The cave was quiet, the fire crackling softly, filling the space between unspoken words. Cedric's gaze lingered on Johan, a mix of curiosity and caution.
"So… how did you end up on the Captain's side?" Cedric asked, his voice low, measured.
Johan's eyes flicked toward him, but his expression remained unreadable. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his mind drifted back — to a time when his hands were steady on the hilt of his swords, and his heart burned with fire and ambition.
He remembered his first clash with the Captain, years ago. A younger, more reckless man had faced him on the battlefield. For the first time, Johan felt the sting of defeat — not just in his pride, but in the loss of the men who had trusted him completely.
Riding back to Wustania, the weight of failure pressed on his shoulders. The mission had been simple — yet he had lost.
When he reached the palace, the General was waiting, eyes blazing with anger.
"How… how could you fail such a simple mission?!" the General bellowed.
"Do you understand the lives you've wasted, Johan? The shame you've brought upon yourself?"
Johan clenched his fists, his jaw tight.
"I… I did everything I could," he said, his voice controlled, though inside he felt the sting of defeat.
"Everything you could?!" the General's voice thundered.
"Your carelessness cost men their lives! You've embarrassed the kingdom!"
Johan looked down, unable to meet the furious gaze. He remembered the battlefield, the Captain's skill, the chaos — and how nothing could have gone differently without intervention.
"You've much to learn about command and responsibility," the General's voice cut like steel.
"A commander cannot afford mistakes like this. Not now. Not ever."
Johan's jaw tightened. He tried to speak, but the General's gaze bore into him, relentless.
"You… you are not fit to be a Captain," the General continued, his voice low but lethal.
"Not even a soldier. Do not show yourself to me again. You bring nothing but shame."
Johan's fists clenched at his sides. Words could not erase the sting, nor the humiliation. The anger of the General pressed on him, relentless, leaving him exposed to the bitter truth.
The world he had trusted so blindly was not forgiving.
Johan stepped out of the barracks, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone floor. His belongings — a gray cloak and a small pouch — had already been thrown out of his room, scattered like trash.
As he bent to gather them, voices rose around him.
"Look who's finally leaving," one soldier sneered.
Another spat on the ground.
"You should've died out there, Johan. Would've saved us the shame."
Laughter rippled through the corridor.
"Where did your pride go, Captain?" a man mocked, his tone dripping with scorn.
"Weren't you the one who called yourself the strongest?"
Johan didn't respond. His hand tightened around the hilt of one of his swords — the same one that had once earned him respect. Now, it felt heavier than ever.
He straightened, his face cold and empty. Without a word, he slung the cloak over his shoulder and walked past them.
The laughter followed him like a shadow, but he didn't look back
Outside, the wind was sharp and cold. He kept walking — away from the fortress, away
from the kingdom, away from everything he once believed in.
Johan finally reached the gates of his family estate. The house loomed large, a grand medieval mansion with stone walls, arched windows, and ivy crawling along the sides. The courtyard was spacious, paved with worn cobblestones, and the banners of his family hung limp in the cold wind.
As he stepped through the heavy wooden doors, the faint smell of burning wood and old parchment filled the hall. His family awaited him.
His father, a frail man in his 60s, with a thin frame, hunched shoulders, and white hair falling unevenly around his face, looked up from his chair. His once sharp eyes were now clouded, the skin around them wrinkled and pale, giving him a weak and gloomy appearance.
"How dare you come here after ruining our family name!" His voice cracked like dry timber, but the anger behind it burned bright. With surprising force, he slapped Johan across the face.
Johan staggered back slightly, gripping the edge of a table for balance.
"Your brother — your brother would have never brought shame like this upon us!" his father continued, pointing a trembling finger, eyes blazing despite his frailty. "Look at you! A disgrace, a shadow of what this family once prided itself on!"
The hall was silent except for the faint crackling of the fireplace and Johan's slow, steady breathing.
Before Johan could speak, his father slammed a hand on the heavy oak table. "Guards! Remove him from my sight at once!"
The two armored men stepped forward, eyes downcast but firm.
"Never show yourself here again," his father barked, voice trembling with a mix of rage and weakness. "You have died to me. You are no son of this house anymore!"
Johan felt a sharp ache twist through his chest as the guards roughly guided him toward the door. He did not resist — there was nothing left to fight for here.
Stepping out into the cold courtyard, sorrow and pain filled his eyes. The family banners, once a symbol of pride, now seemed like mocking shadows.
Alone, he sank to his knees briefly, the weight of shame pressing on him. His thoughts went to the Captain — the man who had bested him, who had forced him to confront not only his failure on the battlefield but the truths about himself that no one else had ever made him face.
"If it were not for him…" Johan whispered through trembling lips, tears streaking his dirty face. "…I would have never endured this humiliation. I would have never lost my life… my honor… everything I held dear."
He cried then, unrestrained, the tears carving paths through the grime on his cheeks. "Why… why did I have to face you?" he sobbed into the cold wind, the sorrow of a broken man echoing across the silent courtyard.
After seven months, a man with sallow, unkempt hair sat hunched in a shadowed corner of a bustling city. It was Johan. His clothes were torn and filthy, his stomach hollow with hunger.
He looked up at the people passing by, his voice hoarse, pleading.
"Please… anyone… I haven't eaten for two months," he croaked.
But the city was unkind. Passersby sneered, shaking their heads.
"A beggar! Go away from us!" one shouted. "Find someone else to annoy!"
Another kicked him roughly in the side, laughing cruelly. "Get lost, you worthless thing!"
Johan recoiled, the pain searing through him, but his voice barely wavered as he tried again.
"I… I have nothing… just… help me…"
The laughter and mockery pressed down like a weight, but somewhere deep inside, a spark of stubborn life refused to die. Hunger gnawed at him, yet so did the memory of his failures — the humiliation from his family, the shame from the battlefield, and the bitter taste of being cast aside.
The day ended with the same hollow ache in his stomach. Once again, nothing to eat. The sun dipped below the rooftops, and the sky turned to fading shades of red and gray.
Johan dragged his tired body through the narrow streets until he reached the bridge — the same place he had been calling home for months.
Beneath it, a small space opened beside a shallow lake. The air was damp and cold, and the only sound was the soft ripple of water brushing against the stones.
There, in that dark corner, stood his shelter — made of torn cloths and broken wood, pieces gathered from garbage and thrown-out tents. A torn piece of cloth lay on the ground, serving as his bed.
He sank to his knees beside it, his hands trembling. His throat tightened, and before he could stop himself, tears began to fall.
"Why… why am I here?" he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm left all alone… no one to care… no one to even see me…"
He looked up toward the city lights in the distance — lights that once had meant glory, honor, and pride — and now only reminded him of what he had lost.
"I served this country," he said bitterly, the words shaking. "I fought for its name… for its people… and just one failure—just one—and I'm thrown away like dirt."
He pressed his hands against his face, trying to hold back the sobs, but they came anyway — quiet at first, then louder, breaking the night's stillness.
"I don't want my position," he said through his tears. "I just… I just want something to eat, something warm… a place I can call home, where I don't have to be cold. Why… why do humans have to be like this?"
As he spoke, a memory flickered — faint, distant. He saw himself years ago, standing tall in armor, pride burning in his eyes, laughing with the same cruel arrogance as those who now mocked him.
He had once looked at the weak the same way — as useless, as low, as invisible.
The realization struck deep, cutting through his chest like a blade.
"What… what have I lived for my whole life?" he whispered. "Was I ever different from them?"
The cold wind swept through the space under the bridge, making the lake's surface shiver.
And there, with the faint moonlight falling on his broken shelter, Johan curled up on the torn
cloth — tears drying slowly against the dirt — while his heart carried the weight of every
wrong he had done, and every pain he now bore in return.
As Johan wept quietly beneath the bridge, a shadow stirred from afar.
Neither he nor the passing townspeople noticed it. It lingered for a heartbeat — silent, deliberate, and watching.
Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it vanished.
Johan remained alone, unaware of the eyes that had observed him.