The immediate trauma of the battle had subsided, but the psychological toll on the Shadow Command remained high, nowhere more so than in the dispensary. Major Kiley, though successful in triage, was cracking under the dual pressure of his inverted rank and the sheer horror of the casualties.
Deacon walked into the dispensary late in the evening. The air was cleaner now, thanks to Kiley's insistence on boiled water and basic sanitation—primitive germ theory applied under the cover of 'ritual cleansing.' Kiley was alone, meticulously cleaning his instruments. His aristocratic hands moved with the mechanical precision of a man trying to suppress thought through repetitive action.
"I have a final casualty report, Hayes," Kiley stated, not looking up. His voice was flat, exhausted. "Three dead militia, four civilians injured by falling debris, twenty-two with severe auditory trauma—perforated eardrums, mostly. They won't hear properly for months, maybe years. The explosion worked, but it was dirty."
"It was necessary, Major," Deacon said, leaning against the doorway. "We have no reserves. We trade the short-term casualty count for the long-term survival of the city. Your S-5 execution was flawless. You saved every man who was savable."
"Don't praise me, Sergeant. I broke the code of command," Kiley whispered, dropping a forceps into a bowl with a sharp clatter. "I am a Commanding Officer. My rank is absolute. Yet, I took orders from my logistics chief. I participated in a politically motivated medical quarantine—locking up Lykos on a fraudulent diagnosis. And I sent my forensic analyst, Tate, to clean up the evidence of a war crime. You've turned me into a covert operative, Hayes, and my core function is corrupted."
Deacon walked over and placed a hand on the Major's shoulder. "Your core function is survival, Sir. You are Major Kiley, and you are trapped in a medical supply depot the size of a city. The rules changed the moment the green light hit. The uniform is gone, but the duty remains. We follow the plan, Major. We follow the plan until the war is won, and we go home."
Kiley looked up, his eyes meeting Deacon's. The trauma was raw. "We aren't going home, Hayes. And I need to confess something—the pressure is too much. I visited Thorne today."
Deacon felt a spike of alarm. Corporal Thorne was the one active psychological casualty—the man who believed he was dead. Any interaction with the real chain of command could compromise his fragile stability.
"What happened, Major?"
"He's not catatonic anymore. He's talking. But he's not speaking English, or the local dialect. He's speaking Latin. The body he occupies—'young Timon'—was a classics student at the Imperial seminary. Thorne's mind, unable to process the Isekai event, has retreated into the host body's acquired knowledge base. He's speaking an ancient language as a defense mechanism." .
This was a massive, unexpected variable. The Isekai process hadn't just overwritten the personalities; it had potentially cross-pollinated the psychological defenses with the host body's core competencies. Thorne, the traumatized Marine, was now unconsciously utilizing the language skills of 'Timon,' the seminarian.
"That's an S-2 problem, not S-5, Major," Deacon said immediately. "Tate—Balthasar—is your runner. He needs to start analyzing Thorne's communication. That Latin could be gibberish, or it could be a psychological manifestation of vital intelligence—memories from the host body we need to secure."
"I agree," Kiley said, recovering his professional composure, relieved to be back on a defined mission. "But I have another piece of intelligence. The Widow Elms' network is more than just watches. She has secured a large shipment of refined sulfur—three times the purity Blake can produce in the new Guild assets. She's moving it through the city in the next forty-eight hours, hiding it under a cargo of cheap textiles."
Kiley tapped a sketch he'd made on a ledger—a small, detailed map of Oakhaven's southern trade docks and warehouse district. "I need you to seize that sulfur. Blake can use it to increase the yield and stability of the Thunder Claps by another twenty percent. But you can't just seize it; the Widow will break our entire supply line."
Deacon studied the map. The cargo was moving through a cramped, winding area of the docks—perfect for an inconspicuous ambush and cargo swap.
"I'll run the acquisition, Major. Covertly. The Widow will think it's a random attack by bandits, not the Castellan's own S-4. You focus on Thorne and the Latin."
Deacon left the dispensary, the weight of the new mission settling on him. He had to plan a high-risk theft from his most crucial political partner, and he had to do it using minimal assets, ensuring deniability. The next few hours would be a test of his covert leadership.