.
Commoner's peak reached; rest was lifelong frontier duty.
Aged with northern winds.
Looking back, perhaps just consumable for Westguard's build.
'No, still alive—so spare part?'
New command pushed aggression; he refused foddering men. Cost him command, winter in jail.
"Barracks?"
"No. The lads first."
"Got it. Leave gear at quarters. Troops by tomorrow..."
Brad waved silently.
Clop clop.
Along the main road, familiar faces greeted.
"Welcome back, Captain."
"Good work."
"Work? Just rested up."
"Probably all at the pub."
"Training over already? Thanks."
He never paused, scanning or greeting.
Main road from gates clustered barracks, admin, merchant branches.
Glancing at westering sun, past barracks.
Behind: taverns, pubs as usual.
"Whew, damn it."
"Hack, ptui. Damn world's gone to hell."
Dusk open-air pub: hopeless souls blowing daily wage.
Clop clop.
"Hey? Captain?"
"It's the Captain!"
Drunken men cheered him en masse. Seemed chaotic, rude—but heartfelt.
"Rested well? Face shining with grease."
"Aigoo, more white hairs already. What to do."
Brad smirked, scanning faces.
"Run hard tomorrow—ease up, sleep it off."
"Heh heh. Welcome back."
"Cheers to the Captain."
"Hahaha, cheers."
Men raised mugs wherever he passed.
Jailbirds or conscript natives, decades guarding together—Brad was comrade, family, friend.
He opened the pub door past outdoor tables.
"Captain's here."
Scout lead Karl Bailyner, cavalry Nil Carpenter, heavy infantry Ray Schumacher greeted. Other familiar faces.
Most disciples, brothers, comrades since green.
"You okay? Any aches?"
"Heard the news, but seeing you eases the mind."
"Enough. Twice more and you'd bury us."
"Ah, haha."
Brad sat; men followed.
"So Bolt Unit wiped?"
"Y-yes..."
"In hindsight, we should've blocked too."
Nil trailed off; Ray beside bowed head.
"How? What could you do?"
Brad waved dismissively.
He'd had say as commander; these led mere hundreds.
"Fifty dead, hundred serious. We signaled dissent with partial strike."
"Rations at seventy percent; supplies halted two weeks."
"Do as you will."
Brad smirked.
"Future worries me. How much more tyranny."
"Third young lord's status?"
"Hasn't left quarters lately."
"Oh?"
He sipped beer, gazing out window.
There loomed the commander's quarters—once his.