Silence came before the counting.
Not true silence—there were still distant guns, still the crack of rifles far off—but here, on what was left of the field, it felt like the world had… stopped.
Smoke drifted low over the ground.
Bodies lay where they had fallen.
Some twisted. Some still.
Most unrecognizable.
The boy stood there, unmoving.
His ears still rang. His hands still trembled, though he couldn't feel it anymore. Everything felt distant. Like he was standing outside his own body, watching someone else survive.
"…How many?" someone asked.
No one answered.
Krans was a few steps ahead of him, staring across the field. His usual grin was gone.
"Five thousand…" a voice said weakly. "There were five thousand of us…"
Another voice finished it.
"…We're not even a thousand now."
No one corrected him.
They didn't need to.
The boy swallowed, his throat dry.
"Six hundred," someone muttered. "Maybe less."
A bitter laugh broke out—short, sharp, wrong.
"That's not a unit anymore," the same voice said. "That's leftovers."
Krans exhaled slowly.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Leftovers."
Behind them, boots crunched against dirt.
The commander.
Alive.
Untouched.
"Form up!" the commander shouted, his voice cutting through the haze. "Regroup immediately! We need to prepare for the next engagement!"
No one moved.
The boy felt something shift in the air—not magic, not sound.
Something heavier.
The commander stepped forward, anger rising in his voice.
"Did you not hear me?! FORM UP!"
Still nothing.
A soldier nearby let out a hollow laugh.
"Form up?" he repeated. "With what?"
The commander's face tightened.
"With what remains of this unit," he snapped. "You failed to maintain formation. You broke under pressure—"
"That's not what happened."
Krans.
The boy's head turned.
Krans hadn't raised his voice. But somehow, it cut deeper than the commander's shouting.
The commander looked at him.
"And you are?"
Krans didn't answer the question.
"You told us to advance," he said instead. "No cover. No visibility. While they already had range on us."
"That was a necessary tactical decision—"
"It was a mistake."
The word landed hard.
A few soldiers shifted. No one spoke.
The commander's expression darkened.
"Careful," he said. "You are speaking to your superior."
Krans took a step forward.
"So act like one."
The air tightened.
The boy felt his chest lock up.
"Stand down," the commander said coldly. "That is an order."
Krans didn't move.
"You got them killed," Krans continued. His voice was still calm—but now there was something under it. Something sharp. "You didn't know what you were doing, and you still gave the order."
"That is enough."
"You sent them out there to die for nothing."
"I said that is enough!"
The commander stepped forward, hand moving toward his sidearm.
The motion was small.
But everyone saw it.
And something in Krans snapped.
"You don't get to blame them."
The gunshot came before anyone could react.
Sharp. Final.
The commander froze.
For a second, it looked like nothing had happened.
Then—
He collapsed.
Silence.
Real silence this time.
The boy's breath caught in his throat.
Krans stood there, arm still raised, smoke trailing from the barrel.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Even the wind felt like it had stopped.
"…He deserved that," someone whispered.
Another voice followed.
"…Yeah."
But not everyone agreed.
"DROP YOUR WEAPON!"
The shout came from behind.
The boy turned.
A group of soldiers—loyalists—rifles raised, faces tense, angry.
"Krans!" the boy shouted.
Krans didn't lower his gun.
For the first time since the battle started—
He looked tired.
Not scared.
Not panicked.
Just… tired.
"…Figures," Krans muttered.
He glanced back at the boy.
For a moment, the chaos, the bodies, the war—
None of it mattered.
Just that look.
"You're going to be fine," Krans said.
The boy shook his head, panic rising. "Krans—don't—"
"I told you before," Krans continued, like he wasn't even hearing him. "I'm not dying because some idiot told me to."
His grip tightened slightly on the gun.
A faint, crooked smile appeared.
"But this?"
A small pause.
"…This one's mine."
"FIRE!"
The shots rang out.
The boy flinched—
Too late.
Krans jerked as the bullets hit, his body stumbling backward before collapsing onto the dirt.
The sound echoed.
Then faded.
The boy couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
He just stared.
At the place where Krans had been standing.
At the place where he wasn't anymore.
Around him, voices started again—shouting, arguing, orders being thrown—but they sounded distant. Muffled. Meaningless.
All he could hear—
Was that last line.
This one's mine.
The boy's hands slowly tightened into fists.
Something inside him twisted.
Not grief.
Not yet.
Something colder.
Something heavier.
For the first time since the war began—
He understood something clearly.
It wasn't the enemy that killed most of them.
It was the people leading them.
And for the first time—
He didn't feel afraid.
He felt angry.