Location: The Memorial Yard, Sector 2.
Time: 08:00 Hours (The Morning After the Raid).
The Iron Legion did not bury bodies. Bodies were fuel, biomass, or spare parts. If you died in the Wastes, you were either eaten by the fauna or recycled by the Apothecaries.
They buried dog tags.
The Memorial Yard was a grid of rusted iron stakes driven into the hard, scorched earth outside the Citadel walls. It looked less like a graveyard and more like a field of thorns. Each stake bore a stamped tin nameplate and a single, empty shell casing—the caliber matching the weapon the soldier had carried.
Dante stood at the back of the crowd. He wore a clean, high-collared black coat he had "requisitioned" from the quartermaster, the heavy silver Captain of the Vanguard badge pinned to his lapel. The wind kicked up dust, coating the two hundred mourners in a layer of grey ash that looked like powdered bone.
It was a silent affair. Mercenaries didn't cry. Crying dehydrated you. They drank cheap grain alcohol from flasks and stared at the horizon, calculating the odds that their stake was next.
Valerius stood beside Dante, looking uncomfortable in his grease-stained mechanic's jumpsuit. He kept checking his empty belt for a sword that wasn't there.
"They mourn empty graves," Valerius whispered, his elf eyes scanning the grid. "In the Garden, we recycled the dead into nutrient paste immediately. The cycle continued. This seems... inefficient. Sentimental."
"It's not about the dead," Dante murmured, his eyes hidden behind dark goggles. "It's about convincing the living that their death has meaning. If they think they're just meat, they won't charge a machine gun. If they think they're martyrs, they'll die smiling."
The ceremony ended. A bugler played a discordant, mechanical version of "Taps." The crowd began to disperse, heading back to the endless war machine.
"Captain Silvergrin."
The voice was sharp, brittle, and female.
Dante turned.
Standing there was a lieutenant. She was young, but her face was a map of scars. Her head was shaved, and her left eye had been replaced by a bulky, whirring cybernetic optic that zoomed in and out as she focused on him. She wore the insignia of Bravo Group—Grist's old unit.
"Lieutenant Kael," Dante read her tag. "My condolences. Grist was a... force of nature."
"He was a survivor," Kael spat. She stepped closer, her hand resting on the hilt of a trench knife. "He survived five years in the Wastes. He survived the Acid Rains of Sector 4. He survived the Baron's purges."
She poked a finger hard into Dante's chest.
"And then he rides out with you, and suddenly he gets stepped on by a wolf? A wolf that you were supposed to be distracting?"
The soldiers around them stopped walking. A circle formed instantly. The tension was palpable—thick enough to cut with a knife. Everyone knew Grist hated Dante. Everyone suspected foul play. The rumor mill had been churning all night.
Dante didn't back down. He didn't get angry.
He looked... sad.
He reached out and gently moved her hand away from his chest with his mechanical fingers.
"You think I killed him?" Dante asked, his voice amplified just enough by the Silvergrin for the back row to hear. "You think I wanted to fight three Titans alone? You think I wanted to be buried under a mountain of meat while my squad leader died?"
"I think you let him die," Kael hissed, tears welling in her organic eye.
"I let him be a hero," Dante countered, his voice dropping to a harsh, reverent whisper. "The plan was for me to engage. But Grist... he saw the Wolf targeting the tank. Targeting you, Lieutenant."
Kael blinked, the cybernetic shutter clicking. "What?"
"The Wolf was flanking," Dante lied smoothly, weaving a narrative out of thin air, utilizing the 'Chronal Glimpse' logic he hadn't even activated yet—seeing the path to victory. "It was going for the support line. For the retreat path. Grist saw it. He broke formation. He drew the aggro. He screamed at me to take the shot while he held it down."
Dante looked at the iron stake with Grist's name on it. He let his shoulders slump, portraying the weight of command.
"He knew he wasn't coming back, Kael. He traded his life so Bravo Group could retreat. He bought your lives with his blood."
He turned his grey, void-touched eyes back to her.
"I honored his choice. I killed the beast that took him. And now you stand here, on his grave, and call his sacrifice a murder? You shame him."
The gaslighting was masterful. It was shameless. It reframed Grist's ego-driven stupidity as tactical bravery, and Kael's valid suspicion as ungrateful spite.
Kael's face crumbled. The anger drained away, replaced by confusion and overwhelming grief. She took a step back, her hand falling from her knife.
"I... I didn't see..." she stammered.
"No one saw," Dante said gently. "Because you were running. He stayed."
He placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Go have a drink, Lieutenant. Toast to the man who saved your life. Don't look for ghosts where there are only heroes."
Kael nodded, wiping her real eye. "Yes... yes, Sir. Thank you. And... I'm sorry."
She walked away, head bowed. The surrounding soldiers murmured in approval. The Pale King wasn't just a killer; he was a leader who protected the legacy of his men.
Valerius watched her go, then looked at Dante with a mix of horror and awe.
"That was terrifying," Valerius whispered. "You rewrote history in real-time. You turned a fool into a martyr."
"History is written by the survivors," Dante said, his face hardening back into a mask of indifference. "And the dead don't contradict you. Let's go. I need to win some money."
Location: Barracks Block 4.
Time: 23:00.
The air in the barracks was thick enough to chew. It smelled of cheap tobacco, sweat, gun oil, and ozone.
Dante sat at a crate table, his coat draped over the back of his chair. Opposite him sat three other captains and a dozen soldiers watching from the bunks.
"Raise," Dante said.
He reached into his pouch and tossed a handful of items into the pot. They hit the wooden table with a dull, wet clatter.
Gold teeth. Molars. Canines. Still stained with dried root-blood.
The Captain across from him—a man named Havoc with a rusted robotic jaw—frowned. He looked at his cards. He looked at the teeth. He looked at Dante's mechanical hand.
"You're bluffing, Silvergrin," Havoc grunted, his voice metallic. "You play like you have nothing to lose."
"I have nothing to lose," Dante smiled, the Silvergrin glinting under the flickering bulb. "I'm already dead. I'm just waiting for the paperwork to catch up."
Havoc stared at him. Then he looked at the teeth again.
"Fold," Havoc grunted, tossing his cards.
Dante raked in the pot. It was a small fortune in scrip, high-caliber ammunition, and ration cards.
"You're on a streak," Havoc muttered, lighting a cigar with his thumb-lighter. "Beginner's luck."
"It's not luck," Dante said, picking up the deck. He shuffled with one hand—a mesmerizing display of mechanical dexterity, the cards weaving together like water. "It's odds. You guys play like you think the house plays fair."
He dealt the cards. Zip. Zip. Zip.
"Take the raid yesterday," Dante continued casually, keeping his voice low enough to blend with the background noise of the barracks. "We retook Sector 7. Great victory. The Baron gets a new factory. But we lost two hundred men. Bravo Group is gone. Iron-Head is gone."
"Cost of doing business," Havoc shrugged. "The Baron says victory requires sacrifice."
"Does it?" Dante asked. He paused dealing.
"Because I saw the Baron's bunker last night. He has air conditioning. He has single-malt whiskey. He has a wall of heads. He didn't look like he was sacrificing anything."
The room went quiet. The ambient chatter died down. Talking trash about the Baron was dangerous. The tracker on Dante's chest hummed, but it only tracked location, not intent.
"While Grist was getting crushed," Dante said softly, leaning in, "The Baron was probably deciding which wine went best with the news report."
He looked around the table. He saw the scars on the men. He saw the fatigue in their eyes. He saw the resentment burying deep under the loyalty.
"You think he cares about the Iron Legion?" Dante scoffed. "We aren't soldiers to him. We're ammo. Spent casings. Once we're fired, he leaves us in the dirt and loads the next clip."
He flipped his card face up.
The Ace of Spades. The Death Card.
"I don't know about you, Havoc," Dante said, his grey eyes piercing the man. "But I'm tired of being fired from someone else's gun. I think it's time we started aiming for ourselves."
Havoc stared at Dante. He looked at the Ace. He looked at the gold teeth—the spoils of war that the Baron usually confiscated.
"Dangerous talk, Scavenger," Havoc whispered. "That sounds like mutiny."
"Dangerous world," Dante replied, tapping the deck. "Call or fold?"
Havoc looked at his hand. He looked at the soldiers around the room. They weren't looking at Dante with anger. They were nodding. They were listening.
"I fold," Havoc said, tossing his cards face down. "But I'm listening."
Dante smiled. He had won the pot. But more importantly, he had planted the virus.