At the edge of a pine forest…
Dawn of 13, June, 1300…
The weak sunlight settles gently across Aldo's face as he lies on the grass, unmoving, eyes half-open to a sky that still feels foreign no matter how many days he has spent beneath it. The warmth is faint, almost hesitant, as if even the sun does not fully recognize him. He breathes slowly, the scent of earth and wild growth filling his lungs, grounding him in a place that is not his own.
He is an Earthling—a Viet—someone who once belonged to a different world entirely. Now, he is something else: a slave-soldier in a land whose rules, history, and logic remain alien to him. And yet, despite all that, he has been assigned a mission that sounds almost absurd even by this world's standards—to slay a dragon.
It would have been simple, almost fitting, if he had been some chosen hero, destined by prophecy to defeat a Demon Lord. That is how such stories are supposed to go. Except… he is not a hero. There is no prophecy guiding him, no divine weapon in his hands. The Demon Lord of this world was slain five hundred years ago by the Twelve Heroes, their legend long since settled into history.
And the dragon? Not even the kind sung about in tales. No towering, fire-breathing beast casting shadows over kingdoms. Instead, a Drakolimne—a Lake Dragon. Something quieter, perhaps more ancient, and far less understood.
Aldo lets the thought linger, turning it over in his mind. Why him? Why assign such a task to a slave-soldier equipped with nothing more than standard armor, a musket, and discipline slightly better than that of peasant levies?
Is this a test, after his success in leading his company to destroy a Witch Enclave? Or something more desperate—crippling debt, forcing reckless decisions? A hidden political maneuver? An order from the Federation itself?
And if the threat is real, why not hire high-ranking Adventurers instead?
The questions remain unanswered, drifting like the clouds above him.
Then Comtois walks up.
His boots press softly into the grass, a steady, familiar rhythm that Aldo recognizes even before the man speaks. There is no urgency in his steps, no tension—just the casual confidence of someone who has already decided that whatever troubles exist can be endured, if not solved. He stops beside Aldo, looking down at him for a brief moment before lowering himself to sit.
"What's bothering you?" Comtois asks.
The question lingers in the air. Aldo does not answer immediately. His gaze remains fixed somewhere beyond the visible, past the pale stretch of sky, as if the answer might be written there if he waits long enough. Seconds pass. The wind brushes lightly against the grass.
Finally, Aldo speaks.
"…Why would they make us fight such creature?"
His voice is calm, but there is weight beneath it. Not fear, not quite frustration—something more restrained, more deliberate. A question that has been turned over many times already, sharpened by repetition.
Comtois lets out a small breath and drops himself fully onto the grass beside him, leaning back on his arms.
"I don't know..." he says plainly, almost too quickly. "Like a dummy, I don't know."
There is no attempt to dress the answer up, no effort to pretend insight where there is none. He tilts his head slightly, glancing at Aldo, then back at the sky.
"But sitting here thinking won't answer it..." he continues. "If they sent us, then they sent us. Better we find out what this… Drakolimne thing actually is."
His tone shifts as he speaks—not serious, not careless, but practical. Grounded. As if uncertainty itself is something to be worked around rather than solved.
Aldo says nothing.
He closes his eyes instead, shutting out the thin light, the sky, the presence beside him. For a moment, it almost feels like returning to somewhere quieter, somewhere distant from orders and expectations. But even there, the question follows.
Comtois glances at him, then smirks faintly.
"Well..." he adds, a hint of humor creeping into his voice, "you managed to fool that Witch Enclave, didn't you? Maybe you can trick this lake dragon the same way. Pretend to be something you're not. Seems to work for you."
Aldo exhales softly and shakes his head.
"No..." he says.
He opens his eyes again. The sky above is no longer just pale—it has begun to shift, a faint yellow gathering at its edge, where light and shadow meet. It is neither fully day nor night, caught in between. His brown eyes reflect that same in-between state, steady but distant.
"That was different."
There is no elaboration. There does not need to be.
Comtois studies his face for a moment, the expression there quieter than usual. Whatever he sees seems to settle something in him. He pushes himself up to his feet with a small grunt, stretching his arms overhead, joints cracking lightly as he does.
"Well," he says, rolling his shoulders, "we are what we are."
He looks down at Aldo, his tone firmer now, carrying a kind of rough certainty.
"We're both slave-soldiers. That part's not changing anytime soon." He pauses, then adds, "We may lose our freedom—but not our free will."
The words hang there, heavier than his earlier jokes.
"We work because we're forced to. That doesn't mean we have to believe in it." He shrugs slightly. "So we do the job. We finish it fast. And we make sure we're still alive at the end of it."
It is not inspiration. Not quite defiance either. Something in between—like everything else in this place.
Aldo turns onto his side, no longer looking at the sky.
His gaze shifts instead toward the distant edge of a lake, where the water reflects the dimming light. The surface is mostly still, broken only by faint ripples that spread outward and disappear. For a while, nothing happens.
Then—a sudden movement.
An osprey circles above, its wings cutting clean arcs through the air. It hovers briefly, precise, patient. Below, near the surface of the water, a flicker—barely visible. A fish, drawn upward, perhaps by instinct, perhaps by something unseen.
The osprey drops.
Fast. Direct. No hesitation.
It breaks the surface with a sharp splash, then rises again, its talons clutching the struggling fish. Water scatters, ripples expand, and within seconds, the surface returns to calm—as if nothing had happened at all.
Aldo watches the entire sequence without blinking.
Cause and effect. Lure and strike. Efficiency without waste.
His expression does not change, but something behind it sharpens.
"A thought has occurred to me."
His voice cuts through the quiet, low but clear.
Comtois turns immediately, curiosity replacing the earlier steadiness. He shifts his stance slightly, attention fully drawn now.
"Oh?" he says. "Let's hear it."
Aldo does not answer right away.
His eyes remain on the water for a moment longer, tracing the last fading ripples, before finally turning back.
Whatever he has seen, whatever connection has formed—it is no longer drifting.
It is taking shape.