Dawn Departure
* Early morning. The sky stretched vast, textured like transparent paint splattered across it, carrying a strangely cold sheen. As the heavens gradually brightened, the city's shadows sharpened too, clearly dividing light from dark. The vague, smudged outlines of the city from under last night's sky now came into crisp focus. Siol's dawn was breaking.
Jin-cheol, gazing at that sky through the window, turned his head and finished packing his bag. There wasn't much. A few ornaments from Atukai's tribe when they'd parted, some spare clothes. The shield bracer was strapped to his right forearm, the fish sword tucked inside it. Rifling through his things, his hand closed around a pistol.
"Haven't even test-fired this 'cause ammo's too precious."
It was the Sandesiya revolver from Aiman. No matching bullets meant it still had four rounds left. Jin-cheol spun it deftly on his finger before holstering it at his waist and slinging his bag over his shoulder. Without hesitation, he stepped out the door.
Descending the stairs, he spotted the Esai old lady waiting at the front door—the building's owner, who'd rented him the room.
"Were you waiting?"
"Waiting? Nah, I just got here myself."
Jin-cheol pulled the key from his pocket and offered it. The old lady took it with a regretful sigh.
"A quiet tenant like you doesn't come around often..."
"You'll find another good one soon enough. Don't worry."
"You think so? Thanks for saying that."
Jin-cheol gifted her one of his Kampoeni ornaments and headed out. Behind him, the old lady waved goodbye.
His strides carried him briskly eastward through the streets. That was where the Lavito air battleship was docked. Muttering to himself as he walked,
"...Fuck. Never thought I'd end up playing mercenary."
The Lavitos of the Free Salt Trade Federation—Zasoyeonbang, like every Lavito warlord before them—had failed to secure Siol's alliance. But they'd been allowed to spend their gold and silver on supplies and mercenaries, and they were doing just that. Was every exiled dictator from a fallen state like this? Zasoyeonbang had hauled in massive amounts of precious metals. Just a week ago, they'd had nothing to feed their troops, yet their airship holds were stuffed with gold, silver, antiques, and artwork—pure luxuries. And now, all that opulence flooded Siol's markets.
The bazaars buzzed as merchants dumped old stock and artisans scrambled with sudden influxes of orders. Siol's mercenary market churned too. Drawn by Lavito gold, Olrogs, black-footed Kampoeni, unaffiliated Esai warriors, and more weighed the risks and rewards of an eastern expedition.
Could Zasoyeonbang repel their enemies and reclaim their lands? How much pay could a merc squeeze out, and how reliably? What were the odds of victory?
Siol's leaders would scoff at those questions. They knew the Lavito general's bravado masked cowardice, that these rabbits had fled their homeland like refugees. They saw no chance of success.
But mercenaries saw it differently. To them, one Lavito state was much like another. If Zasoyeonbang avoided fatal blunders, they could regroup, seize some eastern corner, and rebuild. And if they did? Mercs might snag positions in the new regime, living high without lifting a finger.
Of course, it was an illusion crafted by the Lavitos' disciplined ranks, their lavish spending, and General Donchaba's propaganda—fed to mercenaries on a diet of limited info. Even without Ishanka's briefing, Jin-cheol pierced the facade. The militaristic fervor of these rabbits struck him as off from the start.
Still, he'd signed on as a mercenary for this air battleship. It was the fastest way east. By sea, it'd take over a month; by airship, four or five days. Once there, he'd desert immediately.
"Crazy to jump into someone else's war..."
Not everyone thought like Jin-cheol, so Zasoyeonbang vetted hires carefully, seeking verified backgrounds. He'd have been rejected too, but Ishanka's guarantee got him in. A mercenary endorsed by Siol nobility? The Lavitos shoved a contract at him without question.
Deserting later might tarnish Ishanka's rep, but she seemed convinced they'd never return to Siol anyway—didn't care.
Lost in such thoughts, Jin-cheol reached Siol's outskirts, leaving the bustling core behind. Here, buildings crumbled unrepaired, ruins swallowing the edges. Even at this early hour, streets felt eerily empty.
Then, rounding a corner—braaang! A short horn blared as a black truck barreled past, inches from Jin-cheol.
"What the fuck."
He stepped back, eyes locking on the truck. It evoked a 19th-century antique car more than modern machinery. Wiring, gears, suspension—all exposed and intricate, too complex for true vintage, yet far from sleek future tech. The clanking from inside screamed steampunk flick. And sized for Lavitos, the cab looked like a toy ride to him.
"Holy shit... they drive trucks around?"
Tracking the receding truck, Jin-cheol turned to where it'd emerged: the plains before Kogant Forest met Siol's edge. There loomed the Lavito airship—their aerial fortress. Rabbit encampments sprawled around its grounded bulk.
What he'd thought deserted moments ago now teemed: Siol merchants hawking wares, mercenaries boarding, gawkers milling—a chaotic bazaar. Trucks shuttled goods; uniformed Lavitos hauled gear. Spotting a rabbit platoon marching in formation, Jin-cheol froze. Goosebumps prickled his back and arms.
Memories of crawling across Manchurian plains slithered up his spine. Yet amid the chill, a weird comfort—like coming home. Familiar garrison vibes. His jaw clenched unconsciously.
"This is some bullshit."
Staring blankly a moment, he snapped to at a call.
"Jin-cheol!"
Turning: Parm Wirson, Udim, and Ishanka. She hid her face in hood and mask.
"Professor Parm."
"Early bird. They say the airship leaves by noon."
"Yeah, that's what I heard."
Here their paths split: Jin-cheol east; the two back to Jipain with Siol's delegation, hunting Muksaang House shadows. They'd come to see him off first.
Jin-cheol offered Parm his hand. The professor gripped it.
"You sure about going alone?"
Worried about heading to unfamiliar eastlands solo. Feeling it, Jin-cheol grinned.
"I'm not a kid. I'll manage. Worry about yourself, though."
"Me?"
"Don't get nabbed by weirdos and tossed in some dungeon. Can't bail you out next time."
Parm laughed heartily, then lowered his voice.
"...Be careful, Jin-cheol. We don't know how far the House's reach extends. And if a mercenary's leading some dig? Sounds perilously dangerous. You might end up fighting eastern warlords."
He clasped both hands on Jin-cheol's.
"If it comes to that, don't charge in. With your skills, escaping any mess should be easy. You're seeking your people—not turning butcher."
Jin-cheol met his earnest eyes, nodded.
"Got it."
"Good... you'll handle it fine."
Releasing Parm, Udim extended a fist. Jin-cheol bumped it with a chuckle.
"Guard the professor. No more near-death crap."
"I didn't die. Professor won't. You won't either."
Ishanka waited last, face shadowed deep in her hood. She offered her hand first.
"Thanks, Jin-cheol."
"No biggie. Killing two birds—my business takes me east anyway."
Her eyes gleamed through the hood, red-rimmed.
"...If you find Snow, when you meet her... tell her I'm sorry... really... Mommy's so sorry..."
"Uh, yeah. Got it. I'll tell her nice if we cross paths..."
Eyes brimming, she flustered him; he pulled away quick, dodging the moment. Daughters made her mushy—too much for him.
Awkward goodbyes wrapped, a megaphone blared from the camp's edge.
"Mercenaries assembling before noon! Over here! Those with contracts already— this way! No contract yet? Write one here!"
Last eye contact with the trio, then Jin-cheol headed over.
Behind: "We'll meet again when this journey ends, Jin-cheol!"
He waved without turning. Paths would cross again, as promised.
Entering camp, he approached the shouting Lavito.
"Where to?"
"Merc?"
"Yeah."
"Contract?"
Ishanka's vouch had him signed already. He flashed the paper. The Lavito skimmed it, waved dismissively.
"That way. Private'll guide you soon. Wait."
"..."
Sloppy. Jin-cheol pocketed the paper, headed over, head cocked. Pouring cash yet managing like amateurs.
There: waiting mercs—mostly black-footed Kampoeni, some Olrogs. They eyed him warily or flinched back.
"Huh? You?"
"Eek!"
One toppled in terror. Jin-cheol recognized him.
The Olrog he'd scrapped with—Dol Jumeok, called for his fists. The midnight ambusher with Metidoti assassins. But Jin-cheol extended a hand.
"...?"
Dol Jumeok gawked up dumbly. Jin-cheol wiggled his hand.
"What're you doing, man? Gonna eat you?"
Blinking slow, Dol Jumeok gripped tentatively. Jin-cheol yanked; he sprang up, dazed.
"...Y-you won't kill me?"
"Kill you? Didn't hear Metidoti's buried?"
Dol Jumeok paled.
"H-heard. Y-you... buried 'em..."
"Wasn't me."
"What?"
Jin-cheol shrugged.
"Didn't bury 'em. Fucker tripped himself."
"R-really...?"
"Yeah, man."
Dol Jumeok's wariness deepened—smelled bullshit. Explaining the backshot cowardice mid-flight? Nah. Jin-cheol slapped his arm.
"Same ship, huh. Nod if we pass."
"...Y-yeah. Nod..."
"Scaredy-ass."
Snickering, turning—other mercs' guarded stares hit. Word traveled in blood trade; tales of Jin-cheol dismantling outfits were legend. Lately worse: dark orgs targeting him got wiped—by noble warriors.
"Oops."
Thinking him noble-tied, they gave space. Lonely voyage ahead.
"Contracts done?"
A Lavito private approached, clipboard in hand.
"I'll call names—line up when yours hits. Styki first?"
Mercs filed as called. Dozen or so, then he led to the airship. Merc rabble vs. rabbit precision? No contest.
Guidance continued inside: barracks, mess, hall, briefing room, off-limits military zones. Awe at the ship faded to shuffling boredom. Private ignored their slacking, focused on tour.
Deck view stunned all: Siol panorama.
"Whoa, real battleship."
Jin-cheol eyed the ship reverse.
"Heh. Looks airshippy, no inner balloons. Anti-grav or some shit? Wild."
He'd assumed gas buoyancy. Common sense said no thrust, no flight otherwise. But tour revealed: packed with cabins, machinery—no gas chambers. Stabilizing that mass? Needed engines tenfold bigger. Laughable. Fusion liquified stable—who couldn't float a ship? Gave up pondering.
Then cheers erupted below: waaaah!
Mercs peered: rabbits clustered, staring at a platform.
"General... Donchaba."
Spot on. Donchaba atop a stage, orating to troops.
"Ooh..."
"Kinda... cool? Can't hear shit though..."
Even distant, passion radiated. Speakers whined, garbling words, but charisma hooked all.
Jin-cheol shook his head, absurd. Shouting, flailing arms—elementary debate reject. But ground rabbits unified: fists high, chanting as one.
"Freedom and salt! Freedom and salt! Freedom and salt!"
"Freedom and salt! Freedom and salt! Freedom and salt!"
Mercs on deck fell silent, awed. Some eyes gleamed dangerously. Jin-cheol memorized faces. Steer clear.
Glancing, he caught the private's face: disgust at the frenzy.
"..."
Private noticed, schooled his features. Jin-cheol played dumb. Rabbits varied too. Sane ones aboard, surely. Revolutionaries mentioned?
"Back inside."
Private herded them. Overwhelmed mercs obeyed meekly, quieter in barracks.
Jin-cheol claimed a corner spot, gazing out. Soon, hull thrummed; ship lifted.
First-timers retched or cowered; Jin-cheol watched through the porthole. Sidalia River pierced the city, Sun Temple towered, seven plazas ringed it. Ports and alleys of two months' wanderings.
Return someday? Meet Parm, Udim; wake library mirror, greet temple Jindallae; banter with server Chick at Golden Whale over drinks.
Possible? How long this east trek? Noon sun shrank Siol away.
* Air battleship life mirrored Baika freighter—boredom rolling in bunks. Unique: surfing clouds like waves. Merc numbers? Unknown. No muster; squads toured, bunked. At least 200-300, judging chow lines at "Mess 4"—thick porridge bowls.
"Internment camp or army?"
No duties. Squad tidy-up, electing leads—Jin-cheol abstained. Cleaning? Flex fists at Dol Jumeok sufficed. Merc commander showed once. That's it.
Over Kogant Forest to blue seas: eat twice daily, puke or brawl in bunks. Sky prison.
Shock: Lavitos tolerated it, unless tampering engines or crossing zones.
"Fuckin' what. Meat shields for real...?"
To Jin-cheol: fatten pigs pre-slaughter. Brawl? Frontline fodder. Explains fat pay—empty promises to doomed.
Mind churning, body slumped cornered, limp. Drained here, apathy total. Three days: terminal slacker.
"Shit, worse than reserves..."
"Uh..."
Dol Jumeok approached cautious. Jin-cheol rolled eyes only.
"What."
"C-checking no-gear mercs..."
Squad lead now—after pounding cocky ones Day 1. Jin-cheol stayed aloof.
"What, issue one?"
"Seems so. Got mine."
Decent rifle: clean barrel, bolt, wood stock. Real deal vs. pipe guns. Lavito-sized problem.
"Trigger fit your finger?"
"...Cut here?"
Dol Jumeok fiddled guard, mumbling. How? Jin-cheol shut eyes.
"Fuck all. Wanna desert already."
Ship over sea now. Landfall east: desert spot. Then hunt Muksaang traces. Ishanka's girl if possible. Stay? Fight for Donchaba. Free chow nice, but no shooting for them. Over it.
Dol Jumeok scratched bald pate, shrugged off. Don't poke quiet corner-sleeper? Fine by him—leadership budding.
Lazing terminal-style, Jin-cheol chilled spine-deep, bolted up.
What the—?
Shiiiieeee—krakaboom! Eerie wind, thunderclap rocked ship.
"Argh! What!"
"Ow! Fuck! Head smashed!"
"Blergh!"
Chaos: tumbling, banging, puking. Jin-cheol sprang lithe, scanning wary.
Shipwide weee-ooo-weee! siren wailed.
Something flashed porthole. Pressed close: curse escaped.
"Fuck, dogfight now?"
Sleek fighter: early monoplane minus prop, guns forward. Gunship? Swarm buzzed Zasoyeonbang like flies, weird winds trailing.
Far horizon: massive air battleship breached clouds like surfacing leviathan.