There were no obstacles in Obei's path to the barracks. With barely enough men to man the walls, the remaining soldiers inside seemed indifferent to their surroundings. Whether due to disinterest or sheer exhaustion from relentless labor, their sluggishness was obvious. He suspected the latter.
Arriving at the crates he had spotted the night before, Obei pried them open, only to be met with disappointment. The provisions inside were meager—far less than he had hoped. He had never been one to steal in his past life, but necessity overruled his conscience. He took a fresh set of clothes and a knapsack, convincing himself he was merely borrowing them. His guilt kept him from taking anything more, and he moved on, exploring the courtyard.
Most of the fort lay in ruins. Buildings crumbled, their skeletal remains standing as a testament to past battles or sheer neglect. But one structure stood out—the only building still intact. Unlike the others, made of brick and stone, this cabin was newly built, its wooden construction blending with the surrounding trees.
Stepping inside, Obei was momentarily stunned. Compared to the decay outside, the interior was almost luxurious. A sturdy table and two chairs sat in the center, fresh fruit rested on a nearby surface, and at the back of the room was a real bed—not just blankets strewn on the floor, but an actual bed with feathered pillows. At its foot lay a chest, while a wooden desk was cluttered with paperwork.
Hopeful, he checked the chest first. Its contents were underwhelming—clothing, four assorted pelts, and what appeared to be a wooden rod. Still, he took two pelts, a loaf of bread, and a knife, stuffing them into his satchel. In his smaller pouch, he packed the remaining pelts, a strip of dried meat, a black vial, and the wooden rod.
Turning to the desk, he noted its six drawers—three on the right, two on the left. He started with the topmost drawer on the right. Inside were neatly stacked papers, detailing supply records.
Fort Blackthorne Supply Ledger
Year: 1327
supply officer: Lieutenant Gareth Holt
Annual Supply Inventory & Distribution Log
Dried Meat
Initial Stock: 2,000 lbs
Monthly Use: 160 lbs
Remaining Stock: 80 lbs
Bandages & Cloth
Initial Stock: 150 rolls
Monthly Use: 12 rolls
Remaining Stock: 10 rolls
Spears & Pikes
Initial Stock: 80
Monthly Use: 5
Remaining Stock: 40
Firewood
Initial Stock: 5,000 logs
Monthly Use: 400 logs
Remaining Stock: 600 logs
The fluctuations in supplies were striking. At times, they dwindled to near starvation, while at others, they surged beyond what seemed possible. Given the fort's condition, it was hard to believe they had ever thrived. Dismissing it as the natural difficulty of supplying a remote outpost, he moved on.
The middle drawer held more paperwork—unremarkable. The bottom right drawer, however, contained a small box, its surface etched with gold engravings.
Cha-ching. Obei smirked. If books and stories had taught him anything, it was that the shiniest object was always the most valuable.
After a final glance through the remaining drawers, he packed four apples and two bananas into his satchel, now bulging from the added weight.
Satisfied, and knowing the soldiers could return at any moment, Obei moved with caution. Instead of exiting through the main entrance, he circled around to the back of the fort, where he expected fewer guards.
His assumption was correct.
Only three soldiers were posted outside, each spaced apart. Two of them were either asleep or too exhausted to notice anything around them. If they had been awake, they surely would have spotted him. Obei slipped past undetected and entered the nearby forest. Relief washed over him as the fort faded into the distance. The tension that had gripped his body dissipated, replaced by exhilaration. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from excitement.
He had successfully infiltrated the fort.
Settling into a vantage point, he watched as the soldiers returned, their march accompanied by wagons and horses. From his concealed position, he observed the grim truth behind Fort Blackthorne's fluctuating supplies.
They weren't receiving shipments. They were pillaging.
And it wasn't an enemy they were raiding.
It was their own people.
Obei's stomach twisted as prisoners were herded into the fort—women, children, the elderly, all bound together. Their faces were hollow with fear. The young men were absent. He didn't need to ask why.
Slaughtered.
Rage simmered within him. He wanted to help—to do something. But reality crushed the impulse. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't some warrior capable of cutting down an entire garrison. If he intervened, he'd only end up among the dead.
So he watched.
As the soldiers celebrated with reckless abandon, feasting and drinking, Obei sat in silence. He ate a strip of dried meat, two apples, and sipped from his waterskin, his provisions pitiful compared to their banquet. But his appetite was dulled by the images of suffering before him.
By the time the last embers of daylight faded, the fort remained alive with drunken revelry. The moon took its place in the sky, casting the land in chilling darkness. Exhaustion crept upon him. He had no choice but to rest where he was—concealed within the bushes.
Two hours passed before the celebration waned. Another hour before the inevitable happened.
A voice—sharp, furious—cut through the night.
Obei stirred awake, shivering from the cold. His body felt sluggish, but an eerie stillness gripped the air. He blinked the haze of sleep away and turned his gaze back to the fort. The rowdy soldiers from before were now deathly silent.
Bodies littered the ground, sprawled unnaturally. Expressions frozen in sheer terror.
His breath hitched. This wasn't drunken slumber. This was a massacre.
The prisoners were dead, too. Unlike the soldiers, their deaths were gruesome. Earthen spikes jutted from the ground, piercing through their skulls.
A lone figure stood amidst the carnage.
Even from his vantage point, Obei could see the commander's rage. His posture was rigid, fists clenched. Though Obei couldn't hear his words, his barked orders made one thing clear:
Someone had taken something from him.
And he wanted it back.
Obei's hand drifted to his pouch, fingers brushing against the engraved box.
A sinking feeling settled in his gut.
Whatever was inside was worth far more than he had realized.
And now, people had died for it.
A bitter taste filled his mouth. He had told himself he wasn't a hero, that intervening would have been suicide. Yet standing there, he wondered if cowardice had been the true culprit. If he had acted sooner, if he had tried… would they still be alive?
The answer didn't matter.
All he could do was run before the commander turned his wrath on whoever had stolen from him.
Before more blood was spilled in his name. Or at least before his eyes could see the rest of the slaughter play out.
Tearing his gaze from the slaughter, Obei turned and disappeared into the forest, the weight of his choices pressing down on every step.