Prepare for War
“We won! We won! The victor of this war is me, Uratta! That sunken bastard off the western coast is Donchaba, that fucking idiot! Not me!”
A Lavito slammed his fist down on the desk as he bellowed. He wore a gaudy uniform of black with gold trimmings, and every time he pounded the desk, the medals on his shoulders and chest jingled and swayed. Before him, seven or eight Lavitos fidgeted awkwardly, at a loss for words. Some wore military uniforms, others suits and glasses, but they all clutched thick stacks of documents.
Then the Lavito draped in medals like armor slammed the desk again.
“So why the fuck are we bankrupt?!”
“...”
No one could answer General Rahiman of Uratta. It wasn't that they had nothing to say. Reckless road and city development unfit for the national budget, endless military expansion with no thought for tomorrow, extreme control over the market economy, and amid it all, the general's endless personal extravagance and the flashy corruption from his family entrenched in key government posts. These were the woes plaguing countless Lavito nations, the harbingers of collapse for failed states unable to resolve them. And it was precisely because they always sought extreme solutions that wars never ceased.
“What about Jaso's factories, farmlands, and the assets in their banks? What the hell happened to all that? Why are we on the brink of bankruptcy?!”
“...W-we managed a temporary advance, but we've already taken on so much debt just to maintain the army... And food shortages too... If we could at least slow the Rostang excavation...”
“Didn't you hear me? We took Jaso's factories and farmlands! Squeeze food and goods out of them!”
The bespectacled Lavito trembled, unable to continue. The uniformed one beside him lowered his eyes and replied.
“Jaso's resources... some were destroyed, but the real issue is that the Allied Coalition's influence hasn't reached anywhere in Jaso's territory...”
“That's why we decided to hand over that pig doctor to Siapo, right? How's that operation going?”
“Uh, that... We'll check right away, sir.”
“You fucking morons...”
Rahiman's eyes blazed with fury once more. He roared.
“How the hell are idiots like you the Allied Coalition's staff? Does that mean no one has a solution to this mess?!”
“...”
Despite his prodding, the staff only sweated bullets. Solutions existed. Scale back military spending, halt reckless development projects, stabilize the internal chaos—they wouldn't fix everything, but they could at least delay bankruptcy. Of course, the general would have to curb his luxuries and purge corruption in the top posts. Painful as it was, it was Uratta's path to survival.
But then Rahiman lowered his voice.
“Prepare for war.”
“...Pardon?”
“Can't even understand a simple order? Prepare for war! Produce war materiel! Conscript soldiers! Build battle wings! Get ready for a blitzkrieg!”
The staff stared at him in bewilderment, either uncomprehending or stunned by the implications. Rahiman bellowed again.
“War with Siapo! Plunder their territory and treasury to carve a way out!”
“G-General!”
“We haven't even recovered from the damage against Jaso—”
“Who holds the biggest debt against us? Siapo! If Jaso's bugs were parasites on our economy, Siapo's mosquitoes. We crushed the parasites—now drain the puddle and exterminate the mosquitoes too!”
The staff continued protesting, sweating profusely and risking purges to dissuade him. But his resolve didn't waver, and eventually, they left the office with half-dazed expressions.
Alone at last, Rahiman staggered, then collapsed into his chair, legs giving out. His face, aged years in moments, reached shakily for a desk drawer. From it—oversized for his frame—came a flat, rectangular metal case. With trembling hands, General Rahiman opened it, revealing a syringe and vial. As he filled the syringe and aimed the needle at his forearm...
[Rahiman.]
“...!”
Rahiman's fur and ears bristled. He jerked his head up at the low, resonant voice. The space before his desk rippled oddly, then with a sharp crackle of electricity, a figure materialized—as if stepping through a tear in reality.
Towering twice a normal Lavito's height. Elongated limbs and fingers like an Olrog or Esai. A sleek, matte-black bodysuit hugging his form perfectly. Thick protective pads on shoulders, chest, knees. But most striking: the helmet's rounded front, a mirror reflecting the viewer.
Rahiman set down the syringe with a sigh, seeing his distorted reflection.
“Damn it. Say something when you enter.”
[Do you want the other Lavitos knowing about our meetings?]
“Hmph. So what if they do? Those idiots wouldn't understand anyway.”
Rahiman grumbled indifferently, but cleared his throat at the impassive mirrored face.
The mystery man's voice echoed again.
[If you've left any personal records or made careless remarks, clean them up now.]
“No, I mean... it's just talk. It's in our contract anyway, right? Never reveal your identity to anyone. I know that much.”
Suddenly, the man's left hand clenched empty air. A blue glow hummed from his gauntlet, and Rahiman choked, gack, slowly lifting from his chair into the air.
[If you know the contract so well, you know the consequences of breaking it.]
“G-guhk...! Y-yeah...! I g-get it...!”
His medals clinked as he flailed midair. The general who had just berated his staff was now a helpless Lavito, strangled by invisible force, gasping and gurgling.
The man released his grip. The glow faded; Rahiman thudded to the floor.
“H-heuk...! H-heuk...!”
[Excavation progress?]
Cold, emotionless. Rahiman scrambled up, gripping the desk to avoid offending.
“P-progressing... All available personnel deployed...”
[Truly all resources? I just heard you're preparing for another war.]
Shit, he heard from the start? Rahiman cursed inwardly but kept his face neutral.
“No choice! Siapo's gunning for me anyway! Even if I don't strike first, they'll invade soon over unpaid debts!”
He spat desperately but kept his voice low—lest someone outside hear. But the mirrored face remained utterly still, unreadable. Rahiman's reflection stared back, twisted in terror and anxiety. Unable to face it, he looked away.
Silence stretched, agonizing for Rahiman. The glass voice broke it.
[Baika merchants will provide funds soon. Use it to replenish arms and swell the ranks. Ensure Siapo's Lavitos don't dare strike first. Bring more Jaso Lavitos and throw them into the excavation.]
Rahiman brightened at the Baika funds, but paled at the Jaso order.
“M-more? Dozens die daily already...”
[Why is that a problem?]
Inhuman, devoid of feeling. Rahiman dropped his gaze.
“N-no problem...”
[And the white Esai operating in Jaso lands. Why is she still alive?]
“Handled that—deployed the Ironclad Special Forces... News soon...”
[I expect positive reports next visit. Excavation and the white Esai both. Remember: no traces of our deal or talks, by any means. Understood?]
“Of course. I'll... meet expectations...”
Rahiman replied miserably. The man nodded, seemingly pleased by the pathos. No farewell—electric sparks danced around him, space warping to swallow his black-suited form. The air rippled faintly, then stilled, empty.
Rahiman scanned the room long after. Convinced he was alone, he snatched the syringe with shaking hands and injected his arm.
“Huuuuh...”
He slumped in the chair, moaning. Pressure, fear, agony melted like sugar in his mouth. Fireworks of euphoria followed. Only thrill and pleasure remained. Uratta's general lay alone in the vast office, lost in his mind's paradise.
After parting with the Pig Doctor's revolutionaries, Jin-cheol's group raced straight east toward Solka-in. Vast grasslands, dense woods, rolling hills, and weathered rocks lined the path.
What fascinated Jin-cheol were the flora and fauna. Seemingly unchanged from ten thousand years ago at a glance, but closer inspection revealed alien leaf shapes, unfamiliar bark textures. Bison larger than he knew, with three-pronged horns. Even lion-like beasts—spotted from afar in a pride of five or six, lounging in a rocky shadow on grassy plains, escaping the midday sun.
Lions on old American soil? Escaped from a zoo and surviving millennia? But after facing pseudo-Tyrannos, odd lions were nothing. Corpse-eating snails existed, after all.
Lamien hadn't mentioned her lovers since Rostang, but her gleaming eyes promised she'd tear Solka-in apart to find them.
Dol Jumeok collected daily wages from her like checks—thrifty, Jin-cheol thought. Yeah, money matters need to be tight.
But what flustered Jin-cheol most was Maro. They'd planned to leave the boy at a suitable village—future perils unknown, fights too risky. Yet he clung silently during village passes, expression unreadable. Not a burden, though: he helped with cooking, vehicle maintenance, gun checks, every chore. No complaints, eager for even small tasks. It felt like a plea not to abandon him; no one could broach parting.
Jin-cheol's surprise: Maro and Dol Jumeok bonding. The bald, gorilla-like brute and the rabbit boy half his waist size. Maro learned cooking, camping, even driving from him. Dol was gruff but never cruel—no beatings, rarely angry.
Asked about it, Dol grunted:
“A gar's child needs patient care.”
Pressed for meaning, he just stroked the truck thoughtfully. The intensity was eerie; Jin-cheol dropped it.
Reflecting on the journey, Jin-cheol looked skyward. A massive-winged bird crossed the clear blue—one wingspan two or three meters, by his estimate. Enormous.
“That thing could snatch a Lavito easy.”
“Accidents happen sometimes. In the countryside, they warn kids not to climb high.”
Lamien, sidling up, replied. Jin-cheol chuckled dryly.
“Such birds flying near a city?”
“Means Solka-in's in bad shape.”
Since arriving beside him, she'd stared ahead. Jin-cheol followed her gaze. Far off, ruins like an ancient relic: Solka-in.