The fog hangs low over Admonito like wet cloth dragged across the world.
Midnight settles heavily upon the village, but the darkness never truly becomes black. Dim lanterns sway outside timber houses. Orange firelight leaks through crooked shutters. Smoke rises from chimneys in slow twisting ribbons before disappearing into the lake mist. Somewhere farther down the muddy road, dogs bark once, twice, then stop abruptly.
The tavern windows glow weakly beside the road.
Inside, the warmth does little to soften the tension.
The long wooden tables are cluttered with bowls, damp cloaks, empty mugs, strips of cloth stained with mud and lake water. The surviving slave-soldiers sit in uneven silence. Some stare into the hearth. Others clean muskets with exhausted hands. A few whisper quietly in Korean, Vietnamese, Mandarin, or fractured Mikhland common tongue, the languages tangling together beneath the crackling fire.
Nobody laughs.
Not after the lake.
Not after the screaming.
Aldo stands near the rear doorway beside Ryong Min Ki, Onaga Kei, and Hano Kichiro. The four boys look older tonight than they should.
Water still drips from the edges of Aldo's dark tunic. His plate sections rest against the wall nearby, recently wiped down but still smelling faintly of swamp mud and lake rot. The candlelight sharpens the exhaustion under his brown-reddish eyes.
Across from them, Comtois leans back in his chair with one boot resting on a bench.
He looks relaxed. Too relaxed.
But Aldo notices the trembling fingers tapping against the wood.
[He's forcing himself again.]
The merchant in the hood sits alone near the corner.
Nobody sees his face.
The hood shadows everything above his mouth, and even that lower half remains partly hidden beneath rough dark cloth. His posture is strange — not fearful, not confident either.
Watchful.
Like someone who expects to leave quickly.
Rainwater drips from the hem of his cloak onto the tavern floor.
Aldo studies him quietly.
Then finally speaks.
"How much?"
The merchant slowly turns his head.
The tavern noise lowers slightly.
Aldo continues calmly.
"You gave us information about the sword. Information has value. So how much do you want for it?"
The merchant says nothing.
Comtois grins tiredly and gestures loosely with his mug.
"See? Aldo always does this. He treats literally everything like negotiation."
Hano exhales through his nose.
"Because usually people want something. Especially merchants."
Aldo reaches into the leather pouch at his belt.
The faint clink of silver catches several villagers' attention.
"Four silver coins," Aldo says. "For the location and guidance. What do you think ?"
That finally gets a reaction.
The merchant stiffens.
Only slightly.
But enough.
Then he abruptly rises.
The bench legs scrape harshly against the floor.
Several slave-soldiers glance toward him instinctively.
The merchant steps backward toward the doorway.
"Keep your silver." he mutters.
His voice sounds rough, old, almost irritated.
"I told ye plain: if the serpent dies, this village endures. And if it endures, folk like me may still find a bed and a roof when the caravans pass through."
He reaches for the door.
Aldo tilts his head slightly.
"That isn't very merchant of you."
For the first time, the hooded man gives something resembling amusement.
A dry sound.
Not quite a laugh.
"Mayhap I'm not much of a merchant after all."
Then he disappears into the fog outside.
The tavern door creaks shut behind him.
Silence settles again.
Hano watches the doorway for several moments before muttering:
"Could still be fraud."
Onaga nods faintly.
"Or bait."
Ryong Min Ki already flips through his damp notebook.
"Historically speaking, legendary weapons in oral traditions are usually attached to exaggeration. Especially after five centuries."
Comtois abruptly pokes Aldo's shoulder.
Hard.
"Bro. Stop thinking like depressed librarians and think practically for one second."
Aldo barely reacts.
Comtois spreads his arms dramatically.
"We go there. Mountain Morito. One hundred ninety-five people try pulling the sword. One of us gets chosen. Boom. Done. Monster dead. Mission complete. Freedom speedrun."
Hano stares at him.
Onaga stares at him.
Even Ryong slowly lowers his notebook.
Comtois points at them one by one.
"Why are you all looking at me like that? This is literally the best plan we've had today."
"That is an extremely terrible sentence, dong-hyang." Ryong says quietly.
Comtois ignores him.
"Listen. Think about it."
He climbs onto the bench now, speaking with animated hands.
"We already shot the giant water snake thing. Didn't work. We argued. Didn't work. Teufel did dramatic knight stuff. Definitely didn't work. So now? We use hero sword. This is basic fantasy logic."
A few exhausted slave-soldiers nearby actually chuckle weakly.
Mostly because they are too tired not to.
Aldo rubs the side of his face slowly.
Comtois points triumphantly.
"Exactly. See? Even Aldo is thinking about it."
"I am thinking about how insane our situation is." Aldo replies flatly.
Outside, wind brushes across the lake.
The tavern windows rattle softly.
Far away.
Something splashes.
Nobody notices.
Or maybe they do.
But everyone is too exhausted to react.
Meanwhile.
At the village edge.
Teufel Windsor walks alone.
The fog parts around him in pale drifting layers.
His damaged longsword hangs loosely at his side. Blood from the earlier wound still stains the cloth wrapped around his waist beneath the cloak.
But pride hurts him more than the cut.
Much more.
The village lanterns behind him look small now.
Distant.
He stops near an abandoned fishing shed beside the shoreline.
Lake Admonito stretches outward like black glass.
Silent.
Watching.
Teufel clenches his jaw.
Aldo's voice still echoes in his head.
Kids are dead because you needed to prove something.
His grip tightens around the sword hilt.
"I almost had it..." he mutters.
The words vanish into the mist.
He reaches into his cloak and removes a small crystal charm.
Cheap.
Military grade.
A lure spell.
Weak glowing light pulses faintly within the crystal.
Teufel stares at it for a long moment.
Then activates it.
Blue-white light blooms across the shoreline.
Not bright.
But visible.
Deliberately visible.
"Come here then," he whispers bitterly. "Come finish it."
The lake answers.
Not immediately.
First comes silence.
Then ripples.
Then movement beneath the water.
Huge.
Fast.
Teufel's eyes widen.
The surface erupts.
The Drakolimne crashes through the fog like judgment itself.
Black scales gleam wet beneath moonlight. Torn frills whip violently behind its elongated skull. Old scars cut across its neck like pale cracks in obsidian.
And its eyes.
Too human.
Far too human.
The serpent lunges toward the shore with terrifying speed.
Teufel barely has time to raise his sword before the creature crashes straight into the nearest longhouse. The impact is not gradual—it is immediate, overwhelming. Wood does not bend; it explodes outward in splinters and shards, beams snapping like brittle twigs. The roof collapses in an instant, caving inward under the force.
Children scream.
High, piercing, unrestrained.
A woman's voice follows—raw panic, breaking into something desperate and wordless.
Teufel freezes.
Just for a second.
No—this is wrong, this is not the fight we came for. Not them. Not like this.
The Drakolimne does not stop.
It twists violently along the edge of the village, its massive coils tearing through structures as if they were nothing more than loose brush. Walls shatter under its movement, entire sections of homes collapsing as the ground churns beneath it. Mud sprays into the air, mixed with fragments of timber, tools, anything caught in its path.
Lanterns topple.
Glass shatters.
Flames catch.
Dry straw roofing ignites almost instantly, fire spreading in jagged bursts from one structure to the next. What begins as flickers becomes a growing blaze, orange light cutting violently through the gray fog.
The night fractures into chaos.
Voices overlap—shouting, crying, calling names. Some try to pull others free from the wreckage. Others run without direction, fleeing from something too large to comprehend.
Inside the tavern, every movement halts.
Then—
They all jerk upward at once.
Another crash follows, heavier than the first.
Then screaming.
Closer this time.
Aldo is already moving before his mind catches up.
"Outside!"
The benches topple backward as both companies rush for weapons.
Comtois nearly kicks open the tavern door.
Cold fog slams into them.
And beyond it — fire.
Orange light flickers wildly across the village.
People run through mud carrying children, buckets, tools, anything.
Another building caves inward.
The Drakolimne's massive silhouette coils between structures.
Ryong Min Ki stares in horror.
"It followed him..."
Hano grabs him by the shoulder.
"MOVE."
Aldo shouts immediately.
"Powder! Remaining powder now! Form lines near the square! Keep distance from the houses!"
The companies react with sudden urgency despite their exhaustion, as training, fear, and instinct fuse into one driving force. Slave-soldiers surge forward without hesitation, sprinting through choking smoke and thick fog, boots pounding against mud, dragging heavy ammunition bags as chaos spreads rapidly around them and the village burns behind.
Comtois jumps onto an overturned cart.
"205TH LEFT FLANK! MOVE YOUR ASSES!"
The Drakolimne turns.
Its whispering voice slides through the smoke.
Half-heard names.
Fishermen.
Villagers.
Dead people.
One boy from 205th visibly recoils.
"Why does it know names...?"
Nobody answers.
Teufel charges first.
Desperate.
Trying to reclaim control.
His sword slams against the serpent's scales with sparks and a terrible metallic screech.
The Drakolimne whips sideways.
Teufel crashes into mud.
"FIRE!"
The muskets erupt.
Thunder detonates across the village.
Flashes of orange tear through the fog.
The recoil slams into young shoulders already bruised from earlier volleys.
The Drakolimne jerks violently as bullets strike scales, neck, frills.
Yellow blood sprays across shattered timber.
But it keeps moving.
Too fast.
Far too fast for something that large.
It crashes through another wall.
People scream again.
Aldo feels fury surge through him.
Not heroic fury.
Not glorious.
Just exhausted rage.
"Reload! Reload now!"
Smoke thickens.
The serpent suddenly lunges toward the square.
Comtois grabs a powder satchel himself.
"BIG SHOT! BIG SHOT!"
Several soldiers hurl remaining powder charges together.
The explosion is ugly.
Desperate.
Flame erupts beneath the creature's jaw.
The blast shakes nearby windows.
The Drakolimne shrieks.
Not like an animal.
Like grief.
Yellow blood splashes across mud and burning wood.
Ryong Min Ki's hands shake as he sketches frantically even while crouched behind cover.
"Yellow blood under thermal ignition... reaction unstable..."
Onaga kneels nearby collecting droplets into a small glass container. "Weird..."
The serpent recoils with violent force, its massive body twisting as if struck by something unseen. For a moment, it lingers at the edge of destruction—then it pulls back.
Not toward the lake.
Toward the pine forest.
Its coils crash through the dark line of trees, snapping branches and bending trunks as it forces its way between them. The sound is heavy, relentless, until it fades—swallowed by fog and shadow.
Then it is gone.
Silence follows.
Not true silence.
People are crying. Wood crackles as flames continue to eat through broken homes. Breathing—ragged, uneven—fills the spaces between.
But compared to the chaos before, it feels empty.
Aldo stands motionless in the muddy square. Smoke curls around him in slow, drifting strands, clinging to his armor, his face, his breath. His chest rises harder than he allows it to show, each inhale sharp, each exhale controlled by force rather than calm.
Around him, the village struggles to hold itself together. Villagers rush back and forth, dragging buckets of water from wells and barrels, throwing it desperately onto burning structures that refuse to yield. The fire answers with hissing defiance.
Nearby, a child sobs uncontrollably beside a collapsed frame of beams, small hands clutching at splintered wood as if trying to rebuild what is already gone.
Teufel pushes himself up from the mud.
Slowly.
His cloak hangs torn, heavy with water and dirt. His face is pale beneath the grime, the strain visible in every line—but it does not erase the stubborn pride that still burns in his eyes.
Aldo begins walking toward him.
Slow.
Measured.
Dangerously calm.
The shift does not go unnoticed.
The surviving slave-soldiers see it immediately, their movements faltering just slightly as their attention turns. Comtois notices too, his posture tightening, eyes narrowing as he watches the distance close.
Hano follows just behind Aldo, silent but present, each step deliberate. Mud clings heavily to their boots, dragging slightly with every movement.
The air tightens again.
Not from the serpent this time.
From what comes next.
Teufel wipes blood from his mouth.
"I almost had—"
Aldo cuts him off.
His voice is low.
Controlled.
Which somehow makes it worse.
"You brought it here."
Teufel stiffens.
Aldo steps closer.
Firelight flickers across his exhausted face.
"Kids are dead because you needed to prove something."
For the first time since meeting him, Teufel genuinely looks uncertain.
Not guilty.
Not fully.
But shaken.
"I almost had it," he insists again, weaker now. "Your men were too slow. Too scared."
Comtois laughs once.
Short.
Humorless.
"Bro, our deal drowned with them."
He gestures toward the damaged homes.
"Walk away."
Hano suddenly steps forward.
His soot-covered face twists with anger.
Not theatrical anger.
Young anger.
The kind that cracks unexpectedly.
"You didn't just kill fishers."
His voice breaks slightly.
He points toward the burning houses.
"You killed what was left of their mercy. And now we're cleaning up your mess."
Teufel stares at him.
Then at Aldo.
Then at the villagers.
The shame finally reaches him.
Not completely.
But enough.
He spits into the mud.
Turns.
And walks away into the fog.
Nobody stops him.
The lake mist swallows his silhouette slowly.
Until he is simply gone.
Comtois exhales sharply.
Then rubs both hands down his face.
"Unbelievable."
He kicks broken timber aside.
Villagers continue moving desperately around them.
One old man tries to salvage fishing nets from collapsed debris.
A woman clutches two terrified children against her chest.
Smoke drifts across everything.
Aldo watches silently.
Then finally speaks.
"We move to the mountain."
Comtois glances sideways.
"Now?"
"The sword is still our best lead."
Onaga quietly adds:
"And the Drakolimne is wounded now."
Ryong Min Ki closes his notebook carefully.
"Which means it may become more aggressive."
Comtois groans.
"Amazing. Fantastic. Perfect."
Then he points toward the damaged village.
"Fine. 204th goes mountain-side. 205th stays here and helps fix this disaster before the villagers decide to murder us in our sleep."
Aldo nods once.
Simple.
Efficient.
Practical.
But before he can turn away, Comtois suddenly grabs his shoulder.
Aldo pauses.
Comtois looks tired now.
Actually tired.
Not joking.
Not loud.
Just tired.
"Hey."
Aldo waits.
Comtois forces a crooked grin.
"If the sword chooses you or whatever fantasy nonsense happens up there... don't die stupidly due to corruption before I get my freedom papers too."
Aldo stares at him for a moment.
Then quietly answers:
"Same to you, Joon-soo."
Comtois immediately points dramatically.
"See? Emotional bonding. Character development."
Hano sighs loudly.
"You ruin every serious moment."
"That's because serious moments suck."
Nearby, several 205th soldiers begin lifting burned beams aside.
Others form bucket lines from the lake.
The villagers watch cautiously.
Still frightened.
Still grieving.
But no longer looking at the companies with complete hatred.
Not yet.
Comtois cracks his neck.
Then suddenly claps loudly.
"Alright! Enough depression. 205th! Move your lazy traumatized bodies!"
Some groans answer him.
A few weak laughs too.
Comtois spreads his arms toward the burning village.
"Let's start fixing this mess!"