Whoosh.
A chilly wind swept through the battlements, carrying the metallic scent of last night's blood and burnt powder. It was a sharp "Coffee Break" that jolted their minds awake. Below them, the streets were a hive of activity. Black Templars and support units bustled about, preparing for the next crusade.
Clank. Clank.
As they passed the smithy, Hiro saw the same muscled, shirtless veterans from yesterday hammering away with zealous concentration. He glanced toward the armory. I need to check on that barrel, it might have some powder left.
Finally, they arrived at their new home.
The Distribution and Deployment Station. The official "office" of the Logistics Squadron.
It was a rundown, two-story structure tucked away behind the armory like a forgotten storage closet.
Still better than a mud-choked trench, Hiro thought, eyeing the strange, rectangular tent grafted onto the side of the building.
"Well, let's get inside," John said. His voice was steady, but his eyes weren't smiling.
Creaaak.
John pushed open the groaning front door, and they stepped into a thick fog of stale dust and mold.
Silence.
The building wasn't just in poor condition; it was administratively neglected. Dust-caked tables were surrounded by a graveyard of mismatched chairs. Cabinets hung open with askew doors, and the window glass was so grimy that the sunlight struggled to penetrate the filth. It hadn't been cleaned in months—maybe years.
Hiro gaped. He wasn't a total clean-freak, but even the deepest grease traps in his restaurant had more dignity than this.
"Haha… let's check the next room," John said. His voice was light, but there was a sharp, dangerous glint in his eyes that suggested he was one dirty floor away from a breakdown.
"Alright," Hiro complied.
He had never seen the peace-loving John this visibly irritated. The "Cultural Shock" of moving from a Royal Palace to a dump was clearly taking its toll. I feel you, brother.
They pushed through the double-entry doors on the left.
The air hit them first—heavy, humid, and rank with the scent of rancid grease.
It was a kitchen.
Hiro felt like stepping back into a forgotten era. And he wasn't referring to the medieval appliances.
The burners were encrusted with carbonized food, and the cupboards hung at drunken angles, one door dangling by a single, rusted hinge. A corroded faucet stood sentry over a mountain of fossilized dishes in the sink. No wonder they were short on holy water.
"John."
"Yes, Einar."
"Did the briefing mention exactly how long the previous Logistics Squadron has been gone for?"
"Somewhere around two days, I believe," John replied.
"I see." Hiro reached out, his finger barely grazing a cupboard door.
Creak—thud.
The wood gave up and hit the floor with a hollow, dusty slap.
"Funny," Hiro said, a sheepish, pained smile tugging at his lips. "The place looks like it's been untouched for two centuries, not two days."
"L-Let's just check the upstairs," John stammered, his professional composure beginning to fray at the edges.
They moved to the second floor and checked every room; they were shit.
John's face hardened into a mask of cold, silent fury. He didn't say a word after the last room nearly gave them both tuberculosis on the spot.
Hiro found himself increasing his pace just to keep up with John's sudden stride.
They descended and threw open the final door on the first floor—the one leading into the massive, rectangular tent they'd seen from the outside.
Theo and the rest of the brothers were already there, "setting up their bunks." In reality, it was a grim DIY project; they were layering old Templar tabards together and sewing them into makeshift bedrolls on the hard ground.
Snap.
Hm? What was that sound? Hiro wondered.
It sounded like the final string of a man's sanity finally snapped.
"Haha… so this is how they want to play?" John said. The words were airy, but the tone was menacing. His smile was strained, and a vein the size of an earthworm throbbed on his forehead.
John grabbed a nearby mismatched chair and stood on it like a podium. Every head in the tent snapped toward him.
"Brothers! Hear me!" John roared, his eyes ablaze with a righteous, unholy fire.
The unit moved in a blurred unison of plate armor and discipline, forming a perfect rank-and-file line.
"We have endured so much!" John cried, slamming his palm across his heart.
The brothers followed suit, their expressions shifting into a collective, solemn mourning.
"We were humiliated, yet we endured! We were shackled like common criminals, yet we endured! We were sent to 'Repent' for sins we never committed, and still, we stood firm! But how low have we truly fallen, brothers…?"
What the hell is happening? Hiro rubbed his eyes, half-convinced the mold spores were causing him to hallucinate.
John wasn't finished. He curled his hands into white-knuckled fists, his voice reaching a fever pitch.
"Brothers! Will you endure it any longer while they trample on our honor?!"
"NO!"
A thunderous, guttural roar shook the fabric of the tent.
"Will you stand idly by while they spit on our Commander's grave?!"
"NO!"
Sob–sob.
The speech was so fiery, so laden with the weight of their fallen Commander, that several of the battle-hardened knights began to shed thick, manly tears.
"Then the day has come for us to purge this filth!" John drew his sword, the steel singing as it caught the dim light. "We will show these fools why we were once called the Lions of the Holy Empire! We will show them that even in the dirt, we are the Kings of the Jungle!"
"UWWOOOHH!!"
The collective roar was so immense that dust shook loose from the tent seams and the ground trembled beneath their boots.
Hiro just gaped. Are they... are they going to raise a mutiny over a filthy room?
His John wasn't supposed to be the second coming of Hitler. He was the "Perfect Manager." Hiro flashed back to John's dazzling, heroic smile as he'd imparted those calm bits of wisdom just minutes ago.
He had to stop this madness. If they staged a mutiny against hundreds of Black Templars inside their own fortress, they wouldn't be "avenging" anyone—they'd be purged instead. Hiro couldn't risk his only ticket home over a dirty breakroom. He needed to find Theo. As the former Vice-Commander, surely he was the "Senior Executive" who could quell this nightmare.
Where is he!? Hiro's eyes darted through the dust-filled tent, searching for the blonde man.
"DEATH TO THEM ALL!" Theo was roaring, brandishing his sword and cheering alongside the rank-and-file.
Hiro stood speechless.
"Now I know why your Commander chose to sacrifice himself." Hiro muttered under his breath.
Seeing that his "Senior Executive" was useless. Hiro approached John without a second thought.
"John! What the hell are you doing!?" Hiro shouted over the din. "Didn't you say someone needs to be the anchor?! That the unit would lose control without you?!"
"Fret not, Einar!" John yelled back, his voice cracking with a terrifying zeal. "We will avenge Godfrey today and sink this entire ship together!"
The chestnut haired man had clearly suffered a total system failure from the "prank" the Black Templars had played on them. Personally, Hiro agreed they were treating them badly. But they were technically prisoners. This much was a given.
"Are you crazy!?" Hiro tried to reason, desperately hurling John's own wisdom back at him. "You said we shouldn't judge them so quickly! You said there was a silver lining to this!"
"I did!" John grinned, his eyes unfocused and swimming with madness. "And I've judged that the Black Templars are fit to be thrown into Hell. They can find their silver lining there!"
Hiro gaped in disbelief.
The man was too far gone. The "Perfect Manager" had gone rogue. Hiro placed a palm across his face, sighing.
I have no choice.
Hiro decided to handle the "Staff Riot" the only way a frustrated manager knows how.
He started from the head of the department first.
He kicked John. Hard.
"Uagh!"
CRASH.
John went flying, crashing into a pile of nearby crates in the corner. He disappeared into the wood and dust, his armored legs flailing comically in the air.
Hiro stepped up onto the chair, taking the "Podium" that John had just vacated.
"Look! It's the Immortal Einar! He's going to lead the purge!"
"Avenge your brother, Einar!"
"Einar! Einar! Einar!"
This idiot cultist knight. Hiro thought, a fresh migraine blooming behind his eyes. He cleared his throat and launched into his best professional customer complaint handling pitch.
"Hear me, brothers!" Hiro began. "My brother once said, 'Success is the best revenge.' I'm not telling you to simply endure. No, I share your pain." Hiro clutched his heart, feigning a deep, soulful sorrow.
"We will have our vengeance—but not today." Hiro stared at each of them, desperately hoping some shred of 21st-century logic would penetrate their thick, medieval skulls. "We must be patient. We bide our time until the fruit of revenge is ripe for the plucking. Let us improve ourselves first! Let us show them we can overcome any challenge, no matter how grim!"
Hiro finished with a solemn, hand-over-heart pose he'd mastered during a grueling management retreat.
One hand shot up from the crowd.
"Yes? You there. What is it, brother?" Hiro pointed to a man with shock-blue hair.
"That's all well and good, Einar. But how are we supposed to 'Improve' in this junk heap? We don't even have a working toilet!"
"True! True!" another knight shouted. "We'll die of constipation before an abomination even gets a chance to bite us!"
"Yeah! Down with the lack of basic sanitation! Ugh. My stomach is churning now."
The mob's complaints were, unfortunately, 100% on point. Hiro felt cornered. He'd forgotten the golden rule of labor relations: you can't preach "Company Loyalty" to employees who don't have a bathroom.
Suddenly a voice interjected.
"We have other ways, though," Theo said, stepping forward with a sharp, knowing smirk. "We have someone here with the 'Bargaining Power' to negotiate directly with their Commander."