The moon hung above a white mansion, the rain pouring down relentlessly. Inside a bedroom, a man wearing a white and red uniform raised his voice, his face scrunched up like a crumpled paper.

“Useless bastard!” He grabed a mug from atop the bedside table, throwing it to the wall near the windows. The glass shattered, and thunder wailed anger amidst the dark clouds.

“If he can't even use a sword, then he can leave and never return!”

Zethir opened his eyes in a daze, his ears ringing from the gut-wrenching words. His eyes cought the sight of his knees, with his arms wrapped around them as he sat on the corner. At the same time, his nose felt stuffy and he could hear himself sniffling quietly.

“Fernando! How could you say that to our child?!” A woman screamed, her concern nearly turning him deaf. “Arthur is your child first, your damned heir second! Why must you be cruel?!”

Zethir tried furrowing his brows, but he only felt himself burying his face into his knees, tears rolling down his eyes.

‘Arthur?’

“Arthur is no child of mine if he's no stronger than a beggar!” The man in the white and red uniform argued back, sending a glare at “Zethir.”

“Fernando!” The woman gasped out, unable to believe her husband's words.

‘I’m dreaming again,’ Zethir thought, watching his body moving on its own, walking toward the arguing couple.

“Mom, dad, don't argue, please… I’ll, I'll do better, I promise,” a meek, almost feminine voice came out of “Zethir's” mouth, his fair hands clinging to the woman's blue dress.

Surprised, Zethir tried touching his throat, even though he knew he couldn't control “his” body at the moment. Yet, just as he was thinking about it, a palm suddenly appeared centimeters away from his face.

“Fernando!” The woman shrieked, her hand gripping Fernando's wrist tightly.

“Vivian, let go of me!” Fernando yelled at his wife.

“Get out, don't come back until you've cleared your mind!” Vivian threw Fernando's hand away, her teeth and fists clenched tightly.

“Mom…” Arthur tugged at his mother's dress, while Zethir saw Arthur's vision turning blurry.

“Arthur, oh, my child,” Vivian's soft voice soothed his ears, her hand caressing Arthur's head.

‘What does she do?’ However, Zethir distinctly felt Vivian's calloused fingers when they grazed his forehead. ‘Is she a swordsman?’

“Please don't kick daddy out?” Arthur whispered to his mother, his voice so gentle that it sent shivers down Zethir's spine.

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“Arthur, your father needs to cool his head first. I won't let you be bullied by your own father,” she said, smiling at her son.

Meanwhile, Fernando snorted from the side, making Arthur shift his gaze. But the , Arthur's eyes widened when he saw his father standing before Vivian, holding an axe above her neck.

“MOM!”

Zethir's body jolted up, his eyes bloodshot and opened wide like plates. He gasped, catching his breath as he looked around.

“Urgh,” Augustin stirred from the side, curled beside a tree with a blanket beneath and over his body. Above him, a bird lowered its bottom, about to take a dump when it caught Zethirs glare.

“CHIRP?!” The bird fled in a hurry, feeling constipated.

“Tsk,” Zethir looked back at the exhausted mage, before standing up. After tidying up his hair and clothes, he picked up his sword and disappeared into the forest.

When he came back with three gutted hares in tow, Augustin was already awake, drooling as they roasted the meat.

{=|=}{=|=}{=|=}

At the city gates, the guard spat his morning coffee after seeing a group of armored soldiers marching toward him. Coughing while scrambling to get his spear, he raised his voice and yelled.

“Halt! Who comes here?!”

The one at the forefront, a middle-aged man with his helmet taken off and tied around his waist, showed a scowl.

“We're the king's men! Lower your weapon and let us through,” he shouted, his march unabated. Behind, the twelve young soldiers exchanged doubtful looks.

The city guard frowned, his face twisting in anger. “I said halt! Drop your weapons and…”

“Oi, Yukelin, what’re you yelling for so early in the morning?” Another guard came out of the tower, rubbing his dazed eyes. Unlike Yukelin, the guard with a spear whose body was packed with powerful muscles, the sleepy guard's frame was lean at best.

“Tremodor, prepare your spells. These guys may be enemies… but they claim to be the royal's troops. But just in case—”

Tremodor, a mage, snapped his eyes open. “What? The royals are here?!” He looked around, his eyes trembling as they landed on the middle-aged man.

“Ah, shit. Yukelin, you should get your eyes checked next time,” Tremodor cursed, stumbling toward the advancing soldiers.

“Ah? Why?” Yukelin, jerked back in surprise, reluctantly chasing after the mage.

“Can't you see his deep-orange eyes? That's the mark of royal blood!” Tremodor glanced back to glare at him.

Meanwhile, the soldiers stopped after seeing the guards rushing toward them.

Tremodor plastered a smile on his face and bowed as soon as he got in front of the middle-aged man.

“Welcome, welcome, sirs. Very sorry for earlier's rudeness, we hope you understand,” he said.

The middle-aged man waved his hand, his gaze locked onto Yukelin. Yukelin, not one to be intimidated, stared back and saw the middle-aged man letting out a smile.

“Not bad, kid. The kingdom needs soldiers like you, alert and doing their jobs properly. It's better to be suspicious of allies than to let enemies pass through,” he said, patting Yukelin’s shoulder.

Then, before Yukelin could say anything, the group of soldiers marched past them, entering the city.

Tremodor scratched his head. “So… wanna go have a cup of coffee?”

Yukelin sighed, his shoulders drooping down. “I'm not in the mood… the grass drank my coffee.”

“Huh?”

While Tremodor was wondering if Yukelin lost his mind, the middle-aged man and his soldiers entered the mercenary union building. Standing in front of the counter, he passed a piece of paper to the clerk.

The clerk read the application, before giving it back to the middle-aged man.

“My sir, this hire will cost you, at minimum, fifty thousand mitos,” she said, smiling politely.

The middle-aged man frowned. “Fifty thousand? And what kind of mercenaries will that get me?”

“Green mercenaries, sir. Ranks one to five,” the clerk briefly closed her eyes, nodding her head lightly.

“No, that won't do. Raise the price, I need elite mercenaries,” the middle-aged man shook his head, tapping his fingers on the desk.

The clerk nodded. “Then the reward should be at least fifty thousand, per elite mercenary.”

The middle-aged man scoffed. “I'm not new to this, don't scam me,” he narrowed his eyes as a warning.

The clerk sighed, bowing before speaking with a distressed tone. “My apologies, sir. But hiring mercenaries to fight in wars will cost significantly more than normal.”

BAM!

The middle-aged man slammed his fist on the desk, gritting his teeth while glaring at the clerk. The clerk calmly stared back, a polite smile painted on her face.

“Tsk, fine. I need at least three elites, and however many cannon fodders fifty thousand can get me.”

The clerk smiled. “Sir, they are called green mercenaries, but if you insist. Fifty thousand will get you a maximum of fifty noob— err, fresh, green mercenaries,” she said, taking the paper from the middle-aged man and stamping it.

With a scowl, the middle-aged man received the paper again, signing his name and title, before giving it back to the clerk. The clerk squinted, reading his name.

“Sir Fernando Solien Yve. Is this correct?”

The middle-aged man, Fernando, nodded. “If there's nothing else, we'll get going.”

The clerk bowed. “It's a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Ha!” Fernando turned around, leaving after slamming the door behind him. The soldiers scratched their heads, awkwardly opening the door to leave.

Rolling her eyes, the clerk hopped joyfully to her friends.

“Hey, I got news! I just scammed another pushover…”