The next morning arrived faster.
Not because of the sun.
Because the body no longer recognized rest.
Gunther woke before the crystal lamps flared to full light. His chest still felt heavy, the pulse resting there like embers buried beneath ash—not burning, but never extinguished.
In the barracks, the number of empty beds had increased.
No one counted.
No one spoke names.
Guard footsteps returned—this time quicker. No pause. No allowance for bodies to pretend they were ready.
"Up."
The same word.
A different day.
The food was thinner than yesterday.
More diluted porridge, the same bowls. Gunther ate without taste, his jaw working on instinct. His body stored every swallow as if it already knew what would be demanded of it.
Outside the barracks, the morning air smelled of old smoke.
The same field.
The same direction.
Only more bodies on the ground.
The young officer stood before them again.
His uniform was still clean.
His metal slate now carried more scratches.
"Rotation," he said curtly.
No further explanation.
They were armed again.
Different blades, equally worn.
Lighter shields—and thinner.
Gunther felt the imbalance immediately. The weight of the weapon no longer felt unfamiliar, but his body responded differently. Every small movement triggered a faint pulse in his chest, like an early warning he did not yet understand.
The gate opened.
This time, there was no pause.
No chance to adjust to the light.
They advanced at once.
Contact came faster.
The first arrow cut through the air with a sharp hiss. A man ahead of Gunther fell without a sound, a small hole in his throat spilling dark blood.
Gunther moved before he realized he was moving.
His shield rose.
His step slid sideways.
Too late to be called reflex.
Too fast to be coincidence.
He slammed shoulder-first into an enemy emerging from the smoke. The body flew back, Gunther's blade following, plunging beneath the ribs.
Pain arrived.
Not from the wound.
From inside.
As if something were being forced along a path not yet ready.
Gunther gasped.
He did not stop.
Around him, expendables fell again.
Faster than yesterday.
Quieter.
The war was learning.
And Gunther's body—
—was learning with it.
Gunther moved too far ahead.
He realized it only when the smoke around him thinned and the sounds behind him changed. The expendables' screams sounded distant, fragmented, as if coming from somewhere else.
He was in front.
Alone.
The ground beneath his feet was more compact, marked by heavy enemy footprints. A shallow trench lay a few steps ahead—ground taken, then abandoned.
The pulse in his chest quickened.
No longer a warning.
A push.
Gunther jumped into the trench just as an arrow sliced through the air where his head had been. He hit the hard earth shoulder-first, rolling roughly, pain flaring sharply through his arm.
He rose halfway.
Two enemies were there.
One was wounded, clutching his thigh with trembling hands. The other was intact, blade raised high, breathing heavy but controlled.
They faced each other.
No shouts.
No threats.
Only the wrong distance.
The uninjured one attacked first.
Gunther raised his shield, but the angle was off. The impact struck his arm's side, the vibration rattling into bone. The enemy's blade cut into his upper arm, deep enough for warm blood to spill.
Pain triggered the pulse.
Flooded his chest.
For a moment, the world narrowed.
Gunther counterattacked with a rough, uncontrolled swing. His blade struck the enemy's shoulder—not fatal, but enough to stagger him.
The wounded man screamed.
He tried to stand.
Gunther moved without thinking.
His blade plunged in.
Once.
Then again.
The body fell and stopped moving.
When Gunther turned, the uninjured enemy was ready.
Too close.
The blade crashed into Gunther's shield, forcing him back until his spine hit the trench wall. The breath was knocked from his lungs.
The pulse in his chest became crushing pressure.
Not power.
Coercion.
Gunther surged forward.
Not with technique.
With his body.
They collided brutally. Teeth clashed. Breath mixed. Gunther felt the enemy's blade slice into his side—but he didn't stop. He smashed his forehead into the man's face, once, twice, until the grip weakened.
The blade dropped.
Gunther gave no time.
He stabbed.
The man went still, eyes wide open.
For several seconds, Gunther did not move.
His hands trembled.
Not from fear.
Because the pulse refused to leave.
Above the trench, shadows shifted.
Too late.
He had gone too far.
A hand grabbed his collar and yanked him upward. Gunther almost struck before he saw the Galmascan uniform.
"Don't die alone, idiot," someone said in a hoarse voice.
He was thrown out of the trench.
Sound rushed back into the world.
Shouts.
Explosions.
War.
Gunther staggered, blood dripping from his arm to the ground.
The pulse in his chest slowly receded.
Leaving deep ache behind.
And one bitter realization.
He had nearly died.
Not because he was weak.
Because he moved too fast.
The war did not reward that.
They were pulled back when the sun stood too high to be called morning.
Not because they had won.
Because something else was being prepared behind the lines.
A long whistle cut through the chaos—sharp and commanding. The expendables retreated unevenly, stumbling over one another, dragging those who could still be dragged.
Gunther walked with a limp.
His wounds were crudely wrapped in cloth already darkened with blood. It still seeped slowly, following the pulse that had settled back into his chest.
Near the gate, they were stopped.
An older officer waited.
Not the young one.
This one carried no metal slate.
His hands were empty.
His eyes were not.
He studied the remaining line with a long gaze, as if counting something he never intended to write down.
"You," he said, pointing at Gunther.
One finger.
Enough.
Gunther stopped.
The others kept walking.
For a moment, he stood alone on open ground.
The old officer approached.
He was shorter than Gunther expected. His hair was neatly cut, nearly white. His face bore few scars—too clean for someone standing this far from Galmasca's walls.
"Name?"
Gunther opened his mouth.
No sound came out.
"Not important," the officer said before Gunther could try again.
He turned toward the field.
"You move too fast."
Not an accusation.
An observation.
"And you're still alive."
He looked back at Gunther.
"That's a dangerous combination."
Gunther did not lower his head.
Nor did he meet the stare with defiance.
He stood.
Still.
The old officer smiled faintly.
Not kindly.
"If you want to stay alive," he continued, "learn to move at the right time."
He stepped past Gunther.
"Not before."
"Not after."
A guard gestured.
Gunther was released.
He rejoined the line without a word spoken.
In the lower barracks, his body finally gave in.
He sat too quickly, pain slamming into his side and stealing his breath. He braced himself by gripping the edge of the bed, nails biting into cold metal.
The pulse in his chest beat slowly.
Not pushing.
Not dragging.
Waiting.
For the first time, Gunther recognized something more dangerous than pain.
That aura—
—it could learn.
And if he didn't learn to control it first,
the war would do it for him.
That night, the barracks never truly darkened.
The crystal lamps dimmed just enough to leave long shadows on the walls, doubling the shapes of the beds. Bodies lay scattered without order—some asleep from exhaustion, others merely closing their eyes, waiting for pain to recede on its own terms.
Gunther lay on his back.
He did not sleep.
Every breath pulled soreness from the wound in his side, but the pulse in his chest demanded more attention. It didn't move. It didn't press. As if something inside him were reevaluating what had happened.
Footsteps approached.
Not guards.
Lighter steps, hesitant in places, as if their owner wasn't used to walking among people who might not wake again.
The figure stopped beside Gunther's bed.
"The trench," a voice whispered.
Gunther opened his eyes.
The man who had pulled him out stood there. His face was clearer now—older than Gunther had thought, lined with unhidden fatigue. His uniform was worn, patched in places with thread of different colors.
"You move fast," he continued.
Not praise.
Not condemnation.
Fact.
Gunther didn't answer.
He waited.
The man sighed softly and sat on the empty bed beside him.
"Don't do that again without a reason," he said. "Speed without timing only makes you visible."
Gunther felt a small pulse in his chest, as if the word visible touched something raw.
"Galmasca doesn't like what's visible," the man added.
He glanced toward the corridor, making sure no guards were near.
"They like what's useful," he said. "And what can be thrown away."
Silence settled between them.
"Why help me?" Gunther asked at last.
His voice was hoarse, unused to questions.
The man smiled briefly.
"Because you already died once today," he replied. "And I don't like watching people die twice in stupid ways."
He stood.
Before leaving, he turned back.
"Learn to wait," he said. "The war always gives turns. You just have to live long enough to take yours."
His footsteps faded.
Gunther closed his eyes again.
The words weren't comforting.
But they stayed.
The pulse in his chest responded—slowly, almost in agreement.
Above them, far beyond layers of stone and iron, the cannons were being prepared again.
Not for tomorrow.
For after.
Gunther drew a deep breath.
If the war truly gave turns,
then he would make sure he was still standing when his turn came.