“... May the results of this battle bring us victory over our foes, peace to our families, and a world truly ruled by us, not by a distant monarch!”

As Nasition’s voice, ragged from the shouting, dies down, a unified roar of jubilation erupts from the tens of thousands of soldiers below, raising their fists in pride. Amongst the thundering series of claps, Nasition descends from the temporary stage on the battlefield, retreating to the Izatur, a mobile fortress, where Tevlaia and several other Battalion members are waiting.

The Izatur, although designed, like other mobile fortresses, to be purely a machine of war, with only little room for living space, it has been modified significantly to accommodate Nasition. Instead of thick, bland energy-resistant steel walls, the interior is decorated with a white wallpaper, spotless and pure, brightening up the atmosphere. Instead of the sprawling web of firearms, many are stripped to make way for another room, where four relatively large, comfortable chairs are placed, nailed to the ground. At the center lay a single table, carved with the rigid patterns of the Western, Staegondian style, with space for what should’ve been a screen. There, several soldiers of the Battalion Elethien stand in a neat formation, their uniforms untainted, yet their boots dyed with blood. To Nasition’s slight annoyance, they do not salute, only staring at him like faceless statues.

“The Battalion has delivered yet again,” he praises hollowly, “Acting as the spearhead of our offensive. The celebration out there, even if you do not accept it, belongs to every one of you.”

“Isn’t that what is expected of us?” Tevlaia fakes a smile, “With every single one of us on this battlefield, victory is virtually assured.”

“The total enemy casualty count seems to be just shy of one hundred thousand, of which nearly a third were inflicted by the Battalion,” Nasition continues, virtually ignoring Tevlaia’s response, “A fine job indeed. Although, in the end, thousands of the enemy have escaped, their largest force have been annihilated, and the path to their previously-hidden capital is open.”

“So much has been done in the short span of these past few months, hasn't it? Not to mention the astonishing success of a plan hastily laid out in a single week.” Tevlaia struggles to retain her composure, her muscles twitching in irritation. How fake.

“Yet we also suffered particularly heavy casualties, didn’t we, Tevlaia?” Nasition, sensing her unease, focuses his sharp gaze on her, “The Battalion lost a record number of a hundred and seven, with at least sixty dead or permanently injured. Although only a negligible fraction of a total of eighteen thousand casualties, this must be a huge blow to the Battalion’s prestige, doesn't it?” His eyes narrow, like a hunter targeting his prey.

“But whose idea was it to send all one thousand of us into this battle?” Tevlaia retorts. Even the soldiers beside her, still till now, are trembling with anger, their fists clenched tight.

“I’ve received reports that at the final moments of the battle, the enemy seems to have put up some sort of resistance in the form of hit-and-run tactics, which was the cause of most of our military’s, and more importantly, the Battalion’s casualties. Perhaps it was the lack of proper leadership inside the Battalion which caused these deaths?”

“The autonomy and command structure of the Battalion, as you know, are not fitted for rigid, concentrated attacks like this one, and somehow, you still decide to group us all together? Is it not your fault that so many of us died today?”

“And whose fault was it to not adapt to the circumstances and utilize other tactics?” Nasition sighs in disappointment, “Day after day, my trust in our most elite infantry organization decreases just a little further. Still, I believe in the superiority of the Battalion, the members handpicked from among the best in the military. But what about the army, the navy, the air and voidal forces? What about our allies? What about our rivals? What will they think when they realize the formerly dependable, nearly invincible Battalion is on a gradual decline, the blades no longer as sharp as they used to be?” Nasition approaches closer, his frightful expression a contrast to his soft, almost whispering voice.

“Are you sure you are not just setting us up to eventually uproot us, replacing us with another organization more loyal, more slavelike to you?” a Battalion soldier finally speaks up, his voice cynical, almost mocking.

Silence. Nasition turns his attention towards the soldier, raising an eyebrow at the offending statement. Tevlaia can only look at her fellow comrade with worry, watching as Nasition walks to the soldier, every step of his boots ringing in everyone’s ears.

“How long have you been serving in the Battalion?” Nasition asks, his voice demanding.

“Only about a year or so,” the soldier replies, realizing his mistake.

“Ah, do we have a little rebel here?” Nasition’s eyebrows twitch in displeasure, “You must’ve learned it from your seniors, didn’t you?”

The soldier is quiet, looking straight at Nasition as he straightens his posture.

“Do you know why the Battalion voluntarily follows my command when, even now, you can kill me whenever you desire?”

“No, I do not,” The soldier responds rudely.

“I have the support of the people. It’s that simple. They are, in a sense, my sword and shield. Kill me, and you will bring upon the wrath of the populace. Hate me if you like, but eventually the Battalion will be replaced, as is everything in the world, even the formerly ‘eternal’ Achien Empire.” He walks to a nearby table, where a display of a Wrakasen game board is projected onto its surface, the hand-carved, wooden pieces paused, standing still in a moment of battle. His fingers run across the smooth surface of a tall, majestic piece, surrounded by many smaller, cruder pieces of the opponent.

“The Isara. So beautiful. So powerful. The single strongest piece in the entire Wrakasen game,” he mutters, “Yet even this ‘invincible’ piece…” With a flick of his hand, the Isara falls, rolling off the table as one of the opponent’s pieces arrives to take its place. “… can be surrounded, hunted, killed, by mere pawns. For all its power, it is taken down by the collective might of little soldiers.”

He turns his sight to Tevlaia once again. “What good is an Isara when it is overwhelmed? Do you not remember it is the pawn that wins the board?” Tevlaia stares at the fallen Isara, now dead, lifeless on the floor.

“Nasition, you dare…” she begins, but is interrupted by the creaking of the doors.

“Excuse me, Common Leader,” one of Nasition’s bodyguards enters the mobile fortress, interrupting the heated argument, “One of our company leaders, Tanalien, would like to speak with you.”

Nasition turns around, shooting a condescending glare down towards his subordinate. “Tell her that I’m busy right now.” I have no time for such a trivial request. Slightly irritated to be interrupted, he quickly turns away, motioning for the guard to leave.

“Apparently she wants to report about a strange, unnatural event that happened as she led her company in pursuit of an enemy soldier. Something about a barrier and a sword…”

“Wait,” Nasition stops, “Repeat what you just said.” Surely it’s a mistake?

“Tanalien wants to report about an event that happened while she was pursuing an enemy soldier. It’s something about a barrier and a sword,” the guard rephrases.

“Looks like a pawn has got hold of an Isara,” Tevlaia mocks, echoing Nasition earlier, “I assume word has spread amongst the soldiers already.”

It couldn’t be him, could he? “Return to your quarters,” he commands the Battalion soldiers, “I’ll have a short conversation with my subordinate.”

Slowly, the Battalion soldiers file out, their expressions grim. Do not forget who brought you to your current state of power, Tevlaia thinks, Without us, you are merely a powerful pawn, but nonetheless still a pawn.

After a short while, the entrance of the Izatur opens again, and Tanalien enters, ushered in by two of Nasition’s bodyguards. Although unarmed, her dignified and confident stance, like a hero of old, instantly marks her presence inside the Izatur. Taking a simplified salute, the guards quickly exit, leaving only Nasition and Tanalien inside.

“What are you here for, Company Leader Tanalien?” Nasition asks in usual fashion.

“I am here to report on an unnatural finding while fighting at the Pass, Common Leader,” Tanalien replies.

“Formalities aren’t needed when speaking in private, Company Leader.”

“But you’re recording our conversation here, are you not?”

Nasition flinches slightly, taking a quick, uneasy glance at one of the hidden recording devices, scattered all around the room. “You are a smart one.” How did she deduce it so quickly?

“Well, anyways, I will tell you what I saw, as that is the only reason why I’m here. A while ago, we, the Sixteenth Company of the First Division, were, per our orders, mopping up the remaining resistance and taking no prisoners. We noticed a small pocket of enemy troops hiding in a remnant of their fortifications, so thinking logically, we surrounded them, firing if even a portion of their heads were exposed. Yet that one enemy soldier surprised us all, leaping up from his hiding place. We fired at him, but a strange barrier of sorts, extremely similar to the barriers that protect the city of Achien, was erected, stopping all our shots. When the barrier finally faded, we realized the entire group of enemy troops had fled.”

“Did you manage to catch up?” Nasition implores. Don’t tell me that Avalel, of all people, escaped. No, there might have been others with immense magical knowledge.

“We did, but only to the soldier who initially sprang up from the ground. He even admitted to being a diversion to help his comrades escape, and to our surprise, he managed to parry and defend every single one of our attacks with his sword, yet refusing to injure even one of my soldiers. He’s… insane. None, none of our shots from our rifles or stabs from our pikes could reach him. It was honestly… terrifying.”

“Wait, did you mention a sword?”

“From my position, I couldn’t make out the details, but it was a very fine sword. Although he parried it bluntly against our attacks, there didn’t seem to be any damage to the sword. Also, his movements were so efficient, so fast, it was like he was waving a child’s toy, not a metal weapon.”

It’s unmistakable… How did he improve so much in such a short amount of time? “Is he killed? A soldier as dangerous as this should not be left alive.”

“Forgive me for saying this, but do you think we can, Common Leader? He should’ve been the one who killed us all. You may not believe this, but… he saved our entire company with another barrier of his, protecting us from the barrage of our own artillery.”

What? “You’re just praising this soldier, aren’t you?” Nasition questions, “Is this what you have come to tell me? If this is all, then you may leave now.”

“This soldier deserves praise for his actions, but that isn’t my focus, Common Leader,” Tanalien explains, “The barrier was something I believe no one has ever encountered. It felt almost… alien. What if, in the future, the enemy produces more soldiers capable of creating barriers such as that one? Wouldn’t that spell the end of our offensive capabilities? What I’m suggesting is: why don’t we attempt to replicate that technology?”

She doesn’t understand. “Company Leader Tanalien, let me tell you this: the barriers you saw were likely not a product of technology…” Nasition’s voice trails off. Why did I suddenly blurt that out?

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, really,” Nasition hurriedly replies, frantically covering his mistake.

“Common Leader… This has something to do with the ancient art we all call ‘magic’, doesn’t it?” Tanalien asks, “I have heard that some of the soldiers from the Battalion use this art, manipulating the environment around us. Are you telling me that the boy is also using it?”

Her genius… It’s no less than terrifying. “Are you curious?”

“Of course I am, Common Leader. If utilized well, this ‘magic’ may be far more powerful than any technology we have at the moment, and can earn us a quick victory.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Why not train my company in this art? We can be an experimental group. If we fail, then you only lose one hundred able-bodied soldiers. However, if we succeed, you have on your hands the potential to create an unstoppable military.”

“This isn’t impossible. However… wait… ” This is exactly the equivalent of creating a counterbalance to the Battalion. Nasition looks at the ambitious company leader in front of him. In such a short amount of time, she had already proven her worth to him, the Common Leader. He may have seen her as merely one of the millions of soldiers in the Confederation military, but now, what stands in front of him is a talent, a future leader… a potentially crucial piece in his bid to not only win the war, but preserve his position.

“However?” Tanalien asks.

“No, my worries are merely superficial. With some persuasion and maneuvering, I can convert an old building into a research and training facility, possibly even rivaling that of the Battalion’s. Your troops will be removed from any action for at least a year, being under my direct command. There should be some old literature regarding the use and training of magic available for use…”

“I thought we had destroyed many books due to their connotations with the Empire and its propaganda?”

“They are merely archived. It would be a waste if these priceless pieces of literature were just destroyed like trash. Oh, and also, this plan will be completely confidential. I absolutely would not want our rivals to replicate this experiment.”

“When will we be transferred over?”

“As soon as a building is acquired, likely within a month.”

“I assume you will handle the bureaucratic processes?”

“Of course. When the time comes, I’ll have some of my bodyguards escort you over.” So she has dropped even the slightest pretense of humility now.

“Well, then, I’ll see you in a while, Common Leader,” Tanalien farewells, saluting before strolling out the Izatur.

So Avalel, of all people, is alive, Nasition thinks, sitting at a chair. The battle, at least on paper, is a success. They had beaten their greatest rival, paving the way to the hidden city of Thille. The world must be reporting this great victory already, setting their eyes on the weakened New Rule. Yet the alarming hints of Avalel being still alive doesn’t sit well. The Battalion had failed to kill him. The Battle of the Pass, killing an uncountable number of armed soldiers, had failed to kill him as well. You might as well be immortal, Avalel.

Nasition stares at the secure walls of the Izatur. How much time does he have left? The Battalion… no, his Battalion is no longer loyal. The military is stretched thin. Avalel’s strength is growing day by day, despite battles that should’ve made him insane. Just when will you break?

I’m no longer in control, he realizes. Isn’t that what he set out to do at the beginning? To free the world from the shackles of the Achien Empire? Why, then, has he become just another Stasibel? How ironic.

He laughs, cackling at his failure as a leader. Stasibel, look at me now. Look at your old friend, your murderer.

Tanalien walks past the partying troops, a subtle smile on her face. Unlike her subordinates, she does not fear that power. It is just a tool, after all, not unlike a gun or a pike. Just a tool to make one stronger.

A small, bug-like robot lands on her palm, a tiny recording device just protruding from its back. Thank you for the service. She squeezes the robot with her fingers, crushing it, the broken parts scattering like the dust from her hands. She has hundreds more in her private barracks, produced with a handbuilt machine anyways.

Nasition, I have never thought of you as quite the fool, attempting to use me and my soldiers as pawns in your bid to preserve your power by supplanting the Battalion. You want to retain your control, don’t you? Perhaps we are weaker now, but you have given us an opportunity to overtake you. How laughable. To use Wrakasen as an allegory for conflict and war? How stupid. After all, the pieces are never allowed to turn against their side, betraying the player. The people as your sword and shield? They are merely the stepping stones to your rise. Look to your allies and friends, not to the strangers who can betray you at the slightest turn of the tide.

You are no leader, Nasition. We are pawns, but not yours.

The image of Avalel, his tired yet determined face, once again appears before her mind. May we meet again, wielder of the Anapadeia.