Neale's adrenaline was fading, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth—likely from ingesting a bit of the lesser winged demonic beast's blood. A mixture of fear and exhaustion coursed through his body, along with the sensation of demon blood trickling down his face and mingling with his sweat. He was deeper in the forest now, using the dense foliage as imperfect cover against any other rare but possible aerial attacks. His neck throbbed where the beast had grazed him, and a sharp pain radiated from his arm, a souvenir from one of his less-than-graceful falls.
He needed a moment—not just to rest, but to check his wounds and plan his next steps. Finding a shallow, dry hollow tucked beneath the roots of a fallen tree—the kind of den used by a large animal—he crawled inside and curled up, shielding himself from the lingering chill of the morning wind. The first thing to do was what his parents would call "strategic intelligence": examine and gather information from the logbook.
It was a small book with a clenched fist surrounded by flames embossed on the cover; it was impossible to tell what color they were supposed to be. The worn leather smelled of smoke and old salt, its pages stained and, in some places, moldy. On the first few pages were identification entries for soldiers of the Order, but the one that seemed most important read: Third Sergeant O.M., candidate for the House of Leonidas — Patrol 5-B.
"Sergeant O.M.," Neale thought. "Another one who got left behind."
With hands still slightly trembling, he flipped through the pages. Most contained notes about the route to Base 5-B, supply codes, and mission data. However, the final pages, dated just two days before his own post fell, were filled with rushed, desperate handwriting, likely detailing the situation as the sergeant traveled.
Neale's eyes raced across the lines, searching for the magic word: Kirden.
"...We set out on a scouting mission to Order Base 5-B after losing contact for two weeks. We departed from the city of Kirden, a mission assigned by the Order to the Kirden city soldiers. We are different from Order soldiers—the Order keeps those with higher levels of Righteous Wrath, while lower levels are stationed as Kirden soldiers to maintain the city according to the Order's institutions. The leader of the House of Plato gave instructions for the mission to Major Lazarus, who is responsible for all Kirden city soldiers. Major Lazarus said he received direct orders from the Order regarding a total quarantine of 5-B. No one enters. No one leaves. Those were the orders for now; I still haven't been told why. The priority was to take Kirden soldiers with slightly higher levels on this mission. As support, an Order soldier from the House of Leonidas would accompany us—the House of Leonidas has its own army within the Order and was sending one of its 'Lions,' which is what their soldiers are called. The required Righteous Wrath level was Light Red or Light Green; that was the level of this mission."
The air left Neale's lungs like a physical blow. Light Red. Light Green. Neale's Righteous Wrath hadn't even manifested yet—maybe it never would. His mother, Helyara, was Dark White, and his father, Carlos, was Light Yellow—both elite levels in his eyes. But according to the sergeant, there were even higher levels he didn't even know existed.
"Total quarantine... No one enters," Neale whispered, a chill of icy despair crawling over his skin. The main Order base his mother had told him to reach—the only safe place—was filled with people so powerful he couldn't even imagine their levels.
He kept reading, absorbing the information:
"We low-level Kirden soldiers, like Light White, were responsible for helping evacuate the people without Righteous Wrath from 5-B, while the higher levels focused on eliminating the lesser demonic beasts and the lesser angelic beasts. But what we didn't know was that there were about ten of these creatures attacking 5-B. The lesser angelic beasts were being commanded by an Angel. We wouldn't stand a chance against an Angel; the fate of those without Righteous Wrath became uncertain. We eventually received orders to wait in the south, far from 5-B. The city of Kirden, under the Order's command, would be closed and would not receive the soldiers from this mission due to the threat of Angelic possession—affecting both soldiers and civilians. This is because it's impossible to tell who is possessed until the Angel reveals itself. Angels and demons can possess humans; Angels need permission, but demons do not need permission for any human they wish to possess. This only applies to Angels and demons; beasts cannot possess humans. The Order is cautious. If we're lucky, we will survive until it's safe to return to Kirden before the arrival of the new students for the Kirdenia Academy. I hope I can see my son again and watch him enter this academy for Order soldiers."
Neale closed the diary with a dull thud, the sound echoing in his hiding spot. Possession. Academy. The place that promised safety had ended up abandoning its own soldiers. His weakness—the fact that he lacked Righteous Wrath—was clearly a prolonged death sentence.
He was alone. He yearned for vengeance, but Kirden and the Order—the only things that might make him stronger—would abandon him if he were weak. War was certainly no place for weakness; he couldn't afford to be weak.
The hatred in his chest transformed into something colder and more calculated. If the Order was the path to his revenge and to obtaining strength, and if the Kirdenia Academy was the way to make that happen, then that was exactly where he was going.
He had the backpack, Helyara's overcoat (which he promised to fix), the bloodied multi-tool, and the wits to stay alive. But now he also had a new mission: to enter the city of Kirden.
He couldn't just march through the front gate. But perhaps there was another way. The arrival of the new students... but how would a sixteen-year-old boy with no parents enter the Order's greatest base and ask for a spot in the academy of the greatest stronghold of humanity?
Neale wrapped the diary back in the cloth and stowed it away. The sun was climbing higher. There was no more time for thinking or self-pity. He was the last descendant of his parents, the only proof they had ever existed in this world, and his destiny would be decided by no one but himself.