Arin woke to misery.
Cold clung to his skin like a second layer. Wetness seeped into every thread of his clothes. Something sticky—he refused to think too hard about what—glued fabric to flesh. And beneath it all, exhaustion weighed on him like a lead blanket.
All in all, he would not recommend it.
He cracked one eye open, then immediately regretted it. The dull red of the fog hung low over the encampment, thick and oppressive. Even the morning light struggled to pierce through it, leaving everything in a dim, lifeless haze.
"I swear," Tom's voice rang out from somewhere nearby, far too energetic for someone in their condition, "we have much to learn. This—this is terrible for morale. I am not fighting another battle before I am clean!"
Arin groaned softly and rolled onto his side, only to wince as dried blood cracked against his skin.
"Shut up, Tom…" Bertho's voice slurred from the other side of the camp. "Let me sleep… I just got comfortable…"
It was a lie, and everyone knew it. No one in their right mind had dared crawl into their tents or bedrolls. Not in this state. The filth coating them would ruin everything. Most of their gear would probably have to be thrown away as it was.
A tragic loss.
"Sorry, Bertho," Tom continued, though not nearly quiet enough to count as an apology. "But I'm getting the campfire going. Somehow, I'm still not dry. I suspect hypothermia."
That got a few groans from nearby soldiers.
Arin sighed and pushed himself up—only to freeze mid-motion as dizziness hit him. His body protested, slow and heavy, as though even standing required permission.
A blink later—
Tom nearly jumped out of his skin.
Arin was suddenly beside the fire pit.
"…Don't do that," Tom muttered, clutching his chest.
"Please get the fire going," Arin said calmly, as though he hadn't just appeared out of thin air. "And once we're dry, we should look for a stream. I doubt the fog will clear anytime soon… and I highly doubt they'll force us across that cliff of corpses again."
A pause.
"I'd like to rest today," Arin added, quieter now. "I'm spent. My stamina hasn't even recovered yet."
His gaze flickered briefly to something only he could see.
Stamina: 100 / 140
Not ideal.
"So get the fire going," he finished, crouching down and poking at the smouldering embers.
Tom, grumbling under his breath, got to work. Sparks soon caught, flames licking hungrily at the kindling. Slowly, warmth began to spread.
Around them, the camp stirred.
Muttering voices rose in irritation at the early activity. A boot was thrown somewhere. Someone cursed loudly. Another rolled over and tried—unsuccessfully—to ignore the growing firelight.
But despite their complaints, they all drifted closer to the flames.
Warmth was too precious to refuse.
"Right," Eloi said, standing at the head of the command tent.
The atmosphere inside was tense. Legion commanders filled the space, their expressions grim, their armour still bearing the marks of yesterday's battle.
"I've thought it over this morning," Eloi continued. "In my opinion, we don't have time to rest."
A few brows furrowed.
"I propose we cover our faces with cloth," he went on, "and march straight through the fog. We keep moving forward. We need more ground—more foothold for the army."
Silence followed.
It wasn't that the plan was unreasonable. In fact, it was straightforward. Logical, even.
Which made it all the more dangerous.
"Does anyone have objections?" Eloi asked, scanning the room.
For a moment, none spoke.
Then—
"Have you relayed your plan to Central Command?"
The question cut cleanly through the tent.
Eloi's jaw tightened.
Of course, they'd ask that.
For a brief moment, irritation flared—sharp and biting. Did they really need permission for something this basic? This obvious?
But just as quickly, he forced the emotion down.
He understood the concern.
"Yes," he said with a controlled breath. "I've contacted Central. They agreed with the plan. We need more boots on the ground."
That wasn't the full truth.
Not even close.
But it was enough.
"…Very well."
One by one, the commanders nodded.
"Then that's settled," Eloi said. "We move in one hour. Prepare your legions—we catch the goblins off guard."
With that, he turned and exited the tent.
Selvijs fell into step beside him.
"That wasn't very kind of you," Selvijs remarked lightly. "That wasn't the whole truth about Central's letter."
Eloi exhaled slowly.
"No," he admitted. "It wasn't."
A pause stretched between them.
"But what would you have me do?" Eloi continued. "That theory… It's frightening. And it makes too much sense."
Selvijs didn't respond.
"If we tell them," Eloi said quietly, "it will shatter morale. And we cannot afford that. Not now."
His gaze drifted toward the fog.
"So we do our best," he finished, though the confidence in his voice rang hollow.
Because if that theory were true…
This attack would be far more difficult than anyone wanted to admit.
"Aah… finally dry," Arin sighed.
Warmth had returned to his body, replacing the earlier numbness. It should have been a relief.
Instead—
Crack.
He winced.
The dried blood coating his skin had hardened, and now it split painfully with every movement.
"…This might be worse," he muttered.
Still, he stood, stretching slightly. His plan was simple: find water, clean himself, salvage what he could—
A horn sounded.
Loud. Sharp. Unmistakable.
Orders.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
"Well," Bertho said, appearing beside him with a grin that could only be described as malicious, "guess you were wrong, Arin. Looks like we're marching after all."
Arin stared at him, utterly defeated.
"Find a cloth," Bertho continued cheerfully. "Cover your face. We're attacking in an hour."
The sun had already climbed high overhead, its light diffused into a pale glow by the ever-present fog.
"I will keep my mouth shut from now on," Arin said solemnly. "And after this, I am going to file a complaint against the commander for war crimes."
That earned a burst of laughter.
"I support this!" someone shouted.
"Add my name to it!"
"Make it a petition!"
As the laughter spread, the tension in the air eased—just a little.
Eventually, their attention shifted.
Toward Karl.
He stood slightly apart, meticulously checking his gear. Unlike the others, he didn't joke. Didn't complain—well, not loudly.
Because he was the one who brought them orders.
And no one else wanted that responsibility.
"Don't worry, Arin," Karl said without looking up. "I've already complained to the commander for you."
That got their attention.
"You'll never guess," he continued, voice thick with indignation. "The bastard was clean."
Silence.
"He took a shower."
Outrage erupted.
"He what?!"
"In this economy?!"
"Unbelievable!"
"Something about 'privilege,'" Karl grumbled. "Disgraceful."
He finally looked up.
"Anyway, I won't be joining you. I'm staying near the commander."
A pause.
"To make sure he gets another bath."
The camp exploded into laughter.
"But listen," Karl added, suddenly serious. "Check your gear. Stock up on arrows. At least a hundred—more if you can carry them."
Then, just as quickly, he returned to muttering about incompetent commanders and a lack of proper leadership.
The laughter lingered.
And with it—something else.
Energy.
Within the hour, two bets spread across the camp.
The first: whether Eloi had showered specifically to annoy Karl.
The second: how many times Eloi would "accidentally" fall into a puddle of blood.
The first bet saw little interest. No one believed Eloi would ever admit to such a thing.
The second—
Chaos.
Lines were drawn. Groups formed. Arguments erupted.
Ten factions could have been born from the betting pool.
And so—
While other legions marched into the mist with dread, despair weighing on their every step…
Legion 23 ran.
Not walked.
Ran.
Straight into the fog.
Grinning.
Because if you didn't place a bet, you didn't get points.
And if you didn't get points—
Well.
That was simply unacceptable.
It was for this reason, among many others, that Legion 23 had earned its nickname.
The Crazy Legion.
And as they vanished into the mist, laughter echoing behind them—
One thing was certain.
Whatever awaited them ahead…
They would face it smiling.