The Alchemist General knelt among the dead and dying, leaning heavily on his sword. His other hand clutched a longbow. The grip and arrow rest were black with soot, now that the bow no longer blazed with golden flames to set each shot alight. The quiver of arrows on the Alchemist’s back flapped in the wind, devoid of even a single arrow. His armor was coated with the dark byproducts of burnt fuel and blood, and the rust-resistant yellow paint had scraped away in many places to reveal streaks of plain metal.

Grey storm clouds loomed above, but no rain had fallen during the engagement. Around the Alchemist, tired soldiers limped back to their encampment. Some led Imperial Army prisoners who had surrendered, while others carried armfuls of scavenged equipment. The Alchemist looked around for his horse, but it had long since fled into the distance. No matter. He could walk on his own two legs as well as any soldier.

The Imperial Army garrison had been hard won, but the victory was a hollow one for the Alchemist. He mournfully looked to the grey sky.

“O, for one single worthy opponent!”

“Were these thousands not sufficient?” said a voice behind the Alchemist. He wrenched his sword out of the ground at once, whirling about. Clumps of dirt and grass stuck to the tip.

Like the sun amid the clouds, the King and his white horse shone upon the battlefield. He clutched in his hand pen and paper, bleached white against the grey backdrop, and upon that paper were names. Most were struck out with a single black line through the center. Black and white: clean and pure amid the taint of war. The Alchemist’s armor glistened with soot and blood, stained with the filth of the unworthy—fitting for a general, but most improper in the presence of his King. The Alchemist rose into a salute as best he could, suppressing the twinge of pain from his middle.

“Hail the Sun King,” the Alchemist greeted. He crossed sword and bow in an ancient greeting.

“Rise, my friend. Rise,” the Sun King ordered. “This is no time to stand on ceremony.”

The Alchemist clambered up, sheathing the sword in the ground. The soiled blade would need more thorough cleaning before it would fit back into its sheath. The Alchemist slung the longbow across his back to join the empty quiver.

The Sun King’s head and shoulders drooped, and weary lines marred his face.

“We have lost over a third of our troops in taking this garrison, and another half are injured. You yourself are in need of medical aid.” The Sun King gestured at the Alchemist’s shoulder.

The Alchemist touched it and felt a sting—pain deeper than mere fatigue, but far less than that of handling flames. The fingertips of his armored gauntlet came away slick.

“So I am,” the Alchemist said, wiping blood onto the nearest edge of his cloak. During the long hours of close combat, an enemy blade must have slipped between his armor plates. However, he could not rest before the task was finished.

“Surely you cannot call these soldiers unworthy when they have dealt such damage to our ranks,” the Sun King chided.

The Alchemist shook his head. “You mistake my meaning. Many among the enemy had greater martial skill than the Sun Army. Our troops are still inexperienced. If not for our use of pyrotechnics, the enemy may have prevailed.”

The Alchemist gazed upon the field, taking in the grim array of ended lives from both sides. Even with the battle over, the task remained incomplete while traces of the enemy still existed. The Alchemist did not look forward to the final step: cleansing. With casualties of such numbers, the pyres from this day’s achievement would burn for weeks to come.

“These soldiers did not fight for the greater glory of their nation, even if they may claim such when safely within the Empire’s cities. Those who surrendered were unwilling to die for their nation; those who died met their ends with fear, not honor.” The Alchemist sighed. “It is not ability alone that defines worth, but the virtue of one’s character. Besting an unworthy opponent may be tiresome, but it is no real merit to our cause.”

“Lofty words, yet pointless in our current state,” said the Sun King. “We have only liberated one small province on the outskirts of the Empire. Countless foes still stand between us and a new order. Leave talk of virtue and glory to old legends; we of the real world must focus on progress. Get yourself to the medical tents before you collapse.”

With this last command, the Sun King spurred his horse into motion again. They galloped away, a streak of light across the gloomy battlefield.

The Alchemist considered his King’s words while liquid dripped from his cloak to the ground. A hand flopped against his shin, sliding off the slick metal plates of his greaves. The attached arm was clad in the grey uniform of the Imperial Army. The Alchemist stomped upon the wrist and amputated the offending hand with a quick swing of the sword. The injured enemy soldier squawked, his whole body curling up around the Alchemist’s foot. The Alchemist severed the man’s head for good measure, watching the dismembered bits twitch and go still.

In the end, every enemy became just one more lump of fuel for the pyres, one more smear to be cleansed from the better future of the Sun King’s visions. A heavy sigh escaped the Alchemist as he freed his leg from the grasp of the deceased.

“The Sun King is indeed wise. The land is vast, yet equals are few and far between. If I can find no enemy of worth, I must create one.”

Activity in the training camps never ceased under the Alchemist General’s watch. Not even a routine inspection by the Sun King, rebel and hero of the people, could distract the Alchemist’s elite troops from their drills. Clay-clad grenades flew into ditches as soldiers practiced their aim. In the archery regiment, burning arrows fell like rain upon wooden targets, exploding on contact. Infantry practiced with swords or polearms, and their polished steel caught rays of the mid-morning sunlight in unison. Meanwhile, younger and less physically fit troops practiced refining minerals and manufacturing explosives under the guidance of seniors.

The Sun King nodded solemn approval to each veteran trainer, unit commander, and minor foot-soldier that he passed. The Alchemist sent their attention back to the drills with a stern glance.

“Impressive. Most impressive,” said the Sun King.

The Alchemist watched his King closely, searching for any sign of discontent. None appeared. The Sun King’s eyebrows only climbed higher as they entered a field where two elite units were sparring in formation.

A cry reached their ears from the edge of the field, disrupting the well-disciplined arrangement of the training regiments. A messenger appeared and threw himself at the Alchemist’s feet, panting.

“Report, sir!” The messenger looked up, saw the Sun King, paled, and looked down again. “Sirs. Hail the Sun King,” the messenger gasped, bowing even lower. “Trouble with the southern expansion. The local Silver Militia defense force fought off three attacks, and two of our top commanders were killed in the process. Our archers don’t have long enough range to fire back, and the infantry can barely approach their fortress.” The messenger offered a crumpled piece of paper. “This map—our current location. We urgently need reinforcements.”

The Alchemist took the map and the messenger’s arm, raising him to his feet.

“Certainly. Get some rest. I shall personally lead the elite troops to support your unit.”

The messenger nodded and hurried off. The Sun King, who had watched this exchange with slight concern, placed a hand on the Alchemist’s shoulder.

“Nothing serious, I presume?”

The Alchemist sank with the Sun King’s light touch, kneeling in the dust.

“Do not trouble yourself with such trivial matters, my King. It shall be handled shortly.”