The second day dawns slowly, the sky streaked with pale gold and gray, and Aldo drifts through the city, completing a series of small work gigs to earn money he has no plan to spend. Five hundred Copper Coins clink quietly in his pocket, approximately half the value of a Silver Coin. He moves through the streets of Polihland, observing the merchants and soldiers alike, noting how the city functions under a fragile balance of authority and fatigue, labor and indifference. By evening, five thousand Federation troops arrive, flooding the streets, bringing order with the heavy thrum of boots, the clang of arms, and the occasional shouted command. Chaos and control mix in the air like dust in sunlight, and Aldo is quietly informed by the Military that he will lead a company of one hundred Earthling slaves like himself, now with the title of Master Sergeant (announced before). The announcement is official, bureaucratic, but the energy in the room is anything but; officers scurry, voices clash, papers shuffle, and Aldo feels that familiar prickling tension of responsibility settling onto his shoulders.
He finally meets the new members. They stand scattered in the barracks, arms crossed, leaning against walls, faces as bored as his own: a mirrored reflection of disinterest, or perhaps weary anticipation. But beneath the blank masks, Aldo notices nuances: a twitch of an eyebrow, a sharpened glance, a tight-set jaw, some are openly rebellious, some seem to be planning subtle subversions, and a few carry the cold, measured aura of potential communist spies. Their eyes flicker as he steps forward, sizing up, evaluating, and for the first time in hours, Aldo feels the electric pulse of responsibility, the weight of authority mingled with caution. [These aren't just numbers. Each one carries a story, a hidden intent, a possibility to disrupt or follow. I need to understand them before they understand me...]
He introduces himself with measured precision, the words rolling off his tongue: "I am Aldo, Master Sergeant of this newly formed company." The title hangs in the room, heavier than it should, yet necessary. He studies their reactions; some nod, others shift slightly, unconvinced, or indifferent. [Good. Skepticism will keep them alive longer than blind loyalty. We are all work under duress anyway…] Then he takes the list of one hundred members and begins organizing them. Four platoons, each with twenty-five people, the names and numbers flowing across his mind like a river he must channel. He assigns nicknames: 1-FM, 2-SH, 3-TB, and 4-FT. Each label is more than just a name; it carries roles, responsibilities, and expectations. 1-FM and 2-SH will be the main combat units. 3-TB will handle engineering and scouting, while 4-FT becomes the backbone for medical and technical support.
Aldo sorts them carefully. Tall, strong, or fierce-looking individuals are placed in the frontlines—1-FM and 2-SH. Those with knowledge of first aid, herbs, or battlefield medicine go into 4-FT, while the rest, competent or not, are funneled into 3-TB, responsible for engineering tasks and reconnaissance. The old units' members are randomly distributed, an act to prevent cliques or alliances from forming too strongly. He observes them closely, noting the subtle shifts in posture as they realize they are not entirely free to choose; some resist it silently, some accept it, some bide their time.
Once the platoons are formed, each group discusses and elects a platoon leader. Aldo listens, watches, but does not intervene unless necessary. The room buzzes with low murmurs, occasionally punctuated by laughter, a challenge, or a whispered argument. The election of leaders is a salad in human behavior: ambition, hesitation, strategy, and fear all visible in their expressions, in the tilt of a head, in the grip on a chair. He mentally note down each action, each flicker of intent, as though engraving them into a mental ledger.
Next comes the division into squads. Combat-focused platoons, 1-FM and 2-SH, are split into three squads: two main squads of nine, and a sub-platoon of seven. Engineering and support platoons, 3-TB and 4-FT, are split into four squads, carefully arranged: two squads of eight for engineering, one squad of six for logistics or medical work, and a three-person squad for reconnaissance and reserve. Aldo observes every gesture, every movement, every exchange of words, measuring competence, trustworthiness, and potential. The final company structure—Number 204—is complete. He submits the form to the Lieutenant Colonel, the man nods briefly without a gaze.
The Lieutenant Colonel hands him a mission from Palanton Sevan Heilop, delegated from Palantine Erikas. Aldo does not hesitate. He inhales deeply, the scent of sweat, dust, and early morning bread mingling with the faint tang of metal from weapons racks. He studies the mission paper carefully, noting every detail, every nuance, without letting the chaotic energy of the room distract him. Then he returns to the 204th Company, where chatter has resumed and members are slowly becoming acquainted, laughter tentatively breaking through earlier boredom. Aldo moves among them, listening, observing, allowing the subtle bonds of a nascent team to form.
The door opens suddenly, and the chatter halts. Aldo senses the shift immediately: the room has become smaller, the air thicker, as though expectation has condensed into the space itself. All eyes turn toward the doorway, the motion almost synchronous, a ripple of attention traveling through the company. Aldo feels the familiar prickle of responsibility, the weight of every pair of eyes assessing not just him, but the hierarchy he represents. He glances briefly at his platoon leaders, each selected with care, and catches the brief flicker of curiosity, nervousness, and anticipation in their faces. [Now the real test begins. Not combat, not monsters, but the management of people. They follow because they must, or because they think they want to. Either way, they will judge me.]
The moonlight streams through the windows, casting thin stripes of illumination across dusty floors, highlighting the tension, the sharp angles of the soldiers' faces, the subtle sheen of sweat on brows. Aldo notices a faint twitch in one young man's lip, a hand unconsciously gripping a sleeve, the rapid blink of eyes that betray nervous energy. Across the room, a tall boy in 1-FM shifts his stance, shoulders tightening as if bracing against an invisible current. He has seen the same patterns before, knows them instinctively: fear, ambition, defiance, curiosity—all tangled together in a living, breathing organism called a company.
Aldo's eyes sweep over the room again, landing on a face that is unreadable, framed by a hood, features shadowed, a faint scar tracing the cheek. [There will always be those who hide their intent, who play a deeper game.] He lets the observation settle, storing it away like a key he may use later. His heart beats steadily, each thump marking the rhythm of his responsibility. He can feel the pulse of the company like a nervous current, subtle and electric.
"All right," Aldo finally says, voice steady, carrying across the room. It is calm, measured, yet unmistakably authoritative. "We have our structure, our squads, our leaders. Each of you knows your role. From now, we operate as one unit, Number 204. Our mission will be given, and our success will depend on how well we move together, think together, and protect each other. Any questions, you bring to me. Any confusion, you bring to your squad leader. Understand?"
Eyes flick around, a mixture of surprise, respect, and restrained doubt. Some nod quickly, others slowly, some do not nod at all. The silence is charged, expectant. Aldo notices a young recruit fidgeting with the hem of his tunic, eyes darting to the floor, then back up, and something unspoken passes between them—a recognition of shared uncertainty, the fragile bond that will either solidify under pressure or fracture.
He leans back slightly, letting the room absorb the weight of his words. The sunlight highlights the dust motes, swirling lazily, caught between the tangible and the imperceptible, much like the potential of this company. Aldo senses it: the energy, the possibility, the fragile beginnings of cohesion and defiance, of order and rebellion. He takes a quiet breath, feeling the subtle swell of responsibility, the sharp sting of anticipation, and the strange, almost exhilarating burden of command.
Aldo holds the mission paper between his fingers, the parchment still warm from the Lieutenant's hand, the ink crisp under the lamplight as he skims its contents. The murmuring around him fades into a distant hum the moment he reads the first line. He clears his throat, lifts his head, and reads aloud with a flat, steady tone that echoes sharply in the cramped barracks.
"Destroy a pack of Red-eyed White Winter Wolf in the Furaberg Mountains of Palantine Erikas."
The room stills. The air thickens. The name of the creature alone draws an instinctive tightening of shoulders, a shift of weight, a nearly synchronized inhale from a hundred uneasy chests. Aldo lets the sentence hang in the air for one pressured moment, watching eyes widen, watching jaws lock, watching that quick flicker of fear in the faces of his newly formed company.
Then he continues, quick and brisk, almost dismissive, as if to defang the very assignment with the tone of his voice.
"Since tomorrow is still a leave day," he says, "the whole company will spend it studying the geography of the area, learning about these wolves, and preparing tactics to fight them."
His voice is practical, calm, the sort of rational monotony that normally dampens emotion. But tonight, it does not soothe. A Chinese private in 1-FM—stockier, hair unkempt, face pale from both exhaustion and the cold drafts passing through the cracks of the wooden walls—stands up. His eyes are wide, his jaw trembling slightly, and his hands come together anxiously in front of him as though bracing himself against something invisible.
"Sir… those wolves hide in the snow," he says, voice hushed yet sharp with dread. "They have coordinated pack attacks. They freeze prey alive with their spray—their breath—while running… and then eat them. Alive."
A ripple of unease spreads instantly through the company. Murmurs break out—fragments of "freeze alive?", "running while spraying?", "in the snow?"—a growing wave of panic unfolding in voices, in shifting feet, in darting eyes. Shoulders tense. Breathing quickens. Someone audibly clenches their teeth.
Aldo lifts his hand.
The room falls quiet in a slow, reluctant silence.
He draws in a breath, steady, grounding, letting the moment stretch just enough for his voice to cut through it with clarity.
"Calm down, team."
His gaze sweeps across the room, faces lit by the weak lanterns on the walls, shadows quivering behind them like restless ghosts. He sees the tension in their jaws, the way some grip the edges of their seats, the almost childlike fear in the younger ones.
"I know we're still in the dark about Erikas's geography," he continues, "and about this Winter Red-Eyed White Wolf. But remember, your lives matter more to me than any deadline."
He pauses deliberately.
The tension coils tighter, waiting, expecting—
Then he delivers the punchline with a deadpan expression sharp enough to cut through the fear.
"Let me clarify what I have just said: If there's a stronger enemy… we run away."
Silence.
Not rejection. Not confusion.
Just stunned stillness.
Then—
A private from 2-SH stands abruptly, eyes wide, then squints with feigned seriousness. "Sir, you're a genius," he declares loudly, then adds, "Where do we run away to?"
Aldo doesn't miss a beat.
"To the local barracks."
This time the silence shatters.
Laughter erupts through the room: uneven, surprised, but real. The tension melts as voices crack and shoulders relax. A few Japanese slave-soldiers cover their mouths as they laugh, a reflexive gesture of old cultural embarrassment despite all being roughened boys by now. Others laugh openly, some bending forward, some shaking their heads with disbelief. The noise fills the space with warmth, momentarily pushing away the creeping dread.
Aldo lets it continue for a bit. Humor, after all, is a pressure valve. And the company needs that tonight more than orders.
But when the laughter softens into a gentle buzz, he straightens slightly and speaks again, his tone firm yet calm.
"Tomorrow, we'll listen to my lecture and practice."
No jokes. Just truth. A promise wrapped in responsibility.
He leaves the room afterward. No dramatics. No lingering. Just the sound of the door clicking shut behind him as he walks into the dim corridor.
The barracks are mostly asleep now. The hallways dark except for a few dying lanterns. The cold bites sharper in the stillness of late night, carrying faint drafts through the cracks in the wooden boards. But the Army library—on the far end of the compound—remains lit. Soft circles of blue-white glow emanate from the walls, where circular Manatite-powered plates shine silently like cold moons pressed flat against stone.
Aldo steps inside.
The silence inside the library is absolute, heavy, like a blanket laid over the world. Rows of shelves rise above him: dark wood, organized neatly, full of leather-bound volumes of geography, biology, strategy, history. The room smells faintly of old parchment, medicinal herbs, and polished wood.
The librarian, an older Mikhlander woman with gentle eyes and the firm posture of someone who has bandaged far too many wounds, is long asleep. A blanket is pulled over her shoulders, her breathing slow and soft as she rests in her chair behind the front desk.
Aldo moves quietly, each footstep soft on the polished floor.
He makes his way to the geography shelves, pulling a thick, map-heavy volume of Topography of Northern Erikas. He sets it on the nearest table. Then he retrieves a biology tome,its cover bearing the stylized silhouette of a wolf with sharp ears and elongated limbs, Fauna of the Northern Palantines.
He spreads both books open, smoothing the pages with slow, deliberate gestures. His eyes are locked on the intricate diagrams: mountain passes, frozen ridges, den locations, recorded wolf migrations. He reads meticulously, flipping pages with the crisp whisper of parchment.
A shadow passes across his face and thoughts tightening like knots.
[Winter wolves. Ice breath. Pack tactics. Camouflage. Running attacks. These aren't simple targets. This isn't an easy hunt. It's a survival test.]
He inhales slowly.
[And they sent slave-soldiers for this. We're not disposable. We're convenient disposable.]
His jaw clenches.
He turns the page again, stopping at an illustration of the Red-Eyed White Winter Wolf—fur pure white, fangs curved backward, eyes drawn glowing crimson by the illustrator.
[Not monsters. But monstrous animals. Efficient. Tactical.]
He traces the outline of the wolf's pawprint diagram, noting the size comparisons.
[We need to know their movement patterns. Their ambush points. Their behavior before the strike. If the pack separates… if they flank… we need countermeasures.]
His fingers drum the table quietly.
Outside the library, the rest of the barracks are submerged in sleep and darkness. Only this room, with its Manatite glow, remains alive. The brightness spills through the windows and under the door—small beams escaping into the night like a silent announcement: someone is awake, someone is working, someone is preparing.
Aldo hears it then.
Soft. Faint.
Footsteps.
Coming from the hallway.
Rhythmic. Slow. Hesitant. As if someone is approaching, unsure whether they should be here. Or curious. Or worried. Or both.
Aldo does not look up immediately. He lowers his gaze back to the text, his finger sliding down a passage describing the wolves' sensitivity to sound.
But his ears sharpen.
The footsteps stop just outside the door.
A shadow leaks under the gap between wood and floor.
Someone stands there, breathing softly, unsure whether to knock… or walk in… or walk away.
Aldo closes the book halfway, his eyes narrowing slightly, focusing.
The night is still young.
And someone has come looking for him.
The footsteps come softly at first, almost cautious, tapping against the wooden floorboards with a rhythm that suggests both curiosity and restraint. The night around the barracks is dim, the lanterns flickering with a thin amber glow as if the cold wind outside gnaws at their flames. Aldo sits alone at his desk, hunched slightly over a mess of papers: maps, wolf-track diagrams, elevation sketches of Furabeg's mountain passes. His face lit by the faint bluish shimmer of a mana-lamp. His fingers are smudged with charcoal and chalk dust, and his eyes, sharp, brown, and cold in concentration, reflect the weight of calculation rather than the weight of sleep.
The door opens with a soft creak, and the Lieutenant steps inside. He pauses for a second, letting his eyes adjust. His breath quietly escapes him when he sees the boy still awake. The man's eyes widen, a brief flash of surprise breaking his usually composed demeanor. He softens his posture, shoulders lowering, and his voice becomes gentle as he steps further into the room. "Aldo? What are you doing awake at this hour? You should be sleeping."
Aldo lifts his head slowly, not startled, merely shifting from deep focus into awareness. His voice is calm and level, almost too mature for his age. "Preparing for the mission in Furaberg, Erikas."
The Lieutenant stops only a few steps away from him, strokes his chin, and lets silence linger as he observes the papers. The lines on his forehead pull tight—thought, experience, and perhaps a hint of worry weaving together. He finally says, "There've been rumors nearby. Rebel troops—earthling former-slave revolutionaries—gathering in the mountains." His tone carries an unsettling weight. "Maybe they didn't send your company just to kill wolves. Maybe… they want to see if there are revolutionaries hiding there."
The words sink into Aldo like a cold current. His brows rise slightly in surprise, though his breathing stays even. "They would use my company as bait?" The question escapes him before he thinks to restrain it.
The Lieutenant tilts his head, neither confirming nor denying outright. "I'm not one hundred percent sure." His voice drops lower, almost confiding. "But with twenty years of experience… it's likely."
The room feels colder at that. The lantern flame trembles, as if reacting to the subtle dread threading the air. Aldo's fingers tighten around the edge of a paper just briefly. [Of course they would. They always do. Efficiency before humanity.] But his face gives nothing away beyond a flicker of focus.
The Lieutenant moves closer, not with intimidation but with intent to teach. He pulls a chalkboard from the shelf, worn edges, scratches from years of battlefield diagrams, and sets it on the table beside Aldo. His chalk taps once, then begins to scrape across the surface.
"If there are guerrillas," he says, drawing quick symbols, troop arrows, lines for terrain, "you counter them with basics first. Scouts go first. Always."
The chalk arcs left and right.
"Flank teams follow. Your movement must have eyes everywhere."
He circles a point and taps it. "Cover each other. Three-hundred-sixty degrees. Never march blind."
Aldo watches intently, leaning forward. The lamplight casts a faint shadow over his glasses, reflecting the chalkboard diagrams.
The Lieutenant continues, drawing a narrow mountain path. "Avoid bridges, curves, bushes, narrow passes. Anything with concealment." His voice is steady, practiced. "If needed, clear vegetation. Take a longer route. Silence is your armor."
The chalk stops. Aldo's gaze sharpens. "What if we get attacked?"
The Lieutenant turns, meeting his eyes. There is no softness now…only experience carved into the gaze of a soldier who has lost entire squads to mistakes. "If they hit you from close range, respond immediately and get out of the kill zone. Break contact fast. If they're far, suppress them with strong firepower."
He places the chalk down and leans on the table with both hands, his shadow falling across Aldo's notes. "But the most important thing is scouts and skims. Scan the terrain. Read the land. And since it's Furabeg…" He taps the maps Aldo has painstakingly drawn. "…use local knowledge. Mountains don't lie. Snow doesn't lie. They tell you where something passed."
Aldo nods, absorbing every word. [A trap is only a trap if you walk blind into it.]
Silence lingers for several seconds. The Lieutenant's eyes drift over the papers: geographic layers, sketches of paw prints, notes on wolf pack behavior. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth, the kind that appears only when a teacher sees potential in a student. Or is it ?
Then his expression shifts again—puzzled. He looks at Aldo closely, head tilting. "Where's your Glowing Sigil?"
Aldo blinks. "The summoner who brought me here forgot."
The Lieutenant straightens, sighs through his nose in a way that feels tired but unsurprised. He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out a blank insignia—shield-shaped, simple metal, unmarked. He places it gently on the table in front of Aldo.
"Then design your own. You should make it different so we can distinguish your company."
Aldo's brows lift. "Why not ask the summoner to fix it?"
A short, dry laugh escapes from the Lieutenant. "Call a summoner ? No. Too expensive. Too time-consuming. And the Military can't stand Thaumatologists from the Magic Academy. The Magic Academy are occupied mostly by women though…" He waves his hand dismissively. "So…Just draw your insignia. It's simpler, cheaper and less annoying for me."
Aldo picks up a piece of chalk and pauses for a moment, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. The room feels still, like the world is waiting for the design that will represent him and his men. Then he draws with smooth, controlled strokes.
A dark blue background.
Two yellow stripes on the edges.
A white star in the center.
The Lieutenant watches, arms crossed lightly, expression turning approving. "Good. I'll have a hundred of these made for your entire company in the next day." His voice carries a touch of pride. "We don't need such expensive method."
He turns toward the door, his boots making soft thuds, each step already fading into the muted ambiance of the late hour. Before leaving, he glances back one last time. The lantern light frames him in a warm halo.
"Keep studying. Dawn comes soon."
Then he steps out, the door closing behind him with a gentle click.
The room falls quiet again—deep, focused quiet. Aldo exhales slowly. [Used as bait, huh?] The cold wind outside brushes against the thin windows, murmuring like distant mountains. The papers flutter slightly under its breath.
Aldo straightens them, his fingers steady. His eyes return to the maps, tracing the lines of mountain passes where wolves and revolutionaries might both roam. Snowfields, narrow ravines, hidden shelters… every line becomes a potential threat or opportunity.
Around him, the shadows stretch long, shifting as the lamp flickers. His face is calm, though beneath the calm a quiet determination hardens like forged steel. He flips a page, continues reading the notes about wolves, environment, terrain.
And the night continues…cold, quiet, and deliberate…