“Where should we go?”

The squad soldiers, separated for so long, meet each other in the hangar. Despite the ruckus around them, the other soldiers scurrying about, the squad is relatively calm, hiding the hell they have gone through as veterans. It has already been several months since the battle of the Pass. How many of them have been killed in battle since then? Two? Three? Five? They have already forgotten. There are only three of them left now. Three, out of ten in the original squad. The others have either disappeared or died. One of them has become a completely different creature. Yet here they are, reunited once again, their weapons slung around their shoulders.

“Our lines have completely collapsed at Fort 201. Judging from the mess around the area, that should be where the enemy is currently,” one of them says, his childish face contrasting with his hushed, hoarse voice.

“We’re heading straight for the fray?” another asks.

“Of course. Why else would we escape that suffocating capital for the refreshing battlefield?” He doesn’t particularly love battle. It has snatched so much away from him, yet it continues to lure him in. Battle, for him, has become a part of life, inseparable from daily acts such as eating and sleeping. His facade disappeared months ago. All that remains is a face looking only at the direction of the battlefield, not knowing why he fights, only that he must fight.

“I thought you simply got sick of sitting behind a desk, commanding armies as dots instead of living soldiers,” the third chuckles. “You were never fitted to command armies of thousands.”

The first nods. “And that. He told me to live, didn’t he? How am I supposed to live as puppet constrained, trapped in that boy’s presence? The words I have spoken out of fear… Sometimes I wish I had risked death then, taking that boy head on, then perhaps we wouldn’t be in our situation right now, lacking even the most basic of thinking. But then it wouldn’t be holding his word, wouldn’t it?”

Instead he had chosen to sacrifice his position as general, to once again command, fight alongside only his closest friends. From the decoy he had picked to fill his position on the Assembly to the handing of command to a semi-trusted subordinate, the preparations were, in his opinion, incomplete. But it succeeded. He finds himself living once more, not cowering in fear of the Anapadeia wielder, but standing “tall” again.

“I’m glad you managed to be a free man once again.”

“Commanding only you two. It really gives me memories of when I was still just a little boy.”

“You’re still quite short now, though.” The third soldier playfully rubs the first’s helmet, the muffled sounds of his hair escaping out to their ears.

The first gives a laugh.

“I guess being outside even for such a short amount of time has made you better,” the second says, joining in with his own soft laughs.

They all laugh. Not because of any humorous joke, but only because they, the sole “survivors” from the squad, are together as comrades-in-arms again, a sense of freedom as they chain themselves together, breaking from the clutches of their former comrade and current leader. Whatever lies in front of them, they do not care. Will they be seen as monsters if they find relief and joy in killing the enemy on the battlefield? It’s not up to them to decide. That liberating feeling, lingering inside their hearts, cannot be replicated elsewhere.

“Let’s go,” the first finally says as he boards a transport. “To the battlefield.”

“Those officers were right. You are definitely not suited to be a general, Rasu,” the third says as she follows. “Can you close the door, Tari?”

“Evi, can you help me grab the backpacks first?” Tari grunts as he slides the door shut.

“Alright, alright,” Evi answers, slightly annoyed at her comrade, placing their supplies beneath their seats. “This is quite the change of pace, isn’t it?”

Whirring, the engines of the transport hum to life before it hastily exits the hangar, heading for the battlefield along with the thousands of unprepared recruits of the New Rule.

Unknowingly, they have broken free from the grasp of a certain old woman as well, barely escaping from her own weaving into their minds.

The ruined, or perhaps decorated wasteland lay before their eyes. Surprisingly, there is no sign of any aerial bombardment, only cleanly cut slabs of concrete, formerly the walls of Fort 201. The dead lay everywhere, their bodies severed in two, pieces of armor still sizzling, perhaps from a strong shot. Or maybe a ferocious slice, imbued with energy. Even for the three of them, the sight is a horrifying one, a grim reminder of how far the New Rule has weakened since the battle of the Pass.

“You’re surprisingly calm seeing all of this, Tari,” Rasu says. “You used to be quite afraid of seeing so many deaths in one place, but I guess you matured.”

“No,” Tari manages an embarrassed laugh. “I’m just better at hiding my fear. That’s all.”

“It’s strange how fast our defenses collapsed,” Evi notes. “Feels almost like the Pass all over again.”

“Fort 201 is only one of the many forts of the Second Ring, but the enemy has somehow charged straight for it immediately after destroying Fort 101. The rest of the First Ring, though, is still completely intact, as far as I know,” Rasu adds. “It’s like they’re rushing straight for the city itself.”

“And none of us, so far, can stop them,” Tari finishes. “The Confederation is… frightening.”

“What puzzles me most is how all these marks seem to be from the same type of weapon,” Rasu notices. He walks up to the severed torso of an unfortunate soldier, running a finger through the surface of the burnt flesh and bone, feeling the smoothness of the cut and the lingering heat. “The strength… It seems to be quite uniform as well.”

“You’re suggesting they might’ve all been inflicted by the same person?” Tari asks.

“It is possible,” Rasu answers, his eyes still glued onto the corpses. “Peculiar, isn’t it? All of this carnage could’ve been inflicted by one person.”

“You’re stretching it, Rasu,” Evi dismisses. “One person responsible for tens, possibly even hundreds of deaths here? I know that the recruits are barely trained, but they wouldn’t fall this easily, would they?”

“I’m just speculating,” Rasu shrugs. “One thing is for sure, though: It’s very quiet out here.”

“I thought there were more of us rushing to reinforce the fort?” Tari says. “Did we decide to retreat further to the Third Ring?”

“Who knows what is going on in that boy’s mind,” Evi scoffs. “He’s quite literally toying with the fate of the New Rule, the destinies of millions in his hands. For a young boy just months ago so weak and powerless, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s just seeing how far he can exert his control on the military.” Frustrated, she kicks a small pebble, the rock ricocheting off a detached limb with a clink.

“Focus,” Rasu hushes, tapping Evi by the shoulder. “We’re no longer in the hangar.”

“I know.”

Suddenly, the atmosphere feels far more tense, the possible reality of their isolation slipping inside their minds. Slowly and carefully, they charge their rifles, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. The fort, once the site of some intense fighting, is now dead and silent, much like the soldiers laying against it. Thille is just behind them, the sounds of aircraft still audible to their ears, but they are in the wasteland, the dry, dusty air surrounding them.

It is so close to the capital itself, but like the many excavation grounds inside the city, it is suffocating, the Elyfesta not helping any bit. Even with their armor’s internal cooling system, they feel the heat seeping in, their clothing inside dampening from perspiration. The light reflecting off the metal plates only reveal their location, yet they have no way to conceal themselves other than large piles of rubble. Scraping around, hoping to find tracks and clues from the devastation, they are like scavengers salvaging for any usable materials.

“How long are we staying here for?” Evi asks. “For all we know, the enemy has probably already advanced to Thille itself.”

“They must be still nearby,” Rasu responds. “The blood… Don’t you smell it?”

Warm, fresh, metallic. Even with the filters in their helmets, they smell it. So fierce, so intrusive, so sick to the nose.

“Of course I do.”

Tari places his hand into a puddle of blood before removing it again. Although already highly viscous, the liquid drips easily from his glove, the crimson color collecting at his fingertips before they return to the puddle. “Rasu’s right,” he concludes quietly. “They’re very near. The massacre had just finished when we arrived.”

“Why didn’t we hear the sound of boots or the sputtering of vehicles, then?” Evi asks again. “It’s just too quiet for a battlefield–”

Rasu kicks her shin, knocking her down on the ground. A slash grazes Evi’s helmet, the metal chipped from the attack.

“They’re here,” Rasu whispers, biting his lips.

There is no hesitation. Tari fires his rifle at the direction of the attack, but there is no response, the blast disappearing into the air. Another slash, the reflection of the light blinding their eyes for a moment. The dust is thrown up, clouding their vision, creating a fog of blindness. The area has suddenly become a maze, the dead bodies around them ever more horrific, like an exposed graveyard ravaged by creatures.

It is only the three of them. Against them, an unknown number of the enemy.

“Breathe steadily,” Rasu commands even as he takes a few rapid breaths. “We will delay them here, at least.”

He can sense it within himself. A sense of thrill, of excitement, of release. It’s unusual. He hasn’t felt this sensation in a long while. Not since the Pass. It is even stronger now, the six months of absence from the battlefield creating eagerness, a longing for the fields of death that he loves and hates. Instead of rage as he had felt back then, he feels… happiness. The hundreds of needle-like blades form behind his back, their blackened tips poised to strike. For the second time, and the first since the Pass, he embraces the pain, the culmination of all his suffering, driving all his emotion, his energy into each and every blade.

Perhaps this is the reason why he still fights. Perhaps it is why he still lives.

A blade pierces the dust, impaling Evi from behind, or at least where she should be. Instead, a corpse, tossed up with Rasu’s blades, shields the attack, the rib cage catching the bloody steel, clenching it with the cracking bones.

“A little easy to read,” Rasu comments. Five tiny blades rush towards the direction of the attacker, disappearing into the fog. From their positions, Evi and Tari fire their rifles. A satisfying squelch. At least one hit their target.

Rasu lands a punch on the ground. A strong gust pushes from the point of impact, forcing away the cloud of dust with ripples of forceful energy. “Show yourselves,” he says confidently, the dust now dispersing, the clear skies once again visible to the eye. Yet there is still no enemy to be found. At least, not one with the conventional Confederation armor.

There is only one figure standing before them, the statute and build judged to be a woman. A mask conceals her face, two blackish, reddish streaks painted under each eye slit. Her right hand holds a dead arm, Rasu’s blades lodged deeply in it, while her left is an entire blade in itself. Stretching up to the elbow, the machine is lightweight but also strong. As his eyes follow up the shoulder, it has become obvious that her entire left arm is, in fact, a prosthetic limb.

However, there is something about the stranger recognizable from Rasu’s eyes. Is it the shoulder length hair, the lean build, the dark shades of clothing? Or is it the bloodlust, the aura she emanates with such strength and ferocity? It reminds him of someone he knew, someone wholly familiar to him, once even part of his squad. He remembers her all too well.

“Kavlina,” he says, staring at the slits of his former comrade.

Silence. The figure looks at him in subtle confusion, as if she has been fighting the wrong target the entire time.

“Who are you?”

Avalel overlooks the army in front of him, inexperienced, afraid, yet also stupidly brave, eager to throw themselves at the enemy. They have gathered only to listen to him, their ears, eyes all on him. Rasu is nowhere to be found, perhaps still hiding in the Grand Hall. Well, he doesn’t care. The general, no matter how experienced he is at battle, or how well he can hold his own against a host of enemies, is no longer useful to Avalel now. He only sees the soldiers in front of him, the future of the faction, the pawns waiting to be used at his disposal. The essential pieces to maintain his power.

He has abandoned the First and Second rings to fend for themselves, knowing that those battlements are only to delay the enemy advance. The Third Ring will be their bastion, the site where they will make their stand. Judging from the lack of aerial and artillery support, the rapidly advancing enemy is merely the vanguard, hoping to punch through their lines. Well, he shall do as they wish. When they have trapped themselves in Thille itself, that is when victory shall be handed into his palms.

Bait and trap. One of the oldest tactics known to history, yet many still fall for the trick. So simple, so deadly. And he is here to exploit it, a thousand years of wit and intelligence condensed into this seventeen-year-old body. The soldiers, albeit dressed far differently than the soldiers of old, are still the same mindless collective, obeying only the ruler in command, even if under a democratic pretense. Bait and trap. It stands true even outside of the battlefield.

“Soldiers of the New Rule, you have reached here. The Third Ring, the final line of defense. Behind you is the city itself, in front is the enemy. For many of you, this is your first battle. For some, maybe your second. This is a new generation of soldiers, loyal, skilled, enthusiastic. Your seniors have fought well, but it has come to the point where we must protect the capital. We will defeat them here, crush their morale, laughing as they fall just before the gates of Thille.”

Instilling stillness. Instead of a fiery speech as he had to the general populace, the soldiers only need a calming presence. After all, he does not intend to waste much saliva on these recruits.

“As I have said before, be merciless. Be ruthless. Turn off whatever pity you have for the enemy. It is not only your life on the line, but your mother, your father, your brothers, your sisters, your sons, your daughters. There is nothing to do… but kill.”

A guard runs up to Avalel, interrupting his speech. “There are still three soldiers in Fort 201,” she gasps, out of breath.

“Leave them be,” Avalel says. “They won’t have long to live, anyway.” For three soldiers to fight so bravely, Avalel only sees them as fodder, sacrificing their lives for what is only a delay of the inevitable.

A roar from the sky. As the soldiers look up, Confederation drone aircraft glide over the clouds, releasing smoke in the air. The ground rumbles from the numerous artillery explosions. The city’s sirens wail and screech, screaming a message all can hear: the enemy has finally begun their main offensive.

“The Confederation is here,” he announces, as if the dumb troops haven’t already realized such an obvious fact. “Go, my comrades! Lay the bait! The glory of battle awaits!”

He smiles as they rush out to the battlefield.

Oh, the brainless fools as they march to their deaths. Bait and trap. They are the bait, the necessary sacrifice for victory. The recruits can be replaced with further conscription. They are not useless, but disposable in Avalel’s eyes. If they all die, then there are simply less mouths to feed.

What matters is not the short lives of each individual, but the eternal glory of victory… all credit to none other than himself. It has worked a thousand years before, it will work even till a thousand years in the future.

“Tell the mechanized divisions to set the trap, the bombers on standby,” he whispers to a guard. “The bait is about to be laid. Also, connect the commanders’ comms to me.”

“When will they be permitted to attack?”

“When they see a suit of white, gleaming armor on the battlefield, the screams received by their comms silencing just for a moment. That moment is precisely when they shall attack.”

Between the inexperienced recruits, hurriedly conscripted from Thille, and the hardened veterans, volunteering to die, the choice is clear. The future is unimportant when placed in the present. What brings him victory is not a battle years in the future, but the battle fought now.