The evening sky bled crimson over the battlefield. Corpses sprawled in grotesque heaps, vultures tearing flesh with lazy indifference. Blood soaked the earth so deeply it seemed the ground itself was bleeding.

Some soldiers still clung to life—mangled, broken, eyes searching for help that might never come.

Not far away, the stronghold pulsed with desperate energy. Tents overflowed with the wounded. Medics shouted themselves hoarse, their hands red to the wrist. The air was thick with iron, smoke, and grief. No cheers of victory, no banners waving high. War here was not glorious; it was routine.

---

Inside one of the larger tents, silence reigned. Seven men sat scattered across four beds and blankets on the floor. A jug lay overturned on a table. Sunlight crept through the flap, casting long stripes across their weary faces.

The flap rustled. A soldier stumbled inside, his arm marred by a fresh scar. He dropped his weapon with a dull clatter, tore off his armor, and pulled away his helmet. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the dirt. His shoulders trembled.

Then his voice broke.

“Those bastards killed him! I’ll never forgive them!”

Before his rage could carry further, a woman entered.

Her hair was neatly braided despite the chaos, her brown eyes sharp enough to still a storm. She wore a refined white French dress, but the leather armor over it turned her into something more than noble—a figure both elegant and unyielding.

The man glared at her. “Don’t start your lectures. I’m sick of hearing them. I’ll get my revenge.”

She met his fury with calm. “Then go. If you have the strength to kill the dead, claim your vengeance. The man who struck your comrade may already lie rotting outside.”

His jaw clenched. He kicked the table, sending the empty jug skittering across the floor.

“Kicking wood won’t silence grief,” she said evenly. “If you can’t control yourself, step outside. The others need rest.”

“Don’t you dare lecture me! You’ve never watched a comrade die in front of you!”

Silence. Then her reply, steady as stone.

“You think you’re alone in this? You’ve seen men die in battle. I’ve seen them die everywhere. On the front lines, in these tents, in silence as grief eats them day by day. Hundreds, not once, not twice—thousands. You think your pain is heavier because it’s yours? Every man here carries his own burden. Compare grief long enough, and there’ll be no end to it.”

His fist curled. He stepped forward, trembling with the urge to strike. But when his eyes met hers, his arm fell. Wordless, he stormed past and out of the tent.

One of the men muttered, “Diana… wasn’t that a little harsh?”

She looked at him, voice cool. “Sometimes, bitter truth heals faster than sweet lies.”

And with that, she left them to silence.

---

Morning

Ash woke with a start. For a long moment, he stared at the tent ceiling, his heart thudding.

“Guess this is reality,” he whispered. “I’m really in my novel. Not a dream.”

He stepped outside. Dawn painted the stronghold in soft gold. Soldiers were already training, meditating, repairing gear. The air was sharp with chill but fresher than anything back home. Normally, he’d still be in bed. Here, his body refused to rest.

Two guards approached. “Get ready. Today you’ll be cured of your nightmares.”

Ash raised a brow. Cured? They didn’t say therapy. Maybe the word carried shame here.

They led him across the camp. Everywhere, eyes followed him—cold, suspicious, some openly hostile. His chest tightened. What if one of them just stabbed me? Or drowned me in a bath? Would anyone even care?

The “bathhouse” was a wooden shack barely wide enough for one man. No privacy, no comfort. Just water and a rag. Ash washed quickly, every creak of wood making him flinch. Clean, but with no spare clothes, he pulled his dusty set back on.

Back at the tent, spearwomen were already awake, armor strapped on as if the war hadn’t ended. One handed him a list of chores: “Resources are precious. You won’t live here idle.”

Four choices: clean corpses, sweep the stronghold, fetch water, or cook.

Ash grimaced. No way I’m touching corpses. Sweeping would kill me. Water? Tedious. Cooking… okay, that’s doable.

“I’ll help with food,” he said.

They marched him to a massive dome-like tent. Inside, chaos reigned. Fifty people darted between chopping boards and fire pits, shouting over the crackle of wood. The aroma of frying vegetables and boiling broth filled the air, rich and warm.

At the center stood a muscular woman in a white chef’s jacket, apron, and towering hat—the only one in the tent wearing it. She moved like a general, barking orders, correcting every mistake.

“This one’s assigned to you,” a spearwoman said. “By order of the Five Elders.”

Ash caught the subtext. Not trusted. Under watch.

The chef looked him up and down, then tossed him a pile of vegetables. “Sort them. Don’t waste anything.”

And that was that.

---

Later that day, spearwomen came again. “You’re needed.”

On the way, Ash passed soldiers reuniting with families, others unloading supplies. For a brief moment, the stronghold felt alive.

At Diana’s tent, Samraaditya stepped out. He gave Ash a quick nod before disappearing down the path.

Ash hesitated at the entrance. “May I come in?”

“Come,” came the reply—soft, steady, disarming.

Inside, books covered shelves and tables. A second room lay hidden behind a wooden door. At the desk sat Diana, her blue French dress refined, her leather armor grounding her presence.

“Hello,” she greeted warmly. “I hear you suffered nightmares—and that you were recently teleported here.”

“Yes.” Ash swallowed. “Ash Tennisson. Probably just trauma from the battlefield.” His nerves itched. “If you don’t mind… why the armor? You’re a psychologist.”

Diana chuckled lightly. “Soldiers are unstable when faced with truths. Many only speak the language of violence. Armor keeps the conversation safe.”

Ash leaned back. She’s tougher than she looks. “That’s… harder than anything in my world.”

She gently steered him forward. “Tell me about the dream.”

Ash did—but not everything.

“The best cure for trauma is occupation,” she said when he finished. “Joy may be scarce, but work leaves no room for nightmares. Adapt, and perhaps you’ll find more than survival.”

As treatment finished, Diana closed her book with a soft thump. Then, almost casually, she said in Latin:

“Vale, ad postea.”

Ash froze. Don’t answer. Don’t—

But the reply slipped out, natural as breathing:

“Ad proximum.”

Silence.

Her smile lingered, but her eyes had sharpened—measuring, curious. Ash’s heart pounded. Why did that come so easily? Why here, of all places?

He forced a cough, then a brittle laugh. “Uh—yeah. See you.”

He turned too fast, nearly stumbling as he left the tent.

When the flap settled, the shadows stirred. A figure emerged from the corner.

“He’s hiding something,” it murmured.

“Yes,” Diana said quietly. “He nearly slipped into Latin. And as Samraaditya noted, he knows Prakrit. For a man from Serpentile, that is… impossible. Both languages are extinct there.”

Her gaze darkened.

“The greater concern is his mind. He carries a burden too heavy for his age. If no one shares it, it will crush him.”

The shadow hummed. “A burden fit for a soldier. Strange, for one like him.”

Silence thickened the air.

---

That Evening

Beneath the shade of an ancient oak, an old monk sat cross-legged in white robes, his head shaved, his face serene as still water.

Before him knelt three young men, their breaths steady, their bodies rigid in discipline.

The monk opened his eyes. His voice was soft, yet it seemed to ripple across the air.

“Soon, the three pillars shall converge. And when they do, the first phase of change will awaken.”