Onaga steps forward.
He doesn't shout at first. He doesn't reach for a weapon, doesn't even shift his hand toward the hilt at his side. He simply moves—one measured step, then another—placing his body squarely between raised rifles and exposed flesh, between consequence and impulse. Snow compresses under his boots with a muted crunch, the sound oddly loud in the held breath of the square.
"Enough."
His voice is calm. Flat. Not soft, not loud but controlled. The kind of calm that doesn't ask for attention, but takes it anyway. It cuts through the murmurs like a clean blade through cloth.
"This must stop. Now !"
For a moment, no one listens.
Comtois' men remain frozen in formation, rifles still angled forward, fingers taut but disciplined. Tarvold's posture stays rigid, claws half-curled, ears angled back in reflexive defiance. Villagers stand suspended between fear and hope, uncertain which one is about to win.
Onaga inhales once, slowly, deliberately. The breath fogs in front of his face, then vanishes.
He raises his voice—not louder, but sharper, the edge of command honed and undeniable.
"Lower your weapons."
One of Comtois' men hesitates.
It is only a fraction of a second, barely perceptible, but in that fraction the entire square seems to lean toward him. His grip tightens. The barrel wavers.
Onaga's gaze snaps to him.
It is not anger. It is not threat. It is something colder, heavier—the certainty of consequence.
"That was not a request."
The man swallows.
Slowly, reluctantly, the rifles dip. One by one, muzzles lower, metal sighing as tension drains from springs and arms alike. The line breaks—not in disorder, but in obedience.
Onaga exhales once.
Only once.
Then he turns, not to Comtois, not to Tarvold, but to the villagers. His shoulders square to them, posture open, voice carrying clearly across the square.
"No one here is being taken today," he says. "Not as a criminal. Not as a monster."
A ripple moves through the crowd. Not relief—not yet—but something close. Shoulders loosen, just slightly. A woman clutches her child tighter, then loosens her grip. An old man's cane settles more firmly into the snow.
Onaga shifts his stance and finally faces Comtois.
"You spoke of law," he says evenly. "Then let us speak properly."
He raises one finger, not accusatory, but precise like a clerk marking a line in ink.
"By Mikhland law, he is either a hostile asset, a reserve subject, or a witness."
He lets the silence stretch.
Wind moves through the square, stirring loose snow. Somewhere, fabric flutters against wood. No one interrupts him.
"Right now," Onaga continues, "he is a witness."
Comtois' lips twitch. Not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
"You're stretching definitions."
Onaga doesn't blink.
"No," he replies. "I'm using them correctly."
He gestures toward Tarvold, the motion crisp and contained.
"You don't need his body. You need information. Names. Routes. Camps. Timing. You gain nothing from chains today."
Tarvold bristles.
His shoulders rise, ears flicking sharply, a low growl vibrating in his chest before he reins it in. "I don't owe you—"
Onaga cuts him off, turning sharply, the interruption clean and absolute.
"This is not about owing," he says. "This is about choice."
He steps closer to Tarvold: not threatening, not invading space, but firm enough that retreat would be noticeable. Snow compresses again beneath his boots.
"In my homeland," Onaga says quietly, "we are taught that drawing blood is the final failure of reason. Once blood is spilled, truth drowns in it."
Tarvold's ears twitch.
The movement is small, involuntary, but visible. His breathing changes—slower, deeper, fighting instinct.
"You call us monsters," Onaga continues. "Then do not become one by refusing responsibility."
He gestures to the villagers, palm open.
"Speak—for them."
Tarvold's jaw tightens. Muscles flex along his forearms. His claws extend reflexively, scraping lightly against leather—then curl back into his palms as he forces control.
Comtois scoffs, breaking the moment with a sharp exhale.
"And what guarantee do we have he won't run?"
Onaga doesn't look away from Tarvold.
"I will guarantee it," he says. "As long as he cooperates, there will be no capture. No transfer. No reserve."
Then he turns to Comtois, eyes hard now, authority no longer implied but declared.
"And if anyone violates that," Onaga adds, "they answer to me."
The air goes still again.
Different this time.
Not frozen by fear, but held by restraint. Like a blade sheathed but not forgotten.
At the edge of the square, Aldo sits cross-legged in the snow.
He is entirely uninterested in the confrontation—or so it appears. His gloves are off, fingers reddened by cold as he packs snow with meticulous care. Walls rise in careful symmetry. Towers take shape, evenly spaced, angles precise. He presses snow into place with the same focus he applies to ledgers and troop counts.
[ If this breaks, it won't be here. It will be later. Somewhere quieter. ]
Aldo adjusts a tower, nods once to himself, then begins shaping a gate.
The confrontation continues without him.
Tarvold finally speaks.
His voice is lower now, roughened, stripped of bravado. "The PPF aren't in the forest anymore," he says. "They moved east. Old quarry lands, past the frozen ravine. Their main camp is underground—reinforced tunnels, three entrances. They rotate guards every six hours."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd again—uneasy this time. Heads turn. People exchange looks. The shape of the threat becomes clearer, heavier.
"I guided them once," Tarvold continues. "Mainly smuggling routes and safe paths."
Liv's breath catches.
It is audible, sharp, like a crack in glass. But she doesn't step away. She stays where she is, close enough that her sleeve brushes his arm.
Comtois folds his arms, expression unreadable.
"Why?"
Tarvold's eyes burn. Not with rage—with something older, more painful.
"That," he says, "I won't tell you."
Silence.
Snow drifts down, soft and unhurried, settling on shoulders and hair and rifle barrels.
Then Comtois does something unexpected.
He removes his helmet.
The motion is slow, deliberate. Cold air hits his sweat-damp hair. He presses a fist to his chest, posture straightening.
"I swear," he says, voice rougher now, stripped of its earlier edge, "this information does not go into the official report."
Onaga studies him for a long moment.
His eyes search Comtois' face, weighing intent against habit, promise against precedent. Finally, he nods once.
"Good."
The snow continues to fall.
No one cheers. No one smiles. The tension doesn't vanish, it merely loosens, like a knot partially undone, still tight enough to hurt if pulled the wrong way.
Aldo adds a final tower to his snow castle, brushing loose flakes from its walls.
[ For now…?]
For now, blood has been avoided.
For now, that is enough.
No more linger.
Aldo stands up from the edge of the square where the snow castle still holds its shape, imperfect towers catching pale light. He brushes snow from his gloves, the motion efficient, already elsewhere in his head. His gaze sweeps the gathered men—faces tight with cold, eyes sharpened by fatigue and something heavier than fear.
He raises his voice just enough.
Twenty-five slave-soldiers step forward at once, boots crunching in unison. Fifteen remain behind without protest, already understanding the division before it is spoken. Comtois notices immediately. He mirrors the motion, selecting his own men with quick gestures and fewer words.
Onaga jogs toward Aldo, breath fogging fast. "You go now, Taichou-sama? What about me?"
Aldo does not slow. He tightens the strap of his pack, checks his weapon once, and answers without looking back. "You take care of this. I will take care of PPF."
Onaga reaches for his sleeve, stops himself. Aldo continues, voice steady. "As I put Locationary Orb in Irina… uh, she doesn't notice but it activates and signals location so the regiment will know. According to estimate, they might come… I will come to help them."
The words land heavier than intended.
Tarvold frowns, ears flattening slightly. "So my confession of their location is useless!?"
Aldo finally turns. His eyes are calm, almost distant. "No," he says. "It saves your life more than our need of info."
Then he turns away and walks.
No one stops him.
The villagers stare in silence as the formation begins to move—no cheers, no curses, only small murmurs exchanging like insects beneath snow. Onaga remains standing with Tarvold and Liv, watching the figures shrink into white and gray, heading once again toward violence that does not wait for moral clarity.
[ They go again…]
The march begins at a sprint.
They soon meet the twenty men Aldo sent hours ago to capture the retreating PPF. The meeting is wordless at first—relief flashes, then fades. Several figures are dragged between them, bound with rope, coats stiff with frozen blood. PPF militiamen. Injured. Alive.
Aldo surveys them quickly. No speeches. No accusations.
"All injured go back," he orders. "Platoon and prisoners."
The wounded do not argue. The ropes are adjusted, grips tightened. The ten healthy soldiers step forward as one. Now the count rises: sixty personnel moving as a single organism, breath steaming, legs burning.
They run.
Snow blurs into streaks. Trees rush past like silent witnesses. The sound of boots becomes rhythm, the only thing keeping thought from spiraling. Minutes stretch. Muscles ache. No one slows.
Tens of minutes later, they meet the ten slave-soldiers of Comtois' 205th Company sent earlier to track the PPF. The scouts look worse—faces hollowed by cold, eyes too alert—but they stand straight when Aldo arrives.
Now seventy.
No celebration. Just numbers adjusting in Aldo's head, formations shifting without spoken command.
They follow the scouts' instructions and turn toward the mountain.
The climb begins.
The mountain is tall, cruel, and silent. Wind slices through layers, biting exposed skin. Every breath burns. Every step threatens a slip that would mean broken bones or worse. But the scouts are certain.
"From here…" one pants, "we detect them far and they won't see us."
They press on.
Hands numb. Fingers stiff. Snow crunching into ice beneath boots. Some tremble, not from fear, but exhaustion yet no one stops. Aldo moves near the front, pace measured, conserving energy with the precision of someone who understands limits.
They reach the frozen ravine.
It yawns open like a wound, ice gleaming faintly blue beneath thin light. Some men hesitate, feet edging forward, bodies instinctively recoiling from the depth. A few mutter prayers. One crosses himself with shaking fingers.
Aldo stops.
He stares for a long moment.
For someone living in a tropical nation, the scene is breathtaking. The ravine feels unreal—glass and stone sculpted into silence. Frost clings to every edge, reflecting light into endless fragments.
[ Magnificent]
He nods once and steps forward.
They cross.
On the other side, the land changes.
The quarry lands spread out like a scar: cut terraces, exposed veins glowing faintly blue beneath snow and rock. This is not iron. Not copper. Not gems in any familiar sense.
Manatite.
Blue-glowing ore pulses softly beneath the surface, like something alive but sleeping. The air feels different here…heavier, charged.
Aldo slows, crouching near one exposed vein. "What is that?" he asks quietly.
Comtois shakes his head. "Magical ore," he says. "Academies, wizards, guilds use it. That's all I know."
Aldo straightens, worry creeping into his eyes. "Does that mean they have magical guns?"
Comtois exhales through his nose. "If they have tools and blueprints, and some have niche skills… maybe. If not—" He shrugs slightly. "Then no."
It does not fully reassure.
They move again, climbing higher until they reach the height of Furaberg Jungist, the brother mountain of Furaberg. Rocks provide cover here, jagged and uneven. They drop low, pressing into shadow.
From this height, the battlefield reveals itself.
Aldo sees Tyrone.