The second day at Field 03B began fairly quiet like a nature camping rather than camping for war.
Soldiers adjusted armor and checked straps. Subjugators sharpened blades, stretched their limbs, or finished what little breakfast they had. Smoke rose from scattered fire pits. It all looked routine.
But it wasn't.
There was tension—thin, quiet, and waiting.
They knew the remaining Keepers would arrive sooner or later. And the march will become official.
Shane stood near the center of the camp, going over a small map in his hand. His expression remained calm, but his eyes were sharp, calculating.
Ulon sat nearby, chewing on a piece of dried meat.
"If they follow the schedule," Ulon said casually, "we still have a day before they show up."
Maddy, leaning against a supply crate, nodded.
"Good. That gives us time, actually, to prepare instead of pretending we're ready."
Shalotte, who was trying to fix a tent rope, added nervously,
"We've been preparing for a month. I—I think we're already prepared…"
The rope slipped from his hand.
"…Mostly."
Petra quietly stepped in and tied it properly without a word.
Ulon sighed, stuffed the remaining meat into his mouth, "If the Keepers don't mess this up," He muttered, "we might actually walk out alive."
Maddy shot him a look, "That's a big 'if.'"
Ulon grinned, "They shouldn't."
Maynard put down his plate, he wiped his lips with a white handkerchief. "We need to believe in them. They were the last line of defense for humankind. If they fall, we fall."
Kiel scratched his cheek.
"But they're Keepers, right? That means they're the strongest."
Ulon let out a dry chuckle.
"Strongest doesn't mean perfect, kid."
"Even the mightiest can fall," Maynard stood up, dusted his robe, and added gently,
"Fate is a gamble, but faith must remain absolute. Lord Tharion will guide us through this ordeal."
Shane folded the map slowly.
"Fated or not, we don't rely on faith and hope alone," he said. "We prepare for the worst."
His tone was calm, but firm.
"We do our part. They do theirs."
Ulon snorted.
"Let's just hope their 'part' doesn't end with us cleaning up their mess."
Maddy crossed her arms tighter.
"If they fail again… this won't just be a bad mission."
No one needed to finish that sentence.
Because everyone understood.
If the Keepers failed—
There would be no retreat.
Only slaughter.
Shane was about to speak again—
When the wind shifted.
Then—
A distant rumble.
Low and heavy.
Wheels.
Everyone paused.
Ulon frowned.
"…That's not on schedule."
Shane slowly turned toward the northern path.
Dust was rising.
Fast.
Too fast.
"They're early," Shane said.
Maddy straightened.
"Of course they are."
The sound grew louder—wagons creaking, horses marching, and beneath it—
Chains.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
The camp went still.
Soon, the convoy came into view.
At the front were mounted soldiers, disciplined and steady. Behind them came large wagons filled with supplies and personnel.
And then—
The cages.
Dozens of them.
Wood and iron. Tight. Cramped.
Filled with people.
The chains rattled again.
Kiel's voice dropped.
"…Why bring slaves here?"
Shalotte swallowed.
"…Meat shields…"
Petra's grip on her scythe tightened slightly.
Maddy looked away for a moment.
"…So nothing's changed."
Maynard lowered his gaze.
"…War often reveals the worst of us."
Ulon clicked his tongue.
"Or the truth of us."
Shane remained still, but his jaw tightened.
"Expendables were necessary," he said quietly.
At the center of the approaching force, four figures, all covered with gray hoods, rode ahead of the main convoy.
It was the Keepers.
Their presence alone pressed against the air.
One of them took the hood off, a lean woman with sharp eyes and tied-back dark hair, stepped down from her horse before it fully stopped.
Samantha Hawk.
She moved lightly, almost lazily, but her authority was unmistakable.
"We've met again," she called, her tone steady, "I forgot your name."
Shane walked forward to meet them.
"Shane, Miss Hawk," he replied. "Our last meeting was rather unpleasant to say the least."
He smiled faintly, "I hope the cooperation we have today will bring a pleasant result."
The other Keepers passed the subjugators slowly, each carrying their own weight of presence. None of them greeted nor even spared a glance. They went straight to the main tent where Former Duke Eason was residing.
Soldiers immediately began organizing the wagons, while others secured the perimeter.
But the cages…
They remained.
Still. Visible. Unavoidable.
—
Inside the tent—seated across from Eason Leonhart—
The shadow in the wooden chair stirred.
Klaus sat still, his body hidden beneath the Cloak of Nothing. The darkness around him seemed thicker now, heavier, as if it was breathing with him.
Or against him.
Outside, the rattling of chains echoed again.
Clink.
Clink.
Clink.
His fingers twitched.
Just once.
Eason noticed.
But said nothing yet.
Klaus did not move, yet his gaze—hidden beneath the hood—was locked on the cages outside the small wagon window.
And then—
Memory came.
Not gently.
Not slowly.
It dragged him back.
—
Two years ago.
The same sound.
Chains.
The same cramped space.
Bodies pressed together. Heat suffocating. The smell of sweat, fear… and despair.
He remembered the rough wood digging into his back. The iron bars cold against his skin.
He remembered not having space to breathe.
He remembered—
Leopold.
Sitting beside him, calm even then.
"Don't waste your strength," the old man had said quietly. "You'll need it later."
Klaus looked at the old, nodded. Young and powerless, he knew he couldn't do anything.
"…We're going to die anyway," he muttered.
Leopold only smiled faintly.
"Then die standing. Maybe kill few."
—
The memory snapped.
Back to the present.
Klaus's breath grew uneven.
The air inside the massive tent felt… smaller.
The cloak flickered.
Just for a moment—
The heavy presence around him surged outward.
Sharp. Violent.
Outside, nearby horses suddenly neighed in panic, stepping back.
A soldier cursed, trying to calm it.
Inside, the wood chairs and tables creaked softly.
Eason tapped his cane once on the ground.
Then, casually—he reached forward and tapped Klaus on the shoulder.
"Compose yourself," Eason said calmly, his voice smooth and controlled. "You are no longer within that cage."
Klaus didn't respond immediately.
His hand slowly clenched.
Then unclenched.
The presence wavered… then settled.
Silence returned inside the wagon.
After a moment, Klaus spoke.
"I am."
His voice was low.
Controlled. But not calm.
Eason studied him quietly, then sighed, leaning back slightly.
"Memory," he said, almost thoughtfully, "is both a weapon and a chain. It appears yours remains… rather heavy."
Klaus let out a slow breath.
Outside, the cages remained in view.
But his gaze had changed.
It was no longer distant.
It was sharp.
Focused.
"…Two years ago," Klaus said quietly, "I was in one of those."
Eason didn't interrupt.
"I was being sent to die," Klaus continued. "Just like them."
He paused.
Then added,
"I survived."
A brief silence followed.
Then Eason smiled faintly.
"And now?" he asked.
Klaus leaned back slightly, the shadows around him settling into stillness.
"…Now," he said, "I decide who dies."