Bastian glanced behind him. Two figures were following at a distance of ten steps, two soldiers chosen for a task no one wanted—the task of escorting him.
His steps were relaxed, as if he had just come out of an ordinary meeting. But in truth he was alert, every sense sharpened.
The two men behind him were only the visible part. From windows, from the corners of buildings, even from the top of the warehouse roof, he could feel other eyes watching. Dozens of pairs, maybe more, tracking his every move.
It was reasonable. In fact, it would have been strange if they let him wander freely after what he had just done.
By all rights, he should already be lying on a cell floor. Evidence or no evidence, explanations or no explanations, the procedure was clear: when a lower-ranking officer kills a superior, the killer is neutralized first, the truth investigated later.
But Bastian rejected that procedure because his survival instincts were simple. A prison meant confinement. Confinement meant he couldn't move freely. Without a weapon, with wrists and ankles likely shackled, he would become easy prey.
Anyone could accidentally enter his cell. Poison in the food. A stray arrow from the darkness. Or an accident while being transferred. His death would neatly seal any conspiracy still lingering in the shadows.
So he chose another tactic. One is only available to someone whose reputation was already a double-edged blade.
He had deliberately let the killing intent spill out in that room earlier, threatening everyone there. An unspoken question hung in the blood-soaked air: You want to arrest me? Go ahead. But how many of you are willing to die today to make it happen?
And Colonel Torvin had felt that threat. Arresting Bastian would mean provoking a battle in the heart of the headquarters. Bastian was the madman who had just butchered his own legion commander in the commander's own office, in a city guarded by thousands of soldiers. What logic could anyone expect from a man like that?
The terrifying rumors surrounding Bastian weren't just stories. Torvin wasn't willing to gamble. To him, Bastian was a wild, unpredictable beast. It was safer to give him space, watch from a distance, secure the evidence, and isolate the remaining suspects.
But Bastian knew that tolerance was razor-thin. If he took one step toward the city gate instead of the barracks, the net would close instantly. They would think he was trying to flee, and the encirclement would turn real. He had no intention of running.
Eventually, he reached the large barracks lined with long windows. The temporary building had been thrown together quickly, made of rough wood and thatched roofing. Inside, the musty smell of straw, dust, and sweat soaked deep into the walls met him like a wall.
The barracks were quiet, silent in a strange way. Normally it was filled with chatter, snores, or the groans of exhausted soldiers. Now only rows of empty beds stretched out like neatly arranged graves. This was his battalion's barracks. Once.
Bastian rarely slept here. As a Battalion Commander, he had his own separate room.
He walked down the aisle between the beds, his boots creaking on the wooden floor. His eyes swept over the room, noting every corner, every shadow. His two escorts stopped at the entrance, unwilling to go farther.
Bastian unfastened the belt holding his sword and dagger. Metal clinked against the floor as he set the weapons down beside the bed he chose. Then he removed the fresh coat he had recently put on, folded it roughly, and used it as a pillow.
He had bathed earlier at the public bath, cold water washing off Kaelen's blood and the dust of travel. Now, clean but with his mind still turning, he lay down on the hard straw mattress. His hand hung over the side, fingers resting on the hilt of his sword.
He didn't close his eyes immediately. First, he stared at the ceiling. He listened to the breathing of the two guards at the door, the shuffling of boots outside the window, whispers in the distance. The net of surveillance was still there.
Then he drew a long breath and exhaled slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease. His body slipped into the vulnerable state of sleep. But behind his closed eyelids, his mind remained awake.
.
.
.
The news spread like fire across dry fields. Within hours, every corner of Fairfield buzzed with one name: Bastian. More specifically, "Smiling Knight," "Mad Dog," and his newest act of insanity.
It started at the barracks where he slept. The soldiers who had witnessed him leaving the bloodied commander's room became the first messengers. As they changed shifts, rested, or grabbed drinks at the many taverns lining the outskirts, the story flowed from mouth to mouth.
"You hear? The Mad Dog is back!"
"He disappeared for four days, right after his entire unit got slaughtered, and then he shows up this morning, walking straight into Commander Kaelen's office!"
"And? What happened?"
"Rumor is… he butchered General Kaelen. In his own office. Pieces of him everywhere."
Eyes widened, a mix of fear and disbelief. "Butchered? In his office? That's insane. Then why isn't he arrested?"
"That's the insane part. He said Kaelen was a traitor. Working with Mordune."
"Bullshit."
"I swear! He threw a whole bag of evidence—letters, enemy seals! And he brought the head of Grayson Berk, Third Legion Commander of Mordune! He said those four days he vanished, he infiltrated Mordune's secret camp alone, killed the commander, stole their documents, and came back!"
"That guy is truly insane. But… you know, for someone that crazy, I almost… respect him."
"Respect him? That lunatic?"
"But he's common-born, like us! Not some noble with a silver spoon. He climbed up from the bottom. From where we are! Now he's a battalion commander. He's making the nobles shake in their shiny boots."
The story spun through the barracks, the rundown tavern called The Rusty Blade, and the blacksmith's forge. Each retelling added new embellishments. "Butchered" became "skinned alive." "Brought a head" became "dragged the whole corpse behind him." But the core remained: Bastian, the unhinged commoner, had once again done something impossible and terrifying.
And that was exactly why the common folk of Fairfield loved him. Amid the sweat and harsh life, they saw in Bastian a warped reflection of themselves.
He wasn't a blue-blooded nobleborn warrior. He came from the same dirt. But look at him now: he could behead an enemy commander alone. He could walk into the highest commander's office and do whatever he liked. He was insane, yes, but his insanity got results. His madness made those polished medal-wearing nobles tremble.
Yet among all the rumors, one question loomed: What would Edgar Valobry do?
The name was spoken with both respect and dread. Supreme Commander of the Iskandrite Army. A cold-blooded general, and—most importantly—the trusted right hand of the Mad Queen. And above all: the older brother of Kaelen Valobry, whose chopped-up body lay on a floor.
"Edgar Valobry won't stay silent," a junior officer whispered to his friend in the officers' lounge.
"He may curse his brother for tarnishing their family name… but to have him killed like that? In such humiliation? That's a direct challenge."
"Bastian might have already signed his own death warrant."
Then the official announcement came: Supreme Commander Edgar Valobry would arrive in Fairfield in three days to lead the meeting for the assault on Stoneheart Fortress, the border stronghold Mordune had seized five years ago.
The three days passed with tension so thick it felt physical. Bastian spent most of the time in the barracks, leaving only for meals or necessities, always under watch. He didn't try to run. He caused no trouble.
And on the morning of the fourth day, Edgar arrived.
Edgar Valobry entered Fairfield without a grand parade, but with a heavy silence. He rode a massive black warhorse, a black fur cloak flowing in the cold wind. His face, though sharing the same bloodline as Kaelen, looked starkly different. Where Kaelen had softness and deceit, Edgar was carved from steel and frost.
He went straight to the town hall, greeted by a line of stiff officers, including Colonel Torvin whose expression was tight. There were no unnecessary greetings. Edgar dismounted, tossed the reins to an attendant, and walked inside, his cloak trailing behind him.
The meeting in Kaelen's old office—scrubbed clean though the sharp smell of disinfectant couldn't erase the room's history—was brief and intense. Maps were spread out. Reports delivered. Edgar listened in silence, nodding occasionally, asking sharp questions.
Then, when the strategic discussion ended, there was a pause. Edgar stood near the window, looking out over the courtyard. His voice broke the silence without turning around.
"Commander Bastian. Where is he now?"
Colonel Torvin cleared his throat. "He is… stationed in the common barracks, Your Grace. He has remained there since the incident, under heavy watch."
Edgar stayed silent for a moment. Then he turned. His face was unreadable. "Summon him. Now. I want to meet him. Here."