The bank smells different the moment Aldo steps inside.
Not just cleaner, though it is that—noticeably so—but ordered in a way the farmland can never quite achieve. The air carries faint traces of ink, polished wood, and something metallic beneath it all, a quiet reminder that value here is measured, recorded, contained. Even the silence feels distinct. It is not the open quiet of fields or early morning labor, but something enclosed and deliberate, as if sound itself has been instructed to behave.
Aldo pauses just long enough to take it in before continuing forward.
The branch of Chadesh Jerusalem rises around him in clean lines and measured symmetry. Symbols mark the walls in repeating patterns—precise, deliberate, almost ritualistic in their placement. They are not decorative. They mean something, even if that meaning is not immediately visible. Everything here suggests system, continuity, permanence.
Behind the counter, the receptionist notices him almost immediately.
She inclines her head in a small, practiced bow.
"Welcome back !" she says, her tone polite but not overly warm, as if calibrated to match the environment itself.
Aldo returns the gesture with a single nod. No more, no less.
He does not waste words here.
There is no need.
He steps forward and places his record on the counter. The motion is smooth, familiar. He has done this before, though not many times—just enough that the process no longer feels foreign.
The clerk behind the desk receives it without hesitation. His movements are efficient, almost mechanical, but not careless. He opens the ledger, flips to the appropriate section, and begins checking the entries with practiced precision.
There is no rush.
Numbers are verified.
Entries aligned.
Adjustments made where necessary.
Aldo watches the process in silence, his eyes tracking the movement of ink and finger along the page. The ledger is clean, structured in a way that makes everything visible at a glance—no ambiguity, no hidden meaning.
After a moment, the clerk speaks.
"Your account…" he begins, pausing briefly as if confirming the final figure. "…has grown."
Aldo's gaze does not shift from the page.
The numbers are clear.
Where once there had been only a few scattered silver coins—barely worth noting—there is now a total that holds weight.
Ten.
Not a fortune.
But no longer insignificant.
It works, he thinks, the conclusion settling without emotion. Investment returns. Predictable. Scalable.
He taps the page lightly with one finger.
"Withdraw five." he says.
The clerk's hand pauses for the briefest moment, not in confusion, but in acknowledgment of the shift from observation to action. Then he nods once.
"Of course."
He turns, retrieves the coins, and places them on the counter in a neat arrangement. The faint sound of metal touching wood is sharp in the quiet room.
Aldo does not reach for them immediately.
Instead, he looks.
Five coins.
Solid. Tangible.
Different from the numbers, but tied to them.
He studies them for a moment, as if measuring not their weight, but their potential.
Then he speaks again.
"Divide."
The clerk waits, pen poised above the ledger, ready.
Aldo's voice remains flat, controlled.
"Five investments."
The clerk nods slightly, already preparing to record.
"Three safe," Aldo continues. "New adventurers. Goblins. Low risk. Stable return."
The pen moves across the page, capturing each instruction with precision.
"One moderate," Aldo adds. "Trolls."
That earns the smallest reaction—a slight lift of the clerk's eyebrow, quickly suppressed. It is not disagreement, merely recognition. Troll hunts carry more risk, more variance.
Still, the clerk says nothing.
He writes.
Aldo does not pause long before continuing.
"One high risk."
The words settle into the space between them, heavier than the others.
The clerk's pen stops for a fraction of a second, then resumes. He does not ask for clarification. That is not his role.
But the category is noted.
High risk.
Uncertain outcome.
Potentially high return.
Or complete loss.
Aldo's gaze flicks briefly to the ledger, ensuring the entries are made correctly. Then he reaches forward—not for the five coins that were withdrawn, but for the remaining balance.
He slides them back across the counter.
"Deposit."
The clerk receives them without hesitation, adding them back into the system with the same careful efficiency as before. The ledger is updated, the numbers adjusted, the structure maintained.
No questions are asked.
No advice is offered.
The system does not interfere.
It accepts.
Processes.
Continues.
Aldo watches for a moment longer, confirming the final entries. The total settles again, reduced but still intact, still growing in a different way.
Reinvestment, he thinks. Cycle continues.
The clerk finishes, then produces a receipt, sliding it across the counter.
"Your transactions are complete." he says.
Aldo takes the paper, glancing at it briefly—not to verify, but to acknowledge. The details are already understood.
He folds it once and tucks it away.
There is nothing more to say.
He turns without hesitation and walks back toward the entrance.
The receptionist straightens slightly as he approaches, offering another small bow as he passes.
"We look forward to your return..." she says, her tone unchanged, consistent with everything else in this place.
Aldo does not respond verbally.
He inclines his head just enough to acknowledge the statement, then steps out of the building and back into the open air.
Behind him, the doors close softly.
Inside, the system continues.
Uninterrupted.
As if it had always been there.
As if it always will be.
The road to the farmland is quieter today, though not in a way that suggests peace. It is the kind of quiet that comes from distance—fewer carts, fewer voices, fewer reasons for people to linger. The dust sits undisturbed longer between footsteps, and the wind carries sound farther than it should.
Comtois walks alone along that road.
No escort.
No shadow behind him.
No Tyrone walking half a step to the side, watching, measuring, deciding.
Just him.
His stride is relaxed, or at least it appears that way to anyone watching. His shoulders are not tense, his pace steady, his gaze forward. But there is nothing careless about it. Every movement is controlled, each step placed with the same awareness he would carry into a patrol. The difference is that here, there is no formation to hide within, no unit, no uniform presence. Only him, exposed in a way that feels unfamiliar.
People notice.
Of course they do.
Peasants along the roadside pause in their work, some straightening slowly from bent backs, others turning their heads just enough to follow him without being obvious. Their voices stay low, but not low enough.
"Is that… a slave?" one whispers, not quite quietly enough.
"He's walking alone," another replies, confusion threading through the words. "Why would they let him walk like that?"
"Maybe he ran?"
"Doesn't look like it."
Comtois hears every word.
Of course he does.
He exhales slowly through his nose, not irritated—just… aware. The weight of their attention settles on him in layers, each glance carrying its own assumption.
One man stares too long.
Not just curious, but fixed, as if trying to solve a puzzle that doesn't make sense.
Comtois stops.
The man stiffens slightly, clearly not expecting to be addressed.
Comtois turns his head just enough to meet his gaze.
"I am Slave-soldier..." he says, his voice even, unhurried. "Not the same thing."
The man blinks.
Once. Twice.
"…What?" he asks, clearly thrown off, as if the distinction means nothing to him.
Comtois studies him for a second longer, then shakes his head faintly.
"Never mind," he says, already turning away. "You wouldn't get it."
The man opens his mouth slightly, as if to respond, but no words come out. He watches Comtois walk away, confusion lingering in his expression.
Comtois does not look back.
They won't understand, he thinks as he resumes his pace. Why would they? To them, an Earthling slave is a slave. There's no category for what we are.
The road stretches ahead, unchanged.
He passes other earthling slaves further along, their presence marked more by posture than anything else. Bent shoulders, lowered gazes, movements that stay close to assigned tasks. They notice him too, though their reactions are different.
Their eyes linger.
Some with curiosity.
Some with quiet resentment.
And some with something sharper.
Envy.
One of them straightens slightly as Comtois passes, his gaze following just a fraction too long.
"You're out alone?" the man asks, his tone carefully neutral, though something underneath it strains to surface. "No handler? No guard?"
Comtois glances at him briefly but does not slow.
"I walk where I'm told," he replies. "Today, I was told to walk here."
The man's lips press together.
"Must be nice..." he mutters, not quite under his breath.
Comtois hears it.
Of course he does.
He keeps walking.
Responding won't help, he tells himself. There's no explanation that makes this better to them.
Another slave watches in silence, his expression unreadable, but his eyes flick once to Comtois's posture—upright, unhurried—and then away again, as if the comparison itself is uncomfortable.
Comtois feels it all.
The curiosity.
The resentment.
The quiet, unspoken comparisons.
He does not react.
There is no space for it.
Then—
Ahead, another figure comes into view.
Walking freely.
Not bent.
Not directed.
Like him.
But different.
They approach from opposite directions, their paths set to cross without effort or intention. For a moment, Comtois considers looking away early, avoiding the interaction entirely.
He doesn't.
Their eyes meet.
And hold.
Too long.
There is no greeting, no nod, no acknowledgment of shared circumstance. Instead, something colder passes between them—something measured, assessing.
The other man's posture is similar—controlled, alert—but there is a difference in the stillness. Less open. More contained.
Comtois feels it immediately.
Counterinsurgent.
The word forms in his mind without hesitation.
Stories surface—half-spoken rumors, fragments of conversations overheard in passing.
Slaves who work for the system in a different way.
Not labor.
Not combat.
Observation.
Reporting.
Turning information into control.
The man's gaze does not waver.
Comtois's jaw tightens slightly.
"You're heading toward the farmland," the man says at last, his voice calm, almost conversational. "That your usual route?"
Comtois does not answer immediately. He studies the man's face, searching for something—intent, deception, anything that breaks the neutrality.
He finds nothing.
"Depends," Comtois replies finally. "Routes change."
The man tilts his head just slightly.
"Convenient answer."
"Safe one." Comtois counters.
A faint pause.
The other man's lips curve just enough to suggest recognition—not friendliness, but understanding of the exchange.
"You're one of the slave-soldier units," he says. "You walk differently."
Comtois doesn't deny it.
"And you're not." he replies.
"No." the man says simply.
Silence stretches for a moment, heavier now.
"You hear things out here," the man continues, his tone still casual. "Movements. Patterns. Changes. Must be useful."
Comtois's eyes narrow slightly.
"Useful to who?"
The man doesn't answer directly.
"To the people who pay attention." he says instead.
That is enough.
The air between them shifts, tension settling in more clearly now.
Comtois exhales slowly.
"Not today." he says, more to himself than to the other man.
The man raises an eyebrow slightly.
"Not today?"
Comtois steps forward, breaking the standstill.
"Not interested," he clarifies. "In whatever this is supposed to be."
The other man does not move to stop him. He simply watches as Comtois passes.
"Careful," he says quietly, just as Comtois moves beyond him. "Walking alone like that… people start to notice."
Comtois doesn't turn back.
"They already do." he replies.
He keeps walking.
But his pace has changed.
Faster now.
Not enough to look like a run—but enough to create distance.
Not today, he repeats internally. I'm not dealing with that today.
Behind him, the road remains the same—quiet, open, indifferent.
But something has shifted.
The farmland lies ahead, just beyond the rise in the road, where green begins to replace brown and structure returns to the land.
It should feel familiar.
Safe, even.
But as Comtois approaches, the distance feels longer than it should, each step carrying a weight that wasn't there before.
If they're out here… he thinks, the idea settling in uncomfortably, then nothing is as contained as it looks.
His grip tightens slightly at his side, fingers curling unconsciously.
The wind picks up, carrying faint sounds from ahead—voices, tools, movement.
The rotunda hums with a kind of controlled chaos that never quite spills over into disorder, yet never settles into calm either. It is a space built for movement, for processing, for decisions that are made quickly and recorded even faster. Papers shift from hand to hand, voices overlap without fully colliding, and boots echo against the stone floor in uneven rhythms that somehow align into a pattern over time.
Clerks move between desks with practiced urgency. Officers stand in small clusters, speaking in low tones, their conversations clipped and efficient. Messengers pass through without stopping, carrying sealed notes that disappear into the system as quickly as they arrive.
Aldo stands within it all, still.
Not idle.
Not lost.
Just… unmoving in a place where everything else is in motion.
Before him stands his Lieutenant, a man whose posture reflects discipline but whose expression betrays something less certain. He studies Aldo in silence for a few seconds longer than necessary, as if confirming that the person in front of him matches the report he has already read.
"I heard you dismantled a Witch Enclave." the Lieutenant says at last, his voice measured, but not entirely neutral.
The words settle between them, heavier than the surrounding noise.
Aldo does not react outwardly.
"Yes." he answers simply.
There is a pause.
Not long—but long enough to matter.
The Lieutenant leans back slightly, then forward again, as if adjusting his perspective.
"Do you mind giving me any explaination ?" he says.
Aldo does not hesitate.
"Psychological deception." he replies.
The Lieutenant's eyes narrow almost immediately.
"Magic?" he asks, the word edged with skepticism.
Aldo shakes his head once.
"No."
Silence follows, stretching thin but persistent. Around them, the rotunda continues its rhythm, but within that small space, uncertainty takes hold.
The Lieutenant studies him again, more carefully this time.
"Rumors say otherwise..." he says, his tone shifting slightly—not confrontational, but probing.
Aldo's gaze remains steady.
"Rumors are wrong."
The Lieutenant exhales quietly through his nose, leaning forward just enough to rest his weight on the desk between them.
"You're telling me," he says slowly, "that you deceived an entire enclave of witches—people trained in manipulation, illusion, perception—without using magic."
Aldo does not flinch.
"Yes."
Another pause.
The Lieutenant taps his fingers lightly against the surface, once, twice.
"…That is not simple..." he says.
Aldo inclines his head slightly.
"It wasn't."
There is no pride in the admission. No attempt to elevate it. Just a statement.
The Lieutenant watches him for a moment longer, then gestures faintly.
"Start from the beginning," he says. "And don't skip steps."
Aldo nods once.
Then he begins.
He explains everything.
Not dramatically, not with flourish or emphasis, but in a controlled, structured way that mirrors the logic of the act itself. Each step is laid out in sequence—how the information was gathered, how the patterns of behavior were identified, how assumptions were tested and then reinforced. He speaks of timing, of misdirection, of using expectation against itself.
He does not embellish.
He does not dramatize.
There is no mention of fear, or uncertainty, or the moments where failure could have undone everything.
Only the method.
The Lieutenant writes as Aldo speaks, his pen moving quickly across the pages of a hide-bound notebook that looks handmade, worn at the edges but carefully maintained. At first, his expression remains guarded, skeptical even, as if waiting for the explanation to collapse into exaggeration.
It does not.
As the details accumulate, something shifts.
Skepticism gives way to interest.
Interest sharpens into focus.
And then—something else.
Not quite admiration.
But recognition.
"…You used their own expectations against them," the Lieutenant murmurs at one point, half to himself as he writes. "You didn't fight their perception—you guided it."
Aldo does not respond.
The Lieutenant continues writing.
When Aldo finishes, the silence that follows is different from before. It is no longer uncertain. It is evaluative.
The Lieutenant closes the notebook halfway, his thumb holding the page.
"This is…" he begins, then stops, searching for the right word. "…more complex than expected."
He looks up.
"Typical Samel operations rely on force, unpredictability, and pressure," he continues. "Chaos. Danger. Overwhelm the target before it can adapt."
He taps the notebook lightly.
"But this… method…"
Another pause.
"…is unthinkable."
The word hangs there, not as criticism, but as acknowledgment of something outside the usual framework.
The Lieutenant studies Aldo for a moment longer, then exhales softly and reaches out, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
"You should read more." he says.
With his other hand, he produces a small ticket and holds it out.
"Military Library. Five entries."
Aldo takes it.
The paper is thick, marked with official seals and coded symbols that grant access beyond standard clearance.
He looks at it briefly.
Graphic is… good, he thinks.
He says nothing.
When he looks up again, the Lieutenant is already turning away, pulled back into the flow of the rotunda as if the moment had simply been another transaction within it.
Aldo remains where he is, the ticket still in his hand.
—
Around him, the rotunda does not slow.
If anything, it intensifies.
Clerk Yorin moves through the system like a man racing against an invisible clock. His hands flip through documents with startling speed, eyes scanning just enough to extract what matters before moving on. There is no hesitation in his process—only efficiency pushed to its limit.
Aldo steps forward when his turn comes, placing his log on the desk.
Yorin barely looks up.
He flips it open, skims the entries—not reading fully, but recognizing patterns, keywords, outcomes.
His stamp comes down with a sharp, decisive sound.
Done.
He pushes the log back without comment.
"Next..." he calls immediately.
Aldo steps aside.
Nearby, Tyrone stands at another desk, engaged in his own report. His posture is relaxed, but his tone carries a steady professionalism.
"Ofliran route," Tyrone is saying. "Escort mission. Xolathian merchants. No incidents. Timeline maintained."
The clerk nods, making notes.
Aldo begins to pass.
For a brief moment, their eyes meet.
Recognition.
Not surprise.
Not tension.
Just awareness.
Tyrone speaks first.
"Witch Enclave," he says, his voice carrying just enough to reach Aldo without disrupting the flow around them. "Impressive."
Aldo does not stop walking.
"No magic," he replies, his tone flat, almost dismissive of the implication.
As he passes, his gaze flicks briefly toward Yorin's device—a small detection instrument used to register magical activity.
It remains unchanged.
Blank.
Proof.
Tyrone notices the glance.
He watches Aldo continue past, his expression unreadable for a moment.
Then he moves.
He finishes his report quickly, steps away, and catches up within a few strides.
"Joint mission..." Tyrone says.
Aldo stops.
Turns slightly.
"What?"
Tyrone's expression is almost casual, but there is something beneath it—something measured.
"Next week..." he says.
A brief pause.
Then—
"We will slay a dragon."
The words settle heavily in the air between them.
For a moment, the noise of the rotunda seems to recede—not because it actually does, but because the meaning of that sentence overrides it.
Dragon.
The word does not belong to routine.
It does not belong to controlled operations, or predictable outcomes.
It belongs to something else entirely.
Aldo does not respond immediately.
His face remains composed, his posture unchanged.
But something shifts behind his eyes.
They send slave-soldiers… he thinks.
…to kill a dragon?
The idea does not resolve.
It does not fit within the systems he has begun to understand.
It lingers there, heavy and unresolved.
Tyrone watches him, waiting—not for shock, but for assessment.
For a decision.
Aldo says nothing.
The silence stretches, not awkward, but dense.
Around them, the rotunda continues its endless motion. Papers move. Voices rise and fall. Names are called. Orders are given.
No one stops.
No one notices.
Or perhaps they do—and choose not to care.
Aldo stands there, the library ticket still in one hand, its edges pressing lightly against his palm.
In the other—nothing tangible.
Just the weight of something forming.