Four days ago, a brief interrogation of the captured Necromancer had yielded something invaluable. Bastian had asked him many things—how they knew the exact location of his battalion's temporary camp, why the attack came right after the men finished eating, just as the poison in their bodies began to take effect.
All those questions led to one name: Grayson Berk, Commander of Mordune's 3rd Legion.
From the Necromancer's own mouth, Bastian also managed to extract the location of Mordune's hidden outpost near the border.
And that was when he made his decision. Instead of returning to headquarters, reporting, and requesting reinforcements for an ambush, Bastian chose to do it alone.
He didn't trust anyone.
That distrust wasn't empty paranoia, it was instinct forged through countless wounds. How many times had the troops under his command fallen into "coincidences" far too dangerous to be chance? How many units had been ripped apart, leaving only him alive to return? Always him.
The Sixth Battalion, the last force he commanded, had once been a thousand strong. After a string of battles and suspiciously disastrous accidents, their numbers shrank to a mere hundred on the night of the ambush. And now… even those hundred were gone.
So Bastian took the only path he trusted.
He investigated it himself.
He infiltrated enemy territory. For two whole days he observed from afar—watching the guard rotations, the flow of soldiers, and every routine in Mordune's encampment.
Then, on the third night, he moved. He slipped past patrols, snuck deeper into the camp, and eventually found the command tent.
Grayson Berk, alone, studying maps.
Bastian incapacitated him in seconds, bound him, and interrogated him. And from that interrogation came another name: Kaelen Valobry.
But that wasn't all. He learned a detail that set his blood boiling: Kaelen had been involved in the assassination attempt on Queen Iskandrite five years ago.
The revelation made Bastian's hatred toward the man sharpen into something cold and venomous.
So what was Kaelen's motive for trying to eliminate him? He didn't need to dig far for that answer. Bastian had ignored his foolish orders too many times, challenged his incompetent strategies in front of other officers, and shown far less respect than a noble expected from a common-born soldier.
But perhaps the deepest wound to Kaelen's pride… was Bastian's fame. The "Smiling Knight," the mad dog of the common folk—his name was far more feared by enemies, and far more beloved by citizens, than Kaelen Valobry's ever was.
Or perhaps too many of Kaelen's schemes with Mordune had failed, thanks to Bastian's victories.
There were too many reasons to list.
.
.
In the office that now resembled a slaughterhouse, the metallic scent of blood and death hung so thick it clung to the tongue.
Bastian stood in the middle of the chaos he had created, his tired eyes sweeping over the floor littered with the butchered remains of Kaelen. Blood had seeped deep into the wooden grain, forming dark, abstract patterns. There was no disgust, no fear, not even satisfaction on his face. Only a bone-deep exhaustion.
He let out a long yawn that echoed in the dreadful silence. Years on the battlefield, witnessing and committing far worse, had numbed him.
A sudden scream shattered the quiet. A young officer, perhaps an aide delivering reports or seeking a signature, froze in the doorway. His eyes widened, trying to comprehend the hellish scene before him. The attempt lasted only a second before ending in a shrill, panicked scream.
"AAAHHH! COMMANDER! MURDERER!"
The scream was a death knell. Within seconds, the hallway filled with the heavy stomping of boots. Officers who had just left a meeting, along with several guards and curious soldiers, crowded at the doorway. The sight inside made them freeze before horror and rage erupted.
"By the gods! Mad Dog, what have you done?!" Sir Marcus roared, his face flushed with fury.
"You vile beast! You killed your own superior!" Sir Grendel shouted, his face pale as he stared at the scattered limbs.
"This is treason! You'll be tried and hanged! No one can save you now, war hero or not!" Captain Orville bellowed, his hand already on his sword.
"I knew you would cause a disaster one day…"
"Spears forward!" a sergeant barked.
Three spears leveled toward Bastian at the doorway, forming a barrier. More guards drew their blades, though none dared step any further inside. They all knew who Bastian was. Holding the doorway gave them distance and a sense of safety while blocking the only exit.
"Drop your weapon, Mad Dog! Surrender yourself!" an officer shouted from behind the line of spears.
Bastian didn't answer immediately. He simply reached for a rough cloth bag slung across his back. The bag was full and heavy. He tossed it toward the crowd. It hit the floor with a dull thud, spilling scrolls, broken wax seals, and silver medallions engraved with Mordune's black sun.
"This is evidence," Bastian finally said, his voice rough but steady, cutting through the uproar. "Evidence of Kaelen Valobry's treason. His dealings with Mordune. Secret letters, agreements, the enemy commander's seal. All of it is here."
The uproar quieted for a moment, replaced by murmurs of shock. A few officers exchanged uncertain looks.
"Don't touch that!" Captain Orville snapped before anyone could move. "It could be a trap or a forgery!"
Sir Torvin, the elderly commander of the Gilded Inquisition, ignored him. With a gesture, he signaled a guard to hook one scroll with the tip of his spear and bring it to him. He studied it carefully. "This… is genuine. The paper, the seal, even the ink is from our own office."
"That's impossible!" Captain Orville barked. "It must be an elaborate forgery!"
Bastian sighed and explained, "Four days ago, my battalion was ambushed. I was the only one who survived. From interrogations, I learned someone had leaked our location and timing. I also learned of Mordune's hidden outpost. So I went alone. I infiltrated it."