During the morning class with his mother, Zaemon tested the air using his olfact skill and he smelled the scent of anxiety medication coming from her. For the past couple of days, his mother was clearly stressed. Her face showed the signs of sleep deprivation despite taking her sleeping medicines. Zaemon had watched the way her quill tapped against the desk, which produced a rhythmic, restless sound.
"Mother," he'd said, closing his book. "The soldiers at all the gates were increased by half this morning. And the blacksmith hasn't stopped hammering since yesterday. What is happening?"
She looked up, her face a mask of practiced calm. "Maintenance, Zaemon. The seasons are shifting, and the equipment must be ready for it. The Sovereign Grid is also one of the reasons for the movements in the fort that are affecting you. Do not let your imagination outpace your studies. Remember you still need to form a core."
Her dismissal was clean, but her eyes had remained fixed on a single line of text for far too long. So Zaemon asked again. The lecture had ended with a sharp snap of the book cover. Zaemon's mother had smoothed her skirts and stood, her face a wall of maternal composure that usually signaled the end of any debate.
"The safety of the fort is your father's concern, Zae," she had said when he pressed her on the issue.
Later, while crossing the inner ward toward the kitchens to get his high-calorie meal, he used his audial skill and picked up the conversations among a group of new recruits. "I got three double shifts for this week," one grumbled, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "You are lucky. My team got the orders to scour the low roads like we're looking for a needle in a haystack. The brown-haired man spoke in a tired voice.
"I heard Tina went with Captain. She is a lucky b***h." A muscular girl said, showing her jealousy.
"What do you people think of the steward's assigning some noble recruits to himself?" A shaved-head man asked his fellow recruits.
"They surely aren't doing the hard labor like us," the muscular girl commented.
"Probably kept close because of their family connections. Even a provisional noble is still a noble, and Baron himself is on patrol now. My instincts are telling me that the intelligence unit is also hiding something from us." The brown-haired man told them with confidence in his tone.
Zaemon didn't linger for long as the discussion shifted to mundane topics. He kept his pace steady, but his mind was still churning the information. Father is out there somewhere on the periphery; preparations are being made in the fort, while Nina's team has vanished into the deep woods—that green hell where the trees seem to swallow people whole. For years, he had watched soldiers crawl back from those shadows with hollow eyes and thinned ranks. He was also being marched outward into the gap between all of them. He noted the pattern without naming what it implied. He needed to be ready.
He entered his room and closed the door, the latch clicking like the beginning of a countdown. Zaemon sat on the edge of his bed and looked at the layout in front of him. He had prepared everything; it was spread across his blanket in the order he would put it on. Left to right, bottom to top — the sequence mattered. A second saved in preparation was a second available when preparation ran out.
He had made a mistake in the boar fight. Certainly not a small one.
The sidearm was attached to his belt during the simulation. In the arena it had not been there because he had not checked for it prior to stepping out. He believed the loadout was complete.
Assumption was the most expensive habit a fighter could cultivate, and he had indulged in it at seven years old in front of his instructors, his father's soldiers, and whatever piece of his adult pride had survived reincarnation intact.
He did not intend to repeat it.
He took the gambeson first and brushed his fingers over the seams of the inside pockets. His mother had requested modifications—four inner pockets stitched into the lining according to his requirements. Two on the chest, one on the left hip, and one on the inner back panel beneath the collar. The external layer was the usual padded linen, sufficiently thick to absorb light impacts and distribute the arming doublet's weight across it. Everything about it seemed normal for a boy heading out on a supervised expedition.
He spread the survival kit pieces out on the blanket next to him and counted them by touch before his eyes verified each item.
Signal mirror—shiny metal, palm-sized, featuring a tiny aiming hole etched in the center. He crafted it himself from a piece of discarded reflective metal retrieved from the fort's storage during repairs. Observation up to a significant distance on a clear day.
Wire — a piece of slender, high-strength wire tightly coiled. It might function as a trap, a trigger, a tether, or a makeshift cutting implement if wound around a grip. He personally evaluated the tensile strength.
Slim cord—three meters, intertwined, sturdy enough to support his weight. He verified the strength from a small branch at the fort's inner boundary when no one was watching.
Fishing hooks—three, tucked inside a folded piece of leather to prevent snagging the pocket material.
Sparker—a compact fire-starting device, regularly included in the fort's survival kits, sufficiently small to fit within a clenched hand.
Needle and thread—one sewing needle, filament coiled around a tiny bone rod. Basic field repair.
Whistle—made of bone, drilled with two holes, producing a sharp two-tone signal. It was louder than his voice could carry in a dense forest.
Knife—his primary backup blade, short enough to draw from a concealed position, long enough to be useful.
Two sparblades—both were flat and wrapped in leather to prevent noise when he moved.
He distributed them across the four internal pockets, considering weight and retrieval priority. The knife and spare blades went to the chest pockets—high priority, fastest access. The sparker and signal mirror went into the hip pocket. Wire, rope, and fishing hooks went to the back panel pocket. The needle, thread, and whistle went to the secondary chest pocket.
He donned the gambeson and made three swift turns, a forward drop, and a side-step sequence. Everything remained unchanged. Nothing rattled. The distribution of weight was satisfactory.
The armed doublet was put on top of the gambeson. He secured every clasp in order and examined the shoulder areas where it would connect with the pauldrons on days he wore them. Today's mission did not require complete plate attachment—prioritizing speed and stealth over defense. The doublet was enough.
The hose for the lower body was fitted and tied correctly at the waist points. He had learned the hard way in his second week of training that a poorly tied point could work loose during sustained movement and drop one leg of the hose at exactly the moment both hands were occupied. Nina still laughs hysterically when she remembers the situation.
Helmet—padded interior, metal exterior, fitted to account for the fact that he was thirty percent larger than a typical seven-year-old but still operating inside a seven-year-old's proportional head. Olford had sourced a custom fitting. He placed it on but left the chin strap loose until he was outside.
A spear would be taken from the rack at the armory. A short, lightweight, but strong sword at the left hip was confirmed present. Round shield from the storage point at the fort's interior gate.
He checked the left hip. The sidearm was there.
He checked it again.
Then he went to find Herald. As he stepped into the sunlight, the weight of the gear felt reassuring against his body. He could hear the distant sounds of training exercises echoing through the courtyard. He wanted to question him about the situation in the atmosphere of the fort.
Zaemon found Herald by the inner stable wall, the man's shadow stretched long and thin across the dirt. He wasn't checking the horses or barking orders at the lower-ranked recruits. He was simply standing, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade, his eyes fixed on the battlements where the sentries seemed to be moving with a sharp, frantic energy.
"Master Herald," Zaemon said, his voice cutting through the heavy air.
Herald didn't turn immediately. He drew a slow breath, the leather of his jerkin creaking. "You're early, Zaemon. And you're fully kitted." He finally looked down, his gaze performing a quick, professional sweep of the boy's gear. It lingered on the left hip. "The sidearm is present. Good."
"The air is not right," Zaemon said, stepping closer. "The courtyard is loud, but the gatehouse is too quiet. Why are the archers drawing extra bundles of shafts from the secondary stores, increasing in patrols, and preparing for siege?"
Herald leaned in, contemplating for a couple of seconds with a sigh and lowering his voice so it barely carried over the wind. "I think you should know. We got our hands on the evidence of Krakan fanatics in the area. Don't tell anyone, okay?"
Zaemon felt the weight of his hidden survival kit against his chest. "The Krakan?"
Herald tightened his grip on his sword. "You notice things. It's better you know what you're looking for than spot something and react wrong. Still, as a precaution, if I give the word, you don't look back at the Star Soldiers. You run for safety."
He looked Zaemon dead in the eye. "Are we clear?"
Zaemon adjusted his helmet strap, the metal cool against his jaw. "Yes, Master, I am."
The heavy iron-studded gates groaned open, releasing Zaemon and soldiers into a world where the golden afternoon light struggled against the dark clouds. He adjusted the strap of his shield, feeling the hidden weight of his survival gear press reassuringly against his ribs as the fortress walls fell away behind him. With Herald's horse setting a grim pace toward the goblin den, Zaemon didn't look back, his olfact skill already scanning the air beyond the treeline, noting what belonged and waiting for what did not.
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Hidden among the tree branches, Corin pressed his back against the bark and waited. He watched the humans destroy yet another goblin hideout. The encirclement below tightened its final ring around the last cluster of goblins. He watched without blinking. Not from emotion—he had none remaining—but because watching humans in action was the most worthwhile thing a goblin could do to survive.
Most of his species never understood his thinking. They watched humans the way prey watches a predator: in paralyzed terror, right up until the end. Humans always had something to teach him. Even through the rising smoke, he could see them butchering his species with a precision unlike any other humans.
It was one of his old territories. He used to hunt here but had to leave when a new group of humans arrived here. The sight of their large formation had filled him with dread at first—not individuals, like his peers saw, but a monstrous entity poised to devour them and claim the region. His instincts told him to flee, which had been the right choice when this new group arrived many light and dark cycles ago.
After his escape, Corin settled near a bigger but far less intimidating human settlement following a grueling journey. There, he swiftly rose to lead a goblin group, hunting humans, their livestock, and forest monsters to sate his sadistic hunger. They reproduced relentlessly, interbreeding with any creature capable of pregnancy—four-legged or two-legged alike—which fueled their endless numbers.
The local humans of that area sent strong parties against them, but none matched the efficiency of these humans who settled in this old territory. These humans who drove him away were different from every group he had studied before.
He had been tallying them since he returned here again. Not the complete figures — he was aware of that already. He was watching their drills. The schedules for their rotations. The inconsistencies in the patrol schedule. The manner in which they employed torches and which areas fell into darkness first during the hour preceding the watch shift.
On the day he first observed the road's geometry, he pressed one finger against his palm. Roads did not develop in straight paths. Roads developed in the same manner as animal paths — by taking the easiest route, bending around hills, and tracing waterways. These paths did not bend. They were emitted outward from a stable central point with intentional geometric accuracy.
No goblins had escaped the encirclement so far. These humans did not panic. When a goblin broke the line and ran at an angle rather than straight, the response was not a scramble — it was a redirect. A second shield closed the gap before the first had even registered the breach. When goblins screamed to trigger fear responses, these humans did not flinch. Their breathing did not change. Their formations did not contract inward the way untrained humans' formations always did when noise reached a certain pitch.
He had been made to feel the same scene before, and he had been taught what it meant. This was his first time when he had seen such humans outside of the elite soldiers his group had encountered. At that time he believed in his numbers and attacked a group of humans carrying goods with them. That was a disaster and a lesson for him.
Corin ground his teeth in fury as one goblin nearly broke through the encirclement, only to fall to an arrow. No others had escaped so far. He'd hoped to rally survivors and bolster his group, but Burca's foolishness had ruined that.
When Burca first arrived with his band—mostly Corin's own children and subordinates—Corin's hunger had surged with excitement. He joined them and gained Burca's trust, but when Corin opposed relocating, Burca beat him and cast him out.
GRRRHAA! Burca's furious roar echoed from the den. The hobgoblin had arrived too late and too loud, as Corin had known he would. He watched the humans shift formation without being ordered to—a ripple of reorientation that moved through their lines like a signal. They had heard the roar and adjusted before their commanders said a word.
Corin's smile was slow and private.
He had not planned for Burca to die here. He had planned for Burca to die exactly here, at exactly this stage, for his stupidity. The three dead road workers, the staged footprints, and the snapped spear pointing toward Burca's settlement—all of it had led to this moment. Burca had served his purpose. The hobgoblin had angered Corin, and now he had to pay.
Corin sniffed the air; he got a familiar but still unrecognizable scent. He shifted his head in the direction and saw some humans appear between the trees and bushes.
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The air around them reeked of blood and wet earth as the Star Soldiers systematically culled the goblins. A warhammer struck the ground, and a high-pitched screech followed as the earth beneath goblin feet trembled.
The worshippers of Krakan did not flinch. Crouched low in the brush, their salt-and-rot-scented robes masked by magic, they ignored the carnage. Their focus remained on the small elevated platform where the Baron's son stood, guarded by two distracted soldiers.
"They fight like machines. The goblins are already breaking," Mari murmured, drawing her arrow.
"Let them be broken," Markelo murmured. "Krakan does not hunger for such thin prey."
Valric clicked his tongue softly. "We wouldn't be rushing like this if it weren't for the Sanni Forest becoming a hostile territory for us. Every movement and plan we make here gets disrupted."
"Hatar House," Salm muttered, eyes narrowing. "That meddling Noble House. Blundering through the forest like they own it. They don't even know we're here, and still they ruin everything."
"They do not see the tide," Shara said softly, "yet they disturb its pull all the same."
"After our success on the southeastern coast, we needed time to spread into this region quietly. Instead, we've been hiding like scavengers for past years. The coastal groups have already started to establish themselves," Salm whispered in anger.
Mari exhaled slowly. "We adapted. Used the bandits. Gave them bait, gave them targets."
"And they failed," Valric said, his voice tightening. "They were meant to draw Hatar's gaze away from us. Instead, they collapsed and forced us into this… rushed angling."
"Useless," Mari said flatly. "We armed them, pointed them at Hatar patrols... and they collapsed the moment real soldiers showed up."
"They were meant to distract, not win," Markelo said. "But even that was too much to ask."
A sudden crash drew their attention. A massive two and half meters tall iron-clad hobgoblin slammed into the Star Soldier line, its jagged club sending two recruits flying.
"The 'guided mission' just turned messy," Salm whispered. "They're tightening formation."
"Which leaves the boy exposed," Markelo noted, watching carefully. "The front demands their attention."
Valric glanced toward the distant fort and noticed the bird Anzo coming their way. "The others are in position near the gates, waiting."
"And waiting is something we've done enough of," Markelo's voice rasped like something dragged from the seabed. "Remember we need to expand along with the groups of the southwestern coast; we can't endure disruption in Sanni. We also lost our bandit cover… and now we act," Markelo said.
"What if the signal draws the Star Soldiers?" Valric asked, gripping his halberd.
Shara let out a dry, hollow chuckle. "By the time they understand, they will already be sinking."
"Everybody remember the contingency plan." Valric said in serious voice.
Markelo rose. The slick stone in his hand pulsed faintly, as though alive. He lifted his other hand, fingers spreading like a priest mid-rite.
"Strike the soldiers," Markelo said. "Let Hatar House scramble to save its bloodline… and fail on both fronts."
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