The first light of morning breaks over the eastern ridges of Carravin, dragging pale, metallic fingers across the jagged skyline of the city. The sun does not rise with a warm glow; instead, it bleeds an icy, thin illumination that reflects off the damp, grease-slicked cobblestones. A heavy, quiet fog hangs low over the alleys, smelling strongly of river silt, cold iron, and the sharp, chemical burn of burnt sulfur powder. The small ferns and dark green moss growing between the cracked mortar of the stone walls droop under the weight of the dampness, their leaves coated with a fine layer of grey soot.
Three middle-aged male citizens step through the ruined archway of the lower residential district. Their movements are cautious, slow, and deliberately calculated. The first man carries a heavy iron-tipped wood-splitting axe resting against his shoulder, his knuckles white against the dark timber. The second and third men walk with short, notched hunting spears held low, their eyes constantly darting upward toward the empty wooden balconies and gutters. Their leather boots make no sound on the wet stone.
The morning air is completely still. No birds call from the rooftops; the usual high-altitude pigeons that nest in the white marble eaves of the city have vanished, leaving the sky empty. Yet, the silence carries a heavy, vibration-like tension, like the moments just before a structural timber snaps under weight. The men move shoulder to shoulder, their jaws tight, their skin grey under the pale morning light.
As they enter the central market square, the true scale of the night's violence reveals itself in the cold light. The stone-paved plaza is an open scar. Several storefronts—an upscale apothecary, a tailor shop, and a local tavern—have been completely vandalized. Their front walls are either kicked inward or blackened by fire-oil. Splintered pieces of cedar shelving, shattered glass jars, and rolls of torn silk lie trampled in the grey mud.
The bodies of the grey Outlandish creatures and the red-masked rebels are scattered across the cobblestones like discarded sacks of grain. The massive, segmented limbs of the beasts are frozen in awkward, stiff angles, their grey hide deflating and hardening in the cold air, turning the color of old lard. Nearby, long wooden tables and iron-framed chairs from an outdoor cafe are broken into kindling, some thrown onto the roofs of small market stalls.
The three men move past the debris, their eyes tracking the dark, wide streaks of dried black fluid that lead down toward the river dock. At the edge of the stone wharf, the destruction is total. Three large, iron-reinforced state barges—the heavy vessels the locals call "Staban"—are shattered. Their thick oak hulls are cracked open like nut shells, their blackened ribs protruding from the water. Two of them are completely submerged, while the third floats lopsidedly against the broken pilings, its rear deck covered in a thick layer of grey ash and splintered wood that bobs rhythmically with the dark, fast-moving current of the river.
The citizens continue their sweep, their spears tracking every shadow that shifts in the fog. They round the corner of a ruined townhouse where the porch overhang has collapsed into a heap of old mortar and split laths. There, lying in the narrow space between a stone water trough and the wall, they spot four men.
Aldo, Hano, Onaga, and Comtois are slumped together against the masonry. Their armor is dented, their clothes are soaked through with river water and dried blood, and their faces are thick with white plaster dust and black soot.
The man with the wood-splitting axe stops, his body tensing as he lowers his blade toward the heap of bodies. He leans forward, his nostrils flaring as he takes in the sight of the four unconscious conscripts. He clears his throat, the sound loud and abrasive in the quiet square.
"Did the demons leave? Are they gone from the sectors?" the man asks, his voice rough and vibrating with a mixture of fear and suspicion.
Aldo's eyelids flutter. He is still deeply drowsy, wedged tightly into the narrow corner between two rotting support beams. His mind is dazed, the sudden sound of human speech hacking through the thick, heavy sleep of total physical exhaustion. He doesn't move his limbs; his body feels as though it has been poured into the stone floorboards. He blinks twice, his bloodshot eyes tracking the shape of the three armed citizens standing over him in the fog. He forces his jaw to move, his tongue dry and heavy against his teeth.
"The four of us defeated them," Aldo mutters, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carries across the stones. He pauses, swallowing hard to clear the dust from his throat before continuing. "The entire Outlandish have been wiped out in this sector. As for the rebels... or demons, as you call them... they were mostly defeated. But a few escaped into the lower avenues. I think... I think we should increase security and establish law and order in the coming days to prevent them from returning."
The three citizens freeze, their expressions turning from suspicion to blank astonishment. The man with the axe slowly lowers his weapon, his mouth opening slightly as he looks from Aldo to the dead, grey hulks scattered across the market square behind him.
"You wiped them all out?" the citizen asks, his voice dropping into a breathless whisper. "Just the four of you?"
The second man, who had been checking the pulse of a nearby rebel corpse, steps forward, his eyes wide as he stares at the distinct emblem on Aldo's torn vanguard cloak. "The PCA... the Professional Central Army is amazing. Four people defeated them all..." He turns his head to look at his companion, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "How did they manage it? How do four boys hold a district against a horde?"
A sudden, sharp movement breaks the conversation. Comtois jumps up from the mud like a coiled spring, his massive chest heaving as he thrusts his right arm into the air. His face is pale, his cheek is deeply scored by a rogue spine, and his clothes are held together by dried blood and luck, but his eyes are wide with an erratic, manic energy. He shakes his fist, which still contains a heavily dented, silver-plated serving spoon.
"I defeated them with spoons!" Comtois roars, his voice booming off the stone walls of the square.
The three citizens instantly drop into absolute silence. They stare at Comtois's massive, grime-streaked frame, then look down at the silver utensil in his hand, their faces completely blank and speechless. No one moves. A small piece of plaster falls from the archway above, cracking against the cobblestones.
Aldo lets out a long, exhausted sigh, his head dropping back against the cold stone wall with a dull thud. He does not look at Comtois. He keeps his eyes fixed on the lead citizen, his expression flat, deadpan, and utterly drained of emotion.
"I used a shop full of explosives to lure most of the Outlandish into a tight space," Aldo explains, his voice steady but flat. "Then I used a few State Barges as bait at the wharf to gather their main force, and utilized the clever maneuvering of the residential buildings to ambush the stragglers. It was tactical, not... culinary."
The citizens nod slowly, the explanation finally grounding the impossibility of the night into something they can comprehend. From the shadow of a broken doorway behind them, an elderly woman steps out into the light. She is wrapped in a heavy shawl, her hands shaking as she looks at the deep, dark gashes on Aldo's forearm and the thick linen bandages wrapped around Comtois's shoulder.
"How long did the battle last?" she asks, her old voice cracking with emotion as she reaches out a hand toward Hano's burned, blistered fingers. "Look at you... you are all so badly wounded."
Comtois shifts his weight, his large shoulders dropping as the manic energy suddenly drains from his face, leaving him looking hollow and ancient despite his youth. "It lasted until dawn," he says quietly, his voice dropping an octave. "Every single minute of it."
The lead citizen steps forward, his hand reaching out to touch the iron guard of his axe as he bows his head deeply to the four conscripts. "I thank you on behalf of the people of Carravin for your help. You have saved our homes from the harvest. You should rest now and treat those wounds. We will send more men from the upper tier to assist with the cleanup and watch the borders."
Comtois's face instantly contorts into an expression of theatrical agony. He throws his arms wide, his eyes rolling back into his head as he takes three dramatic, stumbling steps backward toward the stone wall.
"THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!" Comtois screams, his voice cracking with mock-pathos. "HURRY UP, I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY LONGER!"
With a final, loud groan, Comtois lets his knees buckle. He collapses sideways into a pile of loose straw and broken crates, his eyes closing tightly as he pretends to faint, his massive limbs sprawling across the ground in a perfect imitation of a corpse. Aldo does not even blink at the display; he simply closes his eyes and lets the grey morning fog cover them.
The sun rises higher into the sky, its light turning from a cold silver to a bright, piercing yellow that cuts through the remaining river fog. The morning is now in full swing. The sound of distant hammers and shouting men echoes from the upper tiers of Carravin as the city begins to rebuild its gates. Inside a small, two-story townhouse belonging to a local resident who had fled during the night, the air is warm and smells of old wood and dry flour.
In the corner of the small sitting room, Onaga and Hano are fast asleep on a pair of low canvas cots. Onaga's broken leg is bound tightly between two straight cedar splints, his charcoal pencil still clutched tightly in his right fist even in sleep. Hano is curled into a tight ball, his burned hand wrapped in fresh grease-cloth, his breathing deep and even.
In the center of the room, Comtois is fully awake, moving with a bizarre, relentless friction. The big conscript is literally running ahead of his own thoughts, pacing back and forth across the creaking floorboards while holding a small alchemical flashlight in his left hand. The narrow beam of light flickers across a stack of clean parchment he has pinned to the kitchen table. He handles a large quill with aggressive force, his face twisted in intense concentration as he writes a massive, sprawling document—a Manifesto of his own design. His lips move silently as he scratches out lines about heroic deeds, ancient battles, and a grand revolutionary dream that he refuses to forget, even in this foreign world.
Aldo sits on a wooden bench near the cold hearth, his head nodding forward as he dozes off, his shortsword resting between his knees. His uniform is still damp, and his left arm is stiff from the shrapnel wound.
A sharp, rhythmic series of knocks echoes from the heavy oak front door.
"Knock, knock, knock."
Comtois jumps like a kangaroo, his large boots clearing the floorboards as he bounds across the room to open it. He wrenches the door inward with enough force to rattle the hinges, his flashlight raised like a weapon.
Standing on the threshold is Duke Ferris. The Duke of Carravin is dressed in a dark, gold-trimmed velvet riding cloak that looks entirely untouched by the night's chaos. His silver hair is perfectly combed, but his face is pale, his eyes dark with the strain of leadership during a crisis. Behind him stand two armored guards and a young maidservant holding a silver tray with a pitcher of water.
Duke Ferris steps into the room and immediately bows his head low, his hand pressed firmly against his signet ring. It is a formal, calculated gesture of deep respect.
"I express my deepest gratitude for your help in protecting the city," Duke Ferris says, his voice smooth, resonant, and practiced. He straightens, his eyes tracking the sleeping forms of Hano and Onaga before settling on Aldo. "The preservation of the lower sectors was vital. I propose continued cooperation between your unit and the ducal seat. Furthermore..." The Duke pauses, his expression shifting slightly into one of rare discomfort. "I must offer my formal apologies for my previous conduct. I suspected you, Aldo, of having a questionable... or inappropriate relationship with Lady Meave Wintersong. I see now that my suspicions were unfounded."
Aldo is instantly startled. His eyes snap open, his back straightening against the wooden bench as a sudden, sharp spike of heat hits his chest.
[What? Meave? The Duchess? She only approached me to ask about the vanguard lines. I only slightly blushed and stammered because her dress smelled like expensive winter lillies and I hadn't spoken to a woman in six months. Where did that rumor even come from? Who spreads this garbage during a rebel siege?]
Aldo forces his face to remain blank, though his ears turn a distinct shade of dark red beneath his dark hair. He clears his throat, his hand tightening on the hilt of his shortsword to steady his nerves.
Duke Ferris does not wait for a response. He steps further into the room, his boots clicking on the clean wood as he continues without breaking rhythm. "I have received word of your conversation with the citizens in the market square this morning. Your comments regarding the maintenance of public order and the necessity of law enforcement were brought to my attention. I suggest that you, Aldo, take the lead in establishing a proper, formalized law enforcement force within the city walls to handle the remaining elements."
Aldo is startled again, his brow furrowing as a wave of pure disbelief hits him.
[Does this man think I'm the Minister of Public Security? I am a fourteen-year-old conscript from an agricultural district who got dragged through a portal. I don't know how to run a city's police force. I barely know how to clean my own kit.]
Duke Ferris watches Aldo's face, taking the silence as deep, tactical contemplation. He nods to himself, his expression hardening into one of absolute certainty. "I believe Aldo has the necessary intelligence and a structured plan for this city's recovery. As someone who values true talent above mere birthright, I have decided to appoint Aldo as the Chief Bailiff of Carravin and the Chief of Ducal Rebuild of the City."
Ferris turns on his heel, his velvet cloak sweeping through the air as he addresses the young maidservant standing by the doorframe. "Inform my Steward immediately. Tell him to draw up the formal commissions and prepare the treasury allocations for the new departments."
The maidservant nods quickly, bows, and slips out the door into the morning light.
Comtois, still standing by the window with his flashlight clutched in his hand, lets out a low, mischievous whistle. A broad, wicked smirk spreads across his grime-streaked face as he looks at Aldo.
"Wow, Aldo," Comtois sneers, his voice dripping with playful malice. "Look at you. So many titles. Chief Bailiff. Chief of Rebuild. Should we bow now, or wait until you get the fancy hat?"
Aldo opens his eyes fully, the sleep completely banished by the sheer absurdity of the situation. He stands up from the bench, his joints popping as he crosses the room toward Duke Ferris. He stops two paces away, his face deadpan but his eyes sharp.
"If I am to take these positions," Aldo says, his voice flat and level, "I want my Onaga and Hano to be my personal secretaries. They know how to handle the logs and the maps."
Duke Ferris inclines his head slightly. "I accept that. It is only fitting that a Chief surrounds himself with trusted personnel."
Aldo doesn't pause. He shifts his gaze to Comtois, who is still grinning like a madman by the kitchen table. "And Comtois will also be helpful. He's very strong, and he helps me fight off the rebels. He has a... unique method of engagement."
Duke Ferris turns his head to look at Comtois, his eyes widening in sudden surprise as he takes in the man's massive, bull-like frame and the deep, raw scar across his cheek. Ferris steps forward, extending his hand with genuine reverence. He grips Comtois's rough, blistered hand and shakes it with immense force.
"So you're the one steering the team through this brutal battle?" Ferris exclaims, his voice rising with real excitement. "The man who broke the vanguard? Then it is simple. You should be the Chief Bailiff instead of Aldo. A man of your physical caliber belongs at the head of the guard."
Comtois's jaw instantly drops. The smirk vanishes from his face, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated panic. His flashlight slips from his fingers, clattering onto the parchment of his Manifesto.
"Wait, what? No! Hold on a minute, your Grace, I am a revolutionary, not a—" Comtois begins to protest, his voice rising a full octave as he takes a step back.
Before he can finish the sentence, Aldo lunges forward with surprising speed. He reaches out and slams his right hand firmly over Comtois's mouth, cutting off the rest of the protest into a series of muffled, angry grunts. Aldo looks over his shoulder at the Duke, his face completely calm and unbothered.
"He accepts the honor, your Grace," Aldo says flatly. "He is simply overwhelmed by your generosity."
Duke Ferris bows again, his mind already moving to the high politics of the upper tier. "Excellent. I have pressing business with the remaining nobles regarding the grain stores. I will leave you to organize your thoughts." With a final nod, the Duke turns and exits the townhouse, his two armored guards closing the door firmly behind him.
The moment the lock clicks, Aldo lets go of Comtois's mouth.
Comtois immediately uncoils, stepping back and sulking like a massive, injured child. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, his eyes glaring at Aldo with pure, white-hot fury.
"Are you crazy?" Comtois roars, his fists clenching at his sides. "Why am I suddenly a police officer? Why am I the Chief Bailiff? I hate the guard! I write manifestos against the guard!"
Aldo walks back toward the wooden bench, his movements slow and methodical as he sits back down. "So you want me to be both the Minister of Infrastructure and the Minister of Public Security at the same time? Too much work. Too tiring."
Comtois pouts, his lower lip protruding as he crosses his massive arms over his chest. "You know what tiredness is too? I thought you were an iron machine, Aldo."
"Yes," Aldo replies simply, his eyes already closing again.
Comtois steps closer, leaning over the back of the bench until his face is inches from Aldo's. "Your expression looks really bored right now. Seriously. How am I supposed to set up a public security force from scratch? I don't know anything about law enforcement!"
"Can't you imagine it?" Aldo asks, his voice barely a whisper through his closed eyelids.
Comtois lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, his arms dropping as he looks around the small, dusty room. "We haven't even finished high school yet, Aldo! We're kids! We were transported here to this world as slave soldiers to be meat for the front lines. Don't be so calm about this. Who's ever seen a fourteen-year-old in leadership? It's absurd!"
Aldo doesn't move. He keeps his head tilted back against the wall, his eyes fixed on the dark, water-stained timber of the ceiling rafters above. He takes a slow, deep breath, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, analytical drone that sounds like he is reading from an old manual.
"It involves getting funding from the treasury first," Aldo says, his fingers twitching slightly against his knee as he counts the points. "Then establishing the physical infrastructure, recruiting from the uninjured local population, training them in basic formation, deployment across the sectors, and then continuous supervision and adjustment based on the rebel movements."
Comtois freezes. He listens to the words, his large eyes slowly lighting up with a sudden, dangerous understanding. The panic drains from his face, replaced by the calculating look of a man who realized he just handed a lever to a giant. He leans down further, his voice dropping into an eager whisper.
"So... you promise to help me with the structure?" Comtois asks, his brow rising.
Aldo lets his head roll sideways, his eyes closing completely as the morning sun finally reaches the window sill, warming the cold stones of the floor.
"Maybe..." Aldo mutters, and then he is asleep.