The morning began without a single drawn blade. But that didn’t mean peace. Once, these lands had been fields—now littered with grease-stained tents and crude brick shacks. Too ramshackle to call a camp, too quiet to call a front line.

  Ren sat with his back against an old wooden crate beside the barracks. The leather cuirass strapped over his uniform was worn thin, every laced seam scarred by time. At his waist, a polished longsword. Two short daggers strapped to his thighs. A rusted war hammer slung across his back. And hidden inside his boots, a pair of slender needle-like blades. They weren’t so much weapons as tools. And Ren looked exactly like what he was—someone whose trade was survival.

  In his right hand he held a whetstone. Across his lap, an unfolded map. A line of red ink cut across terrain beyond the official operation route—paths only he knew. He was thinking more about how to escape than how to fight. A typical mercenary.

  From over the hill came the clatter of tossed canteens and a familiar groan. Ren didn’t lift his head. It was the same scene every morning.

  “Hey, Ren. Up first again?”

  A soldier with a sleep-swollen face coughed as he approached. Ren stopped sharpening and ran his finger along the blade’s edge.

  “Didn’t wake up,” he said. “Just didn’t sleep.”

  His voice was low and coarse. No smirk. No pretense. Just the truth.

  “Damn… mercenaries really are built different.

  Anyway, word is we’re still on standby. No orders yet. Guess we sit tight.”

  Ren wiped his blade with a cloth and muttered,

  “Those who only know how to give orders never move first.”

  “Oh? Sounds like someone’s scrambling up top again, huh?”

  The soldier laughed and flopped down beside him.

  “New captain came in for your unit, right? What’s he like?”

  Ren didn’t look up. He pressed the cloth tight against the blade, then rose to his feet.

  “Well-dressed. Silver-tongued. The usual.”

  “Another one of those? Probably learned war from books.”

  “He can read,” Ren said, “but he can’t fight.”

  He walked toward the water barrel, passing the tent flap as he lifted the heavy lid and dunked his face in. The water was cold. The chill seeped into him, sharp and cleansing.

  A low horn sounded, and the camp stirred. A few soldiers peeked out from behind their tents, straightening their posture with muffled coughs. Some adjusted their leather armor, others brushed dried mud off each other’s boots.

  “Captain’s here. Line up!”

  The sergeant’s voice cut through the morning. The air fell still.

  The company captain was a man nearing fifty. His beard was half-shaven, his face marked not by fatigue but the tidy habits of a man used to desks more than trenches. Over his immaculate uniform, leather straps crossed crisply across his chest. At his waist hung a dagger that looked more ceremonial than lethal. His gait was slow, and his eyes dull—like someone who had spent more time reviewing reports than reading battlefields.

  Ren watched from a distance. He didn’t scoff, but his gaze was dry. He seemed more interested in the dust beneath the captain’s boots than the man himself.

  The captain circled the formation without a word, scanning each face. He nodded occasionally, saying nothing, then disappeared into the tent with the sergeant.

  Ren muttered under his breath.

  “Looks neat. Won’t last long though.”

  A soft chuckle came from nearby. It was Kyle, a fellow mercenary with sharp eyes beneath dark hair.

  “The last guy, all he did was train us nonstop,” Kyle whispered.

  “Kept talking about crossbow stances—then missed the rock entirely when asked to shoot.”

  Ren gave a short laugh.

  “That guy flinched at the sergeant’s glare.”

  “This one’s any better?”

  “On paper, maybe.”

  Ren slumped down on a crate behind the tent. Kyle followed.

  “Lately, waiting’s worse than fighting,” Kyle grumbled as he scraped resin off his bowstring.

  “My body’s stiff, eyes dull… Feels like being an animal caught in a snare.”

  Ren pulled out a small crossbow and re-tensioned its slackened string with practiced hands.

  “Then sleep. Rest while you can—before dying.”

  Kyle smirked.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Don’t you have blood or tears?”

  “I do.

  Just no reason to show them.”

  Kyle paused, then gave a quiet nod. The ground in front of them was hardened dirt. The air carried not salt, but the scent of old blood and rusted iron.

  That silence—it made the tension worse, not better.

  By dusk, the air in the camp had turned heavy. Orders could come down at any moment. Everyone knew it.

  Kyle sat on the ground, threading new cord through a bowstring.

  “Talks failed again,” he muttered. “Northern front’s stuck. South’s still fighting. Not that there’s ever a day we’re not.”

  Ren, adjusting the tension of his crossbow, responded quietly.

  “It’s not a stalemate. It’s a game of nerves.

  The Republic’s running low on supplies. The Empire’s nobles are dragging their feet behind the scenes.

  The higher-ups are too afraid of public backlash to declare full-scale war.”

  “We don’t have the luxury to worry about politics,” Kyle said with a crooked smile, removing a bent arrowhead.

  “They say it’s to defend the Republic, but the only ones with dying faces are down here.

  The real ones fighting for the country aren’t in the capital. They’re in the dirt.”

  Ren didn’t answer. He finished restringing and set a short sword across his knees.

  “This place is where ideals get crushed by reality.

  Orders come from above. Corpses stay below.”

  Kyle gave a dry laugh and glanced at Ren.

  “What was it like when you were with the Empire?”

  Ren exhaled softly.

  “At least there, the sword came before the word.

  Don’t know if that made it better. But it was clear.”

  Just then, a runner burst between the tents.

  “Strike teams B-1 to B-4, report to Command Tent A-2. Now!”

  Ren stood, and Kyle rose right after him.

  “What genius plan do you think it’ll be this time?”

  “The clever ones are usually the deadliest.”

  Ren rested a hand on the hilt of his weapon and walked calmly toward the command tent. Kyle followed in silence.

  Inside, Tent A-2 was quiet. At the center lay a map, weighed down by stones. Red flags were pinned to marked paths.

  The company captain and his sergeant stood at the head of the tent. Ren, Kyle, and a few others filed in.

  The captain adjusted a button on his uniform before speaking.

  “Units B-1 to B-4 will advance before dawn, two days from now.

  Your mission is to intercept the enemy’s supply line along the southern gorge.”

  His tone was firm, but his face looked tired. He didn’t sound convinced—more like reciting lines he’d memorized.

  “The enemy is retreating. Their forward defenses are weak. The terrain is rough, but securing it will grant us a strong strategic advantage.”

  Ren was already reading the map. His gaze lingered over a narrow mountain path, a swampy forest zone, and a section marked months ago—where a reconnaissance team had vanished.

  “No outposts. No bypass,” Kyle whispered beside him.

  Ren raised a hand.

  “Captain. That gorge—our scouts went missing there.

  The terrain’s unstable. If it rains, entry becomes impossible.”

  The captain frowned slightly, but continued.

  “We’re aware of that. Our goal is speed. We’ll move at night.

  The enemy’s recon network is weakened—”

  Ren didn’t cut him off, but he did add:

  “That hasn’t been confirmed. We’re not trained for night ops, we don’t know the terrain.

  If the path collapses, there’s no retreat.”

  A heavy silence fell. Some soldiers shifted uncomfortably. The sergeant raised an eyebrow.

  “A bit much from a mercenary,” the captain said slowly.

  Ren didn’t flinch. His voice remained calm and low.

  “Judgment is survival. It’s what saves—or loses—a soldier.”

  The captain exhaled, his tone growing colder.

  “The mission comes from above. A soldier accepts risk.”

  Ren gave a short nod. But his final words came more like a thought spoken aloud:

  “If they see us as soldiers at all.”

  With that, he left the tent. Kyle followed quietly.

  “You were one word away from being dismissed,” Kyle muttered.

  “Would’ve been lucky,” Ren said. “Usually it’s bad orders that kill first.”

  Outside, the air was colder. Dark clouds gathered along the horizon.

  Ren sat once more near the tent flap and murmured:

  “This mission… it won’t end well.”

  Two days later, just before dawn— Footsteps crept along the gorge floor. Soldiers in leather armor moved low through the dark. Their shoulders hunched. Eyes narrow. Ren followed behind, a crossbow slung over his back. The terrain was worse than expected. Mist and rain had turned the narrow path into a slick descent of mud and stone. One misstep could send a man tumbling to his death.

  “Watch your footing. Ride low, like on horseback,” Ren whispered.

  Kyle let out a quiet breath behind him.

  “A night assault in a place like this... someone’s out of their mind.”

  Ren didn’t answer. His eyes had locked onto something along the far ridge— a faint indentation in the grass, half-hidden beneath the brush.

  “Stop,” he said, raising a hand.

  The soldiers froze.

  “There. Tracks.”

  Kyle squinted.

  “Someone passed through here.”

  “No,” Ren replied, voice sharp. “Someone is still here. Hiding.”

  “This isn’t an ambush,” he added grimly.

  “If we still call it one, we’re the ones walking into the trap.”

  Before he could finish the sentence— *Whssst!* A sharp metallic hiss split the air. A bolt flew from the shadows, striking a soldier in the shoulder before he could scream. He fell back, groaning, pinned by iron.

  “Ambush! Defensive formation!” Ren shouted.

  Crossbows came up in reflex—but the enemy was already closing in from both sides of the gorge. Stones tumbled from above. A triggered trap flung a log into two soldiers, slamming them into the rock wall. There was no space to retreat. The path was narrow. The rear, a mess of mud and blocked trails.

  “Fall back! Get the wounded—!”

  “We need to pull out!” the sergeant yelled.

  But the captain’s voice came distant and unstable:

  “Push forward! They’re not many! We can break through!”

  Ren clenched his teeth.

  “This isn’t an assault. It’s suicide!”

  The captain wasn’t listening. Another trap snapped shut. A spiked tree crashed down—three more soldiers crushed beneath it. Ren turned to Kyle.

  “Break left! Smoke! Find a flank and circle around—tell the sergeant: we don’t need to reach the main body!”

  Kyle darted away. Ren dragged a bleeding soldier behind cover. His arm was slick with blood. Mud and metal filled his nose. The mission had collapsed. The retreat order came far too late. They returned to the outpost just before sunset. Half the strike force remained. Half of those were wounded. The captain, pale and silent, locked himself in his tent. Ren gathered discarded crossbows from the wounded, voice quiet:

  “They didn’t see us as soldiers.

  Didn’t see the mission as a plan.

  We were numbers.”

  Kyle wiped his face, speaking low.

  “This one won’t last long. The captain, I mean.”

  Ren didn’t respond. He simply stared up at the sky. The fires still burned—but the battlefield had already been lost. — The next day, silence gripped the camp. Wounded men groaned on their cots. The survivors barely spoke. Broken weapons, wet cloaks, torn flags lay stacked in a corner. Ren knelt, wrapping cloth around a young soldier’s torn hand.

  “Don’t move. If it tears deeper, you’ll lose your fingers.”

  The boy clenched his teeth and nodded. Ren tied the bandage tight, then stood slowly. From outside came the clatter of hooves and boots. A man entered, wearing a grey coat over standard issue uniform.

  “Mercenary Captain. Ren.”

  The voice was unfamiliar. Calm. Precise. Ren turned. Dust stained the man’s coat. A satchel, heavy with maps, hung at his side. It was Major Brack.

  “Major Brack,” the sergeant beside Ren saluted hastily.

  Ren gave a small nod. Brack surveyed the camp slowly.

  “Captain’s report was late. No surprise.

  An untested commander leads to this.”

  Ren said nothing. Brack studied his face. Then, with certainty:

  “…So it was you.”

  Ren looked up.

  “Years ago. The northern plains—Aldran.

  I remember the battle. The Republic’s supply lines were almost cut. A trap set by the Empire’s Third Army. Brilliantly executed. The tactician behind it… was Prefectus Ren. And now here you are, fighting nameless as a mercenary.

  Your face hasn’t changed.”

  Ren’s eyes narrowed.

  “Still good with faces, I see.

  Back then, we faced each other blade to blade.”

  Brack gave a short laugh.

  “Now we stand back to back.

  Not sure if that’s better.”

  He paused, then continued.

  “The report will say:

  ‘Losses due to terrain misjudgment.’ That’s enough to satisfy command. But how many died for that one sentence?

  No one up there cares.”

  Ren spoke quietly.

  “They don’t care about the dead.

  And they’ll squeeze the living.”

  Brack nodded.

  “That’s why I’ve been watching you.”

  Ren met his eyes.

  “Knowing the truth isn’t special.”

  Brack smiled faintly.

  “Most don’t. Or don’t want to.

  But you—you're still trying to judge.

  And that… is the rarest skill in war.”

  He turned toward the tent entrance, then paused.

  “Ren. You know this better than anyone—

  Wars aren’t fought with swords and arrows alone.

  The leaders want this front to drag on.”

  Ren said nothing. Brack looked to the sky and murmured,

  “‘Yandal’… that name once meant something.

  ‘Land of all people,’ they said.

  They believed in building a country for everyone.”

  His expression twisted—neither bitter nor fond.

  “Now it’s just a flag some cling to.

  And a tool others use.”

  He faced Ren again.

  “If you want to live, choose a side.

  The field tells the truth.

  The orders—are always lies.”

  Brack left without another word. Ren stood over the cracked dirt floor, the groans of the wounded behind him, and the major’s final words echoing in his mind:

  “…The orders are always lies.”