The wagons came at dawn.
Gravel crunched. Metal clanked. Wheel turnt.
The first wagon carried crates of rifles, ammo belts, ration tins, oil drums, spare engine parts—everything. The kind of haul that made a commander sleep better.
Behind them rolled heavier carriages. Some pulled by horses. Others dragged by slow-moving oxen, thick and tired. A few didn't stop—just passed through, heading west to reinforce other camps deeper in the forest.
But this one? This one stopped right at base.
Officers stumbled out of tents still rubbing their temples. Last night's mead hadn't gone quietly. But they snapped into shape, barking orders, dragging crates, lining up the engineers.
The camp came alive.
Then came the last wagon.
It wasn't military. No crates. No ammo.
Just six men in long coats.
Clean boots. Clean hands. Glasses. Not a rifle among them.
Scientists.
They stepped down slowly, one by one. A short one in front adjusted his spectacles and looked around, unimpressed.
Leon approached from the main tent, gloves tucked into his belt. He walked straight up and extended a hand.
"Commander Leon. You must be the specialists."
The short one nodded. "Doctor Ansel. Lead biologist. This is my team."
They all shook hands quickly—no bowing, no salute. Just business.
Ansel looked around. "Where are the specimens?"
Leon blinked. "We don't have any."
A pause.
"You... don't?" Ansel's brow twitched.
Leon shrugged. "None have been spotted since the last attack. No captures. All we've got is what's buried out back."
Ansel exhaled hard through his nose. "Damn shame. We came to study, not dig bones."
Another scientist stepped forward, adjusting his coat. "And the demon? The one that called off the beasts?"
Leon glanced toward the southern row of tents. "She's still here. Come on."
They walked through the base.
Past the engineers, the armorers, the mechanics rebuilding a steam truck. The scientists stuck out like crows in snow.
Leon led them to a canvas tent set aside from the others. White tarp. Extra guards. No insignia.
He stopped just outside and knocked twice on the support beam.
No answer.
Leon frowned.
He opened the flap.
Manevela was stretched out on the cot, laying on her side. Bare shoulders. Her shirt hung halfway off. Blankets thrown around like a hurricane passed through.
One of the scientists peeked over Leon's shoulder.
He immediately turned red and looked away.
Leon sighed. "Manevela."
No answer.
Louder this time. "Manevela! Time to get up."
From inside: a groan.
"…Can it wait?"
Leon crossed his arms. "No. Get dressed. You've got company."
Another groan.
Blanket rustle.
A minute later, Manevela stepped out—shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess, but walking fine. She stretched her arms overhead like a cat, tail flicking once behind her.
The scientists just stared.
Even the red-faced one.
She looked them over, blinking.
"These the smart people you wanted me to meet?" she said to Leon.
Leon gave a tired nod. "Yeah. Try not to scare them."
Dr. Ansel stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Fascinating. Truly fascinating. May we… ask you a few personal questions?"
Manevela smirked. "You may."
Leon motioned to the east trail. "I already set up a spot for this. Follow me."
The walk to the interview tent was… awkward.
Six scientists followed behind Leon in a loose, uneven trail — boots sloshing through morning mud, coats flapping in the cold breeze. Manevela strolled beside him like it was a casual afternoon, humming a tune that sounded half lullaby, half threat. Soldiers along the path watched from behind crates and half-built barricades, whispering as she passed.
"Act natural," Leon muttered under his breath.
"I am," Manevela replied, grinning. "You're the one walking like someone rammed a pole up your spine."
"Just behave."
"No promises."
They reached the tent — a large canvas structure with reinforced wooden beams and crates stacked against the sides. A lantern swung gently above the entrance, still lit from the cold night. Two guards stood at attention with rifles crossed over their chests.
"Commander," the left guard said, saluting stiffly.
Leon gave a nod. "She's with me."
The soldiers stepped aside slowly, eyes fixed on the demon as she walked past — her posture relaxed, her grin just a little too wide.
Leon held the flap open. Manevela sauntered inside like she owned the damn place.
The scientists followed.
Inside, the tent was bare: one table, two chairs, some crates filled with books, and a sputtering lantern on a hook. The air was damp, earthy.
One of the younger scientists stepped forward and pulled a strange object from his coat. It looked like it had been patched together from scrap metal and regret — a wood-and-brass voice recorder with tiny reels, clunky buttons, and a hand crank.
Leon squinted at it. "That thing even work?"
"Mostly," the scientist said, half-proud. "Prototype mechanical recorder. Built last month."
"Why not just use a rune recorder?"
Another scientist answered, adjusting his gloves. "We're moving past that era. Magical tech can be traced — or worse, hijacked. Our enemies use it too easily. Machines? They can't sense gears."
"Or erase gears," said another, chuckling nervously.
Leon grunted. "Makes sense."
The younger one cranked the side until it clicked. A low, uneven whirr began.
"Session One," he said, voice cracking a little. "Interview with the subject known as Manevela."
She sat down in the chair with a slow stretch, then looked at the recorder.
"That thing smells like rust and bad decisions."
"Uh… state your name for the record, please."
"Manevela."
"Age?"
She tilted her head. "That matter to you?"
"For classification purposes."
She rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'm two hundred and thirty-four. Been living in this forest for fifteen decades."
The scratching of pens filled the tent.
One scientist stopped mid-sentence. "Fifteen— as in—"
"One hundred and fifty years, yes," she sighed. "Alone. In this forest. With wolves and silence. Before your great-grandparents learned to walk."
Leon leaned against a post, arms folded.
"And your origin?" the scientist asked carefully.
"Demon Continent. South of your little empires. You wouldn't survive the shoreline, let alone the ride."
"Noted." The recorder clicked faintly. "What's your purpose here?"
Manevela's expression softened — not exactly friendly, but no longer mocking.
"I was stationed here after the last war. Assigned to guard this region. No visitors. No resupply. They told me it'd be a decade."She scoffed."It's been fifteen."
Leon muttered, "She's not joking."
Manevela looked at the scientist, eyes steady. "I'm not loyal to anyone anymore. I just want to live. No more war. No more orders. Sleep. Eat. Maybe talk to someone who isn't a skeleton."
The scientists scribbled like mad.
"And your military rank, during the war?"
"Brigade General. Don't let the title fool you — I only led a small force. No fancy castles."
Another scientist leaned forward.
"What do you… create?"
"Bread. Dried meat. Once made a decent stew with mushrooms and boar—before I ate all the boars."
Leon sighed quietly.
"No — we mean your creatures," the scientist clarified. "The wolves. The pale ones."
"Oh, those?" She waved a hand. "The wolves are part of the forest. They were here before I arrived. The pale ones — those are mine. Lesser demons. Born from mana, blood, and nightmares. You know, normal hobbies."
The note-taking intensified.
"Would you allow us to take one for study?"
"No," she replied flatly. "They're mine. They didn't ask to be made. I won't let you carve them open like pigs."
The tent went still.
"Understood," the lead scientist said, swallowing.
Another asked, "Any idea why your superiors left you behind?"
Manevela rolled her eyes. "No clue. Don't care. Maybe I was a liability. Maybe they forgot. Maybe they didn't expect me to last this long."
She shifted in her chair. "I was forced into service. Never wanted it. But I did my job. Now I'm done."
"Do you possess magic?"
"Yes."
"Circle?"
"Fifth."
The scientist choked slightly. "Fifth—?"
"She's strong," Leon said. "Leave it at that."
Manevela stretched again. "Anyway, are we done yet? I'm starving."
"We don't have any livestock on-site," one scientist said. "No animals left in this region."
She blinked. "Yeah. I know."
"…What do you mean?"
"I killed them all," she said, like it was obvious. "Over the decades. My fault. Sorry."
They froze. One actually lowered his pen.
"You—wiped out all regional wildlife?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
"I got hungry."
The tent filled with silence. Only the recorder hummed, quietly spinning.
"Well," the lead scientist finally said, "I think that concludes session one."
They stood, packing papers, avoiding eye contact.
Leon stepped forward.
"Alright. Do whatever the hell you want — just don't cause trouble."
Manevela lit up like a child at a festival. "Deal!"
She bolted out of the tent, vanishing before Leon could get another word in.
The scientists just stood there. Pale. Frozen. Wondering if they'd survived a monster or interviewed a ghost.
Leon looked up at the ceiling canvas, then at the sky through a tear in the tent.
He pulled on his gloves and muttered under his breath:
"Thanks a lot."
Then he adjusted his coat and stepped outside — toward whatever came next.