The process of waking up was not one that could be so easily defined today. Oliver himself wasn’t sure at what point he’d shifted from unconsciousness to consciousness.

Just the constant, dull pain of bruises from sleeping on the cold hard floor, the sickness from lack of sleep, and the intense hunger of not having eaten for over a day.

Oliver army crawled over to the cup of slop, which he had dismissed the day prior.

He propped himself up against the wall, feeling his empty stomach turn as he did so. It wasn’t enough to dissuade him from picking up the mysterious substance.

His hands trembled. If he wasn’t so inebriated, he would have been embarrassed at what a day and a half in prison had done to him.

The brown slop, as consistent as thin mud, slid into his mouth like a landslide.

Oliver, unprepared, started spluttering. It tasted about how it looked, like dirt.

At least it’s not actively bad. Just unpleasant.

Oliver’s dry throat regained some of it’s moisture as he managed to get the whole thing down. And he sat there in a sort of unpleasant afterglow of having eaten something.

As he sat there, the feelings of sickness and pain seemed to get worse. Oliver held back from throwing up, but he felt eternally off balance. The rocking of his vision just got worse and worse.

*CLANG*

“PRISONER, GET UP”

*CLANG* *CLANG*

Oliver tried to get to his feet but kept falling over sideways. Something was very wrong.

“Ohohoh, ate it did ya?”

Oliver heard the cell door opening, but couldn’t tell from which direction.

He got yanked up by the arm. “C’mon, time for a trial. The Lord insists.”

Oliver tried to support himself on his weak legs, he could barely coordinate himself at all, which was terrifying. What was in that slop!?

“Whbl maas ibl deble lop.”

The guard chuckled, “Pfft, just stand up will ya.”

Then he yelled, “OI, SOME HELP HERE?”

Oliver heard another voice in the spinning room.

“Yeah yeah, comin’.”

Oliver was hoisted up by two men under his shoulders, and they began to drag him out of the cell

“Pshaaww, he stinks.”

“That’s the slop, mate.”

It was like being on one of those spinning rides at the royal show, but instead of it being set to speeds safe for humans, it was about four times higher than that.

Oliver was so sick he didn’t even feel his stomach. He was still able to make out words, it was like some kind of weird paralysis. What was the point in making a prisoner eat that?

Oliver had been in a mana-safe cell, what the hell would he need sedating for? How strong could people possibly be?

It didn’t matter how much muscle mass you had, the bars were steel and enchanted.

Oliver could feel his leg twist as they turned a corner without regard to his positioning, and he let out a cry of pain.

Then he got punched in the stomach and heard “SHUT UP.”

How was it that Oliver was this extremely unlucky?

Sure, he had gotten that job and not died yet, but why would that be the metric for lucky?

If Oliver got any more emotionally susceptible he could be convinced to join some cult. The tribulations of his past seemed, if not insignificant, to take on a different light.

Oliver had lost most sensation of what was going on around him, but he felt his jaw be forced open, and a liquid drain down his throat.

Half a minute later, when the world seemed to stabilise, he found himself on his knees alongside more than a dozen other people. He was on the flat side of a large semicircular stone room with a raised platform holding some… officials, but not of the finance ministry – these ones wore dark red.

If Oliver recalled correctly… They were officials of law, but Emilia had only mentioned them in passing, he didn’t know what they did.

One of them, older and more decorated, took centre stage.

Oliver would bet money that this man had not once worn a smile since birth.

“Hello, prisoners. I have instructions from the Lord of the city, so I’ll make this quick. Regardless of your crimes, I, Primary Official of Law in this matter, conscript you all to temporary service with the guardsmen of the city.”

He swept his eyes across the whole group sternly, “If you should desert, hinder, or otherwise cause trouble for the guardsmen, they withhold the right to cut you down.”

One of Oliver’s fellow prisoners, a studious looking man, spoke up hopefully, “So we’ll be patrolling city walls, then?”

The next thing Oliver heard was the thud of that man being kicked in the back and being told to remain silent.

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The Official continued, “Your primary goal in this service to the city will be the extermination of a group of bandits which has been causing trouble.”

Oliver shivered, along with most of the collected prisoners. We’re cannon fodder.

“You shall be departing immediately.” He clapped his hands once, and the guardsmen began guiding everyone away again.

Oliver, now limping due to his twisted leg, had to ask just one thing. He turned to his guard.

“W-what weapons will we be using?”

All he got in reply was a wide smile, “Weapons?”

And that was the moment that Oliver started thinking overdrive. His willpower at that moment was strong enough that mana was devoted to the task.

Current problems:

* Imminent combat.

* Threat of exposure of identity.

* Levi is alone.

Most Immediate:

* Imminent combat.

How to improve survival chances:

* Obtain weapon.

* Obtain allies.

* Convince guards to let me go (unlikely).

* Escape the battleground?

* Just as bad as exposing my identity, not ideal.

Oliver rounded a corner in the single file line of prisoners, they were approaching an exit.

Plan (Draft 1):

* Make friends with my fellow prisoners, coordinate action.

* Find a rock or stick, swap it for a fallen combatant’s weapon when the opportunity arises.

* Avoid combat, but if necessary, never try attacking directly, fight dirty, as much as I am capable at least.

Oliver stepped up onto a cramped cart alongside about seven other prisoners, about three of which looked like they were capable in a fight by evidence of their scars and the looks on their faces.

Three more looked like normal people, perhaps in prison for less violent offences like Oliver’s… Oliver was in for assault but it hardly counted.

The last was…

Oliver pointed, hands bound, “You. You’re poncho girl.”

The young teenage girl, still wearing her signature blue poncho, scrutinised him for a second. Then she widened her eyes. “A-a-a-a-a-a-I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Confused, Oliver just paused. “Sorry? No, I knocked you into the dirt, you didn’t really do anything. What’s your name?”

“P-Paige. I really promise I’m sorry.”

“Paige, why are you here and not out in the forest?”

Oliver was already off his plan, but he assumedly had some time. Even if it’s with the least combat capable person in the congregation, she might count as an ally.

The idea came to his head that she might be good as a sacrificial pawn, but then he thought about it for a second and couldn’t really stand the idea in good conscience. That would be an absolute last resort.

“W-well, our–um, our leader made us join up with another group. I–uh, I annoyed one of them and–um, yeah.”

Oliver, seeing where this was going, just slowly slipped his head into his hands.

That’s probably what we– wait a minute, this is great! Oliver looked up with a smile.

Luck swings like a pendulum.

“That group! Tell me about it. How big, how strong, whatever!”

Poncho girl, quivering and frail, stopped darting her eyes around and held them on Oliver for a few seconds too long. “T-They’re those people. There are a bunch of them.”

“What people? What are you saying?”

“They’re those people the cities are hunting down. The ones from far away.”

The plan shattered in Oliver’s mind.

Oh.

“How many?”

“T-Thirty or something? I don’t know, it was a week ago.”

Oliver was tired of getting emotional, he was emotioned out. All he had in him at that moment was a solidifying dread.

“Have you told the guards this?”

“Yeah.”

Then they’re already dead.

Oliver’s tone had become dead serious by this point, “Did they have weapons?”

“N-Not many, but they were attacking merchant caravans for them.”

Problems:

* Thirty or so Earthers, identity revealed, attacking caravans.

* Imminent combat with said compatriots.

* Can’t reveal own identity.

I take back what I thought about luck.

Oliver prepared to speak, to somehow say something that would convince them not to attack, but… That would give me away.

Thirty people were about to be slaughtered.

Take as much control of the situation as possible.

Oliver squared his shoulders. He spoke to the whole cart. “Everyone, you’ve obviously heard about our threat just now, and we know they’re armed and dangerous. A national level threat.”

The man who’d been kicked in the back earlier looked at Oliver intently, another man spoke up, “Get on with it then.”

Good, they’re receptive.

“We can assume the guards are just going to throw us into the fray, and I can’t really see that being too good for us, so I would like to coordinate–”

One of the fighters, bald, “I aint looking out for yous. Every man for themselves–”

Oliver cut in, “Of course not, that wouldn’t be fair. And getting too complicated will just mess us up. But if we’re coordinated, that will make everybody safer, including you.”

The cart was passing through the gate, and a company of soldiers about forty strong accompanied the prison cart.

“Look, I’ll take point since this is my plan, but can I have two of the stronger guys at my side, and one at back?”

“Thought we were making a fair plan, mate.”

“Just hear me out. Three of us at the front, and the rest spread out on either side. We won’t have to worry about out backs, and if anyone else in the formation starts flagging, the person in back can support them.”

One of the non-combat people spoke up. “The person in the back seems to have it easy then!”

“We’ll swap them out whenever one of you gets too tired, do we know who’s strongest of you three?”

The bald one grumbled. “It’s a toss up, but for this kinda thing. Me.”

“Cool, you start off in the back.”

One of the other fighters spoke up, “This is a shit plan.”

“Better than nothing, right?” Oliver wore a strained smile.

Nobody else said anything.

Of course, Oliver was trying to win, but win at what?

Win at the preservation of human lives, of course.

Rather than leave these criminals to wreak havoc, I have assembled them into one mechanism. A spear formation.

A dull spear formation.