Prologue and the Border Deal
Everyone lives only once.
The path from cradle to grave may differ, but the end is the same. The only difference is whether you meet death in a soft bed or on a filthy straw mat.
Still, if you're born human, you'd rather live gloriously than miserably. People dream of being great leaders rather than ordinary citizens, generals rather than mere soldiers.
I was no different.
But for the sixth son of a poor farmer, opportunities for success were scarce. At best, with incredible luck, you might make it to the capital and find a job there.
Learning a proper trade to become a craftsman and open a shop—that would be striking it rich.
But that wasn't the success I craved.
I wanted to stand in a position everyone admired and envied, like a hero from legend.
Those who boldly etched their names into history, in life and death alike.
I wanted to be like them.
And the only place where that was possible was the army.
Like a dragon rising from a slum, a lowly soldier who racks up merits and stakes his life to survive could rise through the ranks.
So I resolved to enlist in the imperial army.
Looking back, enlisting was utter madness.
Chapter 1. The Deal (1)
The border was always precarious. Barbarians crossed it at will, stealing the lives of my comrades.
Over the past dozen years, I'd barely survived, paying with the lives of countless brothers-in-arms.
But there was no guarantee I'd make it through today—or tomorrow.
I adjusted my centurion's rooster-plumed helmet and signaled the troops.
The soldiers hidden in the brush crept toward the barbarians' moored boat.
Five barbarians stood on the riverbank, with more than twenty inside the vessel.
If our scouts hadn't spotted their brief stop for plunder in time, those bastards would have breached my sector and plunged deep into imperial territory.
As we closed the distance, six soldiers nocked arrows.
Thwip. Thwip-thwip.
A few shafts flew, and the barbarian on watch at the bank screamed as he fell. I drew my sword alongside the decurions.
"Kill the barbarians!"
The men roared, shields raised, and charged. I ran with them, swinging my blade.
The first to meet me was the lead warrior from the boat—a brute a good twenty centimeters taller, like facing a giant.
Most barbarians towered over us with massive builds, so I knew all too well how to handle giants.
The leader swung his club-like weapon in a crushing overhead arc. As it smashed the earth, I shoved him back with my shield and slashed upward, cracking his jaw with the edge.
"Gurk."
He spat bloodied teeth with a choked groan.
Before he could recover, I stabbed his instep. He yelped and hopped, posture crumbling.
I yanked the blade free and sliced his throat with the hilt-side edge in one fluid motion.
Flesh parted smoothly, blood spraying in a fountain.
I shouldered his collapsing body to shield my eyes and surged forward.
The barbarians, caught completely off-guard, flailed against our assault.
Confirming the troops pressing the advantage, I vaulted onto the gunwale. Barbarian boys remained aboard.
Lacking experience—or gripped by fear—they gripped weapons but hesitated to attack.
They looked about the age my child back home would be if I'd fathered one at fifteen.
Still, I swung mercilessly. We weren't living cushy enough lives to spare boys.
Let them grow, and they'd threaten us without doubt—what use in letting them live?
I hacked through the boys, shouting to the soldiers.
"Don't let a single one escape! Kill them all!"
The men loosed arrows at barbarians fleeing into the river, terror-stricken. They swam well enough, but dodging shafts was another matter.
I watched the routed foes drift slowly downstream, spilling crimson trails.
With the fight wrapping up, I leaped from the gunwale.
"Casualties?"
"Two dead."
Two lost in an ambush. Bitter taste in my mouth.
My century was already short-handed.
I clapped a decurion's shoulder and sighed.
Since the legion commander banned trade, skirmishes had spiked.
Keep fighting like this tomorrow and the next day, and my century wouldn't last.
I'd request reinforcements from the legion again. Ordering withdrawal, I turned as a soldier approached.
"Centurion Ain, sir. The legion quartermaster just arrived."
"The quartermaster?"
I stood, puzzled.
The quartermaster was second-in-command of our roughly 5,000-man border field legion—rarely venturing to outposts like ours.
Leaving my quarters, I entered the fortress commander's office. A portly middle-aged man sat in my chair.
Legion Quartermaster Morsis. Around fifty, born to a wealthy merchant family.
Nicknamed "Vampire" for sucking fallen soldiers' pay dry without a trace.
Morsis glanced up from the regional map on my desk as I entered.
"Centurion Ain. Long time."
"Yes, Quartermaster. Two months."
An awkward greeting. We had no dealings, not even at legion briefings. What brought him here?
With his nod, I sat.
"Your troops still aren't up to strength. Concerning."
"Yes. Severely under-manned. I'm worried too."
He didn't look concerned. I hadn't expected him to be.
Morsis interlaced his thick fingers. Sausages came to mind—rude, maybe? I waited.
"How are the local barbarians lately?"
"Crossing to campfires and overnighting, even decapitating our sentries. Reported to legion HQ, but these bastards have no fear."
"Rowdy bunch."
"Frankly, a real fight seems inevitable. Like two years ago, on a big scale."
"Two years ago."
Then, twenty barbarian tribes stormed our sector in a massive clash.
Our legion, not superior in force, hunkered in the fortress for nearly a month while ten border villages burned.
It ended only when 10,000 mobile field troops from the capital arrived.
"Yes."
"You know the ground better than anyone. Legion's buzzing about suspicious barbarian moves anyway. So, I've got a personal proposal."
"Go ahead."
"See, fights break out easy when there's no shared interest. Right?"
"Can't argue that."
"That's why I'm saying—trade with the barbarians."
"Pardon? Legion commander's banned that since early this year. Defy him?"
I was stunned. Current commander Cassius vowed to break barbarian habits by sealing the border. Now the quartermaster wanted to overturn it?
Was he money-mad?
Morsis raised a finger to his lips.
"Shh. Legion commander won't approve. But walling off amid tensions screams 'no talks, just war.' Bad for our legion. Win one skirmish? Then where's the budget for men and gear? Weakens defenses. The green commander talks big 'cause he doesn't know—but you do."
His logic held water.
Barbarians resented the sealed border. Denied trade goods they craved, provocations escalated.
But trading leaked our intel—gold for them if they invaded.
"You're not wrong, Quartermaster. But botch it, and our heads roll—upside down."
"Exactly. Talking first means fewer arrows and blades flying, no?"
"Even if we trade, issues remain. No contacts with the facing tribes. Arrived as centurion, markets shut immediately—no hellos exchanged. Trade from scratch?"
"Hah, don't worry. Former commander here, Gion, knows their chief."
Now I saw it.
Gion was unusually chummy with the quartermaster—same city, age, temperament. Suspiciously so.
Simple: partners profiting from border trade with barbarians.
"So that's covered. And I'll tell the trading merchants to show you proper gratitude."
Money was welcome.
But risking the commander's ire? Not thrilling, even with hazard pay.
I crossed arms, feigning thought.
He'd prepared: named a figure.
"Twenty solitus gold coins monthly? All solid."
I nearly gasped.
Four coins covered a soldier's annual pay—hiring five men. Twenty monthly from modest border trade? Staggering.
"That profitable with barbarians?"
"Quite. Iron and silver mines across the border. They dig but can't use it—pay premium for our goods."
"Unexpected."
"And no worries about the commander. Half the battalion commanders and centurions at border forts are in."
Made sense. Couldn't sever longstanding trade overnight on one order—unless he cloned himself.
"Well?"
"Twenty's decent. But slim."
Straight talk.
Morsis's smile twitched—surprised or pissed?
I deserved more for the risk.
His voice rose slightly.
"How much?"
"Thirty."
I pushed—for discharge bonuses to my soon-leaving mates.
He'd skim soldier shares anyway; best recoup it.
His face cooled.
"Greedy."
"You proposed, Quartermaster."
Calm retort. No promotion dreams now—a commoner like me couldn't climb at will.
He glared, then grinned abruptly. Lightning shift.
"Fine. Accepted. But if trouble hits, it's on you."
Worst case? Discharge.
I took the deal. Everyone else did—no need to refuse. Low commander risk? Acceptable.
"Agreed."
I gripped his hand firmly. He smiled, but tensed.
Irked? Too bad—no take-backs. I smiled back.
(To be continued)