No Man's Land

As Ron passed through the corridor, sunlight slanted in, etching half his figure into the light.

The training ground was the packed dirt of the central courtyard. Karl had divided the recruits into two groups: one practiced formations, the other practiced slashing. Commands mingled with the clash of weapons, humming through the air.

Just as he was about to walk into the yard, he heard the clatter of armor plates behind him.

Karl jogged up after him, carrying a bundle of dusty gray items.

"Your Highness."

Ron stopped and turned around.

Karl held out the bundle. It was a suit of chainmail with mismatched rings, as though several different hauberks had been dismantled and pieced together. The rings at the seams were noticeably denser.

"The blacksmith and several apprentices worked through the night to make it." There was a trace of barely noticeable exhaustion in Karl's voice.

"The craftsmanship is rough, but the protection is solid."

He turned the chainmail over. Several leather straps were tied at the shoulders, while the chest had clearly been reinforced.

"You've never had equipment that fit properly." Karl's voice lowered slightly. "This was pieced together according to your build. Try it on."

Ron took it, tugged at the crude long shirt he was wearing, and pulled the chainmail over his head. It caught at the shoulders, and he gave it a hard tug downward.

The shoulder width was just right, and the hem hung to the middle of his thighs. The length fit well.

Once Ron had it on, he moved around and tested the range of motion in his arms and shoulder blades. It did not restrict him much.

"It'll do," Ron replied, patting Karl on the shoulder. Karl's chin seemed to move beneath his faceplate, and he visibly relaxed.

"Go. Guard the camp well." Karl clenched his fist and struck his breastplate, then turned toward the main building.

In the courtyard, fifteen recruits stood in two rows. Ron walked to the front of the formation, his gaze lingering on each of them for a moment.

Their longswords had been issued uniformly, old weapons pulled from the armory. They had been carefully polished, but there were many nicks along the blades, and their hilts were wrapped in coarse strips of hemp cloth.

The spears were new, though their shapes varied wildly. Some had double-edged heads, others triangular ones, but every tip had been sharpened to a gleaming edge.

Their leather armor was shabby but intact, gathered from different sources. One man still had an old sword mark on the leather over his chest, a crack half a finger deep.

Ron withdrew his gaze.

"Check your gear." His voice was not loud, but everyone heard it. "Tighten the straps on your leather armor. If the cloth on your sword hilt won't hold, replace it now. Don't wait until the fighting starts to tell me you can't hold your sword."

A rustling passed through the ranks. Miko, standing at the very edge, unwound the hemp cloth from his hilt and wrapped it again.

Ron watched him finish the final turn.

"Move out."

When the group passed through the castle gates, Ron rode at the front. Erwin and five personal guards flanked him, while the fifteen recruits trailed behind in a crooked line.

The roads of Velen were not easy to travel.

The mud had been churned into a mess, and the air was thick with a scorched smell, though it was impossible to tell where it came from.

After following the riverbank beside the camp westward for several kilometers, they came upon a blackened village by the roadside.

Calling it a village was generous. Only a few charred roof beams and a section of earthen wall that had not yet fully collapsed remained.

Someone lay by the roadside. More precisely, a corpse.

He wore dirt-gray linen clothes and was barefoot, his face buried in muddy water, his hair tangled with the sludge.

Ron stopped...

Erwin walked over to his side and remained silent for a while.

"Starved to death." His voice carried a faint numbness.

"This is common in Velen. There's a reason Velen is called No Man's Land. Most who try to flee collapse on the road... and those who stay do not fare much better."

The group continued onward. No one spoke.

After nightfall, they made camp in a clearing in the woods. Erwin sat by the fire, cupping a bowl of hot soup in both hands. He did not drink it. He simply held it.

Ron sat opposite him, sharpening his sword with a whetstone.

Erwin spoke. "Before I came to Velen, I thought I was here to do something great."

Ron did not look up. He continued sharpening his sword.

"To record war. To witness history."

Erwin lowered his eyes to the bowl in his hands.

"When I was in school, I often stayed in the library, reading the old war manuscripts left by those before us. I imagined horns sounding on the battlefield, knights charging enemy lines, banners flying from city walls. Back then, I thought war was something worth writing about."

"And now?"

Erwin set down his bowl and ran a finger around its rim.

"Now?" he said. "Now I only want to forget all of it."

Ron turned the sword over, holding its edge toward the firelight. He narrowed his eyes and studied it for a while, then nodded in satisfaction.

"Then why did you stay?"

Erwin looked up. His gray-blue eyes fixed on Ron as if confirming something.

"Because I wanted to see," he paused, "what someone like you can accomplish in this land."

"What kind of person?"

"Someone who does not treat the dead of Velen like stones by the roadside."

Erwin lifted the bowl and took a sip. "I've been in Velen for several months. Do you know what I've seen the most of? Not monsters. Not war. People who have grown used to it. People who do not care about others, and care even less about themselves."

He put the bowl down.

"You haven't grown used to it yet."

Ron's silence lasted so long that Erwin thought he would not speak.

"I'm not a good man."

Ron's voice was low, so low it was nearly drowned out by the crackling fire. He set down the sword and placed the whetstone by his feet.

"I just haven't grown used to it yet."

Erwin watched him. Across the firelight, Ron's profile flickered between brightness and shadow. His eyes lay sunken in darkness, his expression impossible to see.

"Then don't get used to it," Erwin said. "This goddamned world is like this because too many people have."

By the coast, the sky had not yet fully darkened when the campfire was lit. The sea wind bent the flames sideways.

There were eleven men, most bare-chested. A few wore leather vests without fastening the buttons, exposing old scars crisscrossing their bellies. Their weapons had been tossed carelessly nearby.

One of them crouched beside the fire, gripping a dice cup. His face was pockmarked, and an old knife scar ran from the corner of his left eye to the corner of his mouth.

"Three sixes!"

He slammed the dice cup onto the sand and looked down.

"Fuck."

The others burst into laughter. Someone kicked him. "You still fucking owe us. You haven't even paid for the drinks you owed last time."

"What's the rush? Once this job is done, I'll not only buy you all drinks, heh heh."

He jerked his chin behind him, toward the flat-bottomed cargo ship beached in the shallows.

"There's a girl in this shipment. I caught a look when we were unloading. Damn, she's beautiful. My eyes nearly popped out of my head."

A bald man beside him chimed in, his voice drifting over from the other side of the fire. "Only one?"

"Just one, so..." He picked up the dice cup and shook it, the dice clattering inside. "Highest roll goes first. But let's be clear: don't get her killed. We still need her alive to collect the rest of the payment."

The bald man spat into the fire. It hissed.

"The last one was pretty good too. It was just that old bastard who ruined the mood."

"Which one?"

"The one from the village south of Oxenfurt, two jobs ago."

The bald man leaned back, bracing himself on the sand behind him. Firelight gleamed over his belly.

"Her father stood in the doorway with some busted hoe, shaking all over."

He paused, then chuckled as though remembering something amusing.

"I couldn't even be bothered to draw my sword. Kicked him flat with one boot." As he spoke, the bald man lifted his right foot and gestured with it.

"Crack. Like stepping on a dry branch. The old bastard still tried to crawl back inside after he went down, hahaha."

The fire flared, sending a spray of sparks into the air.

The bald man grinned and licked his lips. "Didn't he want to watch? So I let him lie there and watch us take his daughter.

"The girl cried like crazy. The old man dragged himself forward inch by inch. I was almost done, and he still hadn't crawled over."

The bald man smacked his lips. "Hell, the mines don't even take old men anymore. It's hard enough to stay alive in this world. I was practically saving him the—FUCK!!"

He did not finish.

An arrow drove through his left eye. Its sharp head burst out through the back of his skull, spraying blood and bone fragments across the beach.

His body remained leaned back for a moment before tipping sideways and collapsing into the sand.

For roughly the span of one heartbeat, there was silence. Then everything erupted.

"Enem—"

The voice only managed its first syllable before it cut off. An arrow pierced his throat. His mouth remained open, but air leaked through the hole in his neck, carrying no sound with it.

The remaining bandits finally reacted, snatching up the blades beside the fire. Some ran toward the ship without even taking their weapons.

Within the coastal brush,

Ron crouched at the front, watching the figures scrambling across the beach.

Behind him, the Fian Champion had already lowered his bow.

The archer lowered his head, not daring to look at him.

"My lord, I... I'm... sorry. I truly couldn't hold myself back." The Fian Champion's face was hidden in the shadow of his helmet, his voice muffled from within.

Ron looked at him, and shadows seemed to stir in his eyes.

"It's fine. There's no need to hold back."

Among the fifteen recruits behind him, someone swallowed. Miko stood at the edge, gripping his sword hilt tightly, the muscles in his arm taut.

Ron drew his weapon and stepped forward. His roar carried the savage, cold hardness of clashing steel.

"Leave none alive!!!"