Survive
Silence lay heavy along the water's edge of Elbarphiel Lake.
This was the place the Imperials called the Northeast Fourth Defense Line.
Mist clung low and soaked the earth, and the lake itself was veiled in a dense, leaden gray. Though it was day, the clouds and fog smothered the sky and left the land half-dark. Beyond that blurred veil lay the scars of battle—blackened banners, and blood from the torn bodies of Imperial soldiers soaking into the ground.
"……."
A man stood in silence, looking out over the field. Four feather-shaped tattoos marked his left shoulder, and a scar carved an ugly path across his face. He was Ulgraak, Taman of the Kar tribe and master of the Fourth Defense Line.
"Taman."
Moldur, who served as Ulgraak's deputy, approached. He stood leaning on his spear, his whole body stained with mud and blood, one arm bound in makeshift bandages. Even so, his bearing never slipped.
Ulgraak spoke.
"Report."
"Forty-nine warriors dead. A little over thirty seriously wounded. Roughly a hundred with light wounds."
"……See that the fallen are buried."
His voice was calm, yet the resonance ran deep—mourning for his dead, and murderous intent toward the Imperial soldiers coiled beneath it.
"And the Imperials?"
"Over two hundred bodies confirmed so far. Those who fled are either hiding in the mist… or threw themselves into the lake."
At Moldur's report, the corner of Ulgraak's mouth lifted.
Then, in the next breath—
Whoosh!
He swept up the massive axe planted at his feet and swung it in a single, brutal arc.
"Guh…!"
An Imperial soldier who had been lurking in the brush behind the fog lost his head; it rolled across the ground. The man had given up on escape and tried to ambush Ulgraak instead.
"Threw themselves into the lake, you say?"
Ulgraak smiled as if the idea amused him. Elbarphiel Lake was no cradle of life. It was a place of cold and death.
"Then every last one of them is already dead."
No matter how strong a swimmer a man might be, no one survived the chill that had swallowed Elbarphiel Lake whole.
Moldur said nothing and simply looked down at the severed head on the ground. He had not sensed the man at all.
Ulgraak turned.
"This place will be a grave for Imperial soldiers. This back-and-forth struggle… will end soon enough."
The Fourth Defense Line that held Elbarphiel Lake was different from the rest of the northern fronts. Elsewhere, the Kar tribe attacked and the Imperials defended.
……We cannot lose Elbarphiel Lake.
Here, the two sides traded blows without end over the lake itself. The Kar currently held it and stood on the defensive—but that would not last.
"We will lower the front and push south. The next battle will drive the stake in for good. This land is ours."
"Understood."
When Moldur withdrew, Ulgraak turned an unreadable gaze toward the Imperial lines.
"What?"
"What do you mean, sir? You're going to the Northeast?"
After meeting with Velkain, Arteon returned to the tent and told his squad the news. There were regrets, but for what he needed to do next, he had no choice but to go.
"That's how it turned out."
"Where in the Northeast, sir?"
Raymon asked. Arteon answered without flourish.
"The Fourth Defense Line."
"……What?"
"The Fourth Defense Line? That place with the, uh… the lake?"
"Elbarphiel Lake."
"Yeah, that Elba-whatever lake. Isn't that the absolute worst spot in the entire North? I heard it's way more dangerous than even the First Defense Line here."
They were from a completely different sector, yet even these men had heard of it—proof enough of how infamous the place was.
And yet—
"……I'll go with you."
"I'm going too."
"I… ah, damn it all."
Raymon spoke first, and Bert followed without hesitation. The rest of the squad looked as though they had already died. The First Defense Line had been hard enough. The words to volunteer for the Northeast Fourth Defense Line would not leave their mouths so easily.
Arteon frowned.
"What nonsense are you talking? The transfer is for me alone. You stay with the 4th Platoon and move to the Northwest Third Defense Line."
"What? Just you, sir?"
"That's right. This has nothing to do with any of you."
At his words, regret and a strange relief mixed across their faces. Arteon continued.
"So drop it. Wanting to come along doesn't mean you can."
It might have sounded cold, but it was necessary to kill the idea cleanly.
If they get some half-baked idea stuck in their heads, they might never settle properly where they're going.
Still… the thought of leaving them behind sat heavy in his chest.
Arteon looked at his men as if he had made a decision.
"Gather up."
"……What is it, sir?"
Still smarting from the earlier coldness, Bert stuck out his lip and answered roughly—biggest man in the squad, acting like a sulking child. Arteon cracked him over the head with the spear he was holding.
Thwack!
"Gah!"
"I'm still your platoon leader. Who do you think you're talking back to?"
"S-sorry, sir!"
"I'm going to leave you a gift before I go… so while there's still time, learn it like your lives depend on it."
"A gift…?"
"What kind of gift, sir?"
"A gift? But… what do you mean we have to learn it?"
Raymon asked. Of all of them, he was the sharpest.
Arteon stepped closer to him.
"I need to check something, so just stand still and stay calm. No one makes a sound. Keep your mouths shut."
"Yes, sir."
Arteon set his hand against Raymon's back and probed the mana circuits running through the man's body. If any were blocked, the gift would never take properly.
"……Next."
He pushed mana into Bert. Bert flinched, startled, but held his silence as ordered. One by one, Arteon examined every man in the squad.
As expected.
……Not great.
But not impossible either. He had already assumed parts of their circuits would be clogged.
Arteon looked at them all.
"Follow me. I'll teach you a mana cultivation method that fits you."
"……?"
"A mana cultivation method?"
It would be completely foreign to them. As a rule, such methods were privileges of the nobility—or of wealthy commoner houses at the very least. And yet here he was offering them one.
Raymon raised a careful hand.
"But… can we even learn it? I heard you have to start a mana cultivation method before you're ten."
"That's when it's most efficient. It doesn't mean it has to be then."
"So we… can do it?"
"Your condition isn't ideal, but it's not impossible. That's why I said learn it like your lives depend on it."
Arteon swept his gaze across the whole squad.
"So stop talking and follow me."
"Understood."
"Yes, sir!"
"Yes, Platoon Leader!"
Arteon led them out of the tent to a quiet stretch of ground. A mana cultivation method was never something learned lightly.
……Ten years in the North teaches a man more than enough about swordsmanship, spearmanship, and mana cultivation.
The problem was that every chance to learn those things had already passed them by. They had nothing.
Arteon thought back to a method created by a northern prodigy in his previous life. The speed at which mana accumulated was slow, but the method that used the North's bitter cold had one tremendous advantage.
Even men who are already adults… if they keep at it, can gather enough mana to reach about the three-star level.
Compared to a truly efficient method, the pace was painfully slow. That was its flaw.
Still……
As far as Arteon knew, this was the only cultivation method they could actually learn.
"I leave tomorrow. So… master it today. No matter what. I'll stay up all night if I have to until you can do it."
"……Yes, sir!"
"Understood!"
They answered with grim faces. The cold wind tore past them, but they clenched their fists and finished their preparations with serious eyes.
For men who could not yet feel mana, Arteon forced it into them so they could learn the sensation. For those who could not yet circulate it along the proper paths, he seized control and guided the flow himself.
That day, until dawn broke, Arteon taught them the mana cultivation method again and again. At first some of them barely progressed at all, but under the forced, almost brutal repetition, they began to catch up little by little.
And then—
"……Huh?"
"That's a weird feeling…"
Without exaggeration, the tiniest speck of mana settled into their bodies and created a strange, new sensation. All five squad members stared at Arteon with wide eyes.
"You can feel it clearly now?"
"It's… soft and warm. Really strange, sir."
"This is… my mana…?"
"Whoa……"
At their wonderstruck murmurs, a small curve touched Arteon's lips. Then his face grew serious again.
"Bert. Raymon. Raphelson. Zalbarog. Graphil."
At the sound of their names they snapped to attention, rigid as iron, and fixed their eyes on him.
Arteon spoke.
"The time we spent together was short, but I think it was… meaningful. And we accomplished a great deal."
Each of them remembered those days with him. The day Arteon first joined the squad. The day they were beaten half to death and learned what real training was for the first time. The day they learned formation techniques, marched onto a battlefield, and seized their first true victory.
And—
"I don't know when we'll meet again, but if we keep living through this damned war, we'll run into each other someday. So……"
Arteon paused.
This might be what they wanted most of all. He met each man's eyes, one by one, and spoke from the heart.
"Survive."
With those words—
"All hands—atten-tion!"
Raymon's voice cracked like a whip. The squad slammed their heels together and locked into place.
"Salute to the Platoon Leader!"
Thud!
"Hearts of steel!"
The shout rang out as if it could blow the northern cold itself away. Arteon brought his own heels together.
Thud!
"Hearts of steel!"
He returned their salute with the highest respect he could give.
He did not know when they would meet again.
Until that day……
Wishing them all well, Arteon turned his back to the rising sun and walked away. He left the 4th Platoon he had grown so fond of and set out for the hellish front of the Northeast.