Morning, 14th June 1300.
The air is damp even before the sun fully rises, carrying that heavy, lingering moisture that settles into cloth, into skin, into everything it touches. It is not yet warm, but it is no longer truly cold either—something in between, a stillness that feels as though the world is holding its breath. Mist clings low over the uneven road, drifting in slow, shapeless patterns, pooling in the shallow dips where yesterday's rain has not yet dried. It gathers in those low places like forgotten water, unmoving, reflecting faint traces of a sky not yet fully awake.
Each step sinks.
Boots press into the softened ground, slipping slightly before finding resistance, then lifting again with effort. The mud does not release easily. It clings, stretches, resists. When it finally lets go, it does so with a dull, wet sound—a quiet suction that repeats again and again, forming a rhythm beneath everything else. Not loud. Not sharp. But constant.
Like a slow drum.
Two companies move along that road.
Two hundred men in total.
Armor shifts with each step, plates brushing against one another in muted friction. Straps creak. Metal taps lightly against metal, never quite loud enough to break the morning's subdued atmosphere, but always present. Muskets rest on shoulders, carried with the familiarity of habit rather than urgency. The weight is known. The posture is practiced.
Breath is visible in the early cool, faint clouds forming and fading in front of each face. It lingers just long enough to be seen, then disappears into the damp air, indistinguishable from the mist itself.
They move.
Not fast.
Not slow.
But heavy.
There is a weight to the movement that has nothing to do with armor or equipment. It is in the pace, in the way each step seems measured not by intention but by resistance. The road dictates the rhythm, not the men. Every stride is negotiated with the ground beneath them, every motion slightly hindered, slightly delayed.
Aldo walks near the front of the 204th, his position steady, his posture unchanged despite the conditions. His eyes move, not constantly, but deliberately—scanning the road ahead, noting its shape, its condition, its problems. The mud pulls at each step he takes, forcing him to adjust without thinking, to compensate automatically.
It slows everything.
It wastes time.
The inefficiency is not dramatic, but it is absolute.
To his left, the land opens for a brief stretch, breaking away from the narrow confinement of the road. The shift is subtle at first, then clearer—the density of the surroundings loosening just enough to reveal a small cluster of wooden houses. They sit on slightly elevated ground, positioned deliberately above the worst of the water accumulation. Their foundations are reinforced with packed soil and rough, uneven stones, an attempt—functional, not aesthetic—to resist the slow erosion of rain and time.
The huts themselves are crude.
Uneven.
Repaired more often than they are built.
Planks of mismatched wood form their walls, each piece carrying a different age, a different history. Some are newer, lighter in color. Others are darkened, warped, marked by years of exposure. The roofs sag under layers of straw and reed, patched repeatedly, thickened where leaks have formed before.
Above them, rising awkwardly but undeniably purposeful, stands a watchtower.
It is crooked.
Not by design, but by limitation.
The structure leans slightly, its supports uneven, its height modest but sufficient. It does not dominate the landscape, but it does not need to. Its purpose is simple—to see, to warn, to exist.
A figure stands atop it.
Still.
Holding a spear.
Watching.
Watching them.
Below, the village moves in quiet activity. Peasants work in small patches of land, their movements steady, unhurried. Some bend over crops that struggle in the damp soil. Others carry tools—tools that are not only tools. Hoes with edges that have been sharpened beyond necessity. Spears resting against shoulders with a familiarity that suggests they are used often enough to justify the weight.
The line between labor and defense is thin.
Almost nonexistent.
Their eyes follow the companies as they pass.
Curious.
Wary.
Silent.
There is no greeting. No acknowledgment beyond observation. Just watching.
Aldo glances once.
Only once.
Then his gaze returns forward, as if the act itself is already complete the moment it begins.
["Same structure."]
The thought forms without effort.
["Same poverty."]
There is no judgment in it. Only recognition.
["Same necessity to defend."]
The road curves ahead, bending gradually, disappearing behind a shallow rise. It offers no improvement as it does so. If anything, it becomes worse. Water collects more heavily in the ruts left by previous movement, pooling into shallow depressions that disguise their depth until stepped into.
Boots sink deeper.
Momentum slows further.
The rhythm breaks, reforms, breaks again.
Behind him, a voice cuts through the layered sounds of movement.
"This is terrible."
Hano Kichiro.
He does not attempt to hide his irritation. Each step he takes is heavier than necessary, exaggerated in its effort, as if the ground itself has personally offended him. When he pulls his foot free from the mud, it is with visible force, the motion sharper, less controlled.
"Infrastructure mismanagement at its finest."
He gestures outward, not at anything specific, but at everything—the road, the mud, the conditions themselves. His hand moves in a loose arc before dropping again, his head shaking slightly in disbelief.
"Look at this ! No drainage. No reinforcement. Just mud. Endless mud."
A soldier nearby lets out a quiet chuckle, brief and restrained, quickly swallowed by the surrounding sounds.
Hano continues, his voice rising slightly, not shouting, but carrying further.
"You expect trade to pass through this? Movement of troops? Even peasants lose efficiency walking like this."
He kicks at the ground as he speaks.
Mud splashes outward in a small, uneven arc, landing only a short distance away, lacking even the energy to travel far.
"Whoever manages this region deserves to occupied by Aldo until their palanton begs to give it back !!!!!!"
The words linger for a moment before dissolving into the movement of the column.
Aldo does not respond.
He does not turn.
He does not acknowledge the statement in any visible way.
But his pace tightens, almost imperceptibly. His steps become slightly more controlled, more deliberate. His eyes narrow, not in frustration, but in calculation.
["This slows us."]
The thought is immediate.
["Every hour lost increases uncertainty."]
Time is not abstract here. It is measurable. It accumulates.
It matters.
["The farmland…"]
There is a pause within the thought itself, a slight shift, as something else connects.
A faint change in his expression—barely noticeable, gone as quickly as it appears.
["No carpenters now."]
The realization settles without resistance.
The absence is as clear as the presence of the mud beneath his feet.
He had canceled the deal.
Deliberately.
It had not been a mistake.
It had been calculated, weighed, decided with full awareness of its immediate benefits.
But still—
A consequence.
Not dramatic.
Not immediate.
But present.
He exhales quietly, the sound barely audible, lost almost instantly in the damp morning air, indistinguishable from the breath of the men around him as the column continues forward.
Then—
Ahead, the road curves again, bending out of sight with the same slow reluctance as before. It offers no promise of improvement, no indication that what lies beyond will be any different from what has already been endured. The mist lingers there too, thinner now but still present, stretching across the bend like a veil that hides nothing and yet reveals nothing clearly.
And beyond that curve—
Comtois moves.
The 205th company breaks formation.
It is not reckless. There is no sudden burst of speed, no careless deviation that would suggest impatience overriding discipline. Instead, it is deliberate. Measured. A decision made and acted upon without hesitation, but not without thought.
He steps off the main road, boots leaving the familiar resistance of mud behind, and moves toward a small rise to the side. The mound is not large. It does not dominate the terrain. But it is enough—just enough—to offer a different angle, a broader view, a slight advantage over the flat, obstructed line of sight the road provides.
He climbs it with ease.
From there, the difference becomes visible.
A trail reveals itself.
Subtle at first glance, almost easy to miss if one is not looking for it. But once seen, it cannot be unseen. It cuts through the surrounding greenery as a thin, uneven line—a place where grass refuses to grow, where the earth beneath has been pressed down too many times to recover.
Not marked by signs.
Not shaped by design.
But defined by repetition.
A path formed not by intention—but by use.
Comtois stands there, looking down at it. His posture is relaxed, but his attention is sharp. His gaze follows the line of the trail as far as it disappears into the edge of the forest, then shifts back toward the road they are currently bound to.
Then he scoffs.
A short, dismissive sound, quiet but carrying enough weight to be heard by those closest—and then, gradually, by more.
"We're wasting time."
His voice is not loud, but it projects. There is certainty in it, a confidence that does not need volume to assert itself. It cuts through the slow rhythm of marching, through the dull repetition of boots in mud.
The 205th begins to react.
Not through orders.
Not through commands.
But instinctively.
Men glance toward him. Their formation loosens slightly at the edges, subtle shifts in direction beginning to form before the decision is even formalized. They trust him—not blindly, but enough that movement begins before confirmation.
Aldo watches.
He does not move immediately.
There is a moment—brief, but complete—where observation takes priority over action. His eyes track Comtois, then the trail, then the men beginning to adjust.
Calculating.
Then—
He moves.
The transition is sudden but controlled. He breaks into a short run, boots striking the mud with sharper force now, splashing lightly with each step. The resistance is still there, but momentum reduces its hold. He moves past a few soldiers, cutting slightly across the formation rather than following its line.
The mound rises ahead.
He climbs it quickly, the incline barely slowing him.
The two meet at the top.
Close enough that their voices do not need to carry.
Close enough that the conversation belongs only to them.
Comtois leans slightly toward him, lowering his voice—not out of secrecy, but efficiency. There is no need for others to hear until a decision is made.
"Should we cross the pine forest?" he asks, direct, unembellished. His tone carries a hint of anticipation, not impatience, but readiness. "If we take that trail, we can reach Lake Admonitio faster. This road curves too much, wastes too much distance. It's built for carts, not for speed."
He gestures lightly toward the path, then toward the forest beyond it.
"Look at it. That's traffic. Not recent, maybe—but consistent. People use it. Hunters, traders, maybe even locals moving between settlements. It cuts through. It has to."
Aldo does not respond immediately.
His gaze follows the direction indicated.
The trail leads into the trees.
Dense.
Closely packed trunks rising vertically, their branches interlocking overhead. The forest is not chaotic—it is structured, but tightly so. Shadows gather beneath the canopy, deeper than the open road, layered and uneven.
Quiet.
Not silent—but contained.
"There's bandits..." Aldo says.
The words come without delay once he speaks.
No hesitation.
No inflection.
Just fact.
Comtois's expression shifts slightly, a faint smirk forming—not dismissive, but amused in a restrained way.
"We are bandits to them," he replies, his tone carrying a dry edge. He tilts his head slightly, as if considering the perspective of those unseen within the forest. "To anyone living in there, or near it, we're not soldiers on a mission. We're two hundred armed men walking into their territory."
He gestures back toward the companies below, where men are already beginning to angle themselves toward the mound, waiting for direction.
"Two hundred armored men," he continues, more deliberately now. "Muskets. Formation. Discipline."
He pauses briefly, letting the image settle.
"What kind of bandit group sees that and decides it's a good idea to attack?"
Another small shrug follows, casual but not careless.
"We overwhelm anything that comes at us. Even if they try something, it won't last. Not against this."
Aldo remains still.
He does not counter immediately.
His eyes move again.
From the trail—
To the trees—
To the narrow gaps where light filters through branches, thin and uneven.
Then upward, briefly, toward the sky barely visible through the canopy.
Then inward.
The assessment forms in silence.
The terrain favors concealment.
Distance reduced. Movement improved.
Two hundred against unknown but likely smaller forces.
Limited visibility, but not impassable.
A brief pause follows.
Not long.
But complete.
Then—
He nods.
Once.
Simple.
No elaboration.
No justification.
Comtois's grin widens slightly, satisfaction evident but contained. It is not triumph—it is confirmation.
"Ok." he says, the word short, decisive.
He straightens immediately, turning with a sharp motion back toward the companies. His posture shifts as he raises his voice—not shouting, but projecting clearly enough to reach across the formation.
"We go through the forest!"
The response is immediate.
The 205th reacts first, their movement fluid, almost eager. Lines adjust, angles shift, and the loose alignment tightens again along a new direction. There is confidence in the transition, a familiarity with adapting to change without losing cohesion.
The 204th follows.
More structured.
Less instinctive, but no less effective.
Commands pass quickly through the ranks, small gestures, brief words, enough to realign the formation without breaking it. The shift is not chaotic—it is controlled, deliberate, precise.
Together, the two companies begin to move.
They leave the road.
Step off the mud.
The difference is felt immediately beneath their boots.
The ground changes—firmer, darker, layered with needles and compacted earth rather than waterlogged soil. It gives slightly, but it does not pull. It supports movement rather than resisting it.
They move forward.
Into the forest.
The transition is immediate.
Light fades.
Not completely.
But enough.
The open gray of morning is replaced by filtered dimness, where sunlight breaks into fragments before reaching the ground. Shadows stretch longer here, deeper, overlapping in ways that obscure distance and shape.
The air shifts too.
Cooler.
Stiller.
Sound changes.
The rhythm of boots becomes softer, absorbed by the forest floor. The metallic clink of armor dulls, muted by the density around them. Even voices seem to settle, carried less, contained more.
Behind them, the road disappears.
Ahead, the trail narrows.
And the forest closes in.
Sunlight filters through dense pine canopies overhead, breaking apart as it passes through layers of needles and branches. What reaches the ground is no longer whole, but scattered—thin beams of light that fall in uneven patches, illuminating fragments of the forest floor while leaving the rest in muted shadow. Nothing is fully lit. Nothing is fully dark. The contrast shifts with every step, every movement of leaves above.
Shadows stretch longer here.
Deeper.
They do not remain separate for long. They blend into one another, overlapping, merging until the ground becomes a continuous field of dimness broken only by occasional streaks of pale light. Distance becomes harder to judge. Shapes lose clarity at the edges.
The air cools as they move further in.
It is not a sharp drop in temperature, but a gradual one, noticeable only because of the contrast with the open road behind them. The canopy holds the air still, preventing warmth from settling. Moisture lingers more heavily here, trapped beneath the trees.
The scent shifts with it.
Earth.
Resin.
Damp leaves layered over time, slowly breaking down beneath the surface.
It is thicker than the air outside, more grounded, carrying the weight of decay and growth at once.
Boots press against layers of dried pine needles and scattered undergrowth. The ground gives slightly, cushioned by years of fallen debris. Each step produces a softer sound than before—not the wet pull of mud, but a steady, muted crunch. It forms a new rhythm, quieter but more constant, less intrusive yet more pervasive.
Two hundred men.
Moving.
Their presence does not belong here.
It disturbs the silence—not with sudden noise, but with sustained intrusion. The forest does not react loudly. It reacts subtly.
Small animals flee.
Unseen.
A flicker of movement at the edge of vision. A rustle in low brush. Leaves shifting where nothing visible passes through. The signs are brief, indirect, but consistent. Life withdraws from their path, making space without revealing itself.
Rustles dart away from the line of movement.
Quick.
Avoidant.
Gone before they can be focused on.
The formation loosens as they advance deeper.
Not disorderly.
Not careless.
But less rigid than before.
The terrain demands it.
Trees interrupt straight lines. Roots rise unevenly beneath the surface. Visibility shortens. The tight structure of the road gives way to adaptive spacing. Gaps open between soldiers—not wide, but sufficient. Enough to move without collision, to respond without obstruction.
Branches brush against armor as they pass.
Light contact at first, then more frequent. Twigs scrape along metal surfaces with faint, irregular sounds. Leaves catch briefly on edges of gear, clinging for a moment before being pulled free by motion.
The sound of the column changes.
It becomes layered.
Steps—soft, continuous.
Metal—dull, intermittent.
Breath—steady, controlled.
Movement—constant, surrounding.
And beneath it—
Something else.
Watching.
Hidden.
Bandits.
They lie in wait among the trees, positioned with care in the shadows where visibility drops off just enough to conceal them. Brown hoods blend with bark and earth, their shapes broken by the uneven light. Their weapons are rough—spears, short blades, makeshift bows—functional, not refined.
Their eyes remain fixed on the path.
Focused.
Expectant.
They had been waiting for movement like this.
Something smaller.
Something weaker.
Prey.
Then—
They see them.
Not one.
Not a handful.
Two hundred.
Armored.
Muskets resting ready.
Formation—loosened, but intact.
Close.
Organized.
Not merchants.
Not scattered travelers trying to move quietly through unfamiliar ground.
A force.
The realization is immediate.
It spreads through them without sound.
Their expressions change instantly.
Eyes widen, not in panic, but in sharp recalculation.
Breath catches—not loud, but enough to disrupt the stillness of their waiting.
One shifts backward slightly, instinct overriding stillness.
Another tightens his grip on his weapon—fingers pressing harder, knuckles pale—then, after a moment, loosens it again.
The tension breaks.
Not outwardly.
But internally.
A silent exchange passes between them.
No words needed.
No signals required.
Retreat.
Slow at first.
Careful.
Measured steps backward, maintaining silence as long as possible.
Then faster.
Not running.
But no longer hesitant.
They melt into the forest as if they had never been there, bodies slipping between trees, disappearing into deeper shadow where light does not reach. Their presence dissolves into the environment they understand better than those passing through it.
Avoiding.
Not confronting.
Surviving.
Behind them, the companies continue forward.
Their movement does not falter.
Their pace remains steady.
Unaware.
Or perhaps—
Aware.
Lei Delun's head turns slightly as he walks.
The motion is minimal, almost indistinguishable from the natural adjustments of movement. But his eyes narrow, focusing not on what is visible, but on what is not.
He slows.
Only for half a second.
Just enough to listen.
There—
A faint rustle.
Subtle.
Out of rhythm with their own movement.
A shift in leaves that does not match the pattern of two hundred men advancing.
He exhales quietly and murmurs, just loud enough for those nearest to hear.
"Bandits."
There is no urgency in his voice.
No alarm.
Just observation.
A statement of fact.
Comtois hears him.
He lets out a short laugh, sharp and confident, cutting briefly through the layered sounds of the forest.
"See?" he calls out, turning his head slightly to glance back toward Aldo, his expression carrying a hint of satisfaction. "I told you."
He does not slow.
Does not look again.
"They're scared."
And the column continues forward, deeper into the trees.
Aldo's expression doesn't change.
There is no shift in his face, no visible reaction to the exchange that just passed. If anything, he seems more settled in his stillness, as if the forest itself has not altered him, only given him more to consider. He walks beside Comtois now, their pace aligned without effort, boots pressing into the softened layer of pine needles in quiet rhythm.
"Witches hide in forests." Aldo says.
The words are delivered evenly, without emphasis, without suggestion. Not a warning. Not an accusation. Just a statement placed into the space between them.
Comtois waves a hand dismissively, the motion loose but confident, brushing aside the idea as though it holds little weight against the reality before them. "And we're not alone," he replies, his tone carrying a faint edge of amusement. "Numbers matter. Always have, always will. Whatever hides in these trees—witches, bandits, anything else—they don't look at two hundred armed men and think it's worth the effort."
He doesn't slow as he speaks. Doesn't turn back to check the formation. His confidence is not performative—it is embedded, assumed, something he carries without needing to reinforce.
Aldo continues walking beside him.
The single word comes after a brief pause, just long enough to signal that something more follows.
"The Earthling Revolutionaries."
The phrase lands differently.
It is not louder.
But it is precise.
It cuts through the surrounding noise in a way that volume never could.
"Our fellow back on Earth," Aldo continues, his voice steady, unchanged in tone, but now carrying something heavier beneath it. "Same origin. Same world. But we've never met them. Never coordinated. Never confirmed alignment."
A few steps falter.
Not all.
But enough.
The rhythm of movement shifts slightly, small disruptions rippling through the formation. Heads begin to turn—not sharply, not dramatically, but in quiet reaction. Eyes move, attention redirecting from the forest to the words.
"Same planet," Aldo adds, as if clarifying something simple. "Never met."
There is a brief pause before he continues.
"Could be here."
The words hang for a moment, unchallenged.
"They may understand our situation," he says, still walking, still looking forward. "Same displacement. Same unfamiliar environment. Same need to adapt."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"But they may still eliminate us."
Silence follows.
Real silence.
Not the quiet of the forest—the natural stillness filled with subtle sound.
This is different.
This is human silence.
Immediate.
Heavy.
The kind that forms when a thought settles too deeply, too quickly.
Lei Delun's eyes sharpen, his attention shifting inward even as he continues forward. Hano stops mid-step for a fraction of a second before forcing himself to move again, the interruption small but noticeable. Several soldiers in the 205th exchange glances, uncertainty flickering across their faces in brief, unspoken acknowledgment.
One of them mutters quietly, almost to himself, "Revolutionaries…here?"
Another tightens his grip on his musket, fingers adjusting unconsciously as if preparing for something not yet defined.
Comtois stops.
The motion is sudden—not abrupt, but decisive enough to break his forward momentum. He turns, looking not at the forest, not at the formation, but directly at Aldo.
He is not laughing now.
Not dismissing.
He is thinking.
Aldo keeps walking.
Unbothered.
His pace does not change. His eyes remain forward, scanning the path ahead as though the effect behind him is already accounted for.
The thought forms cleanly.
["Adjustment is necessary anyway."]
The effect spreads.
Gradually.
It does not explode into panic. It does not fracture discipline.
But it alters behavior.
Soldiers begin to look around more—not just ahead, not just at the immediate path, but beyond. Behind. To the left. To the right. Even upward, toward branches and gaps in the canopy.
Every shadow holds possibility now.
Every flicker of movement becomes suspect.
The forest shifts in perception.
It is no longer just terrain.
It becomes a field of unknown variables.
Hano exhales sharply, the sound edged with frustration more than fear. He glances around, then back at Aldo, his expression tightening slightly. "Great." he mutters, his voice low but clear enough to carry to those nearest. "That's exactly what I needed right now. Not just bandits or whatever else—now I get to imagine getting shot by someone who understands exactly how we think."
He lets out a short, humorless breath. "Someone who knows what we'd do before we do it."
Lei responds without turning, his voice quieter, controlled. "Then don't be predictable."
Hano scoffs lightly. "That's easy to say until you're the one getting outmaneuvered by your own logic."
A soldier from the 205th speaks under his breath, just loud enough for those around him. "They'd know formations."
Another voice follows, slightly tighter. "They'd know tactics."
A third, quieter but more direct, adds, "They'd know weaknesses."
The murmurs begin to layer, not chaotic, but present—thoughts forming, concerns taking shape.
Comtois raises a hand.
"Enough."
His voice is firm.
Not loud.
But grounding.
It cuts through the low exchange, pulling attention back into alignment.
"Stay sharp. Don't panic," he continues, his tone steady now, measured. "Speculation doesn't help if it turns into hesitation. We move the same way we always do—aware, controlled, disciplined."
He looks at Aldo.
A brief moment.
Something unspoken passes between them—not agreement, not disagreement, but recognition.
Then—
They continue.
The movement changes.
Not slower.
But tighter.
More deliberate.
Heads turn more frequently now, scanning not just out of habit, but with intent. Eyes linger longer on shapes, on shadows, on spaces between trees. Muskets are held slightly higher, no longer resting as passively on shoulders but ready to be brought into use without delay.
Prepared.
The forest watches back.
Or at least—it feels that way.
But nothing comes.
No attack.
No ambush.
No sudden break in the tension that now sits just beneath the surface of every step.
Only movement.
Only presence.
And somewhere deeper within the forest—
The bandits.
They follow.
At a distance.
Careful.
Curious.
But not foolish.
They move through the trees with quiet familiarity, keeping to cover, keeping far enough to remain unseen while still observing. Their eyes track the companies as they pass—watching the discipline, the spacing, the readiness that has only sharpened since entering the forest.
One of them leans closer to another, whispering softly, "Not worth it."
The other nods without hesitation, his gaze still fixed on the moving line of soldiers. "Too many. Too organized. Even if we strike first, we don't finish it."
A third shifts slightly, glancing between the formation and the forest beyond. "We'd lose more than we gain."
The decision settles quickly.
They begin to shift direction.
Quietly.
Carefully.
Pulling away from the path of the companies, angling deeper into the forest where movement becomes less predictable, where other opportunities might exist.
Leaving.
Seeking easier prey like Merchants, Travelers.
Something softer.
Something vulnerable.
Behind them—
The companies move on.
Still alert.
Still scanning.
Still expecting.
But untouched.
The forest begins to thin slightly ahead.
It is subtle at first—the spacing between trees widening, the density of branches overhead loosening. Light increases gradually, filtering down in broader patches rather than narrow beams.
A faint opening begins to form in the distance.
Comtois exhales, the tension easing just slightly from his posture. "See?" he says, a hint of his earlier confidence returning. "Still alive."
He doesn't slow.
Doesn't look back.
Aldo doesn't respond.