Leo woke up. His jaw throbbed like he'd been kicked by a horse.
He was in a tent that smelled of herbs and something rotten—festering wounds. Beside him lay a soldier with no left leg, the stump wrapped in filthy bandages, his face pale as chalk.
Leo wanted to vomit.
"You're awake." That voice. The Commander.
Albert stood at the tent entrance, the morning sun behind him rendering his face in shadow.
"C-Commander—"
"Follow me. This is the second lesson."
Albert turned and walked out. Leo forced his body upright. His jaw ached. His head spun. But he got up, trailing behind like a lost puppy.
They walked past rows of tents. The faint smell from before grew stronger. An odor that defied description—sweet, rotten, metallic, all merging into one. Leo held his breath, but couldn't. The air entered, and his stomach churned.
"This is the recovery tent." Albert's voice was flat, like a tour guide describing a sightseeing spot. "Here, the lightly wounded are treated. Moderate cases get sent to the rear if possible. The severely wounded—" he pointed to the tent ahead, "—over there."
They entered.
The smell hit him first. Rotting. Piercing his nostrils, sliding down his throat, making him choke. His eyes stung. He coughed but couldn't stop.
Then he saw.
Not soldiers—former soldiers. Lying on straw mats, lined up without spacing. Some were still, eyes open staring at the empty ceiling. Some moaned softly. Some didn't move at all.
A man near the entrance—maybe thirty years old—had lost both legs from the thigh. The stumps were wrapped in dirty cloth, but the cloth was wet, red, and at the edges, something moved. Like maggots but not quite.
Leo stepped back. His back hit the tent pole.
Beside that man, another lay on his side. His face was swollen—not ordinary swelling, but balloon-like, skin stretched tight, purplish-red. His eyes were slits, unable to open fully. His breathing was heavy, noisy, like water in his lungs.
"Infection," Albert said, as if reading his thoughts. "Small wound, but dirty. A few days later, swelling, fever, then death. No cure."
Leo wanted to run. But he couldn't.
They walked deeper. A soldier with no left arm, the stump blackened. One with no eyes, the sockets hollow, still breathing. One with his stomach wrapped in cloth, but the cloth was wet, and beneath it, something moved—maybe intestines, maybe maggots, Leo didn't want to know.
A man—young, maybe Leo's age—lay with both hands clenched. His eyes were open, but unseeing. His mouth twitched, whispering, calling a name. "Mother... mother... cold..."
No blanket. No one listening.
Leo stopped. His knees gave way. His hand reached for something—a tent pole, anything—but found nothing. He slid down, nearly collapsing.
Albert stopped. Turned. Looked at him.
"Come on."
Leo shook his head. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
Albert waited a moment. Then he turned and walked out.
Leo, body trembling, forced himself to follow. Leaving that tent, leaving that horrific smell, leaving the sounds of moaning. But the smell lingered in his nose. The nausea lingered in his stomach.
***
Outside, the fresh air hit like a slap. Leo inhaled deeply, over and over, until his head spun.
Albert didn't wait. He was already walking toward another direction—a stone building near the wall. A former warehouse, now a temporary prison.
Leo followed in silence.
The warehouse door opened. Another smell—human waste, sweat, fear. Inside, makeshift cells of wood and iron. In each cell, several Leandria prisoners. Their faces were hollow, eyes sunken. Some sat motionless. Some slept. Some stared at them with hatred.
Albert stopped before one cell. Two prisoners inside. One old, one young. The young one—maybe twenty years old—sat in the corner, knees drawn to his chest.
"Open it," Albert ordered the guard.
The guard unlatched the lock, swung the door open. Albert entered. Leo followed, unsure what to do.
Albert pointed at the young prisoner. "You. Out."
The young man stared at him. His eyes—brown, wet, terrified. He didn't move.
Albert drew a short sword from the guard's belt. An ordinary sword, ordinary iron. He offered it to Leo.
Leo stared at the sword. Wooden hilt, half-meter blade, sharp tip. There was still a stain near the base—dried blood.
"Kill him."
Leo heard the words, but they didn't reach his brain. "W—what?"
"Kill him." Albert's voice was as flat as if discussing the weather. "You want to be a soldier? This is the primary requirement."
Leo stared at the prisoner. The Leandria youth was trembling now, eyes wide, lips quivering. He retreated, hitting the cell wall. No escape.
"I... I can't..."
"You think war is about heroic shouting and receiving praise?" Albert didn't raise his voice, wasn't angry. Just asking. "This is war. You kill them, or they kill you. Simple."
Leo still didn't move. His hands trembled. The sword felt heavy—not physically, but with another kind of weight.
The prisoner began to whimper. Not words—just sounds, pure fear sounds, escaping his throat uncontrollably. His eyes were wet. His body slid into the corner, hands covering his face.
"Mercy... mercy... I... I'm a farmer... forced... I..."
Leo heard those words. Farmer. Forced. Just like him... Just like the other levies.
"Leo."
Albert's voice cut through.
Leo turned. His commander's face hadn't changed.
His hand trembled. The sword wavered.
The prisoner kept whimpering. "I... I have a little sister... ten years old... who will—"
Leo stepped forward.
Not because he was brave, not because he was angry. But because if he didn't move now, he would faint again, or run, or go insane. And he had already decided to follow his commander.
The sword thrust forward.
Not accurate. Not like soldiers in storybooks. He aimed for the chest, but his hand shook, the blade went wide, striking the shoulder. The prisoner screamed—not a heroic war cry, but a scream of pain, high-pitched, piercing.
Leo pulled the sword back. Blood sprayed, warm, hitting his face. It felt...
The prisoner fell sideways, clutching his shoulder, screaming. "NO! NO!"
Leo slashed again.
This time it caught the neck—but not deep. Just a gash. More blood sprayed. The prisoner crawled, trying to flee, but there was nowhere to go. His body hit the wall.
Leo slashed again. And again. And again.
No beautiful movements. No technique. Just panicked swings, over and over, pounding a body that no longer moved. Blood splattered everywhere—walls, floor, Leo's face, Leo's clothes.
In the cell corner, the old prisoner closed his eyes, whispering prayers. The guard outside watched with an expression mixing disgust and boredom.
Albert stood by the door, silent, watching.
Five slashes. Ten slashes. Fifteen slashes.
Leo stopped when the body before him was no longer recognizable. Flesh, bone, blood—all merged into a red lump in the cell corner.
The sword fell from his hand. Clanged against the stone floor.
He turned, ran outside, and vomited.
First vomit—last night's food, yellow fluid, sour smell. Second vomit—just liquid, stomach convulsing. Third vomit—dry, painful, his body shaking.
He knelt on the ground, tears mixing with saliva, his entire frame trembling.
Behind him, footsteps. Albert emerged from the warehouse, stopping beside him. Looking down at him.
Five minutes. Maybe ten. Leo couldn't count. He just shook, cried, vomited until there was nothing left to vomit.
Finally, he stopped. Just sat on the ground, knees bent, head lowered. His breath came in ragged, hitched gasps.
He heard Albert's voice. "Finished?"
Leo lifted his head. His face was filthy—blood, tears, vomit, all mixed. His eyes were red.
"Y-yes... Commander."
Albert looked at him without expression.
Leo forced himself to stand. His knees buckled, nearly collapsing. But he stood. Upright. His eyes sought Albert's.
"Your order has been carried out," he said. His voice was hoarse, cracking on some words. But clear.
Albert nodded.
Then he turned and walked away, leaving Leo in front of the prison warehouse, with the smell of blood in his nose and the warm sensation on his hands that would never fade.
***
That night, Albert sat in his office.
Empty desk. A nearly spent candle. Outside, the sound of crickets and the occasional footsteps of patrols on the wall.
His hand reached for the leather pouch at his waist—his feltwort pouch. Fumbled inside. Felt its contents.
Empty.
He reached deeper. Still empty. Untied the cord, turned the pouch over, dumped its contents onto the desk.
No cigar. No rolled papers. Nothing.
Two years. A thousand sticks. He'd always had reserves. The fields in Götthain, harvest every season, regular shipments from his father. But war, travel, village evacuations—who knew where the last shipment had gone.
He sat still. His hand still holding the empty pouch.
Outside, crickets. Inside, silence.
He set the pouch down.
His hand began to tremble. Just slightly. Almost imperceptibly. But he knew.
Not withdrawal. Not yet. Just... anxiety. Habit. A missing ritual.
He stood. Walked to the window. Stared at the dark city. Vallenwood slept in vigilance. In the distance, campfires in the military encampments.
His hand reached for his waist, searching for something.
He returned to his desk. Sat. Opened a drawer—empty. Checked his bag—empty.
Empty...
In his head, images began to spin. The medical tent from earlier. That prisoner. Leo vomiting. The faces of those who had died these past two years. Klaus. Stefan. Lukas. Gerold. Gerda. And hundreds more.
His old comrades Dmytro, Ghost, and Marko stared at him with cold, indifferent eyes. Their bodies were shattered and covered in blood.
They danced in his head, unceasing, merciless.
Albert closed his eyes. Breathed in. Exhaled.
His hand still trembled.
"Damn... I'm starting—to lose control..." he muttered unconsciously.