Six Years Ago

The street ran red where the bullets fell.

Erik stepped over the body of a fallen protester — no older than twenty — her pale blue eyes still wide with disbelief. The Empire had sent him here to maintain order, but this wasn’t order.
This was extermination.

It began six months ago. A peaceful demonstration by the Northern Race — long deemed inferior by Kraluantia — ended in bloodshed when the imperial army opened fire. Their white hair and sky-colored eyes had marked them for oppression since birth.

Erik had both.
So would his wife.
So would his children.
And now, he was helping kill his own kind.

This was the work of the White Legion.
And Erik was employee of the month.

The burn on his neck marked him — two angelic wings split by a knife — a brand of loyalty. It spared him execution. They called it the symbol of salvation, of purity. Said it made them angels of the north.
To Erik, it felt more like the seal of a reaper.

As dawn broke across the blood-soaked horizon, the final assault loomed. Clinging to the Empire’s promise of compensation — of a better life — Erik gripped his bolt-action rifle. His fingers slid across the stock, where tiny notches were etched into the wood.
Each one, a life.
Too many to count.

His comrades had given him a name:
The Angel of Greed.

He didn’t know whether it came from fear, respect… or disgust.

Erik mounted his mare — lean, weathered, eyes just like his: hardened, haunted. She had carried him through six months of hell without ever once flinching.

He fixed the bayonet to his rifle’s muzzle. Adjusted his worn patrol cap. Checked his belt rig: spare rounds, long-range scope, a tin of cigarettes, a folded tourniquet — like a letter from home he would never read.

Hoofbeats broke the stillness.

Two Empire soldiers rode into camp — crisp uniforms, gleaming rifles. Their coats were spotless. So were their hands.

“Attention!” one barked, his sneer barely restrained. “Orders from the FOB: the White Legion is to delay assault. Wait for fighting to begin at Viljar. Then cut down any NLO rats that flee.”

He smirked. “Captain’s words. And ours.”

The second soldier spat near Erik’s boot. Then they tugged their reins and galloped off, their laughter trailing behind them like smoke.

Erik said nothing.
His mare snorted.
She knew better than to expect mercy.

A moment later, artillery shattered the silence.
Far ahead, the fortress city of Viljar lit the horizon in fire and smoke — orange tongues rising skyward. Firebombs. The Empire was playing dirty, as always.

“Foraster?”

Erik snapped to attention. “Sir!”

He turned in the saddle, facing his commanding officer — a gaunt man with an eyepatch, known to all as the Pirate. Whether it was the curved blade at his hip or the cut of his words, no one dared cross him.

“You’re our best shot. I’m assigning you to sniper duty.”

Erik nodded once. “Sir.”