Chapter 5.2
Love & War
Miles awoke to the familiar, gritty sound of crunching dirt and creaking wheels. Nearby, a whispered conversation, quickly growing in heat, reached his ears over the din. He slowly opened his eyes, his back straight and arms crossed—a sleeping position he had long since mastered, both a necessity and a boon for one who’d spent countless nights in vehicles like this. Miles felt a twinge of amusement at the thought, finding it ironic that such an archaic piece of transport was so similar in (dis)comfort to the floaters of his world.
The carriage, a construct of weathered wood and canvas tarp, crammed its occupants tightly on hard benches. Shoulders brushed against neighbors, and for those tall enough, knees bumped against the person opposite. Yet, despite the discomfort, it was still a luxury.
Looking outside, Miles surveyed the soldiers marching behind them, trudging in weary silence. Despite their slowness and obvious fatigue, Miles silently commended them, able and, more importantly, willing to keep going after two weeks of constant marching, their boots dragging across kicked-up dirt from a thousand steps.
An itching sensation told him he was being watched. He glanced over to see an officer among the soldiers, eyeing him warily as he moved with contemptuous ease compared to his subordinates. Miles clucked his tongue in annoyance at the reminder of the soldiers’ purpose, of why so many were placed behind the ‘Heroes’ carriage, to guard them, they had said.
Still, he would take the luxury of transport, uncomfortable as it was for a man of his height. Miles was tall, standing at 190 centimeters on his bare feet, but fortunately for him, the one sitting opposite him was much smaller.
He was a boy, perhaps around sixteen, but his slight frame and timid, nervous demeanor made him seem younger. From when he saw him standing earlier, he looked to be around 165 centimeters and maybe 50 kilograms soaking wet.
Currently, he was huddled in on himself, making his small frame seem even smaller as he frightfully listened to the rapidly heating conversation.
“We ain’t no damn ‘Vanguard,’ don’t you get it?” The one on Miles’ right hissed as he leaned forward conspiratorially, practically spitting out the designation they were assigned. Carl, he was called–not that Miles ever talked with him.
The man in front of him worked his lips, opening and closing them in uncertainty for several moments. “But we’re Heroes, right? They wouldn’t just send us to die?” he stated, but the tilting lilt in his voice turned it into a question.
Carl snorted derisively. “Heroes? They’ll call us whatever they need to get us to fight. We’re just another line of defense to them.” He tsked in annoyance. “And there’s what, fifty of us?”
“Forty-eight,” the other man supplied.
“Forty-eight. Whatever, still a lot. That means we ain’t that valuable. You know how we got told we were just the first wave?”
The other man nodded, wondering where he was going with this.
“Yeah, right,” Carl scoffed, glancing around the carriage warily. Most of their troupe was still asleep, except for the cowering boy and the ever-silent soldier. Satisfied with his secrecy, he leaned farther forward, his rear almost off the seat, and lowered his voice to what he must have thought was quiet. “‘Fore we left, my instructor kept telling me to make a showing, to do better or some bullshit. Gave up after a few days, the prick.” He shook his dead, features scrunched in remembered anger. “Anyways, I’s been asking around, talking with the grunts during dinner. Took a while for ‘em to start opening up, but guess what I found out last night?” He asked with a sneer.
The other man leaned in closer. “What?”
Carl's sneer grew more pronounced. “Turns out, we ain’t even the first wave. We’re just the distraction. They’ve got another group, a real ‘Vanguard,’ ready to go in right behind us. We’re just here to soften up the enemy, make their job easier.”
“The hell are you talking about, man? We’re like, special forces or something, yeah?”
“You’d think, right?” Carl chuckled humorlessly, “But nah, we ain’t fuckin’ talented enough for ‘em, the ungrateful bastards,” He spat out, quite literally, staining the carriage floor with his saliva. Miles wasn’t one to care for rumors slipped from loose lips, but from his own investigations, the man’s words rang with truth.
“What do you mean?” The other man leaned in, eyes darting around nervously like a frightened rodent, curiosity battling caution.
“I mean those special, talented bunch got sent off to be trained and pampered, while we get the honor of dying so the little shits have time to rest!” Carl’s voice rose with indignation, any pretense of secrecy lost under his anger. In time with his heated exclamation, his fist swung down, thumping against his leg so hard that the man’s blue barrier appeared to protect him.
“But we’re heroes, right?” The other man began.
“You said that already,” interrupted Carl, his tone sharp with anger-fueled impatience.
“I know, I know. But we’re supposed to be super strong, or something, yeah? Hell, I started beating my instructor in our spars before we left,” he boasted.
“What’s your point?” Carl prodded.
“My point is we’re strong, which means we’ll survive,” Carl shrugged nonchalantly. “Besides, all we’ll be fighting is zombie bugs or something, so… you know.”
The other man mulled over his words, nodding in agreement, before he scoffed in realization, a sardonic smirk twisting his lips.
“You’re right. We’re strong as hell. So why are we following their orders?” His smirk turned mocking. “Why don’t we take our time, get even stronger while they sit on their asses?” His laughter turned dark, a hint of malice in his voice. “Then we’ll show ’em who’s really running the show—ah!” A sudden, vice-like grip on his skull cut off his words, freezing him in place with the sensation of his head about to crack like an egg.
“I will not be party to your insubordination.” The gruff, cold voice pierced through Carl’s shock and pain. He glanced to his left, meeting the placid gaze of the soldier he had ignored. It was the first time he had heard the man actually speak, the first time he’d seen him move in hours.
“Speak of it elsewhere,” the man commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument, the words “or not at all” left unsaid, but hanging like an axe in his mind all the time.
He tried to nod frantically, but his head remained immobile under the soldier's grip. The soldier must have sensed his silent acquiescence, yet he kept his hand planted, waiting for a verbal confirmation.
“W-will do, man,” Carl stuttered out, licking his suddenly dry lips. The pressure around his skull vanished as the soldier released him, crossing his arm back over the other and resuming his previously long-held position.
Across from Miles, the boy curled into himself even more, casting furtive glances as if expecting an attack at any moment, keeping Miles in his peripheral vision. Miles internally rolled his eyes at the boy’s fearful behavior before deciding to bite the bullet and use his forced-upon ability.
“Observe,” he commanded, whispering under his breath.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Name: Tom Amster
Synopsis: Born by a single mother and raised by none, Tom has been timid for as long as he can remember. First, it was by nature, shy and inquisitive both, he would reach out to explore the world, only to snap his hand back in fear. Then, it was by nurture, to keep his head down and fade to the background, to not attract the attention of bullies with different faces, following the philosophy that the best defense was concealment. It didn’t work.
Now, Tom’s timidity is born from fear, his latest memory a bruising reminder: the boot of his latest tormentor, a final blow after being black and blue, Tom regretting his choice to stand up for himself.
He is apprehensive around you, yet grateful for your intervention.
Tom wishes to join you due to your apparent experience in the military but is too scared to approach you.
Tom knows how to play the ukulele.
Miles felt the rush of information flowing into his mind effortlessly, the boy offering no resistance to his probing spell. His mana diminished by a single point, swiftly refilling as he checked the stats—a spell so undemanding it barely taxed him. Despite Tom's apparent weakness, he intrigued Miles. He was…pathetic, really, yet he was intrigued all the same. Perhaps if he was back home, where his brothers and sisters were around him whether he liked it or not, he wouldn’t be. But in this unfamiliar world devoid of trust—no officers, no comrades, only reluctant companions by circumstance—loyalty was paramount.
He needed followers loyal to him above all else, not to some distant King on a lofty throne or a commander who would gladly send them to die for a cause not their own. What better way to start than one desperate to join him?
Miles stared at Tom appraisingly, the boy shrinking under his penetrating gaze, Miles’ eyes roaming in inspection. Thin, with a body that seemed more skin and bone than substance, yet not gaunt—clearly not malnourished. The surprising strength lay in his hands and forearms; calloused fingertips and sinewy forearms that cau- oh?
Miles tilted his head in surprise when he felt the intense, but quivering gaze of the boy, tinged with an uneasy determination. Fists clenched and trembling, Tom locked eyes with Miles, a silent challenge in his gaze. Miles remained composed, anticipating Tom to falter, yet impressed by his unexpected defiance. A small smile played on Miles' lips.
He’ll do, Miles thought to himself, breaking his gaze to avoid souring their first interaction with unnecessary tension. Though tempted to introduce himself, he decided against it.
Primarily, he didn’t feel the need to force it—the boy would likely be deployed with him anyway, and if he wasn’t…then there was no need to waste his breath. Secondarily, noise begets noise. If he began to speak, the others might, emboldened by the lack of stifling silence.
And so he closed his eyes, remaining awake and aware, but resting. He stayed that way for hours, the rest of the carriage either sleeping or trying to, any attempts at conversation made stillborn with a questioning glance.
Their silence lasted until the sound of crunching stone turned to scraping metal, the constant bumpiness they had all forgotten made starkly apparent by its sudden absence.
“The hell?” One of the heroes eloquently blurted, staring out the back of the carriage.
Miles opened his eyes to look as well, seeing the soldiers trailing behind them tiredly stepping on the dirt and…gold?
Miles narrowed his eyes in disbelief at the sight that greeted him. Gold, a symbol of wealth and prestige, had never appeared more incongruous than in this sprawling expanse.
So concentrated was he on the strange road, that he unconsciously focused his will into his eyes.
Designation: Zolotoye Shosses - Outskirts
Description: The veins of the Zolotoy Empire, these roads, paved with gold, once epitomized the pinnacle of transportation efficiency and grandeur. Beyond their practical role, they served to uplift the empire's populace and silently proclaim its prosperity and military might to potential adversaries.
Today, these roads are left abandoned, trodden on in only the border regions, their self-cleaning enchantments long eroded to the element–or worse.
Mana: 0/110
Miles felt his head throb in pain, his mana depleted completely from the simple spell. He had never felt this before, this feeling of emptiness, as if his heart had been ripped from his chest with nary a struggle. His spell had varying costs, he knew that–scrying those weaker than him was far easier than those stronger–but no one had caused him to lose his entire pool, to send him into such a state.
Ridiculous, he grumbled in his mind, reminded sharply of the steep cost of his newfound strength and abilities. Miles knew better than to assume that whoever–whatever–gave him his power couldn't reclaim it, couldn't drain him of his mana on a whim.
Taking a steadying breath, Miles centered himself, refusing to let the absence of something he had lived without for decades unsettle him.
By the time his vision lost its swirls, the carriage was rumbling to a stop, the rhythmic sound of horse hooves clanking against metal near him.
As the caravan of soldiers rolled to a stop, the air was thickened with a mounting mixture of anticipation and dread.
Miles looked out of the carriage, seeing the lined soldiers gulping in fear at the sight ahead of them. Not wanting to be stuck in a carriage full of hapless fools, Miles disembarked, the others following suit soon after. When his boots clacked against the metal ground, he turned around to lay his eyes on their destination.
It was a fortress, the likes of which he had never seen, a monstrous bastion of stone, steel, and gold inlaid between two mountains, stretching from base to peak. It was also worn, with cracks and blackened ash littering the exterior like blots, yet it still seemed insurmountable for all the damage it had taken.
He had seen fortresses before, fortresses that would make this behemoth look as insurmountable as burnt butter, but none were so large yet compact, all of its defenses focused into one building, big as it may be. Looming so high up he had to crane his neck to see them, the towering stone walls of the stronghold cast long shadows across the assembled troops, creating an almost tangible divide between the outside world and the fortress within. From light to shadow, it felt as if the temperature had plummeted, goosebumps forming as his hair stood straight, the others holding themselves as they shivered. It was improbable, impossible for there to be such a stark difference from shade alone, to go from sweltering heat to a biting chill, and yet Miles felt the proof of its existence.
Putting the anomalous temperature delta aside, Miles turned his gaze to the imposing fortifications and the stern visages of the soldiers who stood guard. Their faces were carved into the grim apathy of those too worn by death, looking down at the new arrivals with detached pity, Miles catching some mutterings of “fresh meat” by the more jaded of the guards.
The gates creaked open, revealing a courtyard filled with wooden stands, like a marketplace, except its only wares were steel and leather, blacksmiths hard at working sharpening and ironing out all manner of weapons and armor. Towards the back, but still in the center and in plain view, were gallows, a dozen bodies swaying by their ropes. Around him, Miles could hear several more gulps as the others noticed the sight, the corpses stripped of their clothes, their modesty preserved by tattered loincloths.
But their attention was soon seized by a figure more imposing than death–their commander. Sitting atop a regal horse whose legs were larger than some of the men around the beast, the man exuded an air of authority long used to being obeyed. He was an aged man, silver wingtips creeping up his hair while his weathered face spoke of countless battles fought and won, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to assess each new arrival with swift precision. His eyes roved over the assembled newcomers, quieting them into silence with his gaze alone.
Satisfied with the quietness he inflicted, he began to speak, his voice carrying the weight of authority and the promise of discipline. “I am the interim Commander of this fortress, Colonel Fitzroy,” he began, voice stern and level, yet carrying across the courtyard and through the crowd with ease.
Miles clucked his tongue. Damn magick
“You may call me Sir, Colonel, or Colonel Fitzroy, but for the remainder of your pathetic lives at my station, I might as well be your god,” he declared, some of the heroes around him thinly concealing their snorts. “I tell you to jump, you jump. I tell you to kill, you kill. If I tell you to throw yourself into a horde because I think they’re fucking hungry, you throw yourself in with a thank you!” He ended with a bark, his attention now focused on Miles’ group, to the discomfort of all, those who snorted now cold sweating. “Do you understand me, soldiers?” At his question, a pressure seemed to exude out of the man, pushing down on Miles’ shoulder as if gravity had decided to exert itself twofold. Around him, he saw others begin to buckle, the boy already on his knees with his arms braced against the ground, the soldiers clinging to their spears to stay standing. Miles stayed strong, a vexing grunt of effort escaping him as he stood tall, his annoyance at this world rising as he was forced to endure the manifestation of another man’s will.
After a few torturous moments, the pressure relented, disappearing as if it was never there. Sighs of relief were breathed out around him, quickly cut short by the commander’s gaze roving over them once more, a silent threat in his eyes, prompting them to answer.
““Sir, yes, Sir!”” The soldiers, new and old, shouted out in unison, the ground itself vibrating from their synchronized chant, feeling like a physical force with its combined intensity.
“Good,” the colonel replied simply. His eyes locked onto Miles’ the only one of the newbies to remain composed under his mana-fueled intent, their gazes clashing. When Miles met him, unperturbed, a ghost of a smile graced his lips before he refocused his attention to the crowd.
"Then welcome." As if on cue, an explosion reverberated from behind the fortress, its distant rumble penetrating the thick walls of stone and metal.
Despite the sudden blast, the colonel remained unperturbed, his demeanor unchanged as he smirked at the startled newcomers. Gesturing expansively, he concluded his welcome, "To Valor's Valley."