*
"You've always dreamed of fighting like a beast, haven't you?" The naked young boy lay on his side, his mercury-like eyes staring straight ahead. His golden long hair cascaded down along his folded arms, and his rose-like lips opened and closed as if weaving delicate kisses. "Your wish has been fulfilled, Anganas."
Vasili tried to respond to Capillata but found that he couldn't speak no matter how hard he tried, but only emit low growls and snarls. Perhaps he had injured his throat, though he wasn't sure how. But this wasn't the first time he had been wounded; it just happened to be his throat this time.
"I'm happy for you," Capillata extended his hands, scratching the soft fur around the giant wolf's neck. "But I'm also saddened by the abyss that separates us." In the past, Vasili might have tolerated his offense, but today, with the fingertips arrogantly hooking under his chin, he found it unbearable. He couldn't help but bare his teeth and emit a menacing growl.
"I have to go." The golden-haired young boy, with his gaze lowered, retrieved his hand, stood up, and reached out to smooth the feathered wings on his bare, hourglass-like back. Behind him was an open door, overflowing with blinding light that made it difficult to keep one’s eyes open. "Because unlike you, I can't live like a beast." Finally, he cast down a gaze from above that brought immense pain to Vasili, along with equally painful words:
"And you can't live like a human."
The contemptuous gaze and words completely enraged Vasili. He rose up on all fours, his sharp claws deeply embedded in the ground. The fur all over his body stood on end, and only then did he realize that he was no longer human but a full-fledged wild wolf. His teeth, exposed from his gums, yearned to tear apart the angel before him. The sharp, red blade swelling between his legs eagerly desired to press down on the fragile body beneath him, showcasing its overwhelming power.
The demon wolf, Anganas, hesitated for a moment, then lunged forward with his gaping maw, only to be caught by the thorny whip woven from orange flames around his neck, yanked down to the ground. The other end of the whip was held by Capillata... no, by Vitulus. He lowered his expressionless gray gaze and tightened the flaming whip, forcing Anganas to lower his ears and head, crawling forward in a miserable state.
He wrinkled his nose, anticipating the painful blows of fists and feet, only to receive an even more agonizing punishment. His owner, Vitulus, gently placed a soldered brass muzzle over its snout.
Vasili woke up abruptly, sitting up to find himself in a dimly lit room. In front of him were rough wooden posts, and the same was true on the sides and behind. Above the wall formed by the posts, there was a large patchwork quilt, supported by wooden poles in the middle. He looked to his right and saw a soldier with a bandaged head curled up on a crude bed made of bark nailed onto a curule seat. The same arrangement extended to the far right of the room, with a total of six beds, and across from his feet, there were six sets of identical beds.
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Field hospital. Vasili thought, and his bed was the innermost one.
Numerous complex sensations flooded his consciousness simultaneously, and Vasili hunched over in discomfort, couldn’t help but dry heave. Aside from the dry mouth, parched tongue, and the need to urinate, the cold wind seeped through the gaps in the wooden posts, making an annoying rustling sound. He was certain that he had been sleeping in the noisy wind for a long time, and his buttocks and back were aching from prolonged contact with the non-resilient bark mattress.
He reached out to his abdomen, where layers of tightly wrapped bandages had hardened due to dried blood. The deep wounds had not completely healed, and whenever Vasili attempted to move, a chilling tearing pain would accompany it.
Amidst the annoying sounds of the wind filtering through the gaps in the posts, there were also flashes of light and bustling voices. Vasili got off the bed because he believed that whatever awaited him outside couldn't be more deadly than this crude bed. He walked past the corridor of wounded soldiers, some snoring, others moaning, and lifted the flapping curtain that incessantly fluttered in the wind. Taking a breath of the outdoor air, he knew they had already left the wrathful foot of Anganar Volcano.
While he was unconscious, the Ninth Legion hadn't abandoned him. Instead, they had taken him away from that smoky land, crossed the Fenwick Ice Sea, and returned to the outskirts of Graywood. However, it seemed they hadn't ventured back into the forest. Vasili deduced from the star patterns, wind direction, and terrain that after that, the survivors of the great war had been walking westward along the coast until they finally reached this bay filled with white fir trees.
The Ninth Legion had been encamped here for some time. Besides the field hospital, there were other buildings scattered throughout the bay. It seemed that a celebration ceremony was taking place along the central axis of the camp.
In every past victory, including significant triumphs over other legions, Constanz had never held a triumphal procession. Therefore, Vasili's understanding of this custom was limited to courtly books and the songs of poets. It was said that the Etna people would dress the conquered leaders in slave attire and strangle them in the square. As a result, Devoran and other barbarians despised triumphal processions, viewing them as a great humiliation.
During the empire's most glorious days, the emperor would usually play the central role in triumphal processions, portraying the figure who brought back the troops from the marble gate and received the cheers of the citizens. However, as the Dux bellorum gradually became powerful, there were also records of generals achieving military exploits on their own, and leading large armies back to the capital, requesting triumphal processions. At that time, the role of the emperor became an unwilling high priest at the end of the parade route, wearing a stiff comedy mask and crowning the generals, who were adored along the sides of the road, with golden laurel wreaths.
When Vasili walked out of the hospital, the parade seemed to have ended, and the ceremony was coming to a close. He could clearly see Constanz, who was usually uninterested in frivolous matters - sometimes considered harsh even by Vasili’s standard - still not sitting on the pure white stallion with the golden reins, accepting the applause of the soldiers. Clad in a coarse brown cloak draped over his stooped figure, he was crowning the golden-haired Imperator. And that particular Imperator was none other than Capillata, wearing a purple embroidered toga.