13th of the 9th month, year 44 of the crimson moon
-Haruto Yagami's POV-
The morning wind cut across the northern ridge of Shirojima, carrying the sharp scent of salt and the faint tang of coral dust. From this height, I could see the narrow beaches below, their pale sand stretching into jagged cliffs, and the twisted coral forests crawling inland like frozen, gnarled fingers. I am General Haruto Yagami, commander of the 7th Ridge Regiment, and I know, with a certainty that has become almost a weight in my chest, that the enemy will come. Yet when they will arrive, I do not know. Not the hour, not the scale—only that the storm will descend.
The island seemed to breathe beneath the rising sun. Shadows shifted over the ridges and gullies, wind whispered through the coral trees, and the distant crash of waves struck the cliffs with steady rhythm. From a distance, Shirojima could appear serene, almost indifferent to the struggles of men, yet every slope, every hollow, every ridge had been claimed in preparation for battle. I had walked each one, memorized its contours, weighed its advantage and its peril. And still, uncertainty pressed down on me more heavily than any trench or bunker.
Soldiers moved among the fortifications below, carrying supplies, inspecting positions, and speaking in quiet tones. Many were young, barely old enough to shoulder the weight of responsibility, yet their faces showed the strange mixture of resolve and anxiety I had come to expect. I walked among them, boots crunching over coral fragments, noting the tension in their shoulders, the faint hesitation in their steps. Fear was present, but it had not broken them—yet.
Beside me, Major Renji Kuroda, my adjutant, moved silently, scanning the landscape with the practiced precision of one who knew both the land and the men better than most. "Sir," he said quietly, "the wait is taxing. Every sound, every ripple in the water, sets them on edge."
I let my gaze sweep over the beaches. "We do what we can. Trenches, bunkers, obstacles, supply caches. Beyond that, we wait. The enemy's hour is their secret, not ours."
The northern airfield lay open and vulnerable, flat and exposed, yet it was too important to ignore. If the Eastern Coalition captured it, they would have a staging point from which to project power across the island and beyond. I imagined landing craft appearing on the horizon, infantry disembarking into sand and coral, armored vehicles rolling forward, flamethrowers and artillery ready to devastate our positions. And yet, this was only imagination. They could strike tomorrow, in three days, or weeks from now. All we could do was prepare for the moment when reality arrived.
The soldiers below moved with purpose, checking trenches, reinforcing bunkers, and transporting supplies to hidden caves and reinforced positions. Even the small Taka-ho tanks we possessed were maintained tirelessly, engines polished, weapons checked. Each shell in our stockpile, each round of artillery, was precious. Every wasted effort could tilt the balance toward failure. I had come to understand that survival on Shirojima would be measured in tiny decisions, in moments of judgment, in patience and restraint.
Kuroda spoke again, voice low but firm. "The men look to you for certainty, General. How do you provide it when even you do not know the timing of the strike?"
I studied him briefly, seeing the weight behind his question. How could I give certainty when the truth was unknowable? "We give them purpose," I said. "Discipline, and the knowledge that every act, every stand, every heartbeat matters. We cannot know when the storm comes, but we can ensure it meets resistance."
I inhaled the sharp, salt-heavy air, tasting both its life and its warning. The ridges were steep and jagged, gullies concealed ambushes, coral forests twisted inward like labyrinths. Every inch of the island had been studied, yet the enemy would always find ways to exploit what I could not foresee.
I observed the young soldiers, gripping rifles that would feel heavier than they imagined under fire, and felt the weight of command press against my chest. Each order I gave, every position assigned, could decide life or death. And yet, until the first craft appeared on the horizon, there was nothing I could do but watch and wait.
Shirojima seemed almost aware of what was coming. Waves broke against coral reefs with relentless rhythm, gullies and ravines held shadowed silence, and the wind whispered through trees and rocks alike, as if warning us of the trials ahead. Patience was cruel, but necessary. Discipline could hold fear at bay, but not erase it.
I pressed my hand to a jagged rock, letting its cool surface remind me of the island's solidity. Trenches, bunkers, hidden paths—all were ready, yet fragile. Our Taka-ho tanks and limited artillery could shift the balance in key moments, but only if deployed with care. The difference between survival and disaster would be decided in seconds, with choices made in half-glances and instinctive judgment.
Kuroda's quiet presence beside me reminded me that command was shared, not solitary. Together, we moved among the men, offering brief encouragement, checking positions, observing rehearsals, and feeling the heartbeat of the island. The beaches were still empty, the wind untouched, yet every shadow seemed to whisper of the coming storm.
I did not know the hour of the attack, nor the exact strength of the enemy. I knew only that when they came, Yamatoa would demand everything we had to give. Every trench, every rifle, every heartbeat would be tested. And for now, all we could do was prepare.
We waited. The island itself seemed to hold its breath, each soldier a silent sentinel on the ridges, every hidden cache a promise of resistance. As the sun climbed higher, scattering light across sand and coral, I realized that when the Eastern Coalition arrived, there would be no turning back. Shirojima would not fall easily. We would fight. We would endure. And when the storm broke, we would see who could survive it.
-Renji Kuroda's POV-
I followed General Yagami along the ridge, watching him observe the northern beaches with that calm intensity that had always struck me. From here, I could see the pale sand stretch toward jagged cliffs, the coral forests twisting inland, and the gullies that might conceal both ambush and retreat. I am Major Renji Kuroda, his adjutant, and I carry the responsibility of translating his orders into the tangible defenses of Yamatoa's hold on Shirojima. While he inspires and commands, I plan, calculate, and ensure that every position and every weapon has its purpose.
The General spoke often of patience and purpose, and I knew the waiting itself was a weapon. Each day spent preparing strengthened us, yet it drew us closer to the inevitable. While he considered the broader picture, I mapped out the details—the men, the fortifications, the Taka-ho tanks, and the artillery placements. Every soldier, every trench, every weapon had a role in what I had come to think of as the island's lattice of defense. Our small armored vehicles were few, but if used judiciously, they could halt an enemy advance at critical moments.
The northern ridge, where we stood, formed the backbone of our defense. The 7th Ridge Regiment was concentrated here, positioned along natural choke points and reinforced with sandbags, coral rock, and hidden bunkers. Obstacles and anti-vehicle pits had been laid carefully to slow enemy progress, while camouflage ensured that key positions remained invisible until the moment of engagement. I had walked every line, measured angles of fire, assessed lines of sight, and planned fallback routes. These preparations, if executed correctly, could turn even a modest force into a formidable wall.
The beaches below, wide and shallow, were the likely site of any initial landing. I had instructed our infantry to hold fire until enemy craft were within optimal range, conserving ammunition and maximizing lethality. Mines were buried in the sand and concealed with coral debris, while anti-personnel traps lay near the tree line. Every path an invader might take had been considered, every possibility calculated. A frontal assault without reconnaissance would be punished immediately and mercilessly.
Artillery, particularly our Kumo mountain howitzers, was positioned on higher ridges with overlapping fields of fire. Their purpose extended beyond destruction; they were intended to disrupt, to slow enemy movements, to isolate units. Every shell counted, and each salvo had been preplanned. We had sectors assigned for maximum coverage, as well as fallback targets if our initial plans failed or the enemy maneuvered unexpectedly. Restraint in deployment would be as critical as skill in firing.
The Taka-ho tanks, though lightly armored, were our most mobile reserve. They would only be deployed in decisive moments: when infantry faced concentrated enemy attack or when armored units appeared in strength. I had studied every approach they might take, every choke point where our tanks could deliver a punishing counterstrike. A single tank deployed at the right time could buy hours of defense, allowing repositioning of men or extraction of the wounded. Yet overuse would leave gaps, and every decision had to balance risk with opportunity.
Supply distribution was equally critical. Ammunition, rations, water, and medical stores were hidden in multiple caches across Shirojima. I had personally checked each route, ensuring soldiers could move between positions without exposing themselves unnecessarily. If any cache were discovered or destroyed, units could suffer, and rapid adaptation would be required. Every step in logistics was a potential turning point.
Communication lines were vital. Signal runners would traverse gullies and ridges, while silent signals and flags offered redundancy in case of enemy observation. Orders from General Yagami would pass through me to junior officers and then to their squads. Coordination between infantry, artillery, and tank units would determine the effectiveness of our resistance. Even the best-prepared defenses could collapse without it.
The eastern approach concerned me most. Here, terrain favored rapid enemy movement. We concentrated hidden machine gun nests, reinforced trenches, and anti-vehicle obstacles. I had planned fallback positions for each squad, allowing them to conduct orderly fighting retreats while inflicting maximum losses. Our goal was not necessarily to hold every yard of ground, but to make every step of the enemy's advance costly. Even a temporary withdrawal would serve our larger strategy: attrition and delay.
I also considered morale. Soldiers needed more than weapons—they needed confidence. Training exercises, mock engagements, and inspections were conducted daily to instill trust in their own abilities and in one another. Fear was unavoidable; competence and preparation were the only antidotes.
From my vantage point, I observed General Yagami moving among the troops, offering words of reassurance, calm authority radiating from him. He entrusted me with the details—the deployment, the calculations, the contingencies—and I accepted that responsibility fully. Every trench, every hidden bunker, every weapon placement was scrutinized and planned with care.
The airfield remained a persistent concern. Flat and exposed, yet strategically critical, it had to be denied to the enemy at all costs. I organized charges for demolition and secondary defensive positions to provide overlapping fire if enemy units reached the vicinity. The objective was simple: delay, inflict losses, and maintain our grip on Shirojima for as long as possible.
As the sun rose higher, scattering light across sand and coral, the tension of the day pressed down. Tomorrow, or the next day, or perhaps later, the first wave would arrive. And when it did, every plan would be tested, every decision scrutinized under fire. I did not know the hour, nor the enemy's exact strength, but preparation, discipline, and strategic foresight could make the difference between survival and annihilation.
I glanced once more at General Yagami, quiet at the edge of the ridge, scanning the horizon. My mind returned to the men, the bunkers, the Taka-ho tanks, and the Kumo howitzers. We were ready, as ready as Shirojima could be. The Eastern Coalition's timing was unknown, but when the storm fell, we would meet it with everything we had, every tactic refined, every soldier prepared to hold, and every plan calculated to make their landing as costly as possible.
And so I waited with them, adjusting positions, inspecting defenses, and preparing for every eventuality. Every decision mattered. Every placement counted. Shirojima would not be easily taken. Yamatoa would fight. And when the enemy arrived, we would meet them fully prepared.
-Elias Ventner's POV-
From the deck of the command ship, I watched the morning sun glint across the endless sea, casting the fleet in a sharp, shimmering light. I am Admiral Elias Ventner, commander of the 1st Cerulean Marine Division of the Eastern Coalition, tasked with seizing Shirojima and securing it as a forward base for operations in the region. Intelligence painted the island as well-defended, yet from the reports I had received, I anticipated a hard-fought but relatively swift victory. I expected to secure the island within a week.
The northern beaches stretched out below us, pale and coral-strewn, sloping gently toward the cliffs inland. Our reconnaissance had identified several enemy positions and obstacles, but nothing suggested the true depth of the mountains and ridges that I would soon learn concealed formidable defenses. In my mind, the battle would be grueling, but achievable with decisive application of firepower, coordination, and discipline.
Beside me, Colonel Jarek Thorne, my chief of staff, studied the latest sketches and aerial photographs. "Sir," he said, "the northern beaches are likely fortified with trenches and small emplacements. We've marked potential strongpoints, but the enemy appears limited in number."
"I've reviewed these reports," I said. "Our naval bombardment will neutralize the majority of these positions before the landing craft approach. Engineers will clear obstacles, and the Cerulean tanks will follow closely, providing fire support. By the end of the week, I expect the beaches to be secured and the inland advance to begin."
The Cerulean tanks, lightly armored yet mobile, would be essential for suppressing enemy resistance and supporting infantry as they moved inland. They were not impervious, but deployed effectively, they could make the initial hours decisive. Timing would be everything: too soon, and they risk being trapped; too late, and infantry might suffer unnecessarily.
Supplies and logistics were critical. The initial waves would need rapid reinforcement, ammunition, and rations to sustain the assault. Preloaded landing craft were ready to ferry men and equipment, with secondary barges for contingency if the primary routes were obstructed. Communication lines would be maintained via radio and visual signals, providing redundancy in case of interference. Delays could hinder operations, but I trusted our planning.
The human element was foremost in my mind. The men were ready, trained for this landing, and disciplined in their duties. Fear was natural, but well-trained soldiers could overcome it when confidence in leadership and strategy was strong. I had briefed every unit, ensured each officer understood their orders, and reviewed contingency plans. The enemy would resist, yes, but the weight of preparation, training, and cohesion would carry us through.
Our intelligence suggested that the defenders—soldiers of Yamatoa—were motivated, perhaps loyal to their homeland, and would fight to the last man in some positions. Yet I assumed their numbers were limited, and that without reinforcements or heavy armor, they could be overwhelmed by concentrated assaults. The northern beaches were our focus, and once secured, inland operations would follow without significant resistance.
I walked along the deck, observing the men preparing for the assault. Squads checked weapons, engineers calibrated demolition charges, and officers rehearsed landing procedures. Their focus and readiness were reassuring. The operation would be difficult, yes, but success seemed inevitable with coordination and the disciplined application of force.
We had planned three primary landing points along the northern beaches, each supported by preparatory bombardment and flanked by mobile tank units. Reserves would be available to reinforce or intercept counterattacks, though I anticipated these would be limited. Artillery barrages had been calculated for maximum effect on likely fortifications, and engineers would clear obstacles in coordination with the infantry advance. I expected the enemy to resist briefly, perhaps even tenaciously, but never in a manner that could halt the division's progress for long.
Colonel Thorne pointed to the ridges inland. "Sir, the terrain may allow the defenders to retreat and establish secondary positions."
"I anticipate minor resistance," I replied. "Our reserves and Cerulean tanks will secure flanks and maintain momentum. The battle is expected to conclude within seven days. Any delay is likely due to unforeseen obstacles, not enemy strength."
As the sun rose fully, illuminating the fleet and casting long shadows over the water, I reviewed final supplies and confirmed landing coordinates. I observed the engineers performing last-minute checks, the infantry squads rehearsing their disembarkation, and the tank crews calibrating targeting systems. Confidence in planning, coordination, and training filled me with assurance.
The enemy remained unseen from this distance, but reports suggested a small, disciplined force. They would resist, and resistance would cost us some casualties, but their numbers and mobility were limited. The landing would test our preparation and coordination, but I expected the beaches to be cleared quickly, the northern ridges secured, and inland advances to proceed with manageable losses.
I felt the familiar weight of command as the fleet drifted closer to the island, tension pressing on my mind. Every decision, every coordination point, every landing wave would shape the outcome. Yet the assumption remained: Shirojima was a strong but ultimately temporary obstacle, one that the 1st Cerulean Marine Division of the Eastern Coalition would overcome within a week.
And so I waited, calm but vigilant, as the dawn of the operation approached. The storm of battle was imminent, but we were prepared—or so I believed. The beaches awaited, the defenders would resist, and Shirojima would soon reveal whether my assumptions of a swift victory were correct.
-Jarek Thorne's POV-
The first light of day stretched across the fleet, illuminating the restless waters surrounding Shirojima. I am Colonel Jarek Thorne, Chief of Staff for the 1st Cerulean Marine Division, and in this calm before the storm, my mind was consumed by the mechanics of strategy. While Admiral Ventner focused on overarching objectives, my responsibility was to ensure that every plan, every deployment, and every contingency was practical, executable, and coordinated across the division.
The northern beaches, our projected landing zones, had been examined meticulously. Aerial reconnaissance and previous scouting missions suggested minimal fortifications, yet the terrain contained subtle traps: hidden gullies, sharp rises, and coral formations that could disrupt landing craft or channel infantry into narrow kill zones. My responsibility was to mitigate these risks, to choreograph every step of the advance so that momentum could be maintained even if unforeseen complications arose.
Our landing plan relied on synchronized waves. Three main beachheads were designated, each with a mixture of infantry, engineers, and Cerulean tank support. Engineers were tasked with clearing obstacles and creating paths for rapid movement inland. Tanks were to provide suppressive fire where needed, but deployment would be carefully timed. Too early, and they would be vulnerable; too late, and infantry could suffer excessive losses. Precision in timing, coordination, and communication was paramount.
Supply logistics were an equally critical concern. Preloaded landing craft contained rations, ammunition, medical kits, and equipment, while secondary barges offered redundancy should primary routes be blocked. Each unit had been briefed on supply distribution protocols, ensuring that no squad would be left stranded without essentials. Radio networks were supplemented with signal relays, creating overlapping communication paths to prevent any single point of failure. Redundancy in logistics and communication would dictate whether the beachhead held or faltered.
I reviewed contingency plans for the unexpected. Intelligence suggested that defenders—soldiers of Yamatoa—were limited in number but disciplined. They might attempt small-scale ambushes, feints, or localized counterattacks, seeking to slow the advance. Each beachhead had supporting fire sectors and reserve units poised to intercept or reinforce. Flexibility was embedded into the plans: no officer was permitted to act rigidly. Momentum was critical, and any hesitation could provide the defenders the opening needed to regroup.
Our approach emphasized rapid, decisive strikes to overwhelm the enemy before they could react in force. Artillery would precede landings, targeting potential strongpoints, while engineers cleared paths for infantry. Tanks would exploit breaches, advancing along designated routes to support isolated squads and prevent defenders from regrouping. Timing and sequencing were everything. One misstep, and a minor ambush could escalate into a serious obstacle.
I also considered the human factors of the operation. Soldiers were trained extensively in landing drills, combat movement, and coordination under fire. Morale depended not only on preparation but on confidence in leadership and clarity of objectives. I ensured that every officer and squad leader understood their responsibilities, the priorities of the division, and the signals they would rely upon when electronic communication failed. Even the smallest detail could determine success or disaster.
Beachheads were not the only concern. Flank security and inland maneuver routes had been analyzed carefully. Narrow gullies and wooded areas could conceal defenders, and any advancing unit needed to maintain situational awareness. Reserve units would secure lateral approaches, preventing isolated units from being encircled or pinned. Coordination with the Cerulean tanks and mobile artillery units was essential to reinforce these vulnerable points.
Artillery positioning was another critical element. Though preliminary bombardments would target likely strongpoints, artillery units were assigned flexible fire zones to respond to unexpected concentrations of defenders. Every salvo was calculated to maximize disruption, channeling defenders into predictable movements that infantry and armor could exploit. Ammunition management would be tight; every shell counted.
I walked along the deck, observing preparations as landing craft were loaded and inspected. Each officer carried a tablet containing updated coordinates, movement orders, and contingency protocols. Every squad rehearsed last-minute procedures, engineers tested explosive charges, and tank crews calibrated targeting systems. Discipline, training, and redundancy formed the backbone of our strategy.
Reserve planning extended beyond immediate beachhead reinforcement. Secondary objectives inland were preassigned to units with explicit orders on coordination, fallback positions, and communication. Should resistance prove stronger than anticipated, fallback paths allowed regrouping without chaos, preserving strength for the next phase. Success depended not on rigid adherence to a single plan but on the controlled execution of layered, adaptable contingencies.
I reviewed the psychological preparation of our troops. Confidence, clarity, and the ability to act decisively under fire were as vital as weapons and tactics. Officers had been drilled in rapid decision-making, and squads in responding to signals and adapting to unexpected obstacles. Human factors were unpredictable, but preparation could mitigate hesitation, fear, and confusion in critical moments.
Finally, I considered the overarching goal: a secure beachhead, rapid inland advance, and consolidation of strategic points within days. While the battle would be hard-fought, I anticipated victory to be achieved swiftly, assuming plans were executed without critical failure. Every detail, from landing craft sequencing to reserve deployment and artillery fire sectors, had been meticulously plotted. A week of concentrated effort, I believed, would be sufficient to secure Shirojima.
As the sun climbed higher, illuminating the waves and casting the fleet in stark relief, I took a moment to review every detail once more. Maps, coordinates, orders, and contingency charts were checked and cross-checked. The division was poised, disciplined, and ready to act with speed and precision. The enemy—Yamatoa's defenders—was unseen but likely limited in scope. Our planning accounted for resistance, contingencies, and coordination at every level.
The calm before the storm pressed on my mind, heavy with responsibility. When the first waves touched the sand, every preparation, every calculation, and every decision would be tested. Success depended not on luck but on preparation, discipline, and adaptability. And if all went according to plan, Shirojima would be ours in days, a decisive foothold for the Eastern Coalition's operations.
I felt the familiar weight of command as the fleet drifted closer to the island. Every movement, every wave, every signal would be executed precisely. I was confident in our preparation, in the discipline of the division, and in the careful orchestration of every tactical element. The beachhead awaited, and we would meet it with planning, coordination, and decisive action.
-Kaelin Oris's POV-
In Solarya, the city hums like a well-oiled machine, but my world is quieter: a hex-grid holo-table, a stylus, and the ghost of an island called Shirojima. I'm Kaelin Oris, wargame analyst at the Academy's Conflict Studio, and Yamatoa's wars are my bad habit. I clock in, nod to the night tech, and wake the sim: a coral teardrop turning in air, ridges casting blue shadows, beaches pale as bone.
The Defender's Protocol loads with my presets: limited fuel, strict ammunition rationing, comms degraded, artillery scarce. I toggle Fog Real to partial so I can see what a field officer might suspect but never confirm. Counters bloom: Taka-ho light tanks, Kumo mountain howitzers, ridge infantry battalions, naval guard detachments repurposed as saboteurs. I drag supply crates into caves, flag fallback trenches, lay decoy ammo dumps to bait bombardment. The sim pings: logistics strain probable by Day 4. Of course it is.
I run Landing Thesis A: three enemy beachheads, overconfident tempo. I keep armor in reserve, the way Yamatoan manuals whisper but never shout. Infantry in spider-holes by the tree line, machine guns stitched to intersect in the blind spots of surf smoke. The first wave hits; I hold fire until icon distances drop to red. When they do, everything speaks at once—rifles, clips, the quiet gods of timing. The invaders stagger; then their Cerulean tanks roll off the barges and the model tilts. That's my cue: two Taka-ho surge from a gully, fire once, shift two hexes, vanish. No heroics. They're knives, not hammers.
Artillery is a miser's game. I plot Kumo salvos not at the beach, where courage is thick and targets thin, but at the moment of stacking—when supply pallets kiss sand and officers point. Two volleys, then displacement along ridge goat-paths I've pre-charted. I tag AA heavy guns to low elevation—dual-purpose: swat strafers at noon; spear tanks by dusk. Anti-vehicle trenches? I lay them where instinct says no sane driver would go. That's where the brave ones always go.
The sim throws a curve: Enemy micro-unit "assault cadre" spikes lethality by 40%. I grin; I built that anomaly last month to punish complacency. I answer with Strike Teams A–C—thirty veterans each, rotating eight-hour harassment loops—night cuts at fuel bladders, false beacons on the reef, whispers through captured radios. The beachhead fattens; I starve it.
By midday I run Thesis B—enemy adapts, feints east, mass west. I refuse the west ridge, bleed it thin, and counterpunch with two reserve companies under smoke. Casualties climb. The morale model dips. I open Sniper Lattice: marks on officers, runners, radio poles. Not pretty, but neither is surrender.
When the sim pauses for thermal recalibration, I sip synth-tea, jot a note: Hold armor. Spend artillery only to unstick infantry. Live inside their reloads. Outside, Solarya's mag-rails hiss past glass. Inside, the island breathes in my hands—ridges, caves, stubborn men. I pack up at dusk, export the seed file, and ride home under a violet sky, rehearsing the first ninety minutes of a battle I'll never fight. Yamatoa doesn't know me. But I know how to keep Shirojima alive one more day.
Tomorrow I'll try Thesis C—supply interdiction as doctrine, not garnish. Tonight, I fall asleep tracing ridgelines on the ceiling with my finger, counting shells like sheep.
-Rook Vass's POV-
Where I'm from—the Kestrel Union—we don't tell stories about strategy. We tell stories about scars. I'm Rook Vass, dock-yard loader by day, pit-house regular by night. The city of Gallowpier stinks of brine and hot iron, and the gym above Berth 19 smells worse. Feels like home.
Morning starts with steel: barbell up, barbell down, cheap ammonia in the nose. I wrap my hands, hit the bag until my shoulders buzz, then run knife-drills with Old Marek, who never blinks and never smiles. We don't talk about politics. We talk about breathing through a choke, stepping inside a swing, keeping your feet when the floor's slick. He taps my wrist; I drop the blade. He nods, which is as close to love as he gets.
I'm not book-smart. I don't want to command anything. I want the moment when the world narrows to elbows, breath, and timing. I punch my timecard at the yard, sling crates, and shadowbox between loads. Foreman yells. I smile. The Kestrel Union loves its fighters; even the priests bet small and pray big.
At lunch I watch bootleg clips—helmet-cams from foreign wars, grainy and jittering. Men shout in languages I don't speak. I don't need subtitles. I'm studying rhythm: the half-beat before a doorway clears, the lull after the first magazine empties, the sound a man makes when he decides to run. That's the only history that sticks to me.
Evenings belong to the pits. No blades on fight night, just wraps and rules no one bothers to follow. The ring is chalk lines on concrete and a chain looped from the ceiling. You win by standing there when the other guy can't. I like the ones who come in quiet, who breathe through the nose. I respect them. I beat most of them, and buy them soup after, because tomorrow we'll both be back here, and respect makes for good rounds.
People say the Eastern Coalition is hiring, that a man who can keep his feet might find himself on a ship headed east, wearing someone else's flag. I don't care what color the flag is. I care about holds and hatches and corridors where a hard right hand lands first. If there's a war brewing on some coral speck I can't point to on a map, that's none of my business. My business is being ready when the hatch blows.
Tonight, after the fourth bout, Marek pours me something brown and medicinal. "You think too much mid-round," he says, which is his way of calling me cautious. "Commit."
I nod. Next round I commit. I step through a jab, slip a hook, and place a short uppercut where it needs to live. The room goes loud. My lungs burn like cheap coal. It feels honest.
Walking home, knuckles raw under tape, I pass the docks—ships like sleeping animals, cranes like patient herons. The wind off the water tastes of iron and rain. I think about nothing in particular: hand position, weight transfer, the way a man telegraphs fear with his toes. Somewhere, men draw maps and call that power. Good for them. Tomorrow I'll lift, run, and fight again.
If the world wants soldiers, it will find them. It will find me. Not because I love causes. Because I love the bell, and the ten seconds before it rings.
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