With every step, the decision weighed on his shoulders more than the Order's backpack. Kirden, one of humanity's strongholds under the Order's global control, was a refuge that did not tolerate weakness. It was a place of training for those who wished to return to a time before the war against the Absolute Races, but it was also a city potentially under a total quarantine. The information in Sergeant O.M.'s diary was clear: for someone who had yet to manifest Righteous Wrath, the chances of being rejected at the gate were high. They might even see him as an enemy and kill him—after all, he didn't know the rules of the main base; he had only lived in minor bases for as long as he could remember. Neale Sanchez R. was the descendant of two Order soldiers, but by the main base's standards, he might be seen as nothing more than dead weight.
His hatred for his own weakness hammered in his chest, burning and merging with a frigid determination: the door might be closed, but he would find a way into the Kirdenia Academy.
His new objective was to find out when this year's students would arrive in Kirden to join the academy; it was there, in the womb of humanity's defense system, that his strength would be forged. He couldn't appear indecisive or afraid; he needed to show absolute firmness in his resolve. Above all, he needed a safe means of transport to cross the final stretch of territory potentially controlled by demonic and angelic beasts.
The map that Helyara, his mother, had made him memorize countless times—with several Order bases marked on it—gave Neale a vague sense of his current location. These were basic survival lessons from his parents that he never thought he'd have to use so soon, let alone on his own.
"If I'm on the right path, about two more days of walking should lead me to... Valerium."
A small outlying city, almost an industrial suburb, where one could still find things from the time before humanity knew the terror of the Absolute Races. It was also known as a collection point for refugees waiting for a chance to be admitted into Kirden. Although close to the stronghold, Valerium had no official affiliation with the Order. It was a center of chaos but also of opportunity—perfect for a boy to disappear and resurface as someone else to gather useful information. It was a place that wouldn't ask many questions.
He folded what was left of the overcoat—now his greatest relic—and stowed it at the bottom of the backpack, covering it with the diary and the nearly empty canteen. The stains of demonic blood on his shirt and multi-tool were a reminder that things would only get more difficult and complicated from here.
"Cunning. Intelligence." These would be his only weapons alongside everything he had learned and lived through so far.
The forest, while an ally, was still treacherous. He walked with the sun overhead, avoiding Route 305, but the hunger—even after finishing the tasteless biscuits—was a constant gnaw at his stomach. His aching body begged for even a minute of rest, but the fear of encountering another beast and the scent of blood he couldn't fully wash off kept him moving.
At dusk on the second day, Valerium revealed itself. It wasn't a shining city like Kirden was said to be; it was a patchwork of abandoned warehouses and low-slung buildings that had once seen glory, now surrounded by an improvised fence of barbed wire and scrap. Smoke rose from several points, and the noise of human activity—voices, engines, the crying of children—was chaotic, yet incredibly comforting compared to the deathly silence of the last two days.
At the city's main entrance, under the moss-green light of an odd, improvised lantern, the scene was tense. Kirden soldiers, wearing tactical uniforms less flashy than the Order's—in a faded, burnt yellow color—formed a barrier. They possessed low-level Righteous Wrath (likely Dark White or Orange, though Neale couldn't see it; he only felt a dull unease, comparing them to the winged beast he'd fought). They were visibly exhausted but alert, inspecting the refugees arriving at the gate.
Neale stopped in the shadow of a cracked wall. The crowd was his best camouflage. He needed to blend in, not just walk, but look like a local. A boy alone, with high-quality clothes (despite the tears and bloodstains) and an Order backpack, would raise suspicion.
He opened his bag and took out the remains of the overcoat, using it to cover the Order's symbol on the pack. He used the multi-tool to rip his shirt even further and rubbed dirt into his pants and face, mixing it with dust and sweat. His hair, with its white streaks—a genetic trait he didn't know the origin of, since his parents didn't have them—was hard to hide. He used the last of the water in his canteen to dampen it and pulled strands forward, mixing them with mud to cover part of his face.
With his backpack hidden under the scrap of the overcoat, Neale walked toward an abandoned cart. There, he saw a body—an older man who had died perhaps two hours ago. In his hand was a piece of stale bread, not yet too moldy. Neale took the bread as a prop to help him blend in. He took a deep breath and sat on a slab of concrete that was half-damp from some spilled liquid. Grabbing the bread, he assumed a low posture with his head between his knees, listening intently to conversations and scanning his environment for information. The panic among some of the Kirden soldiers—those not yet cleared to return due to the threat of Angelic possession from their last mission—was visible in their eyes. Even so, they tried to maintain some order and fulfill their duties.
From a distance, he heard two soldiers talking about the Kirdenia Academy. Was it time to move closer and listen while he vanished into the city's chaos?