Dawn had yet to fully break.
On the coldest morning since winter began, the fog hung thick as a veil of congealed gray gauze. A fine film of moisture covered the polished pine flooring in the courtyard, while the chill seeped through door cracks, corridor pillars, and the armory's iron lock, inch by inch, into every timber and stone crevice of the Eleventh Division Barracks.
The barracks' main door was pushed open from within.
More than twenty figures slowly emerged from beneath the corridors, beside the training grounds, and the shadows of the armory.
They were all veterans of the Eleventh Division.
Their faces were hidden in the fog and the lingering darkness. No one spoke, and even their footsteps were muted, but that silence itself was like a string stretched taut for too long, finally on the verge of snapping.
They had had enough.
Enough of having to scrub the floors after training every day until they could see their reflections before being allowed to sleep; enough of being pinned down in the punishment room and beaten with rods for arriving a few minutes late for duty; enough of that man in his fitted haori, whose voice was as gentle as someone reciting scripture, using a web of rules more intricate than any noble's to wear them down, inch by inch, from men who had once let their swords speak on the battlefield into obedient ornaments.
Farther away, along rows of paper doors, dozens of squad members stood behind the corridor pillars, holding their swords and watching coldly.
They were veterans too, but unlike those who had been swept up entirely by impulse, they had chosen to watch.
Watching did not mean doing nothing, but at least they had no intention of getting themselves dragged into it yet.