"...Damn it, why am I bothering with all this nebulous nonsense?"
"Pfft."
"...? Fais, you were behind me the whole time?"
"—Heh. To think that the youngest 'elite' in the history of Team Hope couldn't even notice that a feeble librarian had been standing behind him for thirty seconds?"
"Hey, are you here just to mock me? That's too much. And don't call me an 'elite' from Team Hope—I left that damned place ages ago."
"Fine. All the refugees on the island have been settled. Some pirates grumbled a lot, but they still cleared out space for everyone to rest. That said, most people haven't been able to sleep properly these past few nights."
"It's alright. Whether you're the one hitching a ride or the one rescuing someone, there's nothing worth complaining about. Besides, with old man Fernando around, the mood can't get that bad, right?"
"Hmm, true. —But what about you? What are you doing here?"
Miguel was leaning against the metal railing in the corridor, arms crossed, eyes slightly unfocused."What else? Getting some air. The whole ship's filled with sighs and snoring. I swear, mushrooms are about to grow out of my ears."
"If you're that bored, why not help Renas and the others count supplies?" Fais shot back, then seemed to remember something. "Actually, never mind. You'd only make a mess."
"Hey!"
"Alright, I'm done bickering." Fais waved it off, then his tone turned serious."Now that the refugees are more or less settled, I need to go ask the captain where the Capitano's next stop is. We can't just drift in these waters forever."
"You're going now?"
"Yeah. Before they start another round of shouting." Fais pushed up his glasses—despite not wearing any."Want to come?"
"I'll pass." Miguel curled his lip. "You and the captain will be chatting past midnight. I don't want to hear another lecture about 'Iron Laws,' 'Multiple Worlds,' or 'Planetary Developmental Disorders.'"
"Then stay here and reflect on why your sword's name is so damn long." Fais dropped that line and turned to leave down the narrow corridor. His boots tapped rhythmically on the metal floor, fading into the distance.
The passageway quieted at once, leaving only the muffled vibrations from behind the bulkhead and the faint sound of distant chatter.
Miguel let out a long breath and lightly bumped the back of his head against the steel wall."…You're asking what I'm doing here? Hell if I know."
He closed his eyes—just to take a short nap, but his mind was yanked backward,Back to another place.Another time.
Back then, he wasn't on a submarine.There were no alternate worlds, no sea monsters, no 'White Raven Worlds.'Just a pile of ruins.
The fire was out long ago, but the smoke felt etched into his throat.As the retrieval crew carried away the last corpse, a military dog sniffed around the rubble—again and again—Before silently lying down.
"That's it," someone said.
Miguel stood there, not even remembering how he found the place.He should've run over, screamed, grabbed a soldier by the collar and shouted "Why?"But in that moment, his throat felt filled with lead. He couldn't say a single word.
He only remembered that this was the coordinate of "home."The coordinate remained.Its contents had been blown away.
What followed was, in retrospect, rather simple.
Long lines at the enlistment station. The registrar repeating the same questions like a machine.When it was his turn, the officer paused briefly over the form:"Age?"
"Seventeen."
"Any surviving family requiring compensation?"
"...No."
Two simple words erased the need for any explanation.The officer didn't even look up, just marked the paper and handed him a numbered badge."Next."
Just like that, he became a soldier.
Training didn't take long.
He picked things up fast.On the first day of marksmanship training, he shot straight through the bullseye.During tactical drills, he always spotted blind spots a step ahead of others.In hand-to-hand combat, he moved like he was born for it.What others gritted their teeth to endure, he did like it was second nature.
"Where the hell did they dig up this monster?" someone whispered on the sidelines.
"No idea. Background check came back blank, like a sheet of paper.""Well, command loves blank paper—easier to write on."
So, soon enough, Miguel was "picked."
"You're the new guy?"He remembered clearly the first time he met the Blood Blade Squad.
It was an unremarkable barracks, but the atmosphere was different from other units.Mission briefings on the wall, maps spread on the table, people joking around—But when they looked at him, their smiles sheathed like knives.
The speaker was the captain—a man of indeterminate age, a perpetual half-smile on his face."Word is, you scored well. The instructors say you've got talent."
Miguel stood at attention, not bothering to be modest."I'll adapt to the team's tactics as quickly as possible."
"Good."The captain patted his shoulder—firmly."Blood Blade doesn't keep slackers. As long as you can keep up, we'll get along just fine."
For his first mission, they threw him straight into the frontlines.
It was a factory district, cratered and crumbling, the air thick with metal, dust, and the acrid sting of recent blasts.Radio comms were patchy. Explosions rumbled in the distance.
"Rookie. East ridge."The captain barked from behind cover, not even turning around."See that half-collapsed warehouse? Clear the snipers up top."
"Understood."
He crept up the wall, ascending through dim stairwells.The enemy fire was focused up front—no one expected a seventeen-year-old to circle behind.
First shot, second, third—each clean, efficient, no hesitation.When he confirmed the last target down and glanced back, the battlefield had already begun to shift in their favor.
Mission complete, Blood Blade Squad received top marks.When the commendation came down, the captain beamed, clapping everyone on the shoulder—even Miguel.
That night, glasses clinked loudly.The captain mentioned his name three times.Each time, like a praise.
But starting the next day, something felt off.
"Hey, newbie, grab two extra soups at lunch."
"Remember to clean up the gear after training. It's part of squad routine."
"Your report was pretty tidy yesterday. You do the write-ups from now on. We'll just sign."
At first, it was small things.
He didn't mind grunt work—As long as he had missions to fight and enemies to aim at, it was worth the hassle.
But gradually, he noticed he was always the last to know mission details.
Pre-mission briefings were held early.When he was finally called in, the whiteboard was reduced to vague arrows—The real strategy already decided without him.
In combat, he was always placed at "high-risk, high-reward" spots—Vanguard, assault, rearguard.If he succeeded, it was Blood Blade's glory.If he slipped, it was "rookie's error."
He was blunt, called things as he saw them.Once, after a mission, he publicly pointed out that the captain's delayed order nearly exposed the rear.The air in the barracks froze instantly.
The captain still smiled—calm, unfazed."On the battlefield, everyone's view is limited, rookie. What you saw isn't the whole picture."
No one responded.But after that, they looked at him differently.
Not with hostility—With caution.
Things truly soured after a night raid.
They were ordered to retake a comms post seized by the enemy.The orders came fast. The intel was patchy.The captain proposed a bold plan:Squad draws attention up front. Miguel infiltrates solo, sabotaging power and backup systems from behind.
"You up for it?" The captain looked serious.
"Of course."Miguel didn't hesitate—this was his chance to prove himself.
He followed the plan—cut the power, detonated the targets—flawlessly.Except, the enemy had a second power line—And a hidden reserve team that swept around the moment the lights went out.
The mission barely succeeded.They took back the station, but two team members were badly injured.
In the debrief, the captain read the report aloud:"Analysis indicates the infiltration was exposed prematurely, triggering enemy countermeasures.Partially due to incomplete intel, but also due to errors in the operative's extraction route."
The "operative"—was Miguel.
He stood as those words were recorded into his file.
He wanted to speak: the route was based on the captain's second plan.He wanted to say: if the frontal distraction wasn't late by thirty seconds,He'd have made it out clean.
But when he looked up, all he saw was the captain's calm face, and the others' complicated expressions.
So he stayed silent.
Why?Because everyone had already accepted a different version of the truth.
"So you're saying he messed up what could've been a successful op?"He once overheard someone say behind a cracked door.
"Not exactly," came the captain's measured reply."The kid's got talent. But he's still immature.Would you hand a master-forged blade to someone who's only trained three months, and send him into battle?"
"...Fair point."
"The Blood Blade's reputation is on the line.Command's watching.Something goes wrong—someone has to take the fall.You think I want to blame the rookie?I don't. But this is the military."
Miguel stood alone in the hallway, like an unwanted shadow.
After that, things unraveled as expected.
The squad grew distant.No more pairing in training.No more chatter during missions.Once, they all went drinking together on leave—left him guarding the barracks.Didn't even bother with a "We forgot to invite you."
Then came the notice from personnel:Due to "tactical disagreements" and "coordination issues,"He was officially removed from the Blood Blade Squad.
He stared at the paper and almost laughed.
"Tactical disagreement"? "Coordination issue"?How nicely written.
Worse yet—
When he applied to other teams, every interview had the same weird vibe.
"Your record's impressive," some captains said while flipping through his file, "but…You know the Blood Blade's feedback wasn't great."
"They say you're reckless, disobedient," another said bluntly."We're not looking for another glory-seeking 'hero.'We need soldiers who stay in formation."
Miguel frowned."I never disobeyed a direct order."
"That's what the reports say."The captain shrugged."But they filed the reports. Not you."
After hitting enough walls, he realized—
His name had already been quietly smeared,By that "highly praised" captain.
Blood Blade kept shining in battle reports.He was left behind, a glaring footnote in the personnel system.
But he refused to give up.
If no squad wanted him, he volunteered for every high-risk, low-reward mission no one else wanted:Patrolling dead zones, escorting supply convoys, clearing out enemy remnants.Anything that could go on his record—he took it.
"You trying to prove something?"An officer in logistics asked as Miguel signed yet another form.
"Yeah," he replied flatly."I lost my home to enemy fire.If I don't prove I can fight,They'll always just be cold 'casualty numbers' on a report."
The officer stared, then sighed, handing him the stamped sheet.
Solo missions weren't any easier—often worse.He had to pick his own routes, judge enemy fire, decide alone when to advance or retreat.One wrong step, and even the body collectors wouldn't make it in time.
He completed many missions.Earned medals.But every time, his nerves and body stretched tighter.
Sometimes, between missions, he'd sit outside the camp alone.Back to the training yard's shouting.Too tired to light a cigarette.Just watching his shadow stretch in the dirt.
"Still not enough," he whispered, fists clenched, knuckles pale."If I were stronger… they wouldn't have kicked me out.If I were stronger… no one would believe those reports."
He blamed himself—Because that was easier than admitting he'd been sabotaged.
That day was no different.
The mission ended earlier than expected.He returned to base exhausted.Signed the paperwork.Was told he had free time until evening.
"Free time" meant rest, games, letters, hot showers—for most.
For him, it was just… empty.
He walked to the edge of the base, to a clearing.No buildings.Few people passed by.Just trampled grass and a few black scars from grenade drills.
He sat, staring at his hands—Callused from rifle grips.
"Still not enough."He repeated it like a mantra.Eyes cold.
"If I were just a little stronger—faster—"
Footsteps approached from behind.He didn't even bother to look up.Probably just another soldier passing by.
Until the scent of warm bread stopped beside him.
"Hey."
A light voice.Unprofessional, a bit too casual.
"You're the so-called 'problem child' who keeps running off alone, huh?"
Miguel looked up—A hand was stretched toward him, holding a half-torn piece of bread.
Following the arm upward, he saw a young man—Not much older than him,Uniform wrinkled, cap askew,ID tag on his chest reading only (blank).
"Hah, a squad without even a name," Miguel thought.
The guy grinned and shoved the bread into his hands."Our unit got an extra ration today.Heard you just got back from a mission and haven't eaten yet—Wanna join us?"