The first day of July, 1300, arrives with a blinding, indifferent glare that cuts across the eastern horizon. Inside the cramped barracks, the morning air is already thick, heavy with the scent of dried tallow and old wool.
Comtois stands before a small, cracked shard of glass silvering on the wall, his fingers jerking violently at the collar of his formal gray suit. The fabric is stiff, smelling of cheap dye and storage trunks. He pulls the leather belt tight around his waist, the brass buckle groaning against the strain, before slamming his heel into his tall leather boot with a guttural grunt.
"This entire farce is an absolute, unmitigated nuisance," Comtois spits, his voice rising in an irritable whine that grates against the quiet of the room. He tugs at his cuffs, his face twisting into a bitter pout. "Before those bastards hauled me screaming into this miserable, cursed world, I was a king in Korea. A king! I wore flannel pajamas to my best friend's birthday bash, and we ate fried chicken until we puked. Now look at me. I look like a circus accountant."
Across the room, leaning casually against a heavy wooden post, Hano adjusts the lapels of his dark blue suit. The deep indigo fabric sits well on his shoulders, looking far more formal and relaxed than Comtois's rumpled gray wool, though his expression remains thoroughly sour. He looks down at the tight trousers, his fingers twitching against the seam.
"I ought to be in a traditional Japanese yukata right now," Hano grumbles, his voice dropping into a low, menacing baritone that echoes off the low ceiling. He slaps a speck of dust from his knee with unnecessary force. "This Western-style tailoring is a cage. It restricts the hips. I do not like this. Not one bit."
In the center of the floor, sitting rigid on a low stool, Aldo glares down at the vibrant, apple-red cloth of his own suit. The color is loud, almost violent in the dim morning light. His hands rest awkwardly on his knees, his posture stiff as an iron rod, his neck locked in place as if he is afraid the fabric might rip if he breathes too deeply.
"At the very least," Aldo utters, his tone flat, level, and completely devoid of inflection, "the protocol dictates no mandatory adjustment to our hair. That is a minor logistical victory."
Near the doorway, Onaga Kei shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Even in a sharply tailored, formal dark green suit, his slender frame, delicate jawline, and soft features give him the distinct appearance of an elegant femboy—a fact that clearly infuriates him. His hands are buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched as he stares at the floorboards, his lips moving in a silent, furious tirade.
"Miserable... ridiculous... green velvet garbage..." Onaga mutters under his breath, his eyes flashing with a quiet, lethal heat as he kicks a loose splinter of wood across the floor.
The heavy, rhythmic clatter of iron-shod hooves breaks the tension, followed by the screech of a brake leather outside the window. A heavy, military-style horse-drawn carriage pulls to a halt in the dust. The door swings open with a sharp click, and Officer Watkins steps into the light. He is dressed in a striking plum-red suit that matches the grim authority of his posture. His eyes sweep over the four men like a commander inspecting a penal squad.
"Get in," Watkins says curtly, his voice cutting through the morning humidity like a razor.
Watkins does not wait. He reaches out with a large, gloved hand, catching Onaga by the elbow and hoisting him into the dark interior of the carriage with a firm, unyielding pull. He does each of them in turn—a rough, efficient assistance that brooks no delay. Comtois stumbles over the iron step; Hano glides in with a dangerous grace; Aldo climbs in with the heavy, deliberate weight of an anvil. The heavy wooden door slams shut, the iron bolt sliding into place with a definitive thud, plunging them into semi-darkness.
The carriage gives a massive lurch, the springs groaning as it begins to roll forward.
Inside, Watkins sits cross-legged on the plush bench, his plum-red shoulders relaxed against the padded leather backrest. His eyes glint in the thin strips of light filtering through the heavy window shutters.
"The 'cage'—to use the proper military terminology for this specific transport unit—is entirely reinforced with triple-layered structural steel," Watkins announces, his voice vibrating with the low rumble of the wheels below. "Furthermore, the outer hull is imbued with a high-tier, magic-resistant enchantment. Nothing gets in; nothing gets out without my signature. You do not need to worry about external interference. Just relax your postures."
The carriage moves steadily along the rutted dirt road, its iron tires grinding over loose gravel. Outside, through the narrow slats, the world glides past in a blur of gold and green. Vast, rolling wheat fields stretch out toward the hills, the heavy stalks swaying under the weight of the summer sun. The air is filled with the sharp, sweet scent of split hay and the rhythmic swish-swish of scythes cutting through the harvest.
Dozens of figures dot the landscape, working under the blistering heat. They are women with sun-baked skin and faded shawls, small children dragging heavy burlap sacks through the dirt, and elderly men whose spines are permanently curved from decades of labor. Interspersed among them are younger men dressed in nothing but ragged, threadbare clothes, their faces smudged with black soil and sweat.
In the distance, near an old stone milestone, a small cluster of these workers has gathered during a brief water break. Their tools rest against the wall, their heads huddled close. Even through the thick glass of the carriage, the low, rumbling vibration of their collective voices carries—a steady, bitter chorus of complaints regarding the exorbitant, unpayable high taxes levied upon the current season's yield.
By the time the sun dips beneath the western ridges, painting the sky in deep shades of bruised purple and charcoal, the carriage comes to a halt at a dusty crossroads. The temperature drops instantly, the night air turning crisp and damp. Officer Watkins leans forward, his hand resting on the brass handle of the door as he turns his gaze to the four passengers.
"We stop here for the night," Watkins says, his eyes moving between them. "We have two viable structural options within a half-mile radius. Do you want to secure lodging at the local Catholic monastery, or shall we take rooms at the commercial inn down the road?"
Onaga sits up immediately, his dark green suit rustling against the leather seat. His fingers grip the edge of the bench, his face pale in the twilight.
"The monastery," Onaga suggests rapidly, his voice tight with a genuine, survivalist anxiety. "They possess cured meat in their cellars, clean ale to drink, and the stone walls are fortified. It is safe. Statistically, holy ground reduces erratic night assaults by eighty percent."
Hano's head snaps around, his eyes narrowing into a fierce, dark glare that promises violence.
"No," Hano protests vehemently, his fist slamming down onto his own knee. "Absolutely not. I am not spending my night in some drafty, incense-choked stone tomb. I have no intention of being woken up in the middle of the night by some wrinkled monk telling me it is time to confess my sins. I am a soldier, not a penitent."
To emphasize the refusal, Comtois lets out a loud, dramatic groan and throws his body sideways, sprawling out completely across the floor of the carriage, his gray-clad legs tangling with Aldo's boots in a total display of silent, stubborn protest.
Onaga looks down at Comtois's boots, his jaw tightening as he leans forward. "The commercial inn is notorious for transients, thieves, and lack of structural hygiene. I feel entirely unsafe there."
Aldo remains perfectly still, his red-suited shoulders square as he looks down at the map in his lap, his voice flat and unyielding.
"We are all active members of the military apparatus," Aldo states cleanly. "Every individual in this cabin is fully capable of lethal hand-to-hand fighting and currently carrying concealed weapons. There is absolutely nothing to fear from a common tavern. The tactical responsibility for security tonight will lie directly with Hano and Comtois."
"I don't give a damn about tactical responsibility, I am not sleeping near an altar!" Hano continues to protest, his voice rising to a dangerous shout.
"Silence!" Watkins yells, his voice booming inside the enclosed steel carriage like a thunderclap, instantly cutting through the argument.
The officer glares at them until Comtois stops squirming on the floor.
"The matter is settled through administrative division," Watkins commands, his eyes cold. "Onaga and I will secure quarters at the monastery. Hano and Comtois will take their lodgings at the inn."
He then turns his head slightly, his gaze locking onto the silent, red-suited figure in the corner. "Aldo. Where will you be staying?"
"I'll stay with those two," Aldo replies without a second of hesitation.
A few minutes later, the carriage door clicks open. Aldo, Comtois, and Hano scramble out into the cool night air, their boots hitting the gravel with a collective crunch. Without looking back, the three of them run down the dark path toward the flickering oil lantern of the nearby inn, while the heavy steel carriage creaks back into motion, turning up the hill toward the towering, silent silhouette of the Catholic monastery.
The heavy oak door of the inn groans on its hinges as the three men push inside. The interior is dark, smelling of stale cabbage, wet dog, and rotting wood. The floorboards are warped, dipping dangerously in the center, and the plaster on the walls is peeling away in thick, damp flakes. They quickly exchange a few copper pieces with a sleepy, cross-eyed innkeeper, secure a single key, and march up the narrow, creaking staircase to their assigned room.
It is... utterly dilapidated. The window is a single pane of bubbled glass that lets in a steady draft, the ceiling is blackened with soot, and the single mattress in the corner looks as though it hasn't been stuffed with fresh straw since the previous century.
A closer look around the small chamber only intensifies the misery of their accommodations. Shadows cling stubbornly to the corners, cast by a single, sputtering tallow candle that rests on a lopsided nightstand. The wood of the stand is deeply scarred, marred by old knife gouges and rings from long-forgotten tankards. Above it, the blackened soot on the ceiling clusters thickest directly over the bed, a grim testament to decades of cheap lamps and poor ventilation.
The walls, much like those downstairs, are a disaster of neglect. Yellowed, water-stained wallpaper hangs in sad, shredded ribbons, exposing the crumbling lath underneath. In the far corner, a dark, blooms-of-mold patch grows like an organic map of some forgotten, damp continent, pulsing a faint, earthy stench into the already stagnant air. Every time the wind gusts outside, the loose bubbled glass in the window frame rattles violently, allowing the chill night air to slice through the room and flutter the cobwebs hanging from the rafters.
As for the rest of the furniture, it offers little comfort. A solitary wooden chair sits near the window, though one of its rungs is completely missing and the seat is split down the middle, making it a gamble for anyone brave enough to sit. The floorboards beneath their boots groan with every microscopic shift of weight, bowing slightly as if ready to give way and plunge them back into the tavern below. There is no hearth, only a rusted iron brazier tucked against the wall, cold and choked with the gray ash of a fire that died weeks ago. It is a room designed not for rest, but for survival—a bleak, hollow shell that offers nothing more than a fragile barrier between three weary travelers and the unforgiving night outside.
Comtois stands in the center of the room, scratching his head vigorously through his neat hair, his face a mask of pure disgust.
"Well," Comtois mutters, his shoulders slumping. "No wonder Onaga said we should stay at the monastery. This place looks like where diseases go to die."
Hano and Aldo completely ignore his commentary. With the synchronized movement of exhausted soldiers, they step forward and jump onto the rickety wooden bed, their bodies claiming the outer edges of the thin mattress with a heavy groan from the ropes below.
Comtois blinks at them, then shrugs. He takes a running leap, flying through the air and landing squarely on the bed right between them, his gray suit wrinkling instantly as he wedges himself into the tight space.
"Let's hug each other and keep warm, boys," Comtois chirps with a mischievous, wide grin, throwing his arms out over their shoulders. "It's a cold, cruel world out there."
Aldo doesn't even look at him. He simply extends a single, large hand, presses it flat against Comtois's face, and pushes him away with a slow, irresistible force until Comtois hits the wall.
"Please," Aldo says, his tone drier than desert bone. "It is the middle of summer. Your thermal output is unnecessary."
Comtois rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his elbow. The room falls quiet for a moment, the only sound being the distant, lonely hoot of an owl in the wheat fields outside.
Hano stares up at the soot-stained ceiling, his large hands clasped behind his head. He shifts his gaze sideways, looking over Comtois's head toward the stone-faced commander in the red suit.
"Hey, Aldo," Hano asks, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious register that fills the small room. "Why didn't you go with the other two? You could have had a clean cell and real food up at the monastery with Watkins."
And then... silence...