The journey back from Insbruck was agonizingly slow and heavy, the silence in the Imperial carriage amplified by the recent, violent actions of its occupants. The mission had been a resounding, undisputed success: the bandit threat was eliminated, and the coastal villages were secured. Yet, none of the students felt victorious. Jonas, Mikael, and Helga were covered in grime, soot, and the faint, lingering metallic smell of the blood they had shed, a grim reminder of the massacre. Daemon, by stark contrast, was immaculate, having used a small, focused burst of high-pressure steam magic—a secret efficiency he allowed them to see—to quickly cleanse his coat and hands moments after the surrender. The chilling efficiency of the massacre—and the terrifying mystery of Daemon's "mini-bombs"—hung suffocatingly in the air.
Jonas, as the official team leader and the mage most accustomed to disciplined military protocol, finally broke the unbearable silence, his voice tight and strained with barely contained tension. He leaned forward from his bench, meeting Daemon's unnervingly placid gaze.
"Daemon. We need to discuss the... the methodology," Jonas began, choosing his words carefully. "We were tasked with neutralizing a threat and securing the coastal roads. We weren't ordered to slaughter nearly seventy people. Your actions went far beyond the scope of elimination."
Helga, huddled in the corner, nodded quickly, her eyes wide and fixed on the floor, unable to look at Daemon. "The first explosion, that was strategy, Daemon. We accept that. But the heat, the way you used the blade... and those other canisters. Why did so many have to die? Sixteen surrendered, but we started with eighty." She shuddered, picturing the way Daemon's white-hot Chokuto had cut through flesh and armor alike. "It felt like an execution."
Daemon maintained his expression of clinical detachment, as if they were merely discussing a minor flaw in a mathematical equation. He rotated the sheathed Chokuto resting across his lap, allowing the faint light to catch the dark, glossy resin of the scabbard.
"Your question regarding 'why so many had to die' is fundamentally flawed, Jonas. It implies that we had a moral obligation to leave them alive to regroup, retreat, or attempt to overwhelm us," Daemon stated, his tone flat and utterly devoid of emotion. "Morality is a luxury afforded to those with overwhelming, guaranteed force. We were not overwhelming. We were four students—expendable assets—sent to do a low-priority job for a new Empire. Our objective was simple: complete the mission and survive. To ensure those two variables, we needed to create a situation of absolute, instant tactical dominance."
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing. "We faced nearly five times our number. Every man left alive behind us was a potential threat to our backs, our carriage, and our families. To choose restraint in that situation is not moral; it is suicidal negligence."
"But the surrender was early," Mikael argued, rubbing his temples, trying to find a logical foothold in Daemon's grim calculus. "We neutralized the immediate threat after the second canister. We could have used Earth magic to bind them, or Wind to disarm them after the second explosion. We are mages—we have non-lethal options."
"And risk having a rogue mage breach the weak bonds, or having a dozen armed thugs recover their weapons and rush our position while we focus our limited Aether reserves on containment?" Daemon scoffed, the sound devoid of humor and filled with cold finality. "That is sentimental folly, Mikael. That is the mentality that gets you killed in a real conflict. We used limited resources to achieve maximum results. We were operating under a massive deficit of numbers and political backing. What would the Imperial Academy have done if we had failed? They would send another team, or perhaps no team at all, deeming the territory lost. By ending the threat immediately and absolutely, we satisfied the objective with minimal risk to ourselves. That is the definition of efficiency."
He paused, letting the cold, hard reality of his utilitarian logic sink into their exhausted, moral core. "Look at the result. We won. We are alive. We secured the region. The fact that sixteen survived is sufficient for Imperial purposes. They are alive to be interrogated, and their numbers are low enough to be easily managed by the regional guard. The seventy who died are a resource that can no longer threaten the Empire, or us. Do you prefer fighting eighty bandits in an escalating siege over three days, or dealing with sixteen terrified prisoners in twenty minutes?"
Daemon's gaze intensified, forcing them to confront the terrifying trade-off. "The truth is, gentlemen, your lives are more valuable than theirs. My methods ensured that truth remained intact."
His tone then shifted, becoming even more commanding and conspiratorial. "Now, this brings me to my directive. Those copper canisters—the 'mini-bombs'—and the extreme cutting power of this blade are our greatest advantages. They are our secrets. The Imperial Academy, and especially the nobility, must not know the true nature of those devices."
He lowered his voice further, leaning toward them until the urgency of his words filled the carriage. "They are intensely interested in unique magical affinities, but an untraceable, non-magical, explosive chemical force is an advantage they will either try to immediately reverse-engineer or, more likely, confiscate and claim for their own private military research. If they know the secret, we lose our edge. We become less valuable, and thus, more expendable."
He looked at each of them individually, his gaze unwavering and serious. "You will report the following: The breach was made primarily by Jonas's Earth magic. The casualties were caused by a combination of my extreme Fire affinity—magnified by specialized concentration runes—and Mikael and Helga's disruptive spells. You will say the large number of casualties resulted from the bandits trying to flee through the breach and getting caught in the residual heat. You will state that the extreme temperature of my blade is merely a side effect of a specialized focus rune I developed. You will not mention the existence of copper canisters or black powder."
He let the final command settle, a clear, unmistakable order. "The canisters do not exist. This silence is necessary for the continuation of our strategic viability."
Jonas sighed deeply, running a hand through his soot-streaked hair. He looked at the trembling Helga, then at the nervous Mikael, and finally back at the unfeeling executioner across from him. Daemon had effectively forced them into an inescapable ethical corner: his methods were ruthless and monstrous, but they undeniably worked, and they were the only reason the team was returning alive.
"We understand, Daemon," Jonas conceded, the title sounding more like a reluctant acknowledgment of rank and tactical necessity than a simple name. "The canisters don't exist. The death toll was... necessary for mission guarantee."
Daemon nodded once, satisfied. The moral debate was closed, and his absolute tactical dominance over the group was secured. He returned to his silent vigil, already plotting how to refine his chemical formula and what restricted access he would demand as payment for his successful service once they delivered the sixteen broken prisoners to the Imperial authorities. He had traded the lives of seventy men for the security of his three teammates and the guaranteed progression of his own career. To Daemon, it was a perfectly executed transaction.