The dawn breaks in hues of pale magenta and bruised gold, a soft, rosy luminescence bleeding over the horizon of the central Heilop plain. After a grueling, multi-day march through the borderlands, the weary column of Company 204 finally halts. The rhythmic, dragging crunch of two hundred sets of heavy boots quietens. Comtois and the men of Company 205 are absent, deployed to a completely separate sector of the frontier.
Before the returned slave-soldiers lies their assigned property—a lush, green oasis carved out of an otherwise barren landscape. This is not their homeland, but a designated piece of territory they have been forced to transform. Hundreds of men drop their heavy gear into the dew-kissed clover. They look out over a sprawling expanse of meticulously engineered agricultural infrastructure. The geometric precision of the canals, the thick earth-packed dikes, and the shimmering, reflective water reservoirs they had painstakingly excavated before their deployment remain standing. None of these teenaged boys bear the typical rough skin of laborers; remarkably, not a single palm among them has callouses, and their young skin is entirely free of military scars.
Fields of wheat, rye, oat, and barley ripple gently in the early morning breeze, their stalks heavy and ready for the upcoming harvest. The flora and fauna have claimed the space in their absence. Fat, heavy-uddered cows graze idly alongside clucking chickens and robust pigs, all thriving on the abundant wild grasses and teeming insect populations. Some of the bolder livestock have even ventured past the boundary stones, disappearing into the fringes of the ancient forest that edges the company's designated territory. Nearby, the waterwheel of the lumber mill hangs motionless, its massive timber blades dripping slowly, though the interior machinery has not yet gathered the thick, grey dust of long-term abandonment.
Aldo steps to the vanguard of the group, his hands resting lightly on his utility belt as his eyes slowly trace the perimeter of the green valley. The harsh morning light catches his fair, remarkably smooth skin and well-proportioned build. He is a youth of balanced proportions—not overly muscular, yet far from skinny. His unblemished complexion and unusually rosy lips are the striking byproduct of good health and a strictly careful diet, an appearance that seems entirely out of place on a slave-soldier. Yet, any hint of youthful vitality is utterly canceled out by his dull, or rather, dead-fish eyes, which stare out at the valley with a chilling, vacant lack of emotion. A faint, uncharacteristic softening touches the corners of his lips.
[It remains. A month in the meat-grinder of the Pirus March, and the math still holds. The water flows where it was commanded to flow. The masterpiece is intact.]
The moment of quiet contemplation is shattered by the arrival of a local authority. A thin, rat-faced administrative clerk, clad in the drab, salt-stained linen of the Heilop bureaucracy, steps out from the shadows of the main storage shed. He doesn't offer a greeting. Instead, unfurling a heavily sealed parchment bundle, the clerk monotonously reads the official decree: "By order of the Heilop administration and the PCA oversight, Company 204 is hereby granted an expansion of their assigned management perimeter, effective immediately."
He shoves the document into Aldo's hands with a dismissive, ink-smudged gesture toward the surrounding wilderness. He then turns on his heel, his small donkey cart rattling away into the misty dawn, leaving the men standing in bewildered silence.
A heavy, suffocating gloom descends over the ranks of Company 204. Nobody celebrates. They know the geography of this world too well.
The land directly outside their green haven is a desolate waste of cracked clay and choking dust. The only reason their current several hectares are vibrant and heavily watered is due to the back-breaking, relentless construction work they had performed to nourish their wheat, rye, oat, and barley crops. The pristine, Japanese-style animal stables, constructed with tight, interlocked joinery, were the result of exhausting, manual reconstruction, not the natural bounty of the earth.
Hano steps forward, his face contorting into an expression of pure, unadulterated venom as he kicks a clod of dry, pale earth outside the old perimeter. Beside Aldo's steady, well-proportioned frame, Hano looks visibly less bulky, but he practically radiates a hyperactive, twitchy energy. His sharp, energetic features lack any trace of hardship, perfectly smooth and young. "Are you telling me this medieval garbage-heap of a world is giving away land as a genuine gift? Since when does a master hand his slaves a kingdom out of the goodness of his heart?"
Onaga slowly kneels, his delicate, youthful skin and distinctly femboyish features contrasting sharply with the grim reality of their situation as he rubs the dry, powdery soil between his fingers. He is small and noticeably shorter than Aldo by half a head, his hands surprisingly soft and devoid of any labor callouses despite the task. His voice is a low, grim rumble. "It's a real grant, Hano. The seal is authentic. We officially manage the estate now."
"But this dirt isn't worth a single copper!" Hano roars, his agile frame twisting as he gestures wildly toward the barren expanse that stretches toward the horizon. "The entire central Heilop region is vast, suffocatingly rich with established wheat and barley paddies owned by the high nobility. This specific area is nothing but a sparsely populated, godforsaken vacuum. It's completely unsuitable for anything except dying of thirst!"
Onaga stands up, wiping his dusty, smooth palms on his trousers, his sharp, energetic eyes tracking a hawk circling high above the arid plain. "The PCA superiors aren't stupid, Hano. They likely reviewed the logistical data. They saw we succeeded in greening a dead zone. So, they simply increased our compulsory management area from a manageable four hectares to a staggering twenty hectares. They want us to do the heavy lifting for free."
Ryong adjusts his glasses, his eyes widening as he points toward the boundary line where the engineered canals terminate. "Look at the clover, though. The root systems are already creeping. The grass is actively spreading to the edge of the newly acquired sectors just from the ambient humidity of our reservoirs."
Lei Delun steps closer to Aldo. Standing nearly six feet tall, his firm, broad, and intimidating stature cuts an imposing silhouette against the dawn, yet his bearing remains perfectly calm and measured, carrying the steady, upright dignity of a traditional virtuous man. He is a young, unscarred teenager whose imposing height is balanced by a serene, unblemished face. His brow furrows slightly as he looks back at the two hundred ragged men waiting for orders. "What's the human cost, Aldo? Do we now have to divide one single hectare among five people just to keep the soil alive? We don't have the manpower to dig sixteen more hectares of canals by hand."
Aldo adjusts his collar, his expression instantly hardening back into a mask of absolute, unyielding stone.
"First things first," Aldo commands, his voice carrying the chilling clarity of a ringing bell. "I, Hano, and Onaga will immediately march to Polihland City. The capital of Heilop is rotting from the inside, and it is time to thoroughly clean up Morito's financial corruption. The rest of you have a protocol to maintain. Everyone should clean the camp, continue logging the designated forest blocks, and tend to the current crops. Expand the dikes. Force the grass to spread. Bring the water and the plants forward until the new land is as green as the old."
Without waiting for a reply, Aldo turns toward the northern road, gesturing sharply for Onaga and Hano to follow. The three figures move with synchronized, military precision, their silhouettes growing smaller against the vast, pale horizon of the capital road.
Lei Delun stands at the boundary stone, his towering frame perfectly still as he watches the trio until they completely disappear into the shimmering heat haze of the distance. Maintaining his quiet, unshakable composure, he lets out a long, ragged breath, then turns back to face the waiting company. His commanding voice cracks through the morning air like a whip, contrasting with his serene demeanor.
"Ryong! Get the roster! I want teams assigned to clean out the animal pens immediately. Move another squad to maintain the timber factory and inspect the surrounding forest for rot. Check every single dike for structural shifting. I want a thorough inspection of every property—the living quarters, the public toilets, and the underground storage vaults. Every bolt needs to be tight before the sun reaches its peak!"
The men scatter into immediate, disciplined motion, the familiar sounds of scraping shovels and splashing water breaking the silence of the valley.
Lei Delun walks toward the edge of the new territory, his broad shoulders squared as his heavy boots sink into the dry, unyielding earth. He knows the truth. The surrounding land is technically under the absolute control of his company, but in the eyes of the law, they are still slaves. They do not truly own a single blade of the grass or stalks of grain they are forcing to grow. They are merely cultivating a garden for a master who could take it back on a whim.
[We are digging our own graves with gold-plated shovels if we don't find a way out of these chains. Twenty hectares of paradise is just twenty hectares of a wider prison.]
As he looks down at his boots, a sudden flash of vibrant color catches his eye. Tucked tightly into a narrow fissure of the dry clay is a dense, resilient patch of bright purple wildflowers. They are small, but their stems are thick, standing absolutely rigid against the biting highland wind that sweeps across the plain.
Lei stares at the blossoms, a sudden, powerful surge of raw motivation and profound encouragement flooding his chest. He recalls an ancient proverb from the old texts: 'Only in strong winds can you tell the real strength of the grass.'
Looking out at the vast, desolate wasteland, his steady, virtuous calm hardens into an unbreakable resolve; he realizes he isn't looking at a graveyard anymore. He has witnessed the strength of his men firsthand in the mud of Pirus. The presence of these specific wildflowers indicates something else—a deep, hidden reservoir of groundwater lies directly beneath the cracked earth. The land can flourish, and it will flourish much faster than the clerk could ever anticipate.
Lei Delun grips his shovel, his jaw setting into a hard, determined line as he steps forward into the dust. He sets to work.
.
.
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The clinical atmosphere of the private sanatorium is suffocatingly clinical, smelling heavily of distilled mandrake solution, pressurized eucalyptus vapors, and the faint, ozonic tingle of active thaumaturgy. Shafts of sharp, multi-hued light pierce through the stained-glass transoms, painting long, distorted geometry across the four pristine infirmary cots.
Aldo, Hano, Onaga, and Comtois lie prostrate in this secluded recovery ward, their teenage bodies sinking into the high-thread-count linens provided by the austere sorceresses who operate this highly specialized medical compound. Under the soft lamplight, the lack of callouses on their young hands and the absolute absence of scars on their unblemished skin look striking, almost unnatural for frontline soldiers. Every single ticking second in these sterilized quarters demands an exorbitant, almost extortionate financial premium—a steep price begrudgingly justified by the high-fidelity arcane counter-magic necessary to purify corruption from human tissue.
Comtois shifts his weight, his mattress creaking softly as he leans his head sideways toward Aldo's cot. Standing, Comtois is a full three inches taller than Aldo, and even lying down, his young frame looks notably more solid and muscular—though far from overly bulky or thick. He wears a mischievous, characteristically goofy expression on his young face, completely unbothered by their grim status. His voice is a low, unhurried drawl that breaks the rhythmic hum of the nearby cooling runes.
"Minh, we're basically fairy-tale heroes. Except we're slaves, we have no choice, we're pawns in a political game, and the pay is absolute garbage."
Aldo simply offers a slow, monosyllabic nod, his lifeless, dead-fish gaze fixed permanently on the plaster ceiling tiles above.
Comtois stares blankly at the polished mahogany bedpost, continuing in a tone of unvarnished, almost childlike innocence, his natural assertiveness softened by the comfortable surroundings.
"But geographically speaking, where are the fantasy staples? No Dwarves, no Orcs, no Elven empires. The absolute closest thing we've run into is that handful of talking trees back in the Pirus March that somehow survived the logging axes."
Aldo adjusts his position slightly, his voice cutting through the clinical warmth with the flat, analytical precision of a scalpel. His well-proportioned body—neither muscular nor skinny—remains completely rigid beneath the sheets, his smooth complexion glowing under the magic lamps. "Back on Earth, institutionalized inter-ethnic antagonism is entirely rampant across every continent. Therefore, it is logical that the planet Terre must exhibit its own deeply entrenched, systemic Speciesism. Every single sentient lineage occupies isolated, geographically segregated territories. It is exceptionally rare for individuals from one distinct ancestral stock to cross the boundaries into another."
Comtois shifts again, his eyes narrowing as he watches the curtain flutter. "Hey, Aldo... if you were suddenly handed an absolute, unconditioned manumission... if you were truly free, what's the very first choice you'd make?"
Aldo interrupts him before the sentence can fully form, his tone dropping into an unyielding register. "If I were free, Comtois? The honest answer is that I possess absolutely zero data for that scenario right now. I have to achieve structural freedom first before my mind can even think of a secondary objective."
Comtois lets out a sudden bark of genuine laughter, sinking back into his down pillows. "That's completely fair. Pragmatism above all else. Freedom first, logistics later."
Across the sunlit ward, in a sharply illuminated corner, a stern-faced Healer clad in stiff, starch-white robes is aggressively pressing Onaga about the anomalous medical charts. The sorceress glances suspiciously toward Hano's bed, then toward Aldo and Comtois. Hano immediately rolls over, his naturally sharp, energetic movements making it incredibly obvious he is feigning sleep to evade her piercing glare; Comtois merely flashes a nonchalant, unbothered grin, while Aldo remains as motionless and silent as a granite statue. Recognizing the easy target, the inquisitorial healer focuses her entire administrative wrath strictly on Onaga.
"Look at these terrifyingly elevated diagnostic readouts," the woman demands, tapping a brass stylus against her crystal clipboard. "What specific classification of high-density, illicit magical corruption have you been actively involved in to cause this level of cellular degradation?"
Onaga pulls the thick hospital blanket up to his chin, his shoulders tightening instinctively as he lowers his eyes in deep, painful self-consciousness. Despite the rough life of a soldier, his soft, femboyish appearance, short stature, and smooth, delicate skin make him look remarkably young and vulnerable under her scrutiny. "I... I respectfully refuse to reveal anything of our work."
The Healer takes a sharp step forward, her white leather boots clicking sharply against the tile floor as her voice increases significantly in volume. "This is a medical facility, not a military tribunal! I need the precise elemental source to adjust your counter-curative dosages!"
Onaga's face immediately darkens, a deep, crimson flush of profound embarrassment creeping up his delicate neck, yet his jaw sets into a stubborn, defensive line. "I have already stated that I will not reveal it."
"If you haven't participated in completely shady, illegal activities, why are you hiding the data so desperately?" the sorceress shouts, her voice echoing off the high stone arches of the ceiling, drawing a sharp chirp from a caged bluebird near the window.
Onaga sharply turns his head away, staring intently at the whitewashed wall. The persistent healer simply mirrors the movement, leaning her entire upper body in the exact same direction to force eye contact. Onaga grimly turns his head back to the opposite side, but the sorceress moves with practiced speed, clamping a firm, gloved hand onto Onaga's flawless jawline to hold it perfectly steady. She leans closer still, her breath misting slightly as she continues to hurl rapid-fire questions directly into Onaga's face.
Desperate for an escape, Onaga glances frantically toward Hano's cot, but the hyperactive teen is completely unresponsive, feigning loud snores.
Suddenly, the rustle of sheets cuts through the tension. Assertive as always and entirely unbothered by protocol, Comtois sits up abruptly, swings his legs over the edge of his cot, and throws his entire solid upper body forward across the narrow gap between the beds. With an explosive, fluid motion, he firmly cups the back of the aggressive Healer's head and forcefully pushes her face straight down toward Onaga's upturned lips, causing their mouths to collide in an abrupt, crushing kiss.
Both freeze instantly, their eyes widening to the size of saucers in absolute, unadulterated shock. Onaga begins to struggle violently against the unexpected physical weight, his uncalloused hands bunching into fists, but the sheer momentum of Comtois's grip holds the bizarre, forced embrace perfectly steady for several agonizing seconds before he finally relaxes his arm.
A senior sorceress at the main desk immediately leaps to her feet, her hands weaving a rapid, defensive somatic gesture. A bright, crackling cord of golden mana erupts from her fingertips, wrapping tightly around Comtois's torso like an iron binding spell, pinning his arms firmly to his sides.
"You insolent, incorrigible brute!" the senior woman vociferously scolds, her face flushed with bureaucratic outrage. "You are entirely too mischievous for a common labor slave! This is a sacred house of healing!"
Despite the restrictive pressure of the magical bonds biting into his chest, Comtois simply leans back against his pillows, a profoundly contented, smug smile spreading across his young, unscarred lips.
Aldo turns his head slightly, his dead-fish eyes observing the restrained soldier. "Are you genuinely having fun right now, Comtois?"
Comtois offers a prompt, highly enthusiastic nod of his head. "Absolutely. Every single second of it."
A second medical administrator enters the ward, her heavy silk robes rustling like dry leaves as she steps directly to the foot of Aldo's bed, handing him a long, itemized parchment ledger. Aldo glances at the total, reaches into his discarded tunic on the bedside table with smooth, unroughened fingers, and counts out exactly forty heavy silver coins, the metal clinking with a dull, heavy resonance on the wooden tray.
"Why has the standard therapeutic tariff increased by fifty percent since our previous diagnostic cycle?" Aldo inquires, his voice completely flat, his unusually rosy lips barely moving as he speaks.
The administrator deftly slides the silver into her velvet pouch, her expression turning somber. "The current market price of raw manatite ore is skyrocketing exponentially across the central province. The dukes have implemented much higher transit taxes, and the trade caravans are carrying significantly less unrefined ore due to security concerns along the highway."
Aldo nods slowly, his analytical mind instantly processing the economic data. "And according to your projections, does the current price index show any discernible signs of stabilizing or decreasing in the near future?"
The woman glances down at her extensive master ledger, then looks back at Aldo's unblinking, stoic face before offering a firm, negative shake of her head. "None whatsoever."
"Thank you for this valuable economic information..." Aldo murmurs, his mind already pivoting toward complex macroeconomic calculations.
[The domestic market is destabilizing faster than the quarterly reports indicated. Heilop is moving with absolute mathematical certainty toward the exact violent crisis I calculated.]
Aldo turns his gaze toward the massive arched window, watching the dark, heavy storm clouds rolling across the distant peaks of the capital. He turns his head back toward Comtois, his voice dropping into a low, intense whisper that barely carries over the crackle of the fireplace.
"When we enjoy the peace of the moment, Comtois, let us simultaneously ensure we are fully prepared to seize absolute sovereignty over all of our tomorrows."
Comtois nods his head in agreement, though a faint, confused crease between his brows reveals he doesn't quite grasp the terrifying scope of the young commander's long-term strategy.
Meanwhile, in the far corner of the quiet ward, Onaga hides completely beneath his heavy wool blanket. His unblemished face is burning a brilliant, furious crimson as he trembles beneath the sheets, his breath hitching as he lets out a low, embarrassed moan into the darkness.
"This... this is officially my very first kiss..."