The muddy field camp was veiled in mist like a pale curtain. Rain had fallen the day before, and the ground was still damp. Dust, kicked up by soldiers' tangled footprints, hovered in patches. Between the tents, a few soldiers tended to their crossbows. In the distance, a canteen steamed on a frame of iron poles. And in the center of it all, Ren walked silently, clad in a gray cloak.

  For a mercenary, he carried weight even within the unit. Rough around the edges as expected—but in his eyes, always faster than words, was the sharpness of judgment.

  “Ren. Command's calling.”

  The voice came from a nearby tent—a sergeant poked his head out cautiously, belt holding nothing but a standard-issue dagger. No runner. No formality. Just the mark of urgency.

  Ren took a small breath, adjusted the hem of his cloak, and turned toward the tent's rear.

  When Ren entered the briefing room, it was already crowded. No-frills, as typical for the Republic. Gray cloth draped the windows, boot prints smeared the floor, and in the center stretched a large map of the front line.

  At that moment, Brack—seated at the far end—lifted his head and pointed at Ren.

  “There. I called for him.”

  A few heads turned sharply. A mercenary. A former imperial officer.

  The room chilled fast, but Brack paid it no mind. He stood calmly and said,

  “This operation has little time and even fewer opportunities. For field assessment, I believed an outside eye was necessary.”

  A middle-aged officer on the left—a regular from the Republic’s forces and official commander of the op—frowned at Brack’s words. Though lower in rank on paper, he was the one leading this mission.

  His eyes swept Ren from head to toe.

  “A mercenary in a tactical meeting... That’s not common.”

  Brack’s tone was indifferent.

  “Which is why he’s valuable. Hear him out before judging.”

  Ren said nothing. He stepped forward and examined the map. The enemy supply depot lay circled in red ink on the northern edge of the empire’s defense line.

  An aide gave a quick summary.

  “Recon report: Cavalry partially withdrawn. Defense currently estimated at less than half strength. Attack may be possible. However, cannot rule out bait.”

  The field commander interjected.

  “So, what’s the plan? Our forces are limited. If they’re baiting us, we’d be fools to walk in.”

  Brack raised a hand.

  “Mercenary Ren has a proposal. Let him explain.”

  Silence again. Ren began to speak.

  “We divide forces. A small team will feint from the front to draw attention. No full engagement—just keep them busy. Meanwhile, the strike force circles behind the ridge to hit the depot’s rear.”

  He pointed at a location on the map.

  “There’s an abandoned mine behind the ridge. It’s difficult terrain, but not impassable. If we use the route right, we can slip through their blind spot.”

  The commander crossed his arms.

  “That splits our strength. If the front collapses, they’re cut off.”

  Ren nodded calmly.

  “That’s why timing is critical. The rear team only attacks once the front has drawn attention. Avoid prolonged contact. Fast entry. Fast exit.”

  Brack stepped in again.

  “This could destabilize their supply chain with minimal losses. We don’t need to push too far—we just need to take the chance.”

  The officer sighed.

  “Fine. We’ll adopt the framework. But troop assignments and execution will be decided here. We’ll determine who leads what.”

  Ren bowed without a word. That meant the plan might be executed differently than he envisioned.

  Brack gave him a small nod. That was the limit of what he could push.

  As the evening mist began to lift beneath the ridge, the tension within the ranks tightened.

  The unit assigned to press the front moved first, advancing up the northern slope. Leading them was Major Havel—a man clad in thick armor and skilled only with words. In real battles, his orders spilled more blood than they saved. The operation manual he carried had Brack’s signature, but whether he intended to follow it was doubtful.

  Watching from afar, Ren murmured,

  “Men who fight with words never smell blood.”

  Kyle gave a short, crooked laugh and leaned in.

  “Strange, isn’t it? Nights like this, you’re always up sharpening your gear. But today, quiet as a grave.”

  Ren glanced at Kyle but said nothing. Kyle’s voice lowered slightly.

  “After this, I’m really going. For real this time. Back to Leorant. Remember? That sleepy town, all talk and no fights.”

  Ren let out a soft breath and nodded.

  “Three years, you’ve been saying that.”

  His eyes shifted toward the officer supposedly commanding this strike team. A lieutenant—technically from the regular army, but to Ren, he looked more like a paper-pusher than a soldier. His silence was long, his decisions slow, and worst of all, he lacked the tension of someone going into battle.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Ren checked his gear again and sighed. Though he’d helped design the plan, the regulars still held command.

  “The troops are solid. Gear’s in good shape,” Kyle offered.

  “But the ones giving orders? Not so much. The real question is who decides what and when—and this one’s got no instinct.”

  Ren didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the distant fog-covered depot. The rear assault would have to come through a narrow mountain path beyond the old mine. The front line, overloaded with forces, was a strategic blunder—either cowardice or someone chasing glory. Whatever the reason, it left this unit relatively free—and that was Ren’s only window.

  The lieutenant finally appeared, voice quiet, orders hesitant.

  “Approach route confirmed. East slope under the cliffs—narrow ledge.”

  He trailed off. It sounded more like a report than a decision.

  Ren scanned the soldiers around him. Even now, he knew—this mission would not unfold as originally planned.

  Beyond the ridge, the air hung heavy.

  Drops of dew still clung to the leaves as soldiers crouched low, moving in silence. Not a single crunch of a leaf or snap of a twig—just the slow advance of bodies pressed close to the earth.

  Ahead, the Empire’s rear approach to the depot came into view. Quiet. Only two or three sentries were visible.

  “Lighter than we thought,” Kyle whispered.

  Ren nodded. “But a little too quiet, don’t you think?”

  Kyle’s eyes sharpened.

  “If the front’s doing its job, we’re right where we’re most vulnerable.”

  That was all Ren needed to say. The situation was clear. So far, the plan seemed to be working.

  Major Havel’s unit was causing enough ruckus to draw attention. The depot’s rear looked unguarded—but whether it was oversight or bait, they didn’t yet know.

  Ren raised his hand, signaling silently.

  The soldiers moved, some veering left, others right to flank. Ren led the central group toward the depot’s rear wall.

  They moved like shadows. Thirty paces. Twenty. Then his hand sliced the air.

  Stop.

  All froze.

  No wind. No birds. Just silence.

  Ren clenched his hand.

  Go.

  They surged forward. Quiet, but fierce.

  Daggers out. Crossbows drawn. Orders whispered only in their minds.

  A window shattered.

  A guard cried out—his voice snuffed before it could echo.

  By the time the third group reached the door, it was open.

  “Keep the pace!” Ren barked.

  The soldiers poured in. Inside, seconds mattered.

  Kyle shoved a comrade forward.

  “Right side! That’s where they stash the weapons!”

  Then came the metallic clunk.

  The enemy had begun to react.

  The real fight was starting.

  Inside, the depot was larger than expected—split down the center by thick wooden pillars. Crates lined narrow aisles, stockpiled with supplies. The architecture amplified every sound, turning each footstep into an echo.

  The first guards had already been taken down. Then came the shout.

  “Rear breach! Intruders!”

  No sooner had the cry sounded than imperial soldiers rushed down the corridor, spears ready.

  Ren moved first. He pressed against the left wall and—

  Click!

  He fired his crossbow. The bolt pierced the first attacker’s throat. No scream—just a fall.

  “Clear the front line! Hold the rear!” Ren shouted.

  Left unit fanned out, pressing along the flanks. Right unit toppled crates to form a barricade.

  The depot turned into a warzone.

  Ren drew his dagger and dashed into the fray.

  His movements held the discipline of imperial training—but layered with grit earned through mercenary life. Not elegant. Just lethal.

  He dodged a spear and shoulder-checked the attacker, then followed with a stab to the side and a shove to the ground.

  “Kyle! Left—three more with spears!”

  Ren pivoted with a slide, hugging the wall.

  A crossbow bolt whistled past. Kyle lunged, grappling one soldier and ripping away his weapon.

  They were still holding—but movement stirred deeper within the depot.

  “This has to end fast,” Ren muttered, blade rising once more.

  A soldier lunged from behind a pillar.

  Ren turned instinctively, deflecting the dagger with his forearm. Then, drawing a hatchet from his belt—

  “Haah!”

  He struck beneath the man’s jaw.

  Blood splattered. Ren stepped again.

  His footfalls landed in puddles of blood. The depot echoed with breath, steel, and screams.

  “Ren! Left door’s open—reinforcements!” Kyle shouted.

  Ren spun. More soldiers were pouring in from a side door.

  This couldn’t drag on.

  “We’re not holding—we’re clearing! Finish it now!” Ren bellowed.

  There were only a handful of enemies left inside.

  Most had been neutralized. Corpses slumped against the walls. Blood and smoke clung to the air.

  Kyle approached, panting. His left arm was slashed, blood soaking into the cloth.

  “It’s done. That should be enough, right?”

  Ren scanned the depot. A few supply stacks remained untouched, and a breeze slipped in from the rear exit.

  Then—thwack!

  An arrow sliced the air.

  Through the broken window came a red flare, streaking high above. Ren’s eyes widened.

  “What…?”

  It wasn’t from the frontal force.

  That flare signaled: operation complete, retreat immediately.

  But everyone knew the supplies weren’t burned yet.

  Kyle blinked. “Did… we fire that? No way…”

  Someone burst in through the entrance.

  The lieutenant, face pale.

  “Ren, I gave the retreat signal! We need to move in sync with the front—now’s the time—”

  “What?”

  Ren almost grabbed the man by the collar.

  “We haven’t torched the supplies. You call this complete? Do you even know what’s happening?”

  The lieutenant stammered.

  “The front was quiet, no enemy movement… I just—sent it a little early—”

  “Little early?” Ren snapped.

  “That ‘little’ gets us killed.”

  Then came the sound—hoofbeats.

  Warning calls rang out. From beyond the slope, imperial reinforcements advanced. Cavalry cutting through mist. Foot soldiers behind.

  “Damn it—burn it now!”

  Ren shouted.

  “Set the supplies ablaze!”

  Kyle gave him a quick look, then nodded.

  “Once we do… there won’t be much time to run.”

  “That flare already stole our time.”

  Ren waved his hand toward the troops.

  “Exit south slope! The path’s narrow, but least guarded. If we scatter now, it’s over. Stay tight!”

  The soldiers moved. Flame caught the crates. Smoke curled into the air.

  Ren glanced once more at the lieutenant—fumbling with a map.

  “Out of my way.”

  He shoved past, sprinting toward the exit. The others followed. Smoke cloaked the rear. The enemy's outline sharpened in the fog.

  “Push front! Right flank! Keep pace!”

  The squad surged forward. Then—yelling from the front.

  “I’m out! I’m going back!”

  It was the lieutenant. Trying to flee down a side path.

  Thwip—thud!

  An arrow struck his neck. No scream. Just collapse.

  Ren didn’t look back.

  “Forward! Follow me!”

  He drew his sword and led the charge.

  Spears glinted. Cavalry surged through the mist. Ren ducked a horse, slashing low—cutting at its leg. The rider fell. Soldiers followed the gap.

  “Ren! Right!”

  Kyle’s voice.

  Instinctively, Ren twisted. A spear scraped his shoulder. Then—another voice.

  “Ren…!”

  He turned.

  It was Kyle.

  A spear pierced his chest. Blood rose to his mouth. He clutched a small pouch in one hand.

  “Leorant… my sister, Roa…”

  He couldn’t finish.

  Ren reached out. Kyle handed him the pouch with his last strength.

  “Kyle!”

  No reply.

  He crumpled to the ground.

  There was no time to mourn.

  Ren tied the bloodied pouch to his belt.

  “Move! Cut a path!”

  The squad charged. Ren at the lead.

  Horses thundered. Steel flashed.

  Ren inhaled deeply. Buckler on his left arm. Blade in his right.

  He ducked another horse, striking its thigh. It screamed. Rider toppled.

  Ren stabbed under the helmet—clean.

  Another enemy thrust a spear.

  Ren swerved. Drew his crossbow.

  Thump. The bolt struck the man’s throat.

  Blood, smoke, and sweat filled his lungs.

  “Right flank! Break through now!”

  He barked. The remaining soldiers followed.

  More shouts echoed. Another cavalry unit closed in.

  Ren turned. Only a dozen remained.

  “Scatter! Follow terrain! Regroup behind the river hill!”

  He yelled.

  The soldiers scattered—some to the forest, some downhill.

  Ren stayed back, checking the escape route. Then looked once more at the depot.

  Flames rose.

  A shadow lingered in the firelight.

  Ren vanished into the dark.

  The flames faded.

  That night’s battle was over.

  Three days later, Ren returned to the main camp.

  His boots sank into the muck, but his stride was steady. What he couldn’t carry back—fallen comrades, the banner he’d never raised—stayed buried in the mud.

  A staff officer waited at the entrance, clad in scout fatigues, flipping through a thin folder.

  “Ren. Survivor from the strike team.”

  He spoke flatly.

  “We’ve received your report. According to the logs, the front unit withdrew the moment the signal was confirmed—no standby, immediate retreat.”

  He flipped another page.

  “Major Havel claims the front was quiet, and so he saw no need to delay the withdrawal.”

  Ren finally spoke.

  “The signal was supposed to come after the burn. There was a buffer window. But they moved as soon as they saw it. Minutes later, imperial cavalry swept the slope.”

  The officer glanced at the file, then replied.

  “Miscalculation, perhaps. On-site judgments… we only see the truth after the fact. We go by the official report.”

  Ren lifted his head.

  His face was calm. But something deep stirred in his gaze.

  “Then I’m not in the report, am I.”

  The officer closed the folder without answering.

  There was no “Ren” in that one sheet of paper. No name. No one to blame. The strike team had been marked as an expected loss.

  Ren didn’t ask again. Nor did he speak further.

  In a tent corner, Brack sat amid unsigned forms and torn operation briefs.

  When Ren entered, Brack looked up slowly.

  “You’re back.”

  Ren gave a faint nod. Brack went on.

  “Command has made their decision. The op’s being filed as a ‘command failure.’ The blame… lies with the strike team.”

  Ren’s expression didn’t change.

  “So?”

  Brack slid over a form.

  “Your name was removed from the payroll. They’ve frozen your compensation. ‘Pending review due to mission failure.’ That’s the phrasing.”

  Ren stared at the paper, then raised his head.

  “The front retreated early. We were left behind. The mission may have failed, but the soldiers could’ve been saved. Major Havel gave that order.”

  Brack nodded slowly.

  “I know. But Havel’s regular army. He has a staff officer backing him. And political ties. A mercenary captain… doesn’t get protected.”

  Ren fell silent. In that pause, the battle returned in memory.

  “We broke through first. We lost first.”

  Brack said nothing.

  “I carry the blame. For them, it was just another failed op.”

  Brack sighed.

  “Even in the Republic, politics stain the ranks. Paper gets stamped. Blame gets buried.”

  Ren nodded.

  Brack looked at him.

  “What will you do now?”

  Ren didn’t answer at first. The question hung in the air like smoke. Then he lowered his gaze, and after a breath, said quietly:

  “…I’m leaving the army.”

  Brack gave a small nod. He wasn’t surprised. He’d expected it.

  “I figured as much.”

  Ren reached for his belt. A pouch still stained with blood. Inside—a worn pendant. A folded scrap of paper. He felt its weight.

  Then turned away.

  Brack didn’t stop him.

  Leorant.

  A journey with no plan. No destination.

  But one direction, at least.