The farmland does not pause to acknowledge him.
Dirt flies. Shovels bite. Metal rings against stone in dull, exhausted rhythms. The main canal stretches like an open scar through the land—wide, raw, unfinished—its edges lined with men moving in practiced cycles. Some dig. Some haul. Some kneel beside crates, sharpening tools until sparks flicker and die. Others crouch low over arms and legs, washing wounds with careful hands, wrapping cloth already stained brown-red.
The air smells of sweat, soil, and wet iron.
Aldo walks in from the dirt road, boots crunching softly. The papers in his hand rustle once when the wind catches them.
No trumpet. No call.
The slave-soldiers of the 204th Company notice him anyway.
Not all at once.
A few glances flick up, then away. Work continues. Someone adjusts their grip on a shovel. Someone else leans closer to hear without looking. A medic finishes tying a bandage and gestures the wounded man back toward lighter duty.
Some slow. A few stop outright.
As Aldo moves closer, the motion spreads. Like ripples meeting resistance, then giving in.
The digging stops.
The hauling stops.
Metal is set down carefully, not dropped.
Silence grows, not sudden, not sharp, but deliberate. A silence chosen.
They gather loosely near the canal's edge, dirt-streaked faces turned toward him. No one stands at attention. No one kneels.
They simply wait.
Aldo stops where the canal widens, where the soil collapses easily if stepped on too close. He looks at them, then down at the papers.
He unfolds the top sheet.
The sound is small, but in the quiet it carries.
"We've received commissions," he says.
His voice is level. Not loud. It doesn't need to be.
No one interrupts.
He reads. Palantine names. Locations. Deadlines. Monster classifications. Compensation figures that sound impressive until weighed against risk. He does not dramatize it. He does not soften it. When he finishes, he folds the paper again and lets his hand drop to his side.
"I will split the company into four teams," Aldo continues. "Three detachments will handle the commissions—excluding Suguku. That one has a forty-day deadline. It will wait."
A murmur passes through the group—not fear, not relief but calculation.
"Each detachment will consist of twenty," he says. "but the remaining forty will stay here. For Canal work, continued Farmland renovation, Storage…and maybe some Training."
He pauses, scanning faces.
"I will not assign people blindly…" Aldo says. "You can volunteer, or I can choose."
That lands heavier than any command.
Men glance at one another. Some shift their weight. A few look down at their hands, dirt packed under their nails.
Aldo continues, methodical.
"Each detachment must have the following," he says, raising one finger at a time.
"Two strong defensive fighters."
Another finger.
"Three high-mobility combatants."
Another.
"One medic-capable."
Another.
"One logistics thinker."
Then his hand opens.
"Thirteen core combatants."
He lets that settle before adding, "Leadership will be decided by vote within each team."
Silence again.
The wind slides over the open fields, lifting loose soil into the air before letting it fall back down.
Aldo folds his arms loosely. "You have a few minutes. Decide."
He steps back.
They do not scatter. Not immediately.
Low voices begin to rise—quiet, urgent, overlapping.
"You go," someone mutters. "You're fast."
"You know medicine better than me."
"If I stay, I can help with the canal slope—"
"No, we need shields out there."
Onaga Kei stands slightly apart, arms crossed, observing, his eyes sharp behind the calm. He says nothing yet.
Aldo watches without intervening.
[They're choosing who leaves and who stays…] he thinks. [And pretending it's only about skills.]
Hands are raised. Names spoken. Roles argued, then accepted.
There is no shouting. No one tries to hide. Within minutes, structure forms.
Three clusters of twenty take shape, each tighter than the last, each with an internal gravity that pulls the right people inward.
Those who remain drift back toward the canal, picking up tools again almost instinctively, as if proving something by continuing to work.
Onaga steps forward at last.
"We suggest you stay with us to finish the farmland work, Aldo." he says.
The words are careful. Respectful. But firm. Aldo looks at him. Then at the men behind him—the ones with shovels in hand, boots sunk deep into mud, shoulders already bent beneath invisible weight.
"You're sure?" Aldo asks.
Onaga nods once.
Others follow.
All of them nod.
No hesitation.
Aldo feels something tighten in his chest.
He keeps his face still.
"All right…" he says, and nods back.
The detachments assemble fully now. Packs are adjusted. Weapons checked. Medics distribute small bundles—bandages, tinctures, counted carefully.
Aldo steps toward the three groups.
"Before you leave," he says, voice steady, "there are five things you must follow. No exceptions unless survival demands it."
He holds up a finger.
"First. Ensure rations and medical aid before anything else. Hungry soldiers make bad decisions. And cooking exposes your location."
Another finger.
"Second. No raiding villages. Not for food. Not for supplies. Not for revenge. But, the local support."
He lets his gaze sweep across them.
"Third. Avoid heroic moments unless necessary. If you die impressively, the result is still death."
A few mouths twitch—not smiles, exactly, but acknowledgment.
"Fourth. Solve tension. Do not suppress it. Do not ignore it. You deal with conflict early, or it deals with you later."
He pauses.
"Fifth. Scout before attack. Always. If you think you've scouted enough, scout again."
He lowers his hand.
"I will not be there to correct mistakes…" Aldo says. "..so don't rely on improvisation. Rely on each other."
He turns, kneels briefly on a flat stone, and writes quickly: three documents, each dense with notes. Routes. Terrain descriptions. Known monster behavior. Settlement proximities. Weather patterns.
He hands one to each detachment leader.
"These are not suggestions." Aldo says. "They're starting points. Update them when you can."
He straightens.
For a moment, no one moves.
Then Aldo raises his hand in a formal salute.
"I wish you have a safe journey…" he says. "and come back alive."
One by one, then together, the three detachments salute back.
They turn.
Boots crunch against dirt. The groups fan out along different paths, banners rolled and packed, silhouettes shrinking as the land opens wide around them. Aldo watches. He does not move. The sky is clear. Pale blue, almost indifferent. Wind brushes the barren soil, lifting dust that drifts after the departing men like ghosts that cannot follow.
His face remains composed.
[Every step they take away is a piece of safety leaving with them,] he thinks. [And I told them to go.]
Their figures diminish, become lines, then shapes, then nothing at all. Behind him, shovels strike earth again. The canal deepens. Hano Kichiro sits on a crate near the edge, ledger balanced on his knee, pencil moving in steady strokes. He does not look up immediately.
"Will they come back?" Hano asks quietly, still writing.
Aldo turns away from the horizon. He walks back toward the canal, rolling up his sleeves.
"I hope they will," he says.
He takes a shovel from the stack, plants his boots in the mud, and drives the blade into the earth. The soil resists. Then yields.
And the work continues.