Pure White
…Not yet.
Platon waited with his body pressed into the cover near the flag exactly as planned, listening for Heydam to appear. From the racket carrying over the distance it seemed his teammates were holding their own, so Heydam would show himself soon enough.
Just as Father said, Lord Heydam is no ordinary child.
Anton—Platon’s father and head of the pro-Daphne faction—had warned him before the training simulation began. Never underestimate Heydam simply because he is a child. Drop your guard even a fraction and you will suffer the humiliation of losing to a ten-year-old.
At first Platon had been no different from the other cadets, ready to thrash the brat who had provoked them. Anton’s warning cooled his head. After that he studied Heydam carefully on the training ground and realized the boy was studying them in return. The moment the truth registered, a chill ran straight down Platon’s spine.
He was enjoying our reactions.
The others had taken that gaze for simple contempt. To Platon it was nothing of the kind. It was not even the stare of a predator about to spring. It was the look of a predator already seated at a fully laid table, calmly surveying the meal.
I heard Lord Heydam only recently returned from wandering the Slums… Can a tiger cub really still be a tiger?
Even while those thoughts swirled he never stopped listening for nearby presence. Then, abruptly:
It’s gone quiet…
Platon’s head snapped up toward Heydam’s side of the field.
What? Why did it go silent?
Had they simply tired of making noise? The hush was lasting far too long for that.
Or did those idiots run into Heydam midway and get wiped out?
Ominous stillness filled his skull with possibilities. Talking the whole way was tiring, sure—but silence this complete? Had Heydam moved carelessly and been spotted? If Heydam had taken a death ruling the end-of-exercise buzzer should already have sounded…
In that instant an inexplicable cold brushed him. Platon threw himself sideways without thinking.
Thwack-thwack!
The instant he rolled clear, two paint rounds slammed into the exact spot where he had been waiting.
“Close.”
The youthful murmur no longer sounded like a child’s voice to Platon. Heydam Goodman stood there in pure white winter fatigues meant to vanish against the snow, not a single paint smear on him. Goggles protected his eyes and a mask hid the fog of his breath, yet Platon could still feel the black eyes behind the lenses smiling.
How did he pinpoint my position and circle behind me?!
Worse—he had never sensed the approach until the boy was already inside effective range. Platon had spent six brutal years grinding himself into the dirt of this very training ground.
I have to move.
He had rolled in panic and then simply sat there staring up at Heydam like a fool. Even more shameful: Heydam simply looked down at him, waiting. The boy’s muzzle never wavered. The distance was not short, yet Platon felt certain the next round would not miss.
After a heartbeat of calculation he set his rifle down and slowly raised both hands above his head.
The second I lifted that rifle he would have fired.
At this range, in this situation, a gunfight was suicide. He would force the fight into close quarters. Facing a child who barely reached his waist felt underhanded, but Platon had already sworn he would win by any means necessary.
“…How did you know I was ambushing here?”
“Only Platon was missing from the group that hit my base. Platon’s the long-range sniper specialist, so I figured he’d be behind the cover farthest from the flag.”
“….”
Platon was silent a moment, then pressed.
“How did you know I wasn’t with the assault team? Everyone was wearing goggles and masks.”
“You can’t change your build or the way you walk.”
“That’s—”
Ridiculous. The height differences among the cadets were not that dramatic; one of them was exactly Platon’s height. And gait? Heydam had had only a few seconds to observe any of them. Yet the boy claimed he had simply looked and known Platon was absent.
“Ah, but when I actually saw them it got a little confusing, so I peeled the masks off one by one to check.”
“What?”
“That’s why it took me a while to get here.”
“What do you mean—”
It sounded exactly as if he had eliminated every single one of Platon’s teammates on the way over. Heydam merely shook his head, done explaining.
“Anyway. I’m also going for the shortest clear time, so I can’t keep playing with you. Want me to take you on in close combat instead?”
“…What?”
“You were stalling instead of just taking a clean paint shot and ending it. Didn’t look like you’d accept the result if you lost this way.”
“….”
Don’t rise to it.
In the short time he had observed this monster, Platon had already classified Heydam’s hunting style: classic feline predator that toys with its food. Snap in anger and the paint round would come at once—the most humiliating possible end.
If this isn’t pure mockery and he’s offering close combat first, I have no reason to refuse.
Platon was a soldier, not a swordsman or martial artist. He felt no need for empty honor when an opportunity presented itself.
“May we settle it in close combat?”
“Of course. One condition.”
“I expected as much. Please state it.”
Platon assumed the physically inferior boy would demand something like “use only one hand.” What came out of Heydam’s mouth was nothing of the sort.
“Promise that when you graduate you’ll become my adjutant.”
“…Excuse me?”
“Honestly this operation was a little disappointing… but watching you dodge those rounds earlier changed my mind. I never made a sound, so you just sensed it and moved, right?”
“Th-that’s true, but—”
Platon stared at him with unsteady eyes.
“Isn’t that an absurdly good offer for me? Becoming Lord Heydam’s adjutant means…”
It meant becoming adjutant to the next Commander—rising to the same rank currently held by Major General Meursault Pendleton.
“You do know my father is General Anton?”
“Didn’t he pass the word along? I know every officer’s next-door neighbors and even the name of the dog in the front yard.”
That wasn’t just bluster?
Platon was quiet for a moment, then swallowed his pride and asked carefully.
“…Then can you tell me the name of the dog next door to us?”
“Puhah!”
Heydam laughed so long that Platon’s face burned with mortification.
“Sorry. You’re the first person who actually asked.”
“So it was only a figure of speech—”
“Winter. Probably named that because it was born in winter.”
“….”
I don’t even know the name of the dog next door…
The fact that Heydam truly knew it was unnerving. Far more terrifying was that the muzzle trained on Platon never wavered once while the boy laughed and chattered. Not even a seasoned cadet could manage that.
I’d almost rather believe the military built him as a bioweapon.
“Anyway. Decide fast. Only a few minutes left on the shortest-clear record.”
The casual certainty that he could finish Platon inside a few minutes was galling, yet refusing close combat would simply bring paint rounds. Platon had originally intended to propose the fight himself; somehow the roles had reversed.
“I agree to settle it in close combat.”
“Good. Stand up slowly. Kick the rifle you put down over there.”
Thorough to the end. Platon rose, booted the rifle far away, and faced Heydam. The moment the weapon left his sight, Heydam casually tossed his own rifle aside as well.
He actually threw it away.
Platon had expected the boy to keep it ready just in case. Unless Heydam truly was some military bioweapon, beating Platon hand-to-hand should be nearly impossible.
Is victory in this exercise not even the goal?
The thought that the entire display might be recruitment for an adjutant struck him with sudden clarity. He nodded to himself like a man who had finally understood.
If he can show ability like this, I can serve Lord Heydam without any prejudice… Father was right. He is no ordinary person.
“…Stop thinking useless things and come at me.”
Even Heydam’s flat tone sounded almost bashful to Platon’s ears.
“Then, here I come.”
Platon drew the training dagger from his belt and charged. The blade was designed to retract into the hilt on contact, leaving only a paint mark. He had no intention of toying with a child by scoring multiple hits; one clean thrust to the throat would finish it.
And then—
“One-pattern, huh.”
Beep—
The fatal-wound signal chimed in Platon’s ear. Heydam slipped the thrust as if he had known exactly where it would land, then drove his own dagger into Platon’s abdomen. Looking down, Platon saw not one but several overlapping paint marks—how many times had the boy stabbed in that single instant?
A small, hard hand clamped around the wrist holding the dagger.
“Wha—?”
Balance vanished. Platon slammed into the ground. Heydam had used his own weight against him. He kept his grip on the dagger, but Heydam’s knee came down with crushing force on his right wrist.
Heavy…?!
The pressure on his forearm was nothing like a child’s weight—more like sandbags.
So he baited me into attacking first?
No time to finish the thought. A dagger flashed toward him; Platon caught the wrist with his free hand and twisted—only to watch the blade leave Heydam’s right hand, spin through the air, and settle perfectly into the left.
“What the—!”
Thud-thud-thud!
Vital points took hit after hit. The fatal-signal chimes piled up until they rang in his ears like tinnitus. Platon judged further resistance meaningless.
I lost…
In that moment he clearly saw Heydam’s eyes through the goggles: utterly emotionless. Whether he should be grateful the boy was not enjoying this, or horrified that anyone could wear such eyes while stabbing another human, he could not decide.
The mechanical motions continued for a few more seconds until the death ruling registered. Almost immediately the end-of-exercise buzzer blared across the training ground, followed by a broadcast that made Platon doubt his own ears.
A Team: All Personnel Eliminated. B Team Wins.
He really killed every last one of them on the way here…?
Covered head to toe in paint, Platon sat in a daze. Through that haze he watched Heydam’s back as the boy strode unhurriedly to the enemy flag, pulled his own from his coat, and replaced it. Still not a single paint mark. A pure white uniform, pristine from collar to boot.