993 AA

“The military returns victorious yet again,” a voice reports from a broadcast, “In a decisive move, the troops led by King Stasibel overran rebel forces, completely recapturing the province of Sira. A battalion led by Faresoenn, the captain of the Guard, opened up a gap, giving the empire a second taste of victory in a single month…”

“We’ve all done well these past few months,” Stasibel smiles, muting the sounds from the broadcast as he faces Nasition and Faresoenn, “The complete intelligence report we had on our hands, thanks to Nasi, added with the bold attack by Faresoenn, and the improved morale of our troops were all crucial factors for our victory.”

“I hope you didn’t mind me leading a battalion of troops alone into enemy lines back then, Stasibel,” Faresoenn chuckles, “I’m the captain of the Guard, not the leader of the troops.” He may have been a relatively unknown individual at the time of the coronation, but amidst the protests against the alleged favoritism of Stasibel, Faresoenn has proven himself again and again, shielding Stasibel from no less than three attempted assassinations as well as being credited for at least three of the seven major victories of the Empire since Stasibel’s coronation four years ago. To Nasition and the people of the Empire, Faresoenn has become somewhat of a hero, his fame eclipsing all others of his age and status.

“No, no, you were amazing,” Nasition compliments, hiding his envy, “To bravely charge in at the enemy headquarters itself while suffering minimal casualties… The military would be far different without you.”

“And how would I have found a route into the headquarters without the information provided by your spies, Nasition?” Faresoenn responds, “Your strategies and intelligence has never failed us. To everyone, you may be just a guard under Stasibel, but to us and our soldiers, you are our guide. You might as well be the de facto head of the Intelligence Bureau.”

“The people’s support has rebounded since our string of victories in the past two years,” Stasibel states, “Several rebel organizations have already surrendered to us, with more in the stage of negotiation. With the near-perfect combination of tactical and information superiority from you two, I and my ambassadors are always guaranteed a seat of strength in the negotiations. To be honest, I can’t imagine an Achien Empire without the two of my closest friends.”

Those are beautifully-crafted words of praise, but to Nasition, it feels… fake, artificial. He still doesn’t understand. Stasibel never particularly liked his father nor his brothers, at least to his knowledge. Then why has he only become colder since their passing? Perhaps that is what war and stress brings upon all of them: the onset of gloom and depression, the comforts of home and peace being a distant fantasy, giving an inkling of hope for their troubled minds and hearts.

“Thanks, Stasibel,” he says shallowly.

“Well, let’s return home, shall we?” Stasibel says, “The city is waiting.”

Nasition pushes open the door to his apartment. If he has to be honest, the celebrations then were tiring. The endless stream of questions for Stasibel, the reporters pushing against his shield. It seems that Stasibel was correct in requesting specialized shields from the military for the Guard. Despite his rising popularity from the people, Stasibel is still not freed from the predatory questions from the Empire’s nosy reporters. As King, he could’ve easily removed the particularly noisy ones, but it wouldn’t help his reputation. While Stasibel drank and laughed with his generals and officials at the home of one of his advisors, Nasition and the Guard protected the only two entrances to the mansion. It certainly was stressful, perhaps even more than the battles considering the fact that they cannot kill their own people.

“Welcome back, Nasi,” Norai waves, her other hand petting a scaly reptile, its tail curled up in satisfaction, its four beady eyes fixated on Norai.

“Thanks for taking care of Ro all this time,” Nasition smiles, “I’m sorry I had to bother you, especially with your busy schedule.” At least it’s still peaceful here. He had half-expected Norai to be rather uncomfortable with a pet naiazur like Ro, but to his relief, they seem to be getting along well. Not that Norai has ever been uncomfortable with anyone or anything.

“It was no problem,” Norai replies, “Ro was quite obedient and polite. Oh, are you hungry? I heard you had to be on duty even though you had just returned from the battle.”

“No, I’m fine. I ate some food after I was dismissed.”

“Ah, that’s good, then. Saves me the time to make food for you again,” she laughs. Somehow, Nasition feels his body lightening, as if that little moment of laughter has removed some of his pressures. I guess that’s just the magic of Norai, he thinks.

“It’s quite late already, shouldn’t you be heading home now?” Nasition asks.

“Ah, right,” Norai realizes, “I still have an errand to do for Stasibel tomorrow.” Clumsily, she stands up, her legs slightly shaky as she trips, leaning onto the wall for support. “I’ve been sitting here for so long I’ve forgotten how to walk.”

“Would you like me to escort you home?”

“No, it’s alright,” Norai answers as she opens the door, grabbing her hat, “Well, see you tomorrow, Nasi!”

“Have a good rest!” Nasition responds. Finally, as the door shuts again, Nasition collapses onto a chair, taking off his stuffy uniform and letting the cool indoor air run across his arms and legs. He turns to Ro, now scurrying about in the apartment, poking in and out of transparent pipes and boxes that Nasition had made, before leaping onto his palm, its small claws scratching against Nasition’s skin.

“Missed me, didn’t you, Ro?” Nasition laughs, rubbing the cheeks of his beloved pet with two fingers, “Oh, your cheeks are rounder than before. Did Norai take too good care of you?” Despite the grueling environment of the military, he is still glad for its policy of rotating troops every few months. It’s definitely a logistical nightmare, but the results have always been spectacular. It is only because of this rotation that he is allowed to have at least some rest between battles, being able to take care of a pet like Ro. Well, it isn’t much of a rest anyway.

The comms on his uniform buzz. Who’s calling at this time of night? Nasition wonders. It would be normal for Faresoenn to call him during guard duties to notify him of possible suspicious movement, but what could possibly be so urgent that he would receive a call now?

Annoyed, he reaches for the now-crumpled uniform, yanking the little bud off the collar. “This is Nasition,” he says politely, covering his irritation within.

“Hello, Nasi,” the voice of Stasibel replies, startling Nasition.

“Stasibel?” Nasition uncontrollably blurts out.

“You were expecting Faresoenn, weren’t you?” Stasibel manages a chuckle, “Sorry to disturb you this late at night, but I have a job for you tomorrow.”

“I hope I’m getting paid for this,” Nasition groans. To work overtime, not to mention after a battle, is one of the worst news he could’ve received in his current state. He had looked forward to a whole day of taking care of Ro, but it seems that he would have to wait. Sorry you have to fast a little tomorrow, Ro.

“Don’t worry, you are getting double the amount of your usual wages for tomorrow’s job, as are the other guards that I have asked,” Stasibel says, “Anyways, here is the job: to guard a decoy.”

“A decoy?”

“Faresoenn has warned me of a possible assassination attempt during my travel to deliver a speech at Central Square,” Stasibel continues, “However, we don’t know any suspicious candidates, nor do we have enough manpower to fully cover the path from the Paladeia to the Square. Hence, I suggested a decoy, someone that can imitate my voice and gait well enough to pass as me. The decoy will head first before I quietly follow behind. However, a decoy wouldn’t look realistic without some legitimate guards, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re suggesting me and several other guards to protect a decoy as if he was you?”

“Correct. Pretend the decoy is me and protect it as you would protect me,” Stasibel replies, “Oh, and as Faresoenn will be taking charge of the guards protecting me, I’ll delegate the task of leading the guards of the decoy to you. Your leadership capabilities may be slightly weaker than Faresoenn, but it is not weak by any means.”

“I’ll accept whatever you demand of me, Stasibel.” It is a simple task for him. After all, it’s just his usual job, except the person he is protecting isn’t Stasibel. It may be slightly less interesting, but as it is his job, he will duly obey his King and friend.

“Thank you for accepting this task so fast, even if you are technically in your break, as is Faresoenn,” Stasibel sighs in relief, “I promise I’ll compensate the day to you two.”

“No, don’t bother yourself with such trivial matters, Stasibel,” Nasition replies, “It is our job as guards to protect the King and whoever he deems need protection at any time he desires.”

“Meet me at the Hall in the Paladeia tomorrow morning and Faresoenn will explain the details,” Stasibel says, “Sleep well tonight, Nasi.”

“You too, Stasibel.”

The Main Hall is magnificent as usual. The majestic, almost sacred Hall, place where Stasibel had been crowned four years prior still amazes Nasition. His footsteps seem to echo in the Hall, the noises bouncing off the walls before reaching into his ears again. Inside, he sees two identical figures facing him from across the Hall, a small host of guards standing next to either of them. It’s as if Nasition is staring into a mirror, the only exception being the lack of a piece of glass separating the real and fake.

“Hello, Stasibel!” he calls, but to his surprise, both figures raise their right arm and wave in unison. He tries to look at the faces, but to his disappointment, they are covered with identical masks, with no other noticeable features able to distinguish them. Confused, he walks closer to the two, trying to at least spot some discrepancy, but… There is no way to tell them apart. From the height, the handspan, down to even the build, they are like clones.

“Guess which one of us is the true Stasibel?” the left figure says.

“Quite a bit of time was spent preparing these identical pieces of clothing,” the right figure adds, “We took great detail to avoid any differences between the two.”

“But you had forgotten to make your voices identical,” Faresoenn points out, nonchalantly entering the Hall, the confidence radiating from his body as he walks towards Nasition and the two figures, “The one on the right is the true Stasibel, while the one on the left is the decoy.”

Both of the figures take a step back in surprise, shocked at the quick deduction of Faresoenn. “You are correct,” the right figure says, “It is I, Stasibel.”

“But…” the decoy wonders, “How were you able to differentiate us using our voices alone?”

“Well…” Faresoenn looks to the ceiling, “I simply guessed.” He bursts into laughter as the other guards struggle to hold in their own amusement, while the two “Stasibels” seem to stare at him blankly, completely stunned by such a statement.

“What?” Nasition could only find himself saying.

“One of you did have a slightly higher-pitched voice than the other,” Faresoenn explains, containing his laughter, “I just couldn’t decide if Stasibel was the one with the higher voice or not. So I guessed.”

“You did manage to guess correctly, however,” Stasibel applauds.

“Based on the description that Stasibel provided, I take that you are Faresoenn, the captain of the Guard?” the decoy asks.

“Yes, I am,” Faresoenn answers.

“And you are Nasition, the leader of the squad that is going to protect me?” the decoy turns.

“I am.”

“I’ll quite literally be handing my life in your care.”

“Well, since everyone is here, we should depart now,” Stasibel suggests, “We have some time, but it’s better to be early than be late, isn’t it?”

This path is a peculiar one. Instead of the usual path to the Central Square, which only follows major highways, Stasibel had suggested a quieter path, weaving through narrow streets, some of which have not been properly maintained since the outbreak of the war. The reason for it was to avoid likely places where assassins may blend into the crowd and strike, but as he now realizes, these streets are also filled with nooks and crannies… possible spots for an assassin to hide.

“After this street, we should be back in a major street,” Nasition mumbles to himself, slightly unnerved by the relative quietness of the area. There is only a small number of civilians walking about, the shops sparse and unattractive. The decoy, however, seems to be at ease, showing no signs of worry or even nervousness.

“Calm down,” the decoy says, noticing the guards’ cautiousness, “It’s just a trip to the Central Square. Compared to the dangers of the battlefield, how is this even considered dangerous?”

“We must be constantly on edge,” Nasition explains, “If we even let down our guard for a moment, it would become an opportunity for your enemies.”

“I understand, but being so tense for so long would damage your mental health,” the decoy replies.

“Thanks for your consideration, but it’s alright.”

The silence continues as the meraveza continues on the road, the dark windows blending seamlessly with the metal surface. Gradually, Nasition relaxes, placing a hand on his lap, and the other tapping on his sword. It’s just a simple escort mission after all. Faresoenn had only suspected there would be an assassination attempt. It’s safe to be more careful, but the chances of getting attacked now would be microscopic. As soon as we reach the destination, I can return home and take care of Ro…

A silent gunshot pierces the engine of the meraveza. Instinctively, the driver swerves to the side, expertly stopping just before it crashes into the raised pavement.

“Get off!” the driver shouts, pressing a button. Immediately, more beams pepper and pierce the right side of the meraveza. Nasition jumps, shielding the decoy with his back. A stray shot grazes his ribcage, and he winces, falling onto the pavement.

How are the gunshots this quiet? “Find some place to shelter for now!” he shouts to his fellow guards, “Faresoenn’s team will arrive soon. Just hold out till then!”

“This street has no place to shelter ourselves!” a guard cries just before his voice is silenced by a single shot to the neck.

Quickly, the guards grab their pistols, retaliating with loud, bright beams towards the direction of their assailants. Originally intended to alert nearby civilians, the sounds of the shots ring clearly throughout the street.

There is no response.

“The windows… they’re all lacking panes,” the decoy notices, hiding behind the hastily formed ring of guards, “But I could’ve sworn they had panes just moments ago…”

“Just when we needed shields…” Nasition mutters. Unlike previous assassination attempts, this is not the work of a sole sniper or even a pair of extremists. It was planned well in advance. Just then, a shot bounces off what should’ve been thin air. Instead, a ripple warps the scene in front of them, vibrating even the buildings itself. They even had time to set up a barrier.

He looks around. At least seven guards had died, their lifeless bodies leaning on the stunned decoy. So fast…

The gunfire stops, alien guns raining down from buildings to their sides. A blade appears in front of Nasition, and a moment later, a person. Immediately, the street is filled with various assailants, their short knives poised at the guards’ throats. The guards around him fall like dolls, collapsing, drowning in their own blood.

Nasition ducks, narrowly avoiding a slash to his neck. He throws his pistol, knocking the knife out of an assassin just as the tip of the blade scratches against the decoy’s mask. Swiftly, he unsheathes his sword, throwing himself in front of the decoy.

His eyes blur as he dashes about, parrying blows and shielding the decoy. Just don’t move, Stasibel’s clone. He regrets bringing a sword to the mission. Compared to a gun, it lacks the range. Compared to a knife, it lacks agility and flexibility. He’s not even that good with a sword. Why, then, did he even decide to bring it…

The pommel of a knife strikes his head, knocking him off balance. As he falls, he sees a multitude of blades striking towards the decoy, yet… That idiot is just standing still as if nothing is happening?

The buildings begin to decay, the blades disintegrating before his eyes. The “corpses” of the guards and assassins fade away into the air. The decoy stands calmly as the entire scene seems to change. Instead of a street, Nasition finds themselves in some unfamiliar barren ground, as if they have been teleported away from the city itself.

“Wait, where…”

“Congratulations, Nasition,” the decoy says, “You’ve passed the test.”

“What test?”

“You had been tested for your capabilities in protecting the King,” the decoy explains, “Well, needless to say, you passed.”

“Huh?” Nasition utters, confused beyond his comprehension.

“It was all a very elaborate setup by none other than the King himself,” the decoy continues, “From the setting up of the scene, the excuse of a ‘possible assassination’, the fake images of guards and assassins, all the way to choosing a wasteland like this just to test you, everything is a setup.”

“How did we get here?”

“The meraveza earlier was, in fact, driverless, with a set route,” the decoy answers, “But… this wasteland doesn’t seem to fit the description that I received.”

“What do you mean?”

“It shouldn’t be a huge problem,” the decoy dismisses, dropping the act of imitating Stasibel’s voice, “We can simply contact Faresoenn and get him to pick us up.”

The voice sounds familiar. “Is it alright if you reveal yourself?” Nasition asks, “I assume there’s no reason for you to pretend to be Stasibel now.”

“Ah, right,” the decoy realizes, taking off the wig resembling Stasibel’s hair, “Just don’t be surprised when you see me…”

A man materializes in the distance, a beam rifle aimed at their heads. “Duck!” Nasition screams, having only the time to dive towards the ground. He feels an intense heat singe his hair, appearing and disappearing like the blink of a star’s light.

His ears ring. The decoy stands stunned, smoke rising from a hole in the head. The mask snaps into two, revealing the decoy’s face as Nasition’s eyes widen in horror. The fair face of Norai, staring blankly into space as she collapses, the life in her snatched away by a single beam. Her mouth is half-open, as if calling out Nasition’s name, but there is no sound. Dead.

“Tch.” Nasition hears a voice. “Are you a prophet or something, diving even when the shot hasn’t been fired yet?”

A man, his face covered by some helmet, approaches Nasition, in his hands an obsolete beam rifle. “A shame I didn’t kill both of you with one shot. Iri usually serves me well, but not today.” He fires the rifle twice more, immobilizing Nasition’s arms. “What a pathetic guard, saving his own life over his master’s.”

The mysterious man looks at Norai, her head resting in a pool of blood, her muscles tensed and frozen in place. “A decoy, eh?” he realizes, “What a shame. And I thought I had finally killed that wretched king.” He throws away his rifle before reaching into his pocket, revealing a pistol. “Wasting so much time and money…” He fires into Norai’s chest, blood smearing his cheeks. “… just for a test for a single guard…” He fires again. “Living literally in paradise…” Bang. Bang. Bang. “… while we live in abject poverty!” A heavy boot steps on Norai’s head, smudging dirt and grime onto her face.

Nasition croaks, gasps, wheezes, yet he cannot scream. His entire body is shaking. His legs have lost their strength. Norai, dead in front of him, ruined, yet he can only look away. I’m useless. Useless. The dead body there should’ve been him, or worse… It should’ve been Stasibel.

The man finally stops, kicking away the unrecognizable corpse of Norai. “That was stupid,” he mumbles, “I just wasted five shots for an already dead person. A decoy, no less.” He walks to Nasition, now a crumpled wreck, his body curled up like a bug awaiting death.

“What a useless guard,” he mocks, “Have you never seen death? It’s just a decoy, and you’re already scared beyond your wits?” Nasition feels a sharp kick to his stomach, and his head lurches forward, throwing up saliva and bits of blood. “Our expensive taxes are going to the wages of a privileged weakling like you?” Another kick, sending Nasition flying for a moment until he flops on the ground, unresponsive.

The man grabs Nasition’s neck, holding him down as he points the pistol at Nasition’s forehead. “The world has no need for such a useless creature,” he hisses.

The memories with Norai flood Nasition’s mind. Her cheerful laugh when they first met. Her soft words. Her gleaming eyes. Her humble presence, like a pure white flower in a field of green. The memories, playing in his mind, are slowly dyed with first red, then darkening to a black, clouding each and every scene, smothering, destroying every little snippet of beauty that Nasition remembered. Only one memory remains: Norai’s blank, dead face, pierced by a single beam. The coming of death, so sudden, so rapid, shattering the facade of inner peace.

His arms seem to burn, his legs finding renewed strength. A fire, unkindled for so long, is flickering to life inside. He remembers a lesson from Ms. Ipela several years ago, a short while before he entered the military. In this chaotic world, there are not many anchors or constants that we can rely on. I know this might be too dark for you, but you will soon realize… Death is the only one true constant. One day, this classroom will be gone. This Empire will be gone. Even this world will be gone. But Death, Death remains as the anchor. So don’t be afraid of Death. Embrace it. We all die, eventually, after all.

He reaches for his sword, staring at the pistol as the man pulls the trigger.

There is only blood. And Death.