From the shadows, a figure stepped forward, emerging slowly into the flickering light of the battlefield.
Platius's eyes gleamed, a satisfied smirk spreading across his face.
"Ah… so you've arrived," he said, his tone laced with both recognition and amusement.
Jester's gaze darted toward the newcomer, heart pounding.
The scene shifted to the newcomer.
It was Mosin.
Jester's eyes widened in fury.
"What are you doing here? Why!?" he shouted.
Platius gave a calm, mocking smile while looking at Jester.
"Welcome, Mosin — the man who brought an end to your plan."
Mosin's lips curved into a faint smile as he met Jester's gaze.
"Hello, Jester… or should I say, my dear master."
Jester shouted,
"Why… why did you do this, Mosin!?"
Mosin's voice was cold.
"Do I have to tell you why?"
Platius began walking toward him, but Mosin's eyes burned with anger.
"You're the one who killed my whole family!" he yelled.
Jester's face froze.
"What…?" he muttered, but before he could say more, Platius moved in a blink—
his blade pierced through Mosin's chest from behind.
The sword's tip emerged from Mosin's front, blood spilling from his mouth as he trembled.
"Why… why… why did you do this…" Mosin gasped.
Platius smirked.
"You're the biggest idiot I've ever met."
Mosin dropped to his knees, the ground darkening beneath him.
"Mosin!" Jester screamed, unable to move, pain locking his body.
Platius turned his cold eyes to the dying man.
"So… you became a spy, yet still believed that lie for so long?"
Mosin's voice quivered.
"Lie…?"
Platius tilted his head slightly.
"So you really don't know who killed your whole family."
As they were speaking.
Captain moved like a shadow — a sudden, silent rush across the plaza.
Steel sang as his blade arced toward Platius.
Platius met the strike, metal locking with metal.
He didn't flinch.
"Oh — so the last hope has arrived," he said, voice flat, amused.
The Captain's answer was a single, cutting sentence, low and raw with fury.
"I don't know what's going on, but I know one thing for sure: I have to kill you."
Platius shrugged, eyes cold.
"Oh dear, Captain—don't be angry."
Behind the words, Platius's mind ran faster than his mouth.
This is getting dangerous, he thought. Those idiots couldn't hold him for five more minutes. Why did I even bring them? He ground his teeth. He had to finish this—now.
But the instant his gaze landed fully on the Captain, something else struck him.
The man before him was no longer merely a commander.
The Captain's presence rolled from him like a physical force — an intense, dangerous aura that tightened the air. It was as if the night itself bent away from him.
Platius's amusement thinned.
The blade in his hand felt heavier, the plaza colder.
For the first time since the attack began, a sliver of doubt cut through the smirk on his face.
While, on the other side, Mosin knelt on the cracked floor — blood dripping from his chest, his breath shallow and trembling.
His vision blurred as the world tilted, the sound of clashing steel fading into a distant echo.
Where… did everything go wrong?
His thoughts stumbled through fragments — Jester's voice, his parents' faces, the promise he once made.
Was it all… a lie?
As Mosin knelt on the blood-soaked ground, his breathing weak and his vision dimming, his thoughts began to drift — slipping away from the chaos of battle, from the pain in his chest — and sinking deep into the warmth of a memory he thought he had long buried.
The world around him changed.
The smell of iron and smoke faded, replaced by the scent of wheat swaying gently in the breeze.
The golden fields stretched endlessly on both sides of a narrow dirt path, where the afternoon sun painted the world in soft amber light.
A boy — no older than thirteen — walked between a man and a woman, his small hands clinging to theirs.
He had messy black hair, bright eyes full of life, and wore loose orange garments typical of children from the lower towns — a simple tunic tied with a rope belt, short sleeves frayed at the ends, and sandals coated in the dust of the road.
His laughter rang clear in the air.
"Father, where are we going today?" the young Mosin asked, his voice full of energy.
The man beside him — tall, with the same dark hair, his face hidden by the sun's glare — chuckled softly.
"We're going to visit your grandmother today," he said warmly.
Mosin's eyes lit up.
"Grandma? Oh, I haven't seen her for so long! Does she still make that soup I like?"
His mother smiled, her voice gentle as she brushed a hand over his hair.
"Don't worry, Mosin. We'll be there soon. She's been waiting to see you again."
The three walked together down the golden path, their shadows stretching across the fields.
The wind rustled through the wheat, carrying the sound of distant birds and the soft rhythm of their laughter.
For a moment — everything was perfect.
Just a family walking together beneath a peaceful sky.
The warm glow of late afternoon settled over the countryside as the three finally reached a small cottage at the edge of the wheat fields.
The home was old, made of solid oak wood, its walls darkened with age but still sturdy — a place that had weathered countless storms and seasons.
The scent of freshly cut timber filled the air.
Beside the house, a broad-shouldered man was splitting logs with powerful, rhythmic swings of his axe.
His arms were thick with muscle, his gray hair damp with sweat, and his tunic clung to him, streaked with dust and sawdust.
When he noticed the figures walking down the path, he straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
"Oh, you're late!" he called out in a booming voice, though there was laughter in it rather than scolding.
Before Mosin's parents could respond, the young boy sprinted forward, his small feet thudding against the ground.
"Uncle Isaya!" he shouted, leaping into the man's arms.
Isaya caught him easily, letting out a hearty laugh as he lifted the boy high into the air.
"It's been a while, Mosin! You've grown again! What are they feeding you — iron and stone?"
Mosin giggled loudly, hugging his uncle's neck.
"I missed you, Uncle!"
Behind them, Mosin's father smiled faintly, his voice calm and respectful.
"Sorry, we got delayed on the road."
Isaya shook his head, lowering the axe beside the stump.
"Don't worry about it. Mom's inside — she's been waiting for you. I'll come in once I finish up here."
At that, Mosin wriggled free and bolted toward the door, his orange tunic fluttering in the breeze.
"Grandma! We're here!" he yelled as he disappeared inside.
Isaya and Mosin's parents smiled warmly, watching Mosin's joy fill the air.
For that brief moment, everything felt peaceful — a family bound by simple happiness.
Night had quietly settled over the countryside, the moonlight spilling like silver dust across the fields.
Inside the small oak home, the family gathered around a wooden table, the faint crackle of the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls.
The scent of freshly baked bread and stew filled the air — simple food, but filled with warmth.
At the head of the table sat Mosin's grandmother, her wrinkled hands folded neatly as she looked upon her family with a soft, tired smile.
Her hair, long and white as snow, was tied into a loose braid that draped over one shoulder. Deep lines marked her face — not of sorrow, but of years lived fully.
Her eyes were dim yet kind, carrying that familiar glow only grandmothers seemed to have.
"Mosin," she said in a gentle but firm tone, "eat, eat, my dear. You must eat more if you wish to grow strong like your father."
Mosin grinned, his small hands gripping the spoon. "
Yes, Grandma! I eat every day!" He turned proudly to his mother.
"Right, Mom? Tell her!"
His mother laughed softly, brushing a strand of black hair from her face.
"Yes, yes — he eats plenty. And he even helps me with my chores now."
Isaya let out a hearty chuckle, his deep voice rumbling.
"Oh? So the little man is already helping around the house? Careful — soon he'll take over the whole place!"
Laughter filled the room, warm and full of life.
For a moment, it felt like the world outside the small cottage didn't exist — no wars, no loss, no fear. Only family, and the quiet joy of being together.
When the meal was nearly done, Mosin's father set down his spoon and looked at his son with a faint smile.
"Alright, Mosin. Let's go for that walk I promised — one last stroll through the fields before bed."
Mosin's eyes lit up instantly.
"Really?! Let's go!"
His father stood, nodding politely to the others.
"We'll be back soon."
"Be careful," Mosin's mother said softly, waving as the two stepped out into the moonlight.
The door creaked shut behind them, and their footsteps faded into the quiet hum of the night — the rustling wheat, the chirping of crickets, and the soft laughter of a child who had no idea how precious that walk would become.
The night breeze swayed the tall wheat, their golden tips glimmering faintly under the moonlight.
Fireflies danced between the stalks, and Mosin's small footsteps crunched softly on the dirt path as he walked beside his father.
They reached the edge of the field where an old, massive tree stood — its trunk wide, roots crawling deep into the earth. Beneath its shadow, a lone figure stood still, half-hidden in the darkness.
Mosin's father stopped at once, his eyes narrowing as he stared toward the man under the tree. The air felt heavier, uneasy.
"Mosin," he said quietly, his tone firm. "Stay here. Don't move."
Mosin blinked, confused, glancing between his father and the silent figure beneath the great tree.
"Father… who is that?" he asked, but his father didn't answer — he had already begun walking toward the stranger.
Mosin stood silently, watching as his father walked toward the large tree at the edge of the field.
A man stood beneath it — motionless, his figure barely visible in the moonlight.
Mosin stayed where he was told, his eyes fixed on them.
He saw his father reach the stranger and begin to speak.
Even from a distance, Mosin could tell the air had changed — his father's movements were tense, his tone sharp.
Who is that man? he thought, his chest tightening.
The night grew still, the only sound the faint rustle of wheat as Mosin waited, unease growing inside him.
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