The sky was a heavy shroud of bruised clouds, drifting sluggishly across a silent, desolate evening. A pale, dying sun fought to pierce through the grey expanse, its cold rays flickering briefly before the clouds coalesced once more—stubbornly reclaiming the heavens. It hadn't been long since the skies had unleashed their fury, leaving behind a world drowned in gloom, rain, and a landscape of treacherous, suffocating mud.
In the heart of this mire, amidst a grotesque tapestry of blood, severed limbs, and filth, a man lay fallen. His eyes, naturally heavy-lidded and perpetually weary, stared vacantly at the distant, indifferent sky.
He let out a jagged breath, his voice barely a rasp. "Not yet, huh?"
Surrounding him were mounds of the dead—shattered remains of what used to be a vanguard. With agonizing effort, the man pushed himself up. His every movement was a testament to the exhaustion etched into his features. There was nothing particularly striking about him, save for those swollen, sleep-deprived eyes—eyes that had seen too much, even before this massacre had claimed the rest of his strength.
By some miracle, his gaze fell upon his battered sword. He swayed toward it, his boots squelching in the gore, and retrieved it. The hilt was slick, nearly impossible to grip through the coating of mud and viscous blood. Man and blade shared a haunting resemblance: the sword was straight, of modest length, with a simple iron guard and a worn leather grip—functional, unadorned, and weary.
As he stood, he mirrored the weapon's stoic rigidity. His tattered peasant clothes, once white, were now a cartography of stains and filth. Only his black trousers and the high leather boots cinched at his mid-calf had survived the aesthetic ruin. His short black hair, once neat, was now a matted, oily mess of mud and clotted remains.
He began to limp through the crimson puddles. Whenever he encountered a soul still clinging to the wreckage of life, he granted them the final mercy. He stopped before a man whose body was a ruin of open gashes, one eye torn from its socket. The survivor looked up with his remaining eye—not with fear, but with a silent, desperate plea for eternal rest.
The man standing over him understood that look perfectly. He hesitated for a fleeting second.
"Landras?"
He recognized him. With a hollow sorrow, he drove his blade into Landras's throat.
"Is there any way out of this hell?" he whispered. Even if someone had been standing beside him, they wouldn't have heard it; his lips barely moved, the question meant only for himself.
Suddenly, he stiffened. He froze, straining his ears against the whistling wind.
A distant shout. A voice calling out a name.
He gathered the dregs of his strength, his right hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. He moved with practiced caution, stalking toward the sound.
"Aaah—!"
The voice grew clearer as he approached.
"Vandall!"
The man's weary eyes widened. His own voice found its clarity, fueled by shock.
"Brother...?"
His shout was lost to the wind, but the sight of the figure standing elegantly amidst the ruin was unmistakable. Vandall drew a sharp breath and roared with everything he had left:
"BROTHER!"
The caller turned, his face lighting up with relief. "Vandall! I knew you'd be alright!"
"What are you doing here?" Vandall grunted as he closed the distance. "I thought you were stationed with the rear support?"
"I came to find you," Vanguard replied, stepping over a pile of rubble. "I heard you'd pushed into the front lines. After that last assault... I was worried. But I see my faith wasn't misplaced."
Vandall gestured to the surrounding devastation. "Was that an Ability? I wasn't told they had something of that scale."
"It seems so," Vanguard nodded gravely. "The boulders that crushed the vanguard weren't a natural occurrence. One of their commanders, likely. It means we're finally becoming a threat to them."
"Are we continuing the advance?"
"Not before an emergency meeting tomorrow morning."
Vandall frowned, his suspicion piqued. "A meeting? The Authority called for one?"
Vanguard averted his gaze, his expression shifting to one of reluctant duty. "It's about... Canaria. They need to speak with her."
Vandall's face hardened. "Again? This is the third time!"
"The Authority doesn't trust mercenaries, Vandall. You know this."
"But you trust me, Vanguard!" Vandall's voice rose, sharp with a bitterness that cut through the air.
Vanguard sighed, the weight of his position evident. "If only it were that simple. The Authority is the Authority. Even if I were the head of the Office, I couldn't change their core policies overnight."
Exhausted, Vandall sank to the ground, heedless of the mud. He gripped his sword as if it were the only thing in this world he could truly rely on.
"Vandall... you need to pull back," Vanguard said softly. "Come back to the camp with me. We'll resume tomorrow."
"No. I'm camping here."
Vanguard stood tall, looking down at his broken, mud-caked brother. Slowly, he drew his short sword from its scabbard. "Fine then. I'll fight you if I must."
Vandall glanced up from the corner of his eye. "Really?"
The sarcasm in his voice was thick, a blatant dismissal of the threat. Vanguard didn't hesitate; he swung with blinding speed.
Vandall evaded the strike by a hair's breadth, leaning back until his spine nearly touched the mud. His eyes locked onto his brother's cold, impassive face. He sprang back, falling into a defensive stance, but his brother had already vanished.
In a heartbeat, Vanguard reappeared behind him, his blade descending. Clang! Vandall parried with the flat of his blade, his dual-handed grip steady despite his fatigue. The momentum shifted. Vanguard's defense was wide open, and he knew it. He stared at his younger brother, who held his sword with a chilling, calculated stillness.
Vandall raised his blade, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Let me guess..."
In that instant, Vanguard vanished again.
But Vandall didn't wait. He spun around before the reappearance. As Vanguard materialized on the opposite side, Vandall finished his sentence:
"Back one second in time again, right?"
Vanguard froze. He was exposed, his rhythm completely read. Vandall didn't hesitate; he delivered a sharp kick to his brother's chest, sending the "elegant" officer sprawling into the mud.
Vandall sat back down on the earth. Vanguard, now as filthy as his brother, began to laugh. A small, weary smile tugged at Vandall's lips.
Silence settled between them.
"Fine," Vandall sighed. "I'll go back."
"Ah, so you've regained your senses," Vanguard grumbled, wiping mud from his face. "You'll pay for this. My uniform is ruined."
"Vanguard..."
Vandall's voice turned dead serious.
"Will Canaria be okay?"
Vanguard stood up and straightened his posture, his levity vanishing. "I'll do everything in my power. Your commander will be fine. I promise."
Hearing his brother's vow, Vandall let out a long, shuddering breath. He stood up, reached out a mud-stained hand, and helped his brother to his feet.