Morning in the lower barracks was not announced.
There were no trumpets. No shouted orders. No gradual change of light to give the body time to adjust.
The crystal lamps flared to full brightness all at once.
Some men woke gasping for air. Others simply opened their eyes and stared at the ceiling, as if they had never truly slept.
Gunther was already awake.
He had been sitting since the first cannon thunder of the night finally faded. His back remained against the wall, the gray blanket neatly folded on his lap. There were no dreams. No memories surfacing. Only silence, broken at intervals by distant vibrations from above.
Bootsteps approached.
The same guard stood at the barracks entrance.
"Up."
One word.
Enough.
They rose.
Not together. Not neatly. But fast enough to avoid the iron club hanging at the guard's side.
Food was distributed in the corridor.
A thick gray porridge ladled into dented metal bowls. The smell of stale grain mixed with something bitter. Gunther tasted a little, then forced himself to swallow.
He needed strength.
Outside the barracks, the air changed again.
The stone corridor opened into a narrow courtyard surrounded by high walls. From above, morning light fell straight down, broken by iron grates. This was where they lined up.
Another officer waited.
Younger.
His face was still intact—unshaped by time and decisions. His uniform was too clean for the front lines.
He held a metal slate.
"Expendable unit," he said, reading without looking at them.
"You move in ten minutes."
A pause.
"Anyone who can't walk, leave them."
No one moved.
Gunther felt the faint pulse in his chest again. It hadn't appeared suddenly—it had been there since last night—but now it was clearer, as if his body understood what was coming.
They were armed after that.
Not standard swords.
Not military spears.
Each man received a short blade—too heavy to be a knife, too short to be a sword—and a thin metal shield bearing old cracks.
Used equipment.
Repaired without care.
Gunther weighed the blade in his hand.
Its mass pulled his arm downward, forcing his shoulder to tense. The grip was slick with old oil. He adjusted his hold, searching for a balance the weapon had never been designed to have.
In the distance, the outer gate opened.
Light flooded in.
The smell of wet earth.
And something else.
Smoke.
The cannons roared again.
This time, the sound came from ahead.
The young officer raised his hand.
"Move."
The line advanced.
As they left the shadow of Galmasca's walls and stepped fully into the light, Gunther narrowed his eyes.
Ahead, the battlefield stretched out.
Shattered ground.
Shallow trenches.
And bodies that no longer moved.
The war wasn't waiting for them.
The war was already there.
The first step onto a battlefield is always the most honest.
There was no formation.
The moment the expendable line passed through the gate, screams broke out to the left. Not commands—screams. Someone fell into a shallow trench, his body striking the ground with a dull sound. He did not rise.
The young officer didn't turn.
"Keep moving," he said, his voice nearly drowned by the thunder.
Mana cannons detonated in the distance.
The air shuddered.
Gunther stumbled as the ground ahead collapsed slightly. He braced with his shield, his knee slamming into hard earth. Pain flared—sharp, fast—then settled into a steady throb.
He got up.
Not because he was ordered.
Because stopping meant death.
The first arrow passed overhead.
No one saw where it came from.
The boy from the barracks—the one with the unevenly shaved hair—screamed as the second arrow buried itself in his thigh. He fell, clawing at the ground, blood darkening between his fingers almost instantly.
No one turned back.
Gunther passed him.
He didn't look at the boy's face.
He only heard the breath turn into sobs.
The pulse in his chest tightened.
The pain grew, as if something inside him were being forced to move without knowing how.
The enemy emerged from the smoke.
Not monsters.
Men.
Their uniforms were different. Lighter. Darker. Their eyes were wide—afraid, just like the expendables.
There were no battle cries.
They collided.
Gunther's short blade struck something soft.
He didn't realize what it was at first.
Then warmth.
Too warm.
The man before him staggered, clutching his chest, mouth open without sound. Blood streamed between his fingers, dripping onto ground already soaked by old rain and other fluids.
Gunther froze for a fraction of a second.
Long enough to almost die.
An impact slammed into his shield, knocking him sideways. He fell, rolling uncontrollably, the world becoming sky—ground—smoke.
When he stopped moving, his breath came in ragged gasps.
The man he had stabbed was no longer moving.
His eyes were open.
Empty.
Gunther stared back.
There was no victory there.
Only an ending.
The pulse in his chest exploded.
Pain surged through his body, narrowing his vision. He clenched his teeth, holding back the scream clawing at his throat.
He forced himself upright.
Around him, expendables fell one by one.
Behind them, Galmasca's walls stood unmoving.
Uncaring.
Gunther raised his blade again.
His hand shook.
Not from fear.
From a body learning something it was never meant to have.
And that lesson was paid for in blood.
The assault did not end with an order.
It faded.
Slowly.
Like a fire running out of fuel.
Screams grew sparse. The detonations drifted away. Smoke thinned, leaving air heavy with the stench of mana powder and warm blood.
Gunther stood unsteadily among scattered bodies.
Some still moved.
Most did not.
His shield was cracked along one side. The short blade in his hand was stained dark red, uneven in color. He couldn't remember when he had last gripped it tightly. His arm muscles trembled—not from exhaustion, but from tension with nowhere left to go.
"The living, to the center."
The order came from behind.
The young officer finally approached, his boots avoiding pools of blood with almost polite care. He made notes on his metal slate as he walked.
Gunther stepped forward.
Every step felt wrong.
The ground clung to his soles, making soft sounds each time he lifted his foot. He didn't look at the bodies he passed. There was no need. He already knew what he'd see.
Those who remained gathered.
Less than half.
A man with a shoulder wound pressed a bandage far too small against it. Blood continued to seep between his fingers. Another crouched, clutching his abdomen, breathing in short, shallow bursts.
The boy from the barracks was not among them.
Gunther did not look for him.
The young officer stopped before the small group.
"Expendable unit," he said again.
His tone hadn't changed.
"You have fulfilled your function."
He glanced toward the field behind them.
"This area is secure."
Some stared at him in confusion.
Secure.
The word felt foreign.
"Take those who can walk," he continued. "Those who can't—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
Two guards moved in, dragging bodies that still breathed but could not stand. Short screams sounded, then cut off as rough hands covered mouths.
Gunther clenched his fist.
The pulse in his chest returned.
Stronger.
Deeper.
The pain made his vision quiver. He drew a slow breath, forcing himself upright. No one noticed. No one cared.
They walked back toward the gate.
The battlefield was abandoned like a worksite already used up.
Behind them, some bodies still moved.
No one stopped.
When Galmasca's walls enclosed them again, the sounds of battle felt distant—as if happening in another world.
The lower barracks greeted them with the same cold.
The crystal lamps burned steadily.
No flicker.
As if nothing had changed.
Gunther sat on his bed.
He set the blade on the floor, his hand finally loosening its grip.
That was when the pain arrived in full.
He folded forward, breath breaking apart. His muscles locked hard, as if his body were rejecting its own shape. The pulse in his chest became a burning pressure.
He bit into his own arm to silence the sound.
Blood tasted salty in his mouth.
Several beds in the barracks were empty.
No one asked who hadn't returned.
Gunther leaned back against the wall, his body shaking.
Inside him, something had awakened.
Not gentle.
Not cheap.
And never free.
Night came without truly falling.
In the lower barracks, time was measured by sound.
Fewer guard footsteps.
Cannons firing less often.
And the breathing of those still alive—heavy, uneven, like old machines forced to keep running.
Someone screamed in their sleep.
The scream was brief.
Then it turned into a strangled gasp.
No one woke him.
Gunther sat with his back to the wall. His arms still felt stiff, as if they weren't his. Each time he inhaled too deeply, a sharp pull flared in his chest—not in muscle, but in something deeper, something unnamed.
A guard passed, tossing a roll of bandage cloth into the center of the barracks.
"Use it sparingly."
He didn't stop.
The cloth landed on the floor, partly unrolled, one end soaking into a puddle of dirty water. No one complained. They had learned which battles were worth fighting.
Gunther wrapped the cut on his thigh with rigid movements.
Every touch made the pulse in his chest answer—sharp, impatient, as if his body were being warned not to forget.
On the opposite bed, the large man from the selection corridor lay still. His chest rose and fell too fast. His eyes were open, unfocused.
"Tomorrow?" he murmured softly, to no one.
There was no reply.
The crystal lamps dimmed.
Not extinguished.
Never fully extinguished.
Gunther closed his eyes.
Darkness came, but it did not soothe.
He saw the ground collapse beneath his feet.
Saw hands clutching a chest.
Saw eyes open without sound.
The pulse returned.
This time, he didn't resist.
He let it spread—slowly, painfully—finding its own paths inside his body. His muscles tensed, his jaw locked, cold sweat soaking his back.
There was no light.
No burst of power.
Only awareness.
His body was changing.
And the change did not ask permission.
In the distance, a cannon fired again.
Once.
Then silence.
Gunther opened his eyes.
If this war repeated tomorrow—
He pressed the back of his hand to his chest, feeling the pulse still there, still real.
—then he would endure once more.
Not for hope.
Not for victory.
But because something inside him had learned how to refuse an ending.