The night in Hornberg Village was quiet. Too quiet, in fact—unsettlingly so. Mountain wind whistled through the gaps in the shutters as it swept into the village. Inside the old house where three critically wounded lay, the lamplight flickered. Kain Gardos stood at the entrance of the room, arms crossed, eyes closed. He could hear his comrades' ragged breathing. The pained sleep of the team member with an arrow lodged in his shoulder. The irregular gasps of the one with a split forehead. The groans of the one with broken bones. He had maintained this same posture ever since they retreated from the mountain. Thomas Gelt—the white-haired village chief—walked down the corridor. His steps were exhausted, but he stopped before Gardos and held out a piece of parchment. "A messenger came just now. It seems to have come from the mountain." It was parchment. Folded and sealed with wax. The seal bore the emblem of the Iron Raven—Balmcrow. Gardos took it without a word. He broke the seal. Unfolded it. The message was brief. —Withdraw from Hornberg Village within three days. Fail to do so, and the five hostages we hold will be disposed of one by one. When he finished reading, the air in the room changed. One of the team members awake in the next room raised his voice across the hallway. "They're going to kill the hostages... They're really going to do it?" No one answered. Gardos looked at the end of the parchment. There was one more line written there. —Will you return to being a loser? D.H His hand stopped. The fingers holding the paper trembled slightly. Gardos himself might not have noticed. But the lamplight saw that tremor. "Instructor." It was Irina's voice. When she had taken position behind him was unclear. Her water-blue hair was tied back, and her golden eyes fixed on Gardos's profile. She leaned in to read the threatening letter, saw the final line—and her expression hardened. "D.H... Who is that?" Gardos didn't answer. He stood from his chair just once and looked out the window. The night mountains became a black mass, erasing the boundary with the sky. Somewhere, a dry branch snapped. The wind sound continued in a long, drawn-out whistle. Then, without turning around, he spoke. "[cold]Hausen Drechsel. The man who drove me out of Silverram twenty years ago." Silence. Only the lamplight swayed gently. --- They borrowed a small room at the end of the corridor. A narrow, wooden-floored room that could barely fit four people. Gardos, Irina, and Noar Lant sat on the floor with a single lamp brought in. Lant huddled in the corner, clutching his belongings. His mismatched eyes darted between Gardos and Irina. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn't. That kind of expression. Gardos began speaking a short while later—after the lamp swayed once, noticeably. "[serious]Twenty years ago. I was eighteen, serving in the Fourth Company of Silverram." His voice was low. Quiet, as if emotions were being forcibly suppressed. "We conducted four large-scale monster subjugations along the Graunhorn border. In all four, I filled the gaps in the chain of command and produced results. Every commendation was reported under Drechsel's name. At first, I didn't mind. I thought it was normal for a superior officer to take credit." Irina kept her hands clasped on her knees, saying nothing. "After the fifth subjugation, I filed a report directly to command, bypassing Drechsel. I documented the battle situation and wrote down who gave which orders. Three days later, I was marked for dismissal on charges of insubordination and filing false reports against a superior officer." The corner of his mouth twisted slightly. Not a smile. "There were five witnesses. All of them were Drechsel's subordinates. The team members who actually knew what I did on the battlefield—not a single one testified. That's the power of factions. The company commander at the time sided with Drechsel." Irina slowly clenched her fists. Her white knuckles turned red. The internal corruption of Silverram—Irina, raised in the noble district, had heard rumors of it. But there was an immeasurable distance between rumor and the reality being spoken before her eyes now. "[sad]...So that's what the insubordination charge in your service record really was." Her voice was strained. At that moment, Lant raised his hand. Slowly, hesitantly, like a student asking a question in class. "[surprised]Um... wait a second. So the insubordination charge written in the instructor's service record is all made up?" The air in the room shifted for just an instant. Gardos looked at Lant. "[cold]That's right." "...That..." Lant's mouth moved wordlessly. "[whispers]I wish you'd mentioned that at the start..." It was a barely audible mutter. A terribly belated one. Irina quietly drove her elbow into Lant's side. Lant yelped, "Ow!" "[serious]This is not funny." She said it with a serious face. But for just an instant, something else mixed into her voice. Gardos, still looking out the window, let out a small snort through his nose. The atmosphere eased slightly. Just for one breath. But that one breath was necessary to endure what came next. --- When the night grew deeper, another messenger arrived. The village chief received it at the entrance and brought it to the room. The moment Irina saw the seal's emblem, she stood up. The Royal Capital Knight Corps Headquarters—not Silverram, not the Second Knight Corps Gardion, but the emblem of the unified command that oversaw all knight corps. Irina broke the seal and read. Her voice rose slightly. "[surprised]'Blaze Force's independent action violates royal decree. Withdraw from Hornberg Village immediately.' ...We never received any such order." Gardos stood. He took the order and examined it. Checked the format. Checked the issue date. He confirmed it line by line, slowly. Then he placed the order on the table. "[cold]Drechsel's doing." It was quiet. Too quiet. "He used his connections from his Silverram days to push a forged order through headquarters. The format is close to the real thing, but the confirmation route for this issue date—it's dated the day after Blaze Force departed. A legitimate order would have arrived before we left." A presence appeared in the hallway. Team members were gathering. They might have been listening to the conversation. Or perhaps they'd heard that a messenger had arrived. One poked his face through the doorway. "...If we're dealing with a former Silverram executive, we can't..." Another voice continued. "There are hostages. We have no choice but to withdraw. If we resist, we'll all be executed." "We can't even prove whether the order is genuine or not—" Gardos looked at the team members. He looked at each face in turn. Panic was spreading. The eyes that had begun to shine just yesterday during training now held a different color. Fear. Wanting to escape. But if they escaped, the hostages would die. But if they didn't escape, they'd be executed. That dilemma was written across their faces. Gardos said nothing. Not because he couldn't speak, but because he was remembering something from twenty years ago. It was the same. The moment you voiced an objection, all escape routes were sealed. Back then too, either choice meant losing. Stay silent and your achievements are stolen. Speak up and you're exiled. Drechsel was skilled at constructing such frameworks. Twenty years had passed, and he was using the exact same tactic. --- The night grew even deeper. Team members came to the room where Gardos was, one by one. "[sad]Instructor, let's withdraw." "As for the hostages... I'm sorry. But we can't..." "If the order is legitimate, we have no choice but to obey." Gardos didn't argue. He simply looked at each face. Not angry. Not blaming. Just looking. In the end, only Irina and Lant remained in the room. Irina was standing. Her water-blue hair was disheveled. Her golden eyes looked directly at Gardos. "[serious]I will not withdraw." Her voice was clear. Unwavering. Gardos paused for a beat. Then he spoke quietly. "[cold]If you're executed too, Blaze Force is finished." "But—" "[serious]Didn't you hear me?" He looked back at her with intensity, just once. Irina froze. Words wouldn't come. Her mouth hung open, but no sound emerged. Gardos's eyes—they weren't the eyes of a reliable instructor. They were the eyes of a man carrying something enormous alone. Distant. Eyes in a place that couldn't be reached. In the corner of the room, Lant remained motionless, clutching his belongings. He tried to say something but couldn't. He only clenched his fists. The sensation of his own powerlessness was carved into his palms. --- In the dead of night. Behind the village's old barracks was deserted. A crumbling stone wall stretched across the area, with dried grass piled at its base. The moon was hidden behind clouds. No lamp had been brought. Gardos sat with his back against the wall. A single-handed sword rested on his knees, both hands gripping the hilt. A sword he'd used for twenty years. The leather grip had molded to the shape of his hands. Thousands of practice swings, dozens of battles—yet it remained unnamed, simply worn smooth by use. In the darkness where no one could hear, Gardos's mouth moved. "[whispers]...It's the same as twenty years ago." His voice reached no one. "Crushed by power, unable to protect my comrades, everything taken away. Then and now, I'm standing in the same place." Night wind blew. Dried grass rustled. Beyond the stone wall, someone's breathing could be heard. Whether it belonged to the wounded or a team member, he couldn't tell. "Not as a knight, not as an adventurer. Just as a loser." His fist trembled. He struck the ground. Once. Again. A dull thud echoed against the stone pavement. On the third strike, blood seeped from his knuckles. There was no pain. He had no room to feel it. From Gardos's eyes, a single tear fell. It was the first time in thirty-eight years. A voice escaped. "[crying]Damn... damn damn damn...!" A voice that reached no one. It dissolved into the mountain night and vanished. An old man who was lazy, troublesome, loved alcohol and food, and never showed weakness before his comrades—he sat on the stone pavement, knees drawn up, crying. In the shadows nearby, Lant covered his mouth. He'd been trying to leave, had passed by, and had seen. He couldn't turn back, and he couldn't call out. The sound of Gardos striking the ground echoed once, twice, three times. Then silence. Lant's eyes grew hot. He'd thought of him as a symbol of strength. Frightening, reliable, carefree, someone who wouldn't be shaken by anything. That person was driving his fist into the stone pavement and crying. He couldn't say anything. There was no way he could. --- Time passed—how much, he didn't know. The clouds moved. Moonlight spilled onto the stone pavement behind the barracks. Gardos lifted his face. Covered in dirt and tears, he looked at the sky. The sword on his knees reflected the moon's light. Not the blade. The hilt. The hilt he'd touched countless times over twenty years. The base of the leather grip, worn from endless caressing—from the gap where the leather was peeling, something small glinted. Gardos lifted the sword. He narrowed his eyes. There was an engraving at the base of the leather grip. Small. Only a few millimeters. Despite touching it thousands of times over twenty years, he'd never noticed. It had been covered by leather. Tonight, when the impact of striking stone had caused the leather edge to peel back slightly, moonlight illuminated what lay hidden beneath. Gardos traced it with his finger. A circular emblem with a sword and star intertwined. Not the Adventurer's Mutual Aid Society mark. Not a knight corps emblem. The royal crest of House Forsena. Gardos's eyes opened