The wrinkles on his face were as deep as if carved by a knife. Rainwater mixed with blood stread down from his temple.
He grabbed the tall, rather handso-looking soldier behind him, his arm trembling slightly with the force. "You—why did you fall back just now!" The veteran’s roar even drowned out the rain, each word seeming torn from the depths of his chest, "Do you know, because of that mont of cowardice... Tynelon paid the price of his arm just to pull the line back together! He can never hold a shield again!"
The Okhema recruit’s face was deathly pale, rain tracing the sharp lines of his cheeks. His lips trembled, barely able to form coherent words: "S-sorry! I... I want to go ho. I volunteered for the front lines, b-but... war... it’s nothing like the epics sing about. It’s not romantic at all..."
"Only realizing that now, Okhema boy?! Did you think war was so grand performance?" The veteran’s eyes blazed with fury, "Did you think it was about dancing a few flashy steps on the battlefield, striking so attention-grabbing poses, having a good-natured tussle before everyone calls it a day? You’re wrong! War is bloody slaughter! People die! Limbs fly, flesh is torn! Blood, real red blood, flows! Lives vanish right before your eyes! What did you think war was? A contest? A ga? Shake hands after losing and try again next ti?"
"No! War gives no second chances. To lose is to be forever bereft, to drown in endless grief!"
The fire in the veteran’s eyes seed ready to erupt. He pointed a trembling finger toward the chaotic battlefield behind them, his voice hoarse but striking like clashing steel: "Why did you join this war? To have another boast for the feasts back ho, to impress n and won alike? To win applause and garlands?"
"If all you crave is that empty glory—then you’d better crawl back to Okhema and join those gas you folks used to hold, the kind only won compete in!"
The recruit flinched as if struck in his deepest cowardice, murmuring, "How... how did you know... I was a champion javelin thrower..."
"Of course I didn’t know!" the veteran cut him off sharply. "But listen! Here, on the bleeding battlefield, no one cares who you were! No one cares how many laurels you’ve won!"
Each of the veteran’s words fell like stones on the recruit’s heart: "But the mont you take one step back—even a single step! Your comrades have to fill that gap with their blood, their lives, their limbs that will never return!"
Rain stread down the veteran’s brow. He took a deep breath, forcing down the emotions roiling in his chest: "When you step onto the battlefield, your life is no longer yours alone. It belongs to the comrades fighting and dying beside you, to the general who trusts you, to the thousands of families behind you who need your protection! Every ti you retreat, you drag countless innocent lives down with you!"
He shoved a bloodstained spear back into the recruit’s trembling hands, his rough palm slapping the cold armor with a heavy thud, his tone brooking no argunt: "Now, grip your spear—it’s not a javelin for show on the sports field, but a weapon to kill the enemy and preserve your life! Look up, see what’s ahead! The Black Tide is coming again—this ti, do NOT fall back!"
The recruit drew in a gulp of frigid air. His fingers gradually tightened, finally grasping the spear shaft firmly. He t the veteran’s iron gaze, his voice still trembling but now edged with resolve: "Yes... sir!"
...
Mydei, who had just been relieved from the front lines by Phainon for a brief respite, stood atop a high point in the smoke-choked ruins. The tattered royal banner snapped in the wind behind him, rain and gri tracing the cracks in his armor.
His gaze, tempered like fire-hardened steel, pressed down heavily and scorchingly upon Krateros —the old general who had once served as the king’s personal guard captain.
Krateros knelt on one knee, his armor caked in mud and dark bloodstains. He lifted his head, his voice raspy but clear, cutting through the battlefield’s roar: "My King! The Black Tide... it’s as if it has a mind of its own! Our previous tactics to contain and divide them have all failed! They are surging forth in an endless stream!"
"We must retreat! The Infinity Gate left by that fellow Phaethon is still operational, leading directly outside Okhema’s walls. We should preserve our strength, escort the civilians in their evacuation, and then—"
"My Teacher." Mydei’s voice was not loud, but it rumbled like distant thunder, cutting him off. The young king clenched his fist, his knuckles white with strain, "You were the previous king’s guard captain. You taught how to hold a sword, how to lead an army, what the soul of Kremnos ans. I never thought I’d hear the word ’retreat’ from your lips."
He took a step forward, his war boots grinding over rubble with a sharp sound: "Are you saying, as people of Kremnos, we should abandon the land our ancestors have guarded for generations? Surrender this holand, soaked in the blood of our forebears, to those twisted monsters?"
"Or are you saying I should stand upon Okhema’s walls and watch helplessly as the Black Tide descends upon our Kremnoan kin who, unused to life within high walls, chose to remain on the plains outside, herding and tilling the land?"
Mydei’s voice rose gradually, like storm clouds gathering: "Or perhaps... you want to tell our children with my own mouth: We lost. We were defeated. We fled? That it’s our fault they can no longer run onto the plains at sunset to play ’General and the Bandits’?"
"If we retreat, what we leave them will not be their fathers’ courage, but the sight of our pathetic silhouette!"
Krateros’ throat bobbed, rain tracing the lines of his aged face: "My King, I..."
"Enough!"
Mydei slashed his hand through the air, severing his words. In that mont, even the wind seed to still. Only the distant growl of the Black Tide and the ragged breaths of warriors trembled in the air.
Silence pressed down like a physical weight. It was a long ti before Mydei spoke again: "I will heed your counsel. Send n now, through the Infinity Gate to Okhema." His gaze swept past Krateros, fixing on the distant, chaotic battlefield.
"Inform Aglaea: Activate all defensive arrays. Seal the outer city gates. Prepare to receive the enemy."
He paused, each word seeming ground out between his teeth, "And... drive all our Kremnoan people outside the walls into the city. Every last one, young and old. Those who refuse... compel them by royal decree."
He slowly descended the rubble pile, stopping before the kneeling Krateros. He reached out, pressing a heavy hand onto the old general’s armored shoulder. Then, his gaze swept over the warriors resting with him, having co down from the front lines:
"But as your king, I beg you—hold on a little longer. Half an hour. An hour. Hold until Phaethon arrives."
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