The dirt track narrows as it winds past the rear of the timber barracks, where the pine forest thickens, casting dark, jagged shadows over the dry red soil. Pines rustle overhead in the warm morning breeze, their needles rubbing together with a dry, whispering sound that masks the heavy thud of boots.
Lourdes grabs Aldo by the sleeve of his heavy linen coat, her fingers curling into the fabric like wire hooks. She jerks him sideways, pulling him behind the wide trunk of a fallen spruce. Her sharp, hollowed face is pale, the skin stretched tight over prominent cheekbones, her dark eyes wide and burning with a mix of fury and disbelief.
"How?" she snaps, her raspy voice barely a whisper, yet vibrating with tension. She steps closer, her height bringing her eyes level with his. "How did all four of you sit at that table and come up with the exact same ideas? State capitalism? Selective suffrage? Did you plan this before I even walked through that door?"
Aldo doesn't pull his arm away. He stands still, his posture relaxed, his dark eyes unblinking as he looks at her weathered face.
"It is a plan for the transitional period," Aldo answers smoothly, his tone flat, devoid of anger or defensive heat. "Your vision—liberal democracy, universal voting, immediate institutional restructuring—can be implemented after the foundation is stable. Not before."
Lourdes lets go of his sleeve, taking a step back. Her jaw sets into a rigid line, her upper lip twitching slightly over her teeth.
"I doubt your 'possibility'," she whispers, her gaze locked onto his face like a hawk watching prey. "Men who grab power during a 'transition' never hand it back. I've seen overseers use that exact word before they built the secondary barracks at the mines."
Aldo tilts his head slightly, taking a quiet breath through his nose. He reaches into his coat, adjusting the leather straps of his travel pack without breaking eye contact.
"You are wanted now," Aldo says quietly, his voice carrying the cold weight of absolute fact. "The Federation's agents and slave hunters are searching for you relentlessly across the central provinces. And I am a slave-soldier. Right now, I have to go to Polihland to confirm my company's mission assignment for the campaign in the Republic of Ofliran. If I am late to the registration desk, I will be questioned. And if I am questioned, there is a very real possibility they will send a patrol team here to Farmland to investigate unexpectedly."
Lourdes opens her mouth, her chest heaving as a sharp retort rises in her throat. Her hands clench into tight fists at her sides, her dirty, broken fingernails digging into her calloused palms. But as she looks at his calm, detached expression, her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch. The fiery accusation in her eyes flickers, replaced by the grim calculation of a survivor who knows the rhythm of imperial patrols all too well.
She turns her head away, staring down at the bed of dry pine needles beneath her boots. She lets out a rough, ragged exhale.
Aldo shifts his pack, turning his back on her to head down the path.
"Can I and my teammates sneak after you?" Lourdes calls out suddenly, her voice rough, her chin lifting as she turns back to face his retreating shoulders.
Aldo stops. He turns his head over his shoulder, his dark eyes meeting hers. "Yes."
Lourdes blinks, her eyebrows pulling together in genuine surprise. Her posture relaxes slightly, her arms uncrossing as she steps out from behind the fallen log.
"Why are you being so generous?" she asks, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You just argued against everything I stand for."
Aldo turns around completely, facing her on the dirt path. The morning sun cuts through the pine canopy, reflecting off his fair skin.
"When I go on missions," Aldo begins, his tone matter-of-fact, "I lead the 204th Company myself. I accept the mission orders from the clerk, I declare our roster, I submit the bounty or task completion reports, I collect our pay and authorization papers, and I return. No one supervises me on the road. No one follows us during the journey. To the authorities, as long as the papers match the quota, we do not exist between military posts."
Lourdes stares at him, her dark brown eyes scanning his face, his shoulders, and down to his open collar. She takes a slow step forward, her brow furrowed in deep confusion.
"Why don't you have a collar around your neck?" she asks, her voice dropping into a raspy whisper. "Every slave battalion I've seen in the south wears locked iron bands."
Aldo reaches up with one gloved hand, resting his fingers lightly against the side of his neck. "The authorities use magic marks on the forehead. Their only purpose is to prevent slave riots and trace runaway labor. But I removed those marks from the entire 204th company a long time ago. As for why slave soldiers don't wear iron collars..."
He pauses, looking her straight in the eye.
"Go ahead," Lourdes says, leaning in slightly, her jaw tight. "I'm listening."
"You're delusional about slavery," Aldo says plainly.
Lourdes's face instantly flares red. Her right arm snaps back, her calloused fist launching straight toward Aldo's jaw in a blinding, instinctual strike.
Aldo sways his head backward by a couple of inches. The fist cuts through the empty air, rustling the fabric of his coat. He doesn't flinch, nor does he reach for a weapon. He simply raises both hands, palms open, stepping back a pace.
"Calm down," Aldo says, his voice steady.
Hano steps out from the shadow of the nearby barn, leaning casually against a wooden support pillar while tossing a small leather coin pouch up and down in his hand.
"A heavy iron neck collar restricts head movement," Aldo explains, gesturing toward his own shoulders. "It interferes with wearing heavy steel armor, and it makes agile movement on the battlefield nearly impossible. Slave soldiers need complete physical freedom to mount horses, draw heavy warbows, and swing greatswords in formation. A thick metal band around the neck would snag on chainmail links, leather harness straps, or enemy polearms during close combat."
Hano catches the coin pouch, letting out a short scoff as he looks at Lourdes. "They don't need iron to keep us moving in the right direction, Renaud. They use steady payment, specialized combat training, and military uniforms to ensure obedience. Give a teenager a sword, a clean tunic, three meals a day, and a purpose, and most of them will fight whoever you point them at."
Lourdes stands motionless in the dirt path. Her fist lowers slowly to her side. Her chest rises and falls as she processes the cold logic, her eyes shifting from Aldo to Hano, then down to her own scarred hands.
"I understand," she rasps out quietly, her tone flat, her head giving a single, rigid nod.
Aldo turns toward the path where Onaga and Comtois are waiting by the edge of the clearing with their travel gear strapped tight.
"Come with me," Aldo says to Onaga and Hano.
Lourdes takes a quick step forward, her boots crunching on the pine needles. "I want to go too."
Aldo stops, turning his head back toward her. He assesses her worn vest, her sharp, hollowed face, and the quiet determination in her posture.
"Renaud, then you come with us," Aldo says smoothly. "When we get close to the city gates of Polihland, we'll split up. You and your people will sneak through the suburban market crowds, and we'll meet up once we're inside the secondary district."
Lourdes pulls her leather strap tighter across her chest, her dark eyes flashing with a cold, focused energy.
"Understood."
The massive skyline of Polihland breaks through the morning mist long before the dirt road reaches its outer perimeter.
From several miles away, the towering spires, pointed arches, and sweeping stone buttresses of classic Gothic architecture rise above the surrounding green hills like a forest of gray stone. Smoke curls from thousands of chimney stacks into the clear blue sky. The main dirt highway, churned into deep ruts by hundreds of wagon wheels, is choked with people—laborers driving ox carts loaded with timber, merchants hauling covered wagons of grain, and local guards in polished steel chestplates watching the flow of traffic.
The group of five walks at a steady pace along the shoulder of the road. Aldo leads the line, his long coat buttoned tight against the dust. Beside him, Onaga walks with quick, light steps, his ledger bag slung securely over his shoulder. Hano follows right behind, munching on a dried strip of salted meat, while Comtois marches with heavy, deliberate strides, his broad shoulders easily clearing a path through the scattered crowds of travelers. Lourdes walks slightly behind them, her jawline tight, her dark eyes constantly scanning the tree lines, the wagon drivers, and the distant watchtowers with hyper-vigilant intensity.
As they pass beneath the shadow of a massive stone aqueduct, the dusty dirt road gives way to laid cobblestones. The low wooden shacks of the outer settlements thicken into dense rows of multi-story timber and stone houses, their upper floors jutting out over the narrow streets.
Onaga turns his head toward Lourdes, gesturing with his hand toward the bustling market stalls lining the road.
"This is the suburban area of Polihland," Onaga explains, his voice carrying over the din of shouting vendors, squawking poultry, and rolling iron wheels. "The city's historical core is called Polih. This whole outer ring was built as an extension over the last fifty years after the core district became too crowded with merchants and noble administrative offices."
They continue forward, the noise of the city swelling into a continuous roar. Up ahead, the stone buildings grow taller, constructed from massive blocks of pale granite adorned with intricate carvings of saints, crests, and gargoyles. They pass beneath a grand arched gateway, stepping onto smooth, polished flagstones.
They have entered Polih.
The street opens up into a vast, sprawling public square paved in marble slabs. In the center of the square stands a colossal Rotunda—a massive circular stone building topped with a soaring lead-covered dome that reflects the bright midday sun. Massive fluted columns line its entrance, and streams of clerks, uniformed officers, and messengers move up and down its wide stone steps like ants on a mound.
Aldo stops near a row of stone benches beneath the shade of a wide oak tree at the edge of the square. He turns to Lourdes and Hano.
"Sit and relax here," Aldo instructs, pointing toward the bench. "Onaga and I will go inside to clear the paperwork."
Lourdes nods once, sitting down stiffly on the stone bench, her arms folding across her chest as her eyes continue to track the movement of the guards in the square. Hano slumps down beside her, leaning his head back against the stone pillar and closing his eyes with a satisfied stretch.
Aldo and Onaga ascend the wide steps of the Rotunda, passing between the shadow of the great marble columns and stepping into the sprawling interior hall. High arched windows near the ceiling cast long shafts of dusty light across rows of dark oak desks. The air smells strongly of parchment, dried ink, and floor wax, filled with the continuous scratching of iron pens and the soft rustle of documents.
At a desk near the eastern gallery, Clerk Yolan sits hunched over a massive ledger. His dark hair is messy, his spectacles slipping slightly down his nose, and his fingers are permanently stained with blue and black ink up to the knuckles.
As Aldo and Onaga approach the high wooden desk, Yolan glances up from his work. A rare, genuine smile breaks across his tired face, his eyes brightening as he sets down his quill.
"Hello, buddy," Yolan says, his voice warm, breaking into a broad grin. "Long time no see."
Aldo stops at the desk, his eyebrows arching in visible surprise. "This is the first time I've seen you so cheerful. Is something wrong?"
Yolan lets out a light, happy laugh, adjusting his spectacles with an ink-stained finger while reaching into a leather filing tray on his desk.
"I just got a girlfriend," Yolan beams, his voice light as he pulls out an official parchment sealed with a heavy red wax crest. He hands the letter of authorization across the desk to Aldo. "This mission in Ofliran is for you. You are to escort their diplomatic and military envoys through the coastal districts to Almathea, Ambustus, and Lactuca, and help them defeat the privateer fleet of the island nation of Sapocitradansia."
Aldo takes the parchment, unfolding it carefully to scan the dense lines of official text. He reaches for the inkwell on Yolan's desk, dipping an iron pen into the black well, and signs his name with quick, practiced strokes at the bottom of the document.
A sudden, loud thud echoes across the polished marble floor behind them.
Heavy, ragged panting follows instantly. Comtois comes sprinting around the side column, his face bright red, his tunic drenched in sweat, and his hair sticking to his forehead. He staggers toward the desk, gasping for air as if his lungs were about to burst. He collapses forward, slamming his arms onto the edge of the oak desk, grabs the pen from Aldo's hand, and scrawls his name violently across his section of the authorization sheet before slumping down onto his knees on the cool marble floor.
"Made... it..." Comtois wheezes, his head resting against the side of the wooden desk as his chest heaves violently.
Before Aldo can speak, the sound of measured, firm boot heels clicks against the stone floor.
A tall young man steps around the column, stopping beside the desk. He stands at roughly 1.78 meters, with short, neatly combed dark blonde hair, striking light blue eyes, and fair skin. He wears a spotless, sharply tailored military tunic over dark trousers, his posture impeccably straight, his hands folded neatly behind his back.
Yolan blinks, adjusting his spectacles as he looks at the newcomer. "Excuse me, who are you...?"
The young man bows his head slightly, his movement precise and formal.
"Adelberd, 203rd Company," he introduces himself, his voice crisp, deep, and perfectly articulated.
Yolan nods, pulling out another line on the roster parchment and handing him the pen. "Please sign here."
Adelberd takes the pen with a polite nod, steps forward, and writes his name in flawless, elegant calligraphy. He sets the pen back into the holder with meticulous care, then turns his blue eyes toward Aldo standing beside him, and down to Comtois, who is still lying prone on the marble floor, gasping for air.
Adelberd's brow shifts into a subtle look of quiet bewilderment. He looks at Aldo's quiet, composed stance, then down at Comtois's sweaty, splayed-out form on the ground.
So these two were... Aldo of the 204th Company and Comtois of the 203rd.
Aldo meets his gaze, stepping forward with a slight nod. "Yes, that's me."
Adelberd instantly extends his right hand, his posture coming back into rigid alignment. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I look forward to our cooperation in the upcoming Ofliran Duty."
Aldo takes his hand, exchanging a firm, single handshake.
From the floor, Comtois crawls up on his hands and knees, clinging to the front edge of the desk to haul his broad frame back up. He leans his head toward Aldo, his voice dropping into a loud, raspy whisper.
"This guy is overly polite."
Adelberd turns toward Comtois without a hint of offense, extending his hand directly to him. "It's a pleasure, Comtois. That is our Deutsche culture."
Comtois wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his sleeve, reaching out to shake Adelberd's hand with a slight frown. "You're also a slave soldier like us."
Adelberd gives a light, dignified nod of his head. "Indeed. Those companies starting with the number 200 were all formed from summoned slave soldiers."
Adelberd turns his blue eyes back to Aldo, his hands folding neatly behind his waist once more. "Have you gentlemen researched the Republic of Ofliran? Understanding its geography and regional logistics is very important before setting out."
Comtois leans his back against the desk, wiping his wet face with his collar, and replies nonchalantly, "I haven't."
Aldo folds his arms across his chest, his tone shifting into his usual calm, analytical rhythm.
"It's a member state of the Mikhland Federation, like this Palantine of Heilop," Aldo explains, his dark eyes looking past Adelberd toward the grand map of the continent hanging on the Rotunda wall. "Heilop is situated in Mediplana, in central Mikhland—a vast, fertile, mild-water plain inland. Ofliran, on the other hand, is located in Gertrudia, in southern Mikhland—a dry, rocky grassland territory. Ofliran occupies a narrow stretch of territory along the Gertrudia coastline, with several key overseas island territories and a subtropical climate."
Adelberd's lips curve into a faint, highly approved smile. He gives a slow, respectful nod.
"That is very commendable, Mr. Aldo," Adelberd says, his voice warm with genuine respect. "A truly disciplined man. I expect we will cooperate effectively on the field." He turns his blue eyes back down to Comtois, his expression shifting into a firm, unyielding resolve. "And Mr. Comtois, please come with me to the library."
Comtois's mouth drops open in sheer shock. He stares at Adelberd as if the blonde teenager had just suggested they jump off the high lead roof of the Rotunda.
"Wait!" Comtois shouts, throwing his arms out wide, his sweaty face twisting in protest. "We're not leaving for another week! Let's chill and plan first!"
Adelberd's expression remains entirely calm, his posture rigid as a iron rod. He nods once, his blue eyes unblinking.
"I understand," Adelberd replies, his tone completely even, devoid of any frustration. "Let's go to the library."
Comtois takes a quick step back, his brain frantically searching for a way out. He clears his throat, putting on a highly serious, stressed expression as he pats his chest pockets.
"Excuse me," Comtois stammers, nodding rapidly toward the exit. "But my 205th company needs a urgent personnel reorganization. I need permission to leave to complete the paperwork at our camp."
Adelberd looks at him for a long moment, then gives another polite bow of his head. "I understand. See you tomorrow."
Without another word, Aldo, Comtois, and Onaga turn around and march rapidly out of the Rotunda hall, descending the wide marble steps into the warm sunshine of the public square.
As soon as they clear the shadow of the fluted columns, Comtois lets out a loud, agonized groan, clutching his head with both hands.
"The guy we're about to work with is like a robot!" Comtois complains violently, his boots slamming against the smooth square flagstones.
Onaga walks beside him, a soft, ringing laugh escaping his lips as he covers his mouth with his small hand.
"That's just German politeness and professionalism, haha!" Onaga giggles, his delicate face lighting up with humor.
Comtois shakes his head back and forth, his hands gesturing wildly in the air as they walk. "As if programmed! I'm literally imagining Germany as 100% steel! All factories, all machines, steam blowing out of smoke stacks, and the people are half-human, half-machine with deeply integrated machinery into their bodies!"
Onaga chuckles softly, shaking his head. "It's not that bad, Comtois."
Comtois turns his head toward Aldo, his brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. "Hey, Germany is in Western Europe, right?"
Aldo walks with steady, measured steps, his eyes looking straight ahead at the crowded square.
"Politically, economically, and culturally, yes," Aldo answers calmly. "But geographically, I think it's considered Central Europe."
Comtois grumbles under his breath, kicking a small stray pebble off the marble path. "How old is he, anyway?"
Onaga taps his fingers against his chin, recalling the roster files. "I remember he's 16."
Onaga turns his head to look at Comtois, his eyes flashing with a playful, teasing smirk. "Hey, Comtois... what you just said back there about needing to do 'personnel reorganization' for your company... that was a complete lie, wasn't it?"
Onaga leans in slightly, his voice dropping into a quiet chuckle.
"Your company's ledgers are literally just tattered pieces of scrap paper with the name, age, and height of a person written in charcoal, with only two checkboxes at the bottom: 'Dead' or 'Alive to swing Axe'."
Comtois stops mid-stride, throwing his head back and bursting into a loud, boisterous laugh that makes passing merchants turn to look at them.
"YES!" Comtois bellows, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "It's simple! Simple and effective! Unlike Aldo, with his absurd Resource Ledger, Finance Ledger, Personnel Ledger, and that ridiculous complicated Membership Card system!"
They reach the shade of the large oak tree near the edge of the square. Lourdes and Hano are still sitting on the stone bench.
Comtois marches over, immediately diving into an exaggerated retell of their encounter with Adelberd, gesturing wildly with his heavy arms to describe the blonde German's rigid posture and formal speech.
Lourdes sits quietly on the bench, her back resting against the stone pillar. Her sharp, hollowed face is turned toward the bustling streets of Polih, her dark brown eyes watching the rich merchants in silk tunics and the armed Federation guards strolling through the square.
"How hateful this rotten feudal government is," Lourdes mutters under her breath, her raspy voice dripping with quiet poison.
Beside her, Hano is casually chewing on a dry, crumbly biscuit, completely unbothered by her dark mood.
Comtois continues his dramatic story, describing how Adelberd had tried to drag him directly to the municipal library to study regional geography.
Lourdes's head turns sharply. A rare, bright smile breaks across her pale face, her dark eyes flashing with sudden, genuine interest.
"I'll contact him," Lourdes says, her voice rising with a rare note of hope as she sits up straight. "I'll invite him to join our side. He's German, raised in a proper democracy back on Earth. He will surely fight for and advocate for democracy far more than you Orientals ever will."
Hano doesn't even pause. He continues munching on his biscuit, his eyes scanning the square lazily as he swallows a dry mouthful.
Across from them, Onaga stands near the stone fountain, gazing up in quiet awe at the massive Gothic Cathedral rising behind the Rotunda, its massive rose window catching the golden rays of the midday sun.
Comtois pulls a fresh, thick meat sandwich out of his parchment wrapping, taking a massive, noisy bite and chewing happily.
Aldo pulls a warm, fried slice of thick grain bread from his pouch, taking a quiet, measured bite as he watches the crowds move across the square.
Lourdes looks at Hano's biscuit, then at Comtois's thick meat sandwich, and finally at Aldo's fried bread. Her sharp nose twitches as the smell of warm fat and baked grain hits her face.
An sudden, violent rumble echoes loudly from her stomach.
Her pale face flushes with a sudden, deep embarrassment. She looks away, biting her lower lip, but her pride crumbles under the overwhelming pang of hunger lingering from her days in the mines.
Slowly, reluctantly, Lourdes holds out her trembling, calloused right hand toward the four boys, her fingers palm-up.
"You guys..." she grumbles, her raspy voice tight with annoyance, her eyes staring resolutely at the ground. "Give me a piece... I haven't eaten anything yet today."